Rules of the Hunt (45 page)

Adachi nodded and started to speak.
 
Akamatsu filled his pipe and listened.

What you need is a little history," said the sergeant when Adachi
had finished.
 
"Files aren't enough
and computers are dumb beasts.
 
You need
flesh and blood to get closer to what happened.
 
Those were hard days after the war when the Namakas were building their
empire."

"Can you
help,
sensei
?" said Adachi.

"I think so," said Akamatsu.
 
He was about to say more when shouts could be heard from the street below,
and then almost immediately there was the sound of metal clashing and of people
screaming in agony.

Both men rose to their feet, and as they did so, there was the sound of
gunfire very close at hand.
 
Then
came
shots immediately below.

Adachi drew his revolver and made for the stairs, with Sergeant Akamatsu
buckling on his gun belt immediately behind.

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*
         
*
         
*
         
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The
oyabun
of the
Insuji-gumi
had learned from experience
that too many attackers in a street hit could be counterproductive.

Armed with guns, hyped on the adrenaline rush, they had a tendency to
shoot each other and a disturbing number of the passing citizenry.
 
Equipped with swords and working close in,
the only way you can with a blade less than three feet long, it became hard to
tell who was hacking at who in the mêlée — and the victim had a fair chance of
escaping amid a welter of spraying blood and wrongly targeted severed limbs.

Nonetheless, numbers definitely had an advantage if properly
deployed.
 
A would-be hero, a policeman
or passerby, might go up against one assailant, but few sane people would go
head-to-head with half a dozen sword-wielding assailants shouting battle cries.

The
oyabun
favored a human
variation of a formation which fighter pilots, he had heard, called the ‘lazy
deuce.’
 
Divided into pairs, the lead
fighter would bore in for the kill, while the second aircraft, the wingman,
stayed back and to the right and kept an eye out for any surprises —
particularly from the rear.

With the ‘lazy deuce’ in mind, the
oyabun
sent one pair in front of Fitzduane and put the second pair behind, with
himself and his
kobun
bringing up the
rear.
 
All were linked by radio, using
concealed microphones and hearing-aid earpieces.
 
They were wearing sunglasses and surgical
gloves and were dressed in long, light-gray disposable polyethylene raincoats —
the kind you buy in a packet in a department store when you get caught short —
and floppy rain hats of the same material.
 

These shapeless outfits not only served as effective disguises but would
also shield their wearers from blood.
 
A
hit with swords almost always resulted in a kill, but tended to be extremely
messy.
 
You could not very well escape
unnoticed through the subway, as the
oyabun
intended, if saturated with gore.
 
Tokyo
was so crowded there
was a convention that you behaved as if no one else existed, but there was a
limit.
 
Dripping crimson on your
neighbor's shoes as you strap-hung side by side in a subway car would be
regarded as decidedly ostentatious.

The designated hitter, a seasoned
yakuza
in his late thirties called Mikami, moved into position about ten paces behind
the
gaijin
.
 
When the
oyabun
gave the word, he would remove the sword concealed beneath his coat, rush
forward, and strike.
 
He would use a
downward diagonal blow which would hit his victim on the right side of the neck
and then penetrate deep into the torso, severing the spine and many of the
major organs, and if delivered by an expert with the right-quality blade, would
actually cut the body in two.

In this case, severance was unlikely.
 
Mikami was an experienced swordsman, but the
katana
being used were not of the traditional quality; they were
merely mass-produced, modern utilitarian reproductions.
 
They were razor-sharp and deadly, but they
did not have quite the same cutting power as the extraordinary works of art
handmade by the master craftsmen of old.
 
Even so, they would kill.

Since the body to which he was attached had been perforated twice, thus
providing some serious motivation, Fitzduane had given a great deal of thought
to the appropriate response to the threat.
 
The safest solution was to stay isolated in protected surroundings.
 
That was unpalatable.
 
It was like being in prison.
 
The next-best thing was to be reasonably
unpredictable and to cultivate a high level of threat awareness.
 
That was the option he had chosen, and he had
the advantage of being naturally observant and intuitive.
 
But he had also studied — and trained, trained,
trained.

The objective was never — but never — to let your guard down, and always,
even if thinking about something entirely different, to have your subconscious
hard at work on looking out for the unusual, the different, that small
something that hinted at danger.
 
He had
become very good at anticipating the unexpected.

Since it was a Sunday afternoon and raining, the pavement was not crowded
and Fitzduane was able to walk as he had trained — with no one in an immediate
threat area either in front of him or behind him.
 
The concept of a defensible space is
programmed into us by centuries of having had to fight for survival.
 
In Fitzduane's case, his awareness of that
invisible cordon around him was very high.
 
If anyone came any closer, his senses were alerted.
 
If that proximity was linked to any other
unusual element, his senses screamed.

Fitzduane was walking briskly, so he became immediately aware of two men
in long raincoats who overtook him as if in a hurry and then slowed down,
despite the heavy rain, when they were only ten yards or so in front of him.
 
There was something not quite right about
them that he could not place at first.
 
Without making any obvious gesture, he moved immediately to his right,
near the railings, so that one flank would be secured.
 
At the same time, using his umbrella to
remain unnoticed, he glanced behind him.

He felt an immediate rush.
 
His two
police minders were a discreet twenty yards behind him, but between them and
himself were two men, dressed much the same as the two in front of him.
 
It might mean nothing, he knew, because their
clothing was entirely appropriate for the heavy rain, except for their dark
glasses.
 
Still, vanity did not
necessarily mean danger.

Walking well behind, the
oyabun
watched with satisfaction as his two killing teams bracketed their victim.
 
They were walking downhill, so Mikami would
have momentum on his side as he rushed in for the kill.
 
After one terrible blow, he would then
discard his sword and his rain clothing and run into the subway station.

To ensure a kill — the Namaka security chief had been adamant about that
— his fellow
yakuza
would then
deliver another blow to the fallen victim to completely sever his head and
would then follow Mikami's example.
 
The
team ahead of the
gaijin
were
there to block his escape if something went wrong.
 
Kudanshita station was up ahead.
 
They would have to act before reaching the
station, because there was a police box a little farther down.
 
Fortunately, the police-box entrance faced
away from the location of the proposed hit.

Sergeant Oga was an experienced policeman in his forties, who'd even had
special training in personal-protection work a decade earlier.
 
However, he had forgotten much of his
protection training.
 
Because
Tokyo
was a safe city,
when he guarded some visiting VIP, he did not regard him as being at risk.
 
In all his years, he had never known anyone
under his guard to have been seriously threatened — if one discounted the
occasional politician being jostled.
 
And
giving those corrupt bastards a hard time might be a good thing.

He had heard that this
gaijin
,
Fitzduane-
san
, had been attacked in
Ireland
, but he
associated that with the IRA.
 
Everyone
knew about the IRA and that
Ireland
was in a permanent state of civil war.
 
He had seen enough coverage of the explosions and shootings on TV.
 
It seemed to have been going on for the last
twenty years — a crazy way to run a country.
 
But
Ireland
was six
thousand miles away and there were no IRA in
Tokyo
.
 
Even the few Japanese terrorists were mostly in the
Middle
East
, he had heard.
 
The
fact was that
Japan
was well and tightly
policed,
the population
supportive and, except for the
yakuza
— who at least were fairly well-organized and kept in check — law-abiding.
 
It was the way it should be.
 
Who wanted everyone running around with guns,
like in
America
!
 
That was no quality of life.

The sergeant had not been too happy when Colonel Fitzduane had indicated
that he was going for a walk, because it would have been easier and safer to
guard the man in the
Fairmont
,
but then he realized he was being unrealistic.
 
There was no real risk, and no one could remain cooped up in a hotel
room all day.
 
A man needed to stretch
his legs.
 
Personally, the sergeant loved
the streets and hated being confined in an office.
 
Still, it was a pity that the weather was so
terrible.
 
The
gaijin
should have come in spring when the cherry blossoms were out
and the weather warm and balmy.
 
Whoever
had advised him to come this time of year had to done him any favors.
 
It was hot, wet, and muggy now, and it would
get worse before it got better.
 
He
wondered how long the man was staying.
 
He was agreeable for a
gaijin
and almost like
a Japanese
in his sensitivity.
 
A nice man, really.

The sergeant watched in horror from under his umbrella as a figure in
front of him suddenly drew a sword and in the same motion raised it high above
his head and ran silently at Fitzduane.
 
The action was so unexpected, indeed surreal, that it took him two or
three seconds to react — and then it was too late.
 
He glanced at Detective Reido, who was
walking beside him, and it was clear that he, too, had been caught
unawares.
 
Both men looked at each other,
shocked, and then as one drew their service revolvers.
 
The sergeant realized that he was still
holding his umbrella, and as he moved forward, he threw it behind him.

Fitzduane turned as his assailant made his rush and took the blow on his
umbrella, at the same time drawing out the sword concealed in its handle.
 
The thin blade was similar to an epee, which
was his preferred weapon when fencing, though it was a little lighter and
lacked a hand guard.

Mikami was taken aback by the gaijin's swift turn, but expected his blade
to slice right through the thin cloth of the umbrella and into his victim.
 
He was taken aback when the blade was
deflected.

Fitzduane gave fleeting thanks to Du Point for inventing Kevlar and
realized that he could now resolve a conundrum which had puzzled him for
years.
 
It was an opportunity he could
have done without.
 
He collected weapons
and had had several very fine
katana
in his collection, and he had often questioned the merits of the magnificently
made Japanese swords — designed primarily for cutting — as compared to the
thin-bladed European weapons, which killed mainly on the thrust.
 
He had often debated the matter with
Christian de Guevain.

A cold anger gripped Fitzduane.
 
His attacker's blade cut across in a second vicious slashing attack
intended to brush aside the umbrella and cut into his victim's body.

Fitzduane stepped back down the hill, but still kept his back to the
railings, as the second stroke came at him.
 
At the same time, he dropped the umbrella.

Mikami, expecting that his blow would have to push the umbrella out of
the way as well as kill Fitzduane, had slashed with all his force.
 
At the last minute, there was no resistance
and he
lurched
forward off-balance.