Rules of the Hunt (44 page)
This was excellent.
With his heart
pounding, the
oyabun
watched as the
target moved out of sight as he approached the main entrance.
Seconds later, he reappeared on the pavement
outside and turned left and headed down toward
The
oyabun
barked into his
microphone.
At his command, the driver
of the van with the tinted windows abandoned his
pachinko
game, leaped out of the side door, and jumped into his
seat.
In the confusion, the piles of yen
notes on the table in the back were dislodged.
Several notes drifted out the door when it was opened.
The three
yakuza
scrabbled around the floor on their hands and knees and tried to recover the
others.
In the turmoil, although the
foreigner was quickly identified, none of the
yakuza
paid
any attention to the two Japanese who were following at a
respectable distance behind Fitzduane.
A
connection might have been made under normal circumstances, despite the
excitement and chaos of going in for the kill, but it was raining.
Fitzduane and both of his bodyguards had put
up their umbrellas.
All eyes were fixed
on the large golf umbrella in green, white, and gold — the colors of the Irish
flag.
It was easy to follow.
Apart from its color scheme, it protruded a
good foot higher than the Japanese umbrellas.
Obviously, it was carried either by a freak or a foreigner.
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane, equipped with a map, had been well-briefed by the concierge at
the
There was an obvious concern over the ability of a foreigner to find his
way about
Since he could not read a word of Japanese
and most streets had no name, Fitzduane shared that concern in a mild way, but
he formed the view that with Sergeant Oga and Detective Reido behind him, he
should not get into serious trouble.
Further, he had been advised that there were police boxes all over the
place, so if he somehow lost his guardians he had a fallback.
Of course, none of this should be
necessary.
In
be safe.
He actually felt safe as he strode through the rain.
six thousand miles from the bloodshed in
The memories of the shooting and Christian de
Guevain's death faded temporarily from his mind.
His injuries had healed.
He was fit and greatly enjoying his new surroundings.
Life is pleasant, he thought, as he quickened
his pace and turned right onto Yasukini-dori.
He was heading downhill to Jinbocho, the bookshop area, to do a little
browsing.
*
*
*
*
*
Detective Superintendent Adachi had been enjoying Sunday lunch with his
parents until the subject of his marriage came up.
Mostly, it came up directly, but this time his mother was talking about
the royal family and looking at him in that particular way.
Continuity, his mother stressed, was
vital.
It was essential, for
example, that
the Crown Prince marry sooner rather than
later.
The inference was clear.
Adachi might not have the mystical well-being
of one hundred and twenty-nine million Japanese resting on his shoulders, but
he was the direct concern of his parents.
If the Crown Prince could be pressured to marry — as he surely was, both
by the Imperial Household Agency and the media — then the Adachi parents could
certainly pressure their son.
Adachi fled rather sooner than planned and headed into headquarters to
check on the team and reread the file on this Irishman.
A murder investigation was distinctly more
restful than his parents when they had the bit between their teeth.
He thought of Chifune and ached inside.
He loved her and missed her, but even when he was with her he had the
sense that he was losing her.
If ever he
had wanted to marry anyone, it was Chifune, but she was a New Japanese Woman
and somehow marriage did not seem to be on her mind.
Oh women, women!
What a pleasure, what a pain, what a
distraction.
And these days, who know
where they belonged?
Certainly, they did
not, not anymore.
He returned the salutes of the smartly uniformed riot police in their
jump boots and took the elevator.
In the
squad room, on a Sunday afternoon, no fewer than eleven of his team
were
present.
He felt
proud to be Japanese.
Of course, they
were all watching a baseball game on television, but it was the principle that
mattered.
He joined the group and
watched the rest of the game and drank a couple of beers.
Afterward, he wandered into his office to scan the
gaijin
's file and found Inspector Fujiwara hard at work there.
He had not even broken off to watch the
game.
Given Fujiwara's fondness for
baseball, this was true dedication.
Adachi felt quite embarrassed.
He drank some tea with Fujiwara and headed off to the
He sill had a little time since he was not due to meet Fitzduane until
five, so he thought that instead of taking the subway direct to the nearest
station, Kudanshita, he would get off a station early at Jinbocho, window-shop
a little, and enjoy the walk up the hill.
There was a police box just below Kudanshita, and he might drop in as he
passed.
Sergeant Akamatsu, the grizzled
veteran who had trained Adachi in his first years on the street, was normally
on duty there on Sundays, and Adachi visited when he could.
The sergeant's wife had died a few years earlier and his children had
left home, so he found Sundays at home particularly hard.
The police force was now his family.
Adachi, he supposed, was a kind of surrogate
son.
Well, whatever he was, he was fond
of the old man.
Yes, he would drop
in.
Also, Akamatsu knew things from the
old days.
Perhaps the time had come to
talk to him about this Hodama business.
If anyone would, he would know something about the earlier years.
And the old sergeant had wisdom and hat
elusive commodity Adachi was chasing — perspective.
He thought of the Irishman he was about to meet and wondered whether he
could really bring anything to the investigation.
The superintendent doubted it, but he was
curious.
The DSG had originated the
matter.
Chifune, when she had phoned
after returning from
had spoken highly of him.
The man must
have something.
Judging by his file, he also seemed to have a talent for violence.
Well, that was something he would find scant
use for in
The city was extraordinarily peaceful by any
standards, let alone by those of a Western capital.
His request that he be allowed to carry a gun
was ridiculous; Adachi thoroughly supported the DSG's decision.
Threats — if any, which he doubted — would be
taken care of by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.
Adachi strolled through Jinbocho, browsed at a couple of stores, then
headed up to the police box — actually a miniature police station of two
stories — on Yasukini-dori.
A young
policeman, by the look of it only just out of the academy, was at the open
entrance.
His main business at this time
of day was giving directions.
He went
pink, as a couple of very pretty OLs in their Sunday gear of jeans and T-shirts
approached him with an inquiry.
Adachi
waited politely, and when the OLs had finished, showed his ID.
The young policeman became flustered when he
realized he had kept such a senior officer waiting.
Adachi suppressed a smile, removed his shoes, and went through to the
back and up the tiny stairs to the
tatami
room above.
It was not protocol to wear
shoes in a private home of traditional building, and as a relaxation area, the
tatami
room came into that category.
Besides, street shoes and police boots were
unkind to the straw
tatami
mats,
particularly in the rainy season.
Before reaching the top, he called ahead.
He had studied under Sergeant Akamatsu, so he addressed him as if he,
Superintendent Adachi, were still the pupil.
It was the way in
The initial relationship established the mode
of address thereafter.
There was no rush
to first names in the Western sense.
A
growing friendship or close professional relationship did not need to be
symbolized by such a superficial change as that.
If it was there, it would be felt and
understood without words.
"
Sensei
!" called
Adachi.
A grizzled, lined face appeared at the top of the stairs.
Sergeant Akamatsu looked as if he had either
seen or experienced firsthand almost everything a
century; and he had.
He had joined the
police force during the occupation, and had stayed on beyond retirement because
he was an institution and could still do his job better than most rookies.
The sergeant's tie was loose and there was a glass of tea in one hand and
a newspaper in the other.
He had removed
his gun belt, the top two buttons of his trousers were undone, and he was
wearing slippers.
His initial expression
suggested that he was not overly pleased at having his well-earned break
disturbed, but his face broke into a broad grin when he recognized Adachi.
"Adachi-
kun
," he
said, the
kun
appendage indicating that the superintendent had been his pupil, "this is
a pleasure.
Come up and have some
tea."
Adachi finished climbing the stairs, sat down on the
tatami
floor, and accepted the tea gratefully.
He was silent at first, thinking.
He had worked in this very
koban
a decade earlier under Sergeant
Akamatsu, and every time he returned he got an acute attack of nostalgia for
the place.
It was curious, given the
cramped utilitarian nature of the miniature construction — a typical police box
was little more than a booth — but he had been privileged to learn under a real
master.
Whatever problems he encountered
on the streets, he had always known that Akamatsu would know the answer and he
had never been disappointed.
He had very
warm feelings toward the sergeant.
Coming back from patrol to the streetwise presence of Sergeant Akamatsu
had been as reassuring in its way as coming home.
It was a fortunate man who worked under a
great teacher.
When Adachi visited Akamatsu, they tended to reminisce and talk about
general gossip rather than specific cases, because the superintendent's responsibilities
were now at a level much higher than the sergeant's and neither wanted to draw
attention to the differences of their worlds.
It was more companionable to discuss matters in common.
This was not a cast-iron rule, because from
time to time Adachi felt the need to pick his old mentor's brains, but he had
not so far raised the Hodama investigation.
It was politically sensitive and operated mostly on a need-to-know
basis.
The time had now come to consult Akamatsu.
He put down his cup and they talked baseball
for a few minutes, as Adachi searched for the right opening approach.
There was a natural break in the conversation, and then Sergeant Akamatsu
spoke.
"The
Hodama business, Adachi-
kun
?"
Adachi smiled.
"Ever
the mind-reader,
sensei
."
Akamatsu laughed.
"The entire
force knows you're running the investigation, and the word is that it's going
nowhere.
Then you come to my
koban
with that certain familiar look on
your face.
I don't need to be a
detective to work out where to go from there.
So let's talk about it."