Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  I had obviously impressed Fuchida-san, for as we cleaned our weapons he said, ‘You have the steady hand of a killer, Nick-san.’ He grinned, placing his own hand on my shoulder. ‘I would trust you at my side in a fire fight.’

  ‘I have big hands and it is a small gun,’ I laughed. Please God let these practice shots be the only ones I fire while I’m in Japan, I silently prayed.

  At twenty-five minutes after midnight Miss Sparkle called Fuchida-san to the phone and after a short conversation he returned. His expression was deadpan and my first thought was that something had gone wrong. Fuchida-san was a naturally exuberant character and surprisingly apt to display his feelings for someone in his line of business. I had regarded the even tone of the Jade Mistress’s intimidation as a performance, but now I saw that it was simply a different aspect of the yakuza boss. I was now witnessing the cool-headed leader completely in possession of his emotions. ‘It has been done. Saito-san and his three ninja have brought the old woman out. The remainder of the household is still asleep. It is time to go, Nick-san.’

  ‘Saito-san was true to his word then? He has not lost his touch,’ I said admiringly.

  ‘Hai! I should not have questioned his powers. In public life he is one of the three great kendo masters in Japan but is also possibly the most deadly practitioner alive of the art of the katana. The old texts teach us that to have at your side one such sword-master is equivalent to thirteen lesser swordsmen. I should not have been surprised that even now his footsteps leave no mark in the dust.’

  For once we arrived quietly with only one Toyota accompanying the Mercedes. We drew to a halt in a side street close to Konoe Akira’s residence in the diplomatic quarter of Tokyo and quite close to the imperial palace, then walked a few yards and turned a corner to see a large compound directly facing us. Fuchida-san checked the address. ‘It is this one,’ he said quietly.

  I would return to this area again in daylight and observe that, judging from the high stone and brick walls surrounding them, there were perhaps a dozen compounds of similar size in the immediate area. All, with the exception of Konoe’s family residence, were embassies. In Tokyo space is at such a premium that only the truly rich can afford what I would have estimated was an area no bigger than a third of an acre, not much more than the land occupied by the average middle-class outer-suburban home in Sydney or Melbourne and about a twentieth the size of the grounds of Beautiful Bay. I was amazed to see that the wall surrounding Konoe Akira’s residence was made of brush.

  ‘The brush wall . . . ?’ I said, my implication being that it wasn’t the greatest protection from intruders.

  ‘We are lucky again. It is a traditional fence.’ Fuchida-san pointed to the wooden shingles on the roof, visible in the city lights reflecting from the low cloud cover. ‘You will see, every detail is as it has always been. I do not think Konoe Akira is a man who is prepared to compromise on anything.’

  So far we had not seen a single person. This was surprising as we were close to the centre of the city, and while it was well past midnight, Tokyo, like most great cities, never sleeps. ‘My men have done a good job; the immediate area is clear,’ the yakuza boss observed. The only sounds were our own footsteps and the distant hum of traffic a city block or so away. A soft call came suddenly from directly behind us. I turned, surprised to see Saito-san and the three other yakuza who had performed the abduction standing no more than a couple of metres away. I swear I hadn’t heard a single step other than our own; absolutely zilch. One moment we were alone and the next they were standing large as life directly behind us, barefoot and dressed in what appeared to be heavy black cotton karate uniforms. Saito-san carried a katana tied to the belt at his waist.

  Unlike myself, the yakuza boss didn’t seem surprised at their sudden appearance. ‘It went well?’ he asked.

  ‘As you requested, Oyabun,’ Saito-san replied.

  ‘The ambulance?’

  ‘It left without the need to use a siren.’ He chuckled softly. ‘The old crone didn’t need sedation. She remained asleep even in the ambulance. If it wasn’t for her snores we would have thought she was dead.’

  ‘Was there a nurse in the house?’ Fuchida-san asked.

  ‘Yes, but she too remained asleep. We gave her the needle anyway.’

  ‘Kato-san’s man has cut the phone connections?’

  Saito nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you came out immediately?’

  ‘Yes, but we await your instruction to go back in to fetch —’

  ‘No, he is mine. Konoe Akira belongs to me,’ I said quietly, not knowing what had suddenly possessed me to make such a demand, but equally certain that I should be the one to bring Konoe Akira out.

  The yakuza looked at me, waiting for Fuchida-san to speak. ‘Nick-san, it is not wise. Saito-san knows the layout of the house.’

  ‘Fuchida-san, I have waited twenty years for this moment. Do not deny me now,’ I pleaded, forcing myself to keep my voice and my breathing even.

  The yakuza boss looked at me steadily. ‘This was not in my original plan. It is a long time since the war, since you were an active warrior. Now you must go into his home in the dark and find him and bring him out alive. It is much too risky, Nick-san.’

  ‘That is what you implied with Saito-san, that he was too old, that his footsteps would show in the dust.’

  ‘Hai!’ he expostulated, momentarily caught off guard.

  ‘I have lived much of my life in the jungle. I am accustomed to measuring my footfall. I will bring him out alive, I promise.’

  ‘And if you don’t?’ The yakuza boss glared at me. ‘Understand, they will retaliate by killing Anna-san. Will you take such a risk?’

  I hesitated momentarily. ‘If I don’t succeed, then nor will your people. The consequence will be the same. It is my duty and responsibility. My honour will be insulted if you do not allow me, Fuchida-san,’ I persisted, playing the ultimate card. I had got myself in a position where Anna’s life was possibly threatened but where there was no turning back: heads you win, tails I lose, the old Nick dilemma.

  Far from pleased, Fuchida-san shook his head slowly. ‘Nick-san, you make it impossible for me to refuse without dishonouring you.’

  I attempted a grin. ‘I have a weapon,’ I said, patting the Browning concealed by my coat. ‘A very good one a friend recently gave me. It will be okay. You will see, Oyabun,’ I answered respectfully.

  ‘We will give you fifteen minutes, then we are coming in.’

  ‘Twenty?’ I asked. ‘I have to learn the interior of the house.’ I turned to Saito. ‘Did you get a plan of the layout from a servant?’

  He nodded and removed a slip of paper from inside his black kendo robe. Then he turned to Saito-san. ‘Show Nick-san the gate you used to enter.’

  ‘No gate, Oyabun, we used a butterfly cut,’ Saito replied, touching the katana. A butterfly cut I was to learn is an X-shaped slash traditionally used by the Samurai to dismember an opponent, but in this case it proved to be a convenient way to make a hole in the high brush fence.

  I removed my jacket so that my movements wouldn’t be restricted, revealing the automatic pistol stuck in my belt.

  ‘Your white shirt makes you an easy target even in the dark,’ Fuchida-san said. He turned to the tallest of the men. ‘Give the gaijin your jacket,’ he ordered. By using the term for a foreigner rather than my name he was expressing his barely contained anger. The wakagashira removed his heavy cotton fighting jacket and I put it on. Traditionally a loose fit, it proved not nearly big enough, a fact that seemed to anger the yakuza boss even further. ‘You will be a large white elephant and very easy to kill!’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps not so easy, Oyabun. You people have tried without success to do so before!’

  ‘Hai!’ Fuchida exclaimed. Then suddenly his expression changed. He grinned and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay, Nick-san!’

  Saito-san led me to the fence which, in the near darkness, seemed entirely undama
ged. By pushing it inwards it opened up but proved too small for me to enter. He laughed. ‘I will make another larger cut for the elephant,’ he joked.

  I pointed to the opening. ‘How did you get the old lady through there?’

  ‘We didn’t, we took her through a gate.’

  ‘So why . . . ?’

  He realised what I was implying. ‘It is not an honourable entry, Nick-san,’ then he added, ‘even for elephants.’

  I took out the piece of paper showing the layout of the house and grounds. ‘Where is the gate, so that I can bring Konoe Akira out through it?’

  He pointed to the gate on the roughly drawn plan. ‘You wish to enter through it as well?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we will enter the honourable way, Saito-san.’ If all this carry-on seems ridiculous in retrospect, it was not to Saito-san and his men, for whom the observation of ritual is essential if the gods are going to be with you in your endeavour.

  Removing the katana from its scabbard Saito-san moved several feet away and in two lightning-fast strokes slashed open the fence. It was hard to imagine how sharp the blade must have been, but, taken together with the precise technique he used, it slashed through the thick plaited twigs like a knife through butter. Very few things in Japan are haphazard or spontaneous, and even this method of entry had become an art and a tradition, perhaps over centuries. Like most things Japanese it was tidy, and when the thick twigs were pulled back into place it was difficult to see where the cut had been made.

  ‘I will come with you to show you the door to enter. We left it unlocked, thinking we would be returning.’ He led the way along a path composed almost entirely of moss and slate, yet another Japanese contradiction – the path made of moss, and the garden of rocks and raked gravel. It led to a rear door in the large wooden house. ‘It may be best to remove your shoes,’ Saito-san whispered. He waited until I did so and then slipped away noiselessly into the night.

  I took the Browning from my belt and entered the darkened house, waiting a couple of minutes to allow my eyes to grow accustomed to the interior. I realised then that I was standing in the kitchen where I could make out an electric kettle and an electric rice cooker. Not everything in Konoe Akira’s home adhered rigidly to tradition, I decided.

  Fortunately the house beyond the kitchen proved to be classical Japanese, the spaces left uncluttered, wooden floors covered with tatami mats, low tables displaying vases or other objects, a few embroidered silk screens, cushions and very little other furniture. Unlike the West where quantity matters, a rich person’s house in Japan is defined by the quality and age of the objects and not by their number. Though it was too dark to see anything clearly, I surmised that the furniture and various decorative objects in the central room where I stood would be expensive antiques.

  The interior walls were of rice paper so that the direction of any noise was easy to identify. I moved towards the centre of the room and stood waiting. It was not dissimilar to the jungle where at first there is only silence, then slowly you begin to pick up the sounds around you until eventually it becomes a virtual cacophony of clicks, buzzes, hums, croaks, ticks and knocks. Within perhaps thirty seconds I could hear snoring coming from two directions, the first in the northern corner of the house and the second, lighter, from the eastern side, which I surmised must be from the drugged and comatose old lady’s nurse. The other snores were more sonorous, coming fast and in a cadence where every second snore seemed to be at a slightly different pitch. Either Konoe Akira suffered from severe breathing problems or there was more than one person asleep in the northern section of the house. I decided after listening a little longer that this was the case. I was going to have to contend with two people in close proximity to each other.

  By this stage my eyes had grown accustomed to the dark so I was able to see objects and doorways quite easily. I returned to the kitchen and, finding a knife, I removed the plugs of the kettle and rice cooker from the wall sockets and cut them off to give me two lengths of electrical cord each approximately two and a half feet long. Then I found a dishtowel, and wiping the handle of the knife carefully, I returned it to the rack and stuffed the dishtowel in one trouser pocket and the flex in another.

  I returned to the centre of the house, stopping to listen and ensure that the snoring duet continued before moving in the direction from which it came, padding down a fairly broad passageway, the walls of which were made of rice-paper panels. I passed the sliding doors to three rooms and then saw a dimly illuminated form asleep on a futon at the end of the passage. A tiny nightlight stood on the tatami matting beside him. I approached very slowly, pausing after every carefully placed step, realising that I probably only had one chance at surprise. I finally reached the foot of the futon and saw by the nightlight that a high-powered torch and a Japanese Type 26 service revolver lay on the tatami inches from the man’s head. He was lying on his stomach with his face turned away from me so that I could see only the back of his head. I noted his hair – grey. Konoe Akira’s nightwatchman was clearly not a young man.

  I silently thanked my lucky stars that he wasn’t supine. Lying as he was on his stomach he was going to be a lot easier to subdue. Disarming a sleeping enemy sentry when attempting to get behind enemy lines was fundamental stuff I’d learned in Z Force. Fundamental then, but that was more than twenty years ago. I’d never come across a sleeping sentry in combat conditions and not all that many times during practice. I lowered myself to my haunches and picked up first the torch, the more dangerous of the two weapons, for if it were to be suddenly shone directly into my face I would be blinded for at least thirty seconds. This would be more than sufficient time to empty the chamber of the service revolver at point blank range or to bludgeon me unconscious with the heavy torch. I placed it well out of reach and then took up the revolver and laid it beside the torch.

  I was no longer young; at forty-six my breath wasn’t as even as it should have been. Anxiety is the opponent you carry within you, so I waited a moment to calm down, assuring myself that I wasn’t dealing with a ninja or any of the other kinds of Japanese unarmed combat specialists, none of whom would dream of using a gun, least of all an ancient and clumsy wartime Japanese service revolver. Besides, if my adversary had been any of these trained killers I would certainly not have been able to approach without his becoming aware of my presence.

  What I did next would probably decide whether I succeeded or failed in bringing Konoe Akira out without having to kill him. I placed the Browning automatic down near the sleeping man’s feet so he couldn’t reach it if anything went wrong. Then, taking a short, sharp breath, I straddled the futon and the man’s torso and knelt down hard, my knees slamming into his ribs. Two hundred and thirty pounds of concentrated weight just under the lungs will blow the air out of the Michelin man. I heard a loud exhalation as the air was forced from his lungs and then some strangled gasping as he struggled for breath, unable to cry out. I half rose and turned to face his feet, seated on the back of his thighs so he couldn’t move his legs. In a few moments I had his feet crossed and tied at the ankles, knotting the flex sufficiently tightly so he could not struggle free, but not so tightly that I prevented the flow of blood to his feet.

  I turned to face his head again, this time sitting astride his buttocks while I pulled his arms behind his back and tied them with the second piece of electrical cord, again not sufficiently tightly to restrict the circulation. I rose to my feet and stepped to the side of the futon and flipped him onto his back, softly kneading his stomach so he could regain his breath. He did so with a gasp, gulping hard, desperate for more air. Satisfied that he could once again breathe, I used the dishcloth to gag him then rolled him back onto his stomach. I was gratified that my training in Queensland all those years ago had come back to me. I would probably have been a bit slow and clumsy for the likes of Sergeant Major Wainwright, the Geordie Z Force instructor. (‘Clumsy and slow, Duncan! You’ve wakened the whole fooking enemy guard room and you’re halfway to
hell by now!’)

  ‘If you attempt to move I will kill you,’ I said quietly to the frightened little man, whom, I now realised, I could probably have knocked unconscious with a single cuff behind the ear, or better still, simply found the right pressure points in his neck. I was also surprised at how rapidly I was breathing. I guess I didn’t have what it takes to be a James Bond.

  I thought about clocking the little bloke, a solid tap with the torch, but he was no longer in a position to endanger me, and as the bishop sometimes said, ‘Sufficient unto the day, Nicholas. One shouldn’t overdo things.’

  I emptied the chamber of the Japanese revolver into my trouser pocket and wiped it clean using my shirt, stooping and dropping it onto the futon so it didn’t make any noise. Taking up the torch and regaining my own gun I gently started to slide back the door to what I hoped might be Konoe Akira’s bedchamber. It opened with hardly a sound, a credit to the carpenter and Konoe-san’s insistence on perfection in all things.

  I know this is beginning to sound a bit like a scene from a comic opera, but he simply continued to snore. Remembering that morphine is also a powerful sedative, I switched on the torch, directing the light against my chest then adjusting the glow with my fingers so I could look for the switch that didn’t seem to be beside the door. I scanned the room and discovered the light switch a foot or so above his head. My heart jumped as I saw a cane leaning against the wall beside the switch. I had my man.

  I walked slowly over to the bed and lowered myself until I was resting on my haunches, then turned on the light, the barrel of my Browning automatic held against the side of Konoe Akira’s head.