Hidden Nexus (7 page)

Friday 31st December 7:55am

The yellow-painted ploughs and salt spreaders had been toiling since the early morning, working tirelessly under a marbled grey sky and the unending weather reports delivered by over-excited, blue-nosed reporters from outside locations, with unseemly relish in their voices - there was nothing quite like a disaster to get the journalistic juices flowing, indicated that although it was unlikely to snow again the unusually cold temperatures would remain, creating hazardous driving conditions and havoc on the roads. The people of Kanagawa were reminded to refrain from taking unnecessary car journeys and were implored to make adjustments to their usual routine. There was a sense of enforced seriousness in their voices and an underlying feeling that what they coveted most, but were unable to admit, was another tranche of snow to propel the city into an increased level of chaos and therefore allowable media hysteria.

Hiro Watanabe turned away from the window from where he had been watching a brigade of eager workers clearing away the snow from the sidewalks, glanced at his watch for the third time in as many minutes and then sat down to await the rest of his inner circle in the main meeting room in his comfortable but, non-the-less, hard-backed leather chair. He was mulling over his next move and drummed his fingers on the table with a jolting, uneven rhythm whilst nervously chewing at his lip – an unbecoming habit that he didn’t realise he’d unknowingly developed. Finally he swept his hand over his hair - not for the first time, either.

He had already read – skimmed read, with the precision of a sumo wrestler in a patisserie, some, but not all of the morning papers, becoming marginally more satisfied as he’d turned each page. He wasn’t known for his quick reading or his ability to digest, understand and memorise ream upon ream of intricate detail and so true to form he had focussed solely on news concerning his political faction and his party.

That morning however, his mind had been smothered by other matters and it was only after the briefest of run-throughs that he’d placed the newspapers to one side, satisfied to be guided by his gut feeling which dictated that the tide of negative stories was at last upon the wane. The self-same gut feeling also told him that, in addition, there was
 
no doubt that they were still under some pressure – no doubt at all, but it was equally true that there were signs that the manoeuvring of the past month was beginning to pay some dividend.

He could trace this change in political fortune to a specific day and a specific meeting that had taken place four weeks previously. It was a meeting that he still felt profoundly uncomfortable about, but a meeting that none-the-less had proved singularly significant.

That particular Monday had dawned like so many others that had gone before and emerging from the underground concourse and subterranean shopping malls of Yokohama station he'd had no suspicion of the critical events which were due to follow. He’d entered what he would have hesitatingly described as a square. Sadly, this was no leafy sanctuary, nestling amongst the urban clutter replete with benches and fountains, but more a magnet for taxis and buses which obediently lined-up waiting for their custom to alight from the trains. He’d barely noticed this however, as this was a scene typical of many a town and city across Kanagawa and would be more properly described in modern parlance as a ‘transport hub’ where city planners had opted understandably, perhaps mistakenly, for functionality over beauty. Like a casual tourist stepping out into the hazy winter light he’d spied nothing here to grab the attention having noted, not for the first time, that the country’s treasures, exquisite in the extreme, could be all too easily cloaked in grey concrete and the pressure to meet the needs of commerce.

On this particular bitter, fresh morning there had been a new addition to the lines of white, black and yellow taxis and the blue and white buses that constantly pulled in and pulled out of the square, and this had been a garishly decorated political, campaign bus which he'd made a direct bee-line towards. Not that he would have particularly described the bus in such a negative way, plastered as it was with pictures of the local ruling party candidate, Hiroko Tanaka and those of her party leaders – in short pictures of himself!

On the bottom floor of the bus, partially hidden from view, a veritable side-show compared to the attraction on the top deck, had stood the local candidate grinning sheepishly, bowing to those around her, handing out campaign leaflets and being generally eager to follow whatever instruction she’d been given by Watanabe, the key instruction quite ironically, given the nature of the day, seemingly being to keep her well away and not to interfere with the pronouncements of the grandees. Watanabe had known how she’d felt. Unquestioningly Hiroko Tanaka had probably hoped that one day she would be eligible for a top-deck role and that she, in turn, would be in a position to lord it over the minions. For the present though, she would unquestioningly confine herself to a role of secondary importance, uncomfortable at the constant smiling and the gentle but insistent chipping away of her own political self-esteem so demanded from those above her. Watanabe had been there. He’d known exactly how she’d felt, but as mentioned earlier she had been of secondary importance.

He had positioned himself on the open-topped, superior, level of the bus and had smiled his best politician’s winning smile and clutched in his white-gloved hand a trio of microphones that had been taped together, themselves attached to the huge speakers adorning the bus, which had blasted his message to the unassuming passers-by, who’d paid little or no attention to the obtrusive noise pollution.

Up to this point Watanabe had been undisturbed by the apparent ambivalence of the erstwhile constituents and had continued with his endless stream of entreaties, slogans and general smarm and on the whole had considered himself to be in pretty fine form. After reluctantly performing his duty by grabbing the hand of the local candidate and raising it aloft in victory salute he had been pleased to usher her back down to ground level and to get on with what he’d seen as the main purpose of his visit to the bus that day, that being - unfailing and unending self-promotion. Tanaka was a woman for whom he had no great faith and precious little time but he had none-the-less publicly endorsed her before dismissing her to a role of secondary, leafleting, importance and commencing his speeches.

That morning the words had seemed to flow effortlessly from his lips and a few off-the-cuff comments that had just leapt into his head had perfectly embellished what he’d considered to be an appealingly powerful message. Most of all he’d been delighted that all this had been caught wonderfully by the TV networks. All in all he considered that he had done some pretty good work for the party, some fairly good work for the candidate but most of all some excellent work for himself. However all this endeavour had come crashing down around his shoulders as some fifteen minutes into his speech he had depressingly heard the shrill burp of vulgar-sounding marshal music followed not soon after by a procession of black and red political busses entering the square as the enemy within, the far-right faction, had approached.
Too soon he’d been drowned out, too soon the few people who’d stopped to listen to him had their heads turned by the new arrivals and too soon the TV cameras had panned around to take in the full, more energetic, alternative view. A ruffled Watanabe had attempted to continue but he’d known his moment had gone. He’d lost the crowd as much as he’d lost himself. He’d then sadly noticed that the far-right were throwing his own phrases back at him, laced with heavy sarcasm and dripping with praise – a cunning a ploy as any he had ever witnessed.

‘Watanabe promises electoral reform,’ they’d shouted. ‘He’s a man who keeps his promises. You can trust Watanabe and his faction to deliver. He’s been fighting this corner for fifteen years! That's effectiveness for you! If you want electoral reform then Watanabe is your man.’

For every issue you cared to mention the ‘opposition’ tactic had been to shower him with compliments and smother him with eulogies knowing full well that stretched grotesquely in this manner his own pronouncements would begin to sound empty and fatuous.

Five minutes later, his stint done and brutally leaving a defenceless Tanaka to submissively fend off the opposition on her own, Hiro Watanabe sat in the back of his limousine that had returned him to faction headquarters. It went without saying that he’d been in a foul mood. In addition to the humiliation at the hustings, the latest opinion polls, that he’d then had in front of him, had the ruling party trailing to the real opposition – the Socialists, and his own faction had been singled out as the weak link in the chain. It had all been quite indigestible. He’d turned to his political advisor and closest confident, Shinsuke Kinjo, who’d been sitting beside him, equally sullen and equally despondent.

‘So?’ Watanabe had said, with the air of a man expecting someone else to come up with a solution.

Kinjo had taken a deep breath and then blown out his cheeks. ‘We need a plan – a new plan! We need a meeting with Hatoyama,’ he’d replied in a steely voice.

Two days later in a suitably anonymous hotel – a stone’s throw from Tokyo Shinbashi station, Watanabe and Kinjo had awaited their illustrious guest. Despite having called the meeting Watanabe had instinctively known that he was gambling and he’d glanced nervously at his watch and then at Kinjo.

‘Why here?’ he’d asked, peering around at the shabby surroundings.

‘It’s owned by my cousin – it’s quite safe, quite discreet.’

‘And quite disgusting! It had better be safe, though. I feel out on a limb here – exposed! You’re sure it’s safe?’

‘Trust me!’

‘I do. It’s just-’

‘Stop worrying. Relax. Everything will be fine.’

‘Right! But I’m surprised Hatoyama agreed so readily.’

‘He has his own problems – I’m sure we can come to some agreement.’

‘I hope so! I can’t allow myself to be subjected to the same level of electioneering again, otherwise I’ll disappear without trace.’

‘I agree – that’s why any agreement with Hatoyama is our last chance.’

‘
Our
last chance?’

‘Okay, your last chance. You know what I mean, but nonetheless, it’s important that you secure some kind of deal.’

Not for the first time Watanabe had wondered who it was that was truly in the driving seat.

The two men had continued to cool their heels, both fuming silently at the power play being enacted, that had them being kept waiting, rather than the other way round.

‘He's making us look like even bigger fools than we already are.'

‘He’ll be here!’

Hatoyama was an almost carbon copy of Watanabe. Both wore slicked-back, black hair, both had been dressed conservatively, both had a black facial mole on the left side of their face, both were relatively short in stature, however both had an aura and magnetism that lesser men could only admire. The only thing that separated them was that Hatoyama had a scar on the right side of his temple, the result of a fight in his youth, a fight in which, despite his wound, he had come off the better.

The men had bowed to each other and Watanabe had warmly invited the new arrivals to join them in the circle of comfy chairs and sofas surrounding a low table.

‘Drink, gentlemen?’

‘Please.’

Watanabe had nodded to Kinjo who in turn had caught the eye of an attendant.

The opening exchanges had been cordial if inconsequential with neither side revealing much of what was in their inner thoughts. The conversation had floated around important but irrelevant topics such as the unrest in North Korea and the health of the Emperor until eventually with the opening pleasantries exhausted the two men had girded themselves to address the kernel of their meeting.