Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘It is essential the woman Anna-san be rescued without violence and we must obtain some leverage of our own in order to do so. We will abduct the mother of Konoe Akira, who I am informed is of a venerable age.’ He turned to one of the oyabun. ‘Saito-san, this is your area of expertise. Do you have four young men who cast no shadows who will take her from her futon without disturbing the sleeping house?’

  ‘I have three such who are as good as ninja and I ask permission to be the fourth, so I may lead them personally.’

  Fuchida-san hesitated. ‘Saito-san, in the old days, yes, of course, you were greased lightning and could step on dust without leaving a footprint . . . but now? Are you sharp enough . . . sufficiently fit?’

  ‘I am older and wiser, a little slower, but my footfall is as silent, my breath as even and my strike as swift. I will not let you down, Oyabun. But we will need time to study the house, maybe enter the grounds tonight and then go back tomorrow night.’

  ‘There is no time, it must take place tonight!’ Fuchida-san insisted.

  ‘Impossible, honourable Oyabun, if we break this egg too soon we cannot put it back in the shell for tomorrow’s omelette.’

  ‘The egg must be broken tonight!’ Fuchida-san insisted. He turned to another of his oyabun. ‘Kato-san, send a technical man in with Saito-san’s people. Have him cut all the phone wires. When you have reconnoitred the house and the immediate area, guard it while the abduction is taking place, and invade if things go wrong. I still want the old woman. Have an ambulance concealed close by with one of our doctors in attendance in case she is in shock. Is this understood?’

  ‘Yes, Oyabun.’ He glanced briefly at Saito-san. ‘We have a plan for entering. It is an impressive compound with high brush walls, all of it completely rebuilt in the traditional manner after the Great Earthquake. There are not many like this left in Tokyo,’ he said, obviously impressed. ‘I will arrange for everything, but where will we take the old woman?’

  ‘I will let you know the name of a private hospital,’ Fuchida-san said. ‘In the meantime you will also arrange for the capture of a female servant on her way home, so she will not be missed until the morning. She can explain the internal layout to Saito-san and his ninja, from the best entrances to the last footstep needed to reach the old woman’s futon.’

  ‘What if Anna-san is also in the house?’ I asked.

  It seemed to me to be a reasonable question, but now they all looked at me and then at each other as if I’d just made a fool of myself. ‘Nick-san, it would not be possible for a foreigner to enter a traditional Japanese home.’

  ‘But I am here in your home, Fuchida-san.’ I protested.

  ‘Hai! That is different. I am the new Japan. This is Japanese Cosmopolitan, a new-style Japanese home,’ he declared somewhat smugly. I was in no doubt that the name for this chrome and black minimalist extravaganza had been supplied by the Texan interior decorator as part of the justification for his whopping bill. ‘The house of Konoe Akira is old Japan, it is not the same. It carries the burdens of the ancestors and must be furnished accordingly and someone from an alien culture should not be allowed to enter or they will feel uncomfortable,’ he concluded, while everyone around the table nodded their agreement. ‘You will enter the house of Konoe Akira after midnight, Saito-san. There will be no more phone communication with me until then, unless there is a leak and the First Intelligence Division hears of the raid and stops it. Then you will call the operation off, use the night number and I will decide then what to do. We have an understanding with them regarding the Shield Society and I will square the matter with their divisional chief in the morning. If all goes well, call me, but only after the ambulance has departed.’ He turned to Kato-san. ‘Remember, the old woman must have the best of geriatric care.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t want to negotiate with a corpse on my hands. The doctor must give her a sedative as soon as she is in the ambulance. Tell him she must remain conscious in case I need her to talk on the phone.’

  ‘But if she dies?’ Kato-san asked. He was the oldest of the men around the table and seemed to have a little more authority, or at least sufficient to question the leader.

  The yakuza boss thought for a moment. ‘If she dies almost immediately after her capture, then she must be returned to her futon; if later in the hospital, you will use a contact at the morgue and leave her there.’

  ‘Would it not be preferable to abduct some other member of the family? We could simply wait and snatch a younger member off the street?’ Saito-san suggested.

  ‘No! An abduction performed in public doesn’t leave the right impression. We must demonstrate our power and show Konoe Akira and the Shield Society that we can reach them anywhere, that nowhere is safe for them and that we will stop at nothing.’

  One of the other three oyabun who had remained silent up to this point now spoke. ‘Only Konoe Akira and the old crone are in residence at the moment; the three spinster sisters and a widowed daughter with his three grandchildren are in the country attending a cherry-blossom festival at the family shrine in a small fishing village on Hokkaido−. After that they are going to the World Exposition in Osaka.’

  ‘Well done, Oyabun Fukuda!’ the yakuza boss cried. ‘You have been very busy since I called you earlier.’

  Fukuda-san smiled. ‘I cannot take the credit, Oyabun; it comes from the school the grandchildren attend, the brother of one of the teachers’ assistants who is a kobun with me. He is a poor boy, but bright and will someday make a good wakagashira; he has appointed his sister as caretaker’s eyes and ears on his own initiative.’

  ‘You have always been a modest man, Fukuda-san. But it seems the gods are with us in this. With the rest of the family absent, Konoe-san will be left alone in the house.’ He turned to me. ‘Nick-san, did you not say his leg gives him great pain?’

  ‘That’s what Anna told me, yes.’

  ‘Then he probably takes a sedative to sleep.’

  ‘He is, or at least was, a heroin addict when she knew him,’ I added.

  ‘Hai! Better still; he will be accustomed to using it for the pain.’

  ‘Is it not possible there will be a servant or nurse who sleeps near the old woman?’ I suggested.

  ‘Damn! You’re right, I didn’t think of that!’ Fuchida-san cried, deliberately overreacting in order to make my contribution seem more important.

  He turned to the two yakuza bosses, Saito and Kato, who were to be involved directly in the action in and around Konoe Akira’s residence. ‘As soon as the abduction is successfully completed call me, Saito-san, and Nick-san and I will join you at the location. Kato-san, you and your men will be responsible for the ambulance and for transporting the ancient one to the private clinic.’ He handed Kato-san a small card. ‘This is the address; they are expecting you. Two of my personal wakagashira will be waiting to let you through the main gate. Your men will also secure the immediate area up to three hundred metres from the residence in every direction.’

  Next he addressed Saito-san. ‘The compound and the interior of the house are your concern. All the gates to the property must be manned so that nobody can leave.’ He paused. ‘Thank you. I have complete trust in you both. You must leave now to make preparations. Saito-san, get the doctor to give you a needle to use if there is a nurse – chloral hydrate so she remembers nothing when she wakes up.’

  I was practically dead on my feet, having not slept at all the previous night and only four hours after Anna’s eventual return the night before. I wanted badly to be on hand when Fuchida-san went in after midnight to confront Konoe Akira, but had no chance of doing so if, in the meantime, I didn’t get some shut-eye.

  Despite my protests that I should take a taxi, the yakuza boss called Miss Sparkle to arrange for one of the ubiquitous Toyotas to return me to the hotel. ‘It is too late for anonymity, Nick-san, and now it is expected that you be given the correct status. The Intelligence “eyes” must not be disappointed nor their “ears” put out of a job.’ H
e walked me to the lift, probably grateful to have me out from under his feet for a few hours.

  ‘I am putting you to a great deal of trouble, Fuchida-san, as well as taking you away from your normal business,’ I apologised, adding, ‘I owe you a considerable debt.’

  ‘Hai! Yes, you will incur a debt. That is our way. When one’s hand clasps another’s, both carry obligation, but, in your case, not as much as you may think. I am young again and it is like old times. These lunatics have been a growing thorn in our side and now we have an opportunity to pluck it out. The First Intelligence Division’s policy is to do nothing until they attempt to harm the state. We do not agree. You do not wait to remove a weed from a bed of flowers until after it has thrown its seed. Now we have the chance to act first. This will bring the yakuza great honour and restore our prestige as partners in the peaceful democratic progress of the new Japan. My wakagashira want action and this is a way to show our young men what it means to inherit the ways and obligations of the Samurai.’

  I didn’t much like the sound of this last statement. If my wartime experience counted for anything, young Turks let loose with automatic weapons seldom remained quiet. If there was going to be open conflict with the Shield Society, then my most ardent desire was that it would happen when Anna and I were roughly thirty thousand feet in the air with the sound of four jet engines humming in our ears as we sipped champagne in the first-class section of a Qantas Boeing 707.

  While I still used a rifle fairly frequently to shoot wild pig or an occasional shark for the crew, both considered delicacies among the natives, I hadn’t fired a shot in anger since the Pacific War ended. I had no idea whether ASIO carried a file on me, nor could I think why they should, but now in my imagination I could see the one they would open on our return from Japan.

  Nicholas Duncan: a known associate of the Japanese yakuza and a personal friend of Oyabun Fuchida, crime boss of the Tokyo region. Known to have been involved in the fighting between the Shield Society, a fanatical rightwing organisation, and the yakuza crime syndicate for control of the lucrative . . . It didn’t bear thinking about and I felt sure Anna would have reacted quite differently had she known where all this would lead.

  I regretted ever coming to Japan. It had been my idea for her to confront Konoe Akira, but now the notion that by doing so she would exorcise her demons seemed like romantic pop-psychobabble. There was a good chance that she would have to pay for my bright idea with her life. I realised that all I had achieved was to grant the nefarious Konoe Akira the power to decide once more whether she lived or died.

  The lift, accompanied by two wakagashira, arrived and I thanked Fuchida-san again. ‘We will call for you at ten-thirty tonight, Nick-san.’ As the doors of the lift closed he shouted, ‘Wear warm clothes! The nights are still cold at this time of year.’

  Joined by two other foot soldiers, I was driven in silence back to the Imperial where a dozen spines stiffened at my approach. Going up in the hotel lift I tried to think how I would react if I discovered Anna asleep on the double bed. Would I feel relief, anger, joy, what? Would I shake her, kiss her or break down completely? At least one thing was certain – my second reaction would be to phone the airport and my third would be to start packing.

  But, of course, she wasn’t there. I was suddenly too weary to feel very much of anything and I barely had the energy to remove my shoes and jacket and loosen my tie, then call reception to wake me at 9 p.m., before flopping onto the bed.

  When my wake-up call came I lay in bed for a while wondering what the night might bring, then showered and dressed. I thought about ordering room service but suddenly felt the need to be with normal people and went downstairs to the dining room just in time for last orders, although I feel sure that, had I arrived even later, the kitchen would have remained open to midnight or beyond. It isn’t hard to see how people get hooked on power. My entry into the dining room was met with a frenetic scurrying of waiters and the clatter of dishes being hastily cleared. It was as if the inspector of kitchen hygiene had arrived. The maître d’, short and stout, came trotting towards me, clicking his fingers for a waiter to follow him. It seemed every eye in the room was drawn towards me, so I guess notoriety must also have its downside.

  Once in the Toyota, which thankfully arrived with a minimum of fuss, the wakagashira kept a respectful silence, except for the perfunctory grunts and monosyllabic affirmations that usually accompany servile attention, as we drove back to the penthouse apartment. They treated me as they would an oyabun, while the young kobun, one of whom was usually in a car for training purposes, avoided eye contact and squirmed constantly in his seat beside me, obviously nervous in my presence.

  To my surprise, once we reached the apartment building I was taken directly to the floor where the wakagashira on duty were based, along with the brightest kobun, orphans and boys from the slums who showed promise and were being groomed to be more than standover men, riot breakers and guards.

  I was escorted to a small and very austere reception room. The tatami matting on the floor was old and frayed, and four canvas cushions surrounded a low and much-scuffed table in the centre. The premises were scrubbed and clean but redolent of a boy’s boarding school, Japanese style. I was served green tea from a chipped enamel pot by a chinpira – a young yakuza, not yet kobun – who held the pot in both hands to fill my cup while avoiding my eyes. My head almost reached the level of his own when I was seated on the cushion and I felt sure he must have wondered what the giant gaijin was doing amongst them. I reached over and touched the side of the teapot to discover it was almost too hot to hold. The lad was burning his hands rather than allow me to see they were shaking. He had already begun the long and disciplined road to fortitude. The only sign of pain was that he kept nervously lifting one foot then the other as if he needed to urinate.

  ‘Put the pot down at once!’ I ordered. He placed the enamel teapot on the table and immediately hid his left hand behind his back. ‘Let me see,’ I said gently. He produced the damaged hand with the palm facing downwards. ‘Turn it over,’ I instructed. He did so and I noted that his palm had turned almost scarlet from the burn. ‘Ouch! That hurts, eh?’ I said, sympathising.

  ‘No,’ he said, tears welling.

  ‘To be strong without being foolish is the hardest lesson of all to learn. You have kept your pride but made yourself unfit for battle.’ I grinned in an attempt to put him at ease. ‘Next time bring a cloth, worthy chinpira.’

  ‘Yes, Oyabun,’ he said, barely above a whisper, still avoiding my eyes.

  ‘I will tell your superior of your courage.’

  A look of dismay crossed his face and he glanced up fearfully, meeting my eyes for the first time. ‘Please! No, Oyabun!’ he begged. ‘I will lose my rice bowl!’

  His fear of being expelled from his yakuza family and finding himself back on the streets was palpable and his small frame shook visibly. ‘I understand,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Now run to the bathroom and splash cold water over your hand, it will take away the immediate pain. Tonight go to the kitchen and ask them for a little honey to heal the burn.’

  ‘Yes, Oyabun.’ He reached for the teapot.

  ‘No, leave it. I may require a second cup.’ The child bowed deeply, then turned and scurried away like a small rodent.

  Shortly after the boy’s departure Fuchida-san arrived carrying a red Moroccan leather box roughly the size of a double-layer cigar box. He placed it on the table and with a small sigh lowered himself onto a cushion, whereupon a young bloke three or four years older than the first little guy appeared with a fresh teapot, and placing a cup in front of him, poured green tea into it, bowed deeply and left. Unlike the previous lad, his hand didn’t shake. He was, I thought, a little further along the road to being trained in the art of fearlessness.

  ‘Nick-san, I have a gift for you,’ Fuchida-san said, nodding towards the box.

  ‘You have been too generous, honourable Fuchida-san. Already I am unable adequately to
repay your kindness.’

  ‘Ah, Nick-san, between true friends kindness is always repaid and accepted without a sense of obligation.’ He laughed. ‘But ah . . . perhaps one day the Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing . . . ? Imagine a butterfly with a wingspan of 31 centimetres!’ He leaned forward and pushed the box towards me. ‘Open it, Nick-san,’ he instructed, clearly excited.

  I reached out, lifted the brass clasp, and opened the lid. Inside, resting in a black felt-covered mould, was a Belgian Browning Hi-Power 13-shot automatic, arguably the finest handgun made at that time.

  ‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘The best!’ Fuchida-san laughed. ‘I have one myself. Now we not only have butterflies in common; tonight we are partners in this operation.’

  I confess I wasn’t quite as pleased about his comrades-in-arms notion as he seemed to be, but I tried not to show it. ‘I am speechless, Fuchida-san,’ I said, beaming, but feeling somewhat the hypocrite. I loved the gun but not how it might come to be used in the next few hours. The last time I had used a handgun was in New Guinea as a coastwatcher. The standard issue for officers was the Webley Mk IV revolver, although I had chosen to use the American issue 1911A1 Colt Automatic because I regarded it as a better weapon. Although I wasn’t a bad shot, I had never fired it in anger. And in combat I preferred the Owen submachine-gun.

  ‘You have killed before, Nick-san. We both know only the first time is difficult. Come, we must prepare. We have a firing range, it is soundproof and only fifteen metres, but it will make you familiar with this weapon.’

  The pistol range was obviously in frequent use, judging from the black human silhouette that was so perforated it seemed to consist of more bullet holes than metal. My first few shots were far from accurate until I recalled the wartime training I had received from Special Services. Adopting the front-facing two-handed method I began to feel in control and after twenty or so shots I was able to create a reasonable grouping, although with all the bullet holes already around the heart area of the target it wasn’t easy to tell. In my overlarge hands the Browning seemed to almost disappear but the kickback of the 9-millimetre was nothing compared to the solid whack of the .45 calibre Colt. This was a precision weapon that could do a lot of damage in the hands of a good marksman.