by Robin Cook
At the moment their bodies collided, Kaniji had brought the knife down suddenly, plunging its tip into the sulcus between the guard’s collarbone and the top edge of his shoulder. When the group hit the floor the blade was driven home, piercing the man’s carotid arch in the process.
Other than the whoosh of air expelled from Kaniji’s and the guard’s lungs as they all collided with the floor, the first thing Ben was aware of was intermittent jets of spouting fluid. It took him a moment in the confusion of the event to realize that it was blood. As Ben scrambled away he could see that the blood was coming in progressively smaller spurts as the guard’s heart extruded the rest of his total of six quarts.
Although Kaniji was now covered with blood, Ben had been hit with only a few large drops, which ran down his forehead when he stood up. He’d feverishly brushed them off with the back of his free hand and then shook the hand.
For a second Ben stared down at the two intertwined bodies awash in red, one still struggling to catch his breath, the other motionless and pale. Without another thought, Ben took off. Clutching the laboratory books under his left arm like a football, he ran headlong back the route he and Kaniji had taken on their way to Satoshi’s old office.
Bursting forth from the building’s main entrance on the ground floor, Ben hesitated for a moment, not sure what to do. Without the ignition keys to Kaniji’s aged Datsun, there was no need to retrace the route to where the car was parked in a small copse of trees. As his mind raced through various but not too auspicious possibilities, he was shocked into action by the distant sound of approaching sirens. Although lost in a foreign city, he was aware of the Kamo River off to the west, which knifed through Kyoto north to south, and was near to the ryokan where he was staying in the old city.
With the stamina of someone who participated in triathlons, Ben struck off using the stars as a guide to get to the river. He ran swiftly and smoothly, trying to be as silent as possible. After only three blocks he heard the police sirens trail off, suggesting that the authorities had already reached the lab. Clamping his jaw shut tightly, Ben upped his pace. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped. Anxious and trembling, he would have trouble answering the simplest of questions, let alone explaining why he was out running at that time of night carrying books taken from a Kyoto University lab. When he reached the river, he turned north and settled into a rapid but consistent stride, as if he was in a race.
THREE WEEKS LATER
MARCH 22, 2010
MONDAY, 9:37 a.m.
TOKYO, JAPAN
Naoki Tajiri had been in the mizu shōbai, or “water trade,” for longer than he cared to admit. Starting at the very bottom just after high school, washing sake cups, beer mugs, and shōchū glasses, he’d slowly moved up the ladder of responsibility. To add to his résumé, he’d made it a point to work in all manner of establishments, from the traditional nomiya, or drinking shop, to hard-core prostitution bar-lounges run by the Yakuza, the Japanese version of the Mafia. Naoki himself was not a member of any gang by choice, but he was tolerated and even in demand by the Yakuza for his experience, which was the reason he was the general manager of The Paradise, one of the most popular full-service night spots in the Akasaka district of Tokyo.
Although Naoki had begun his career in his small hometown, he’d moved to progressively larger towns over the years, finally reaching the big time in Kyoto, then Tokyo. Over the years Naoki had thought he’d seen just about everything associated with the water trade, including money, alcohol, gambling, sex, and murder. Until that morning.
It started with a phone call just before six a.m. Irritated at whoever was calling him just after he’d fallen asleep, he answered gruffly but soon changed his tune. The caller was Mitsuhiro Narumi, the saiko komon, or senior adviser, to the oyabun, or head of the Inagawa-kai, the Yakuza organization that owned The Paradise. For someone so senior to be calling him, a mere general manager of a nightclub, sent a shiver of fear down Naoki’s spine.
Naoki feared that something horrendous had happened at The Paradise overnight and, as the general manager, it was his responsibility to be aware of everything. But it was something else entirely: something rather extraordinary. Narumi-san was calling to inform him that Hisayuki Ishii, the oyabun, or head of another Yakuza family, would be coming to The Paradise for an important meeting with Kenichi Fujiwara, senior vice minister of Economy, Trade, and Industry: a very high-level, politically connected bureaucrat. Narumi-san had gone on to say that Naoki would be personally responsible for the meeting to go well. “Give them whatever they need or desire,” was his final order.
Relieved the call was not about a serious problem, Naoki then became curious why an oyabun of another Yakuza organization would be coming to an Inagawa-kai property, especially to talk with a government minister! But it was not his position to ask, and Narumi-san did not offer any explanations before abruptly terminating the conversation.
As the hour neared ten a.m., Naoki began to calm down. All was arranged. The regular furniture had been pushed aside and a special table had been placed in the center of the main cocktail lounge on the second floor. Naoki’s best bartender had been hauled out of his bed in case there was a request for exotic drinks. Four hostesses had been summoned in case their services were required by his visitors. The final touch was an ashtray, along with an assortment of cigarette packages, both foreign and domestic, at each of the two seats.
The oyabun arrived first, along with a cohort of cookie-cutter minions, all outfitted in black sharkskin suits, dark sunglasses, and spiked, heavily pomaded hair. The oyabun was dressed more conservatively in an expertly tailored dark wool Italian suit, worn with highly polished, English wingtip shoes. His hair was short and carefully groomed, and his manicure was perfect. He was the epitome of the highly successful businessman who ran a number of legitimate businesses on top of his responsibilities as the head of the Aizukotetsu-kai crime family, operating in Kyoto. He passed the bowing Naoki as if Naoki was a mere fixture of the environment. Once ensconced upstairs at the table, he brusquely accepted a splash of whiskey while distractedly shuffling through the assorted cigarette packs. As an added distraction, Naoki had motioned for his shift manager to bring out the women.
Naoki went back downstairs to the open-air entrance to the street to await the arrival of his second important guest. Since The Paradise was open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five and a quarter days a year, there was no door, per se. Instead there was an invisible curtain of moving air that kept out the cold of winter or the heat and humidity of summer. The idea was to capitalize on public whim by making entering as easy as possible. It was rare for a passing Japanese man not to step inside, intending to stay just for a moment, and then to remain for an hour or two.
The ground floor of The Paradise was a large pachinko parlor. Even at that time in the morning there were more than a hundred seemingly comatose players sitting in front of noisy vertical pinball games. With one hand they caused ball bearings to shoot up vertically before cascading down beneath the glass of the machines’ fronts. During the descent the stainless-steel balls smashed against various obstructions and byways. Pachinko inspired a near-fanatical devotion in many players, and though Naoki didn’t understand it, he didn’t care. The game was responsible for almost forty-five percent of the take of The Paradise.
Down the street, he could see the black sedans that had brought the oyabun and his retinue. Among the Toyota Crowns was the oyabun’s own vehicle, an impressive black Lexus LS 600h L, the new flagship of the Lexus brand and of the Japanese auto industry itself. The cars were all parked in an obvious no-parking zone, but Naoki wasn’t concerned. The local police would recognize the vehicles and leave them be. Naoki was well aware of the unorthodox and fluid relationship between government authorities, including the police, and the Yakuza, as was certainly evidenced by the upcoming meeting he was hosting that morning.
Checking the time, Naoki felt his nervousness return. Despite t
he slight pleased smile Naoki had perceived on the oyabun’s face when the hostesses had appeared, Naoki understood that the oyabun might consider his being forced to wait as a sign of disrespect on the part of the vice minister. To Naoki’s relief, however, the moment he turned his line of sight to the right, he was rewarded by the sight of the vice minister’s cavalcade.
Bearing down on him half a block away were three black Toyota Crowns so close together as to be seemingly conjoined. The middle one stopped directly in front of Naoki. Although Naoki extended a hand to open the vehicle’s rear door, a team of black-suited men with earpieces jumped from the two other cars and waved Naoki off. Naoki hastily complied.
Naoki bowed deeply when Kenichi Fujiwara stepped out onto the sidewalk. The man, who was dressed almost as sumptuously as the oyabun, hesitated briefly while glancing up to survey the ten-story façade of The Paradise. The five upper floors of the building were part of a love hotel, whose themed rooms could be rented by the hour or by the day. Kenichi’s expression was of mild disdain, suggesting the location had not been his choice. Regardless, he proceeded to enter The Paradise through the curtain of air by bypassing the bowing Naoki with the same disregard that the oyabun had exhibited on his arrival fifteen minutes earlier.
As Naoki straightened up and rushed ahead to gain the lead, he called out to his arriving guests loudly enough to be heard over the racket of the pachinko balls: “The meeting is to be held on the second floor. Please follow me!”
Upstairs, the hostesses were giggling and shyly covering their mouths. A moment later they found themselves swept to the side as the oyabun abruptly stood up from the table as he caught sight of the vice minister. Without complaint, the girls quickly retreated to the bar.
Although the two entourages eyed each other with a mixture of disdain and a twinge of suppressed hostility, the greeting between the two principals was cordial and painstakingly equal, like that of two friendly businessmen.
“Kenichi Fujiwara Daijin!” the oyabun said in a clipped, forceful voice, giving equal emphasis to each syllable.
“Hisayuki Ishii Kunicho!” the vice minister said in a similar manner.
At the same time they spoke they both bowed to each other at precisely the same angle, respectfully lowering their eyes in the process. Then they exchanged business cards, the vice minister first, holding out his card clasped by both thumbs and both forefingers while repeating a shallower bow. The oyabun then followed suit, mimicking the minister with precision.
Completing the business-card ritual, the men briefly turned to their respective attendants, and with simple glances and slight nods of the head directed them to opposite sides of the room. At that point the oyabun and the vice minister sat down, facing each other across the expanse of the mahogany library table that had been found for the occasion. Each carefully placed the other’s business card front and center, exactly parallel to the table’s side.
Without specific instructions to the contrary, Naoki, who was obviously not to be acknowledged, remained within earshot in case either of his two distinguished guests had any requests. He stood silently off to the side and tried vainly not to hear what was said. In his business, knowledge could be dangerous.
After a series of pleasantries, reaffirming their mutual respect, Kenichi got down to business. “We haven’t much time before my presence will be missed at the ministry. First let me express my sincere appreciation for your willingness to have made the tedious drive from Kyoto to Tokyo.”
“It was no bother,” Hisayuki said with a casual wave of his hand. “I had reason to come to Tokyo for one of my other business ventures.”
“Second, the minister himself sends his regards and hopes you understand that he would have much preferred to have had this meeting with you instead of me. He was unfortunately called to an unexpected meeting with the prime minister.”
Hisayuki didn’t respond verbally. Instead he merely nodded his head to indicate he’d heard. In truth the sudden change early that morning had irked him, but for fear he might risk cutting off his nose to spite his face, he’d accepted the alteration. A high-level meeting with the government, whether it was with the minister or the vice minister, was too unique not to be taken advantage of. Besides, in many ways the vice minister was more powerful than the minister. He was not an appointee of the prime minister but rather an established civil servant. And Hisayuki was curious about what the government wanted, and even more curious about what they would offer. Everything between the Yakuza and the government was a negotiation.
“I also want you to know that we would have liked to have come to Kyoto, but with the world economy and national economy as they are, we are continuously hounded by the media and felt we couldn’t take the risk. It is important that this meeting between us is strictly kept from the media. The government needs your help. You know as well as I, Japan does not have the equivalent of a CIA or an FBI.”
With some effort Hisayuki suppressed a contented smile. As a born negotiator, he loved being approached for a favor by someone capable of helping him. With his interest piqued, Hisayuki leaned over the table to bring his face closer to Kenichi’s. “Is it safe to assume in this particular circumstance that it is my reputed position as the oyabun of a Yakuza family that affords me the opportunity of being able to help the government?”
Kenichi leaned forward as well. “It is precisely the reason.”
Despite Hisayuki’s attempts to avoid it, a slight smile appeared on his face, forcing him to contradict his mantra of showing no emotion when negotiating. “Excuse me if I find this ironic,” he said as he controlled his expression. “Isn’t this the same government that passed the anti-gang laws of 1992 now asking for help? How can that be?”
“As you know, the government has always been ambivalent to the Yakuza, and those laws were passed for political reasons, not for law enforcement. On top of that, they haven’t been particularly enforced. More to the point, an equivalent to the American RICO Act has not been passed, and without such a law our anti-gang laws could never be truly enforced.”
Hisayuki tented his fingers. He liked where the conversation was going. “The irony is that the anti-gang laws have not had as much influence on vice operations as they have had on our legitimate businesses. Would you be averse to looking into some of these specific circumstances if I were to help you and the government?”
“That is specifically what we were planning to offer. The more legitimate the operation or company, and the freer it appears from Yakuza control, the more we can do. It will be our pleasure.”
“One other question before telling me what it is you are requesting: Why me? Why the Aizukotetsu-kai? Compared to the Yamaguchi-gumi or even the Inagawa-kai, we are very small.”
“We’ve come to you because you and Aizukotetsu-kai, as the ascendant Yakuza of Kyoto, are already involved.”
The oyabun’s eyebrows rose slightly, reflecting as much surprise as confusion. “How do you know we are involved, and what exactly is the issue?”
“We know you are involved because of the strong position you have taken in the relatively new company called iPS Patent Japan through your equity company, RRTW Ventures. With that much stock involved, we assume you feel, as the government does, that induced pluripotent stem cell technology is going to dominate the biotech industry for the next century. Most of us believe that within a decade or so these iPS cells are going to be the source of cures, not mere treatments, for a multitude of degenerative diseases. And they will spawn a highly profitable industry in the process. Am I correct?”
Hisayuki did not move.
“I’m going to take your silence as a yes. I’ll also assume, because of the size of your investment, that you believe Kyoto University was ill equipped to deal with the patent aspects of the breakthroughs emanating from their stem cell labs, because that’s specifically what iPS Patent Japan was to rectify and manage.”
Kenichi paused again, but Hisayuki remained as immobile as a statue, taken
aback by the accuracy of what he was hearing. He had no idea that the position he had taken in iPS Patent Japan was something the government would know about, since the company was still private.
After clearing his throat and waiting a moment to see if the oyabun wanted to respond, the minister continued: “To say that the Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry is concerned that our nation is in peril of losing its ascendancy in this critically important field of commercializing iPS technology to the Americans would make a mockery of our true feelings. We are desperate, especially as the Japanese public has already accepted Japan’s ascendancy in the field as a point of national pride. Even worse, we have recently come to learn that there has been a critical defection of a researcher from the Kyoto University stem cell lab.”
As if waking from a trance, Hisayuki straightened and blurted: “A defection to where?” The old-school Yakuza, like the Japanese extreme political right wing, were passionately patriotic. To him such behavior of a Japanese researcher would be anathema.
“To America, of course, which is why we are so concerned: New York, to be more specific. The defection has been engineered by a start-up company called iPS USA, which plans to take advantage of the patent chaos in the stem cell arena and with iPS technology in particular. Although the company is reported to be in the ‘stealth mode,’ it seems that their goal will be to corner all relevant intellectual property in this promising field.”
“Meaning they could end up controlling what promises to be a trillion-dollar industry, an industry that Japan rightfully should control.”
“Well said.”
“How much of a threat is this defector?”