Rules of the Hunt (47 page)
The DSG exhaled, and in Adachi's opinion, took an unconscionably long
time about it.
The Spider was a positive
genius at buying time in a discussion while also managing to appear entirely in
control.
Those around him tended to wait
with bated breath for the oracle to speak.
The Spider had raised hesitation to a high art.
The seconds passed.
Adachi was
frankly impressed at how much air the little man contained.
He must really be fit.
When did he exercise?
There was not even a rumor of him in the
police
dojo
.
Perhaps he jogged in the dead of night around
The DSG eventually took a deep breath — to Adachi's relief — and then
exploded in laughter.
After an
appropriate interval, Adachi joined in.
The DSG practically rolled off his chair, but finally got control of
himself.
"Let's do it," he said.
"It's a perfect solution.
But weren't there witnesses?"
"Most noticed only the initial
yakuza
attack, said Adachi, "and then they fled.
The involvement of a
gaijin
was
seen only by a couple, and the rain was heavy.
I don't think we need to worry.
We'll have a quiet word about the public interest."
"Our
gaijin
friend,"
said the
DSG,
"is a very clever man.
The Irish must have some Japanese blood in
them somewhere.
But tell me,
Superintendent-
san
, what does he
want?"
Adachi smiled.
"He would like
to continue what has been agreed upon, and he respectfully suggests that he be
allowed—"
The DSG groaned.
"—to carry a firearm."
*
*
*
*
*
The
June 10
The village was some sixty miles north of
increased to four — had not been overly keen on his making the trip.
Their protests had been so vigorous that Fitzduane, in his
with unmarked police cars front and rear, had half expected to have to fight
his way through the suburbs like a stagecoach careering through hostile
Indians.
The reality was more prosaic.
It was a long, boring trip through heavy rain
and endless
pine-covered hills in the distance.
Fitzduane's heart lifted.
The
green of the forests was a different shade, but there were echoes or
He greatly missed his island and the beauty
of the Irish countryside.
He cursed it
often for its miserable weather and its failures, but the pull of his tragic,
rain-washed island was in his soul.
And
land of islands.
There was a bond.
The rain stopped as the little company drove into the village.
Even as he watched, men and women come out of
their houses with hoes and sickles and started cutting at the undergrowth at
the perimeter.
It was clear that civic
pride was alive and well in the hamlet of Asumae.
A tall, heavyset figure in his early sixties leaned against a stone
ishidoro
lantern outside a modest
wood-framed two-story house and grinned at Fitzduane, then bowed.
It was something of a pastiche.
With his height and jutting jaw and craggy
features, he was a decidedly un-Asian figure.
A pipe was clenched in his teeth, and he was wearing an unpressed khaki
shirt of military cut and baggy cotton trousers of similar origin.
Fitzduane had known Mike Bergin since the early days of
his dress sense had not improved.
"I thought you'd be working, Mike," said Fitzduane with a
smile, indicating the villagers hacking and hoeing away.
Bergin removed the pipe from his mouth.
His complexion — tanned, weather-beaten, and blotched with the patchwork
of veins of a heavy drinker — hovered somewhere between unshaven and designer
stubble.
But there was a presence, a
strong sense of human worth.
"Hugo, the Japanese believe that man is put on this earth to work,
and that work, work, and more work is the solution to everything."
"But?" said Fitzduane.
Bergin laughed.
"I ain't
Japanese.
Anyway, Hugo, you're a good
excuse for me to revert to my decadent Western ways."
"You'd normally join in?" said Fitzduane.
Mike, the old Asia hand and battle-hardened
war correspondent, had once been something of a mentor to Fitzduane, and the
Irishman was curious to see how Bergin had adapted to living in
He had settled in
with the comment that "the
where the action is going to be in the future."
And he had been far from wrong, in
Fitzduane's opinion.
"Sure," said Bergin.
"It's important for us
gaijins
to show we aren't complete barbarians.
Anyway, I rather like some of their values.
Community spirit is still a big thing
here.
Money isn't the sum of all gods,
like in the West."
"Hell, Mike, what do you know about the West?" said Fitzduane,
grinning.
"You spent the late
forties here with MacArthur and then didn't get much further West than
The odd foray to
Bergin put his arm around Fitzduane's shoulder and ushered him into the
house.
"You've got a point, old
son," he said,
" but
though my lips move as
I do it, I can read.
Anyway, it's real
good to see you.
And
alive, at that.
Given what you
get up to, it's fucking amazing."
Privately, Fitzduane was beginning to think much the same, but he made no
comment as they removed their shoes and padded in the slippers provided into
the living room.
Fitzduane's slippers
fit.
Either he was wearing a spare pair
of Mike's, or Mike had regular
gaijin
visitors.
All of which was in line with
Bergin's less overt occupation.
Outside the house, the security team had safeguarded the front and rear
entrances, and as Fitzduane glanced up, a liveried police car drove up.
Belt and suspenders.
Well, he could not blame them.
He slid the
shoji
screen shut and went to sit across from Bergin at a battered
pine table.
"Thanks for the trade goods," said Mike, looking up from the
case of French wine Fitzduane had brought.
"
Sake
is good stuff and
it's cheap, but it's nice to be reminded of the fleshpots every now and
then.
I mean, rice is great, but
sometimes I yearn for potatoes."
"Once a
gaijin
, always a
gaijin
," said Fitzduane.
"No truer word," said Bergin.
He looked distracted for a moment, and Fitzduane remembered his wife had
died.
She had been Japanese and had
provided something of a bridge to the local community.
What must it be like now?
Fitzduane reached out across the table and put his hand on top of
Bergin's for a moment.
"It's good
to see you, you old pirate," he said, with quiet emphasis.
"You're a monument to the merits of hard
living.
You drink, you smoke, you've
fucked your way through every skin shade in Asia, and you've been under fire more
often than we get rained on in Ireland — and still you look terrific."
Bergin looked up, and there was real warmth in his eyes.
"Goddamn liar," he growled.
"I'll get a corkscrew."
The first bottle of wine was empty by the time Fitzduane had finished his
story.
He trusted Mike, so he related
most of what had happened under strict off-the-record ground rules.
Bergin whistled quietly to himself as the narrative came to an end, then
looked across at Fitzduane and grinned.
"It might be a practical move to see that your life insurance is
paid up."
"Thank you for your concern," said Fitzduane dryly, "but I
am hoping that with the help of a few of my friends, including the odd
battle-scarred veteran, I won't need it.
I'm getting tired of being a target."
He smiled, and added with some irony,
"I'm thinking of becoming... pro-active."
Bergin raised his eyebrows.
"I would say killing four
yakuza
and knocking a policeman unconscious is an auspicious start.
Now, how can this particular battle-scarred
veteran help?"
"I need information," said Fitzduane, "background,
context, history, perspective.
So far I
have been fed what other people think I need to know.
Well, I need more than that.
I need a sense — almost a physical
sense" — he rubbed his fingers and thumb together to emphasize the tactile
point he was making — "of what I'm up against."
Bergin stretched.
"Where do
you want me to start?" he said.
"The Namakas," said Fitzduane.
"What do you know that I don't?"
"Just as well you brought a case of wine," said Bergin.
"This talk is going to run more than a
couple of bottles."
"I worked for CIC — the Counter Intelligence Corps — during the
occupation as a special agent before my conversion to the Fourth Estate.
They used to say you had to be lily-white to
get into CIC and turn coal-black to stay in.
We did what had to be done and to hell with the rules.
Interesting times.
Long time ago.
But some things linger, like our friend
Hodama."
"And the Namakas?" said Fitzduane.
"The Namakas worked for Hodama in those days," said
Bergin.
"He picked them out of the
gutter and used them for some of the rougher stuff.
And, of course, all of them worked for us.
All part of putting down
communism and, like I said, to hell with the rules.
Then time moved on and Hodama moved up the
ladder and brought the Namakas with him.
And they all started wearing silk suits.
But inside, nothing changed.
Nor did the old alliances.
So there is no way the Namakas killed Hodama."
"So who did?" said Fitzduane.
"I'm not sure," said Bergin, "but I've got a few
ideas.
The one thing I can tell you is
this game goes way back.
I think there's
your pointer."
Fitzduane looked at Bergin hard.
"You know what happened," he said, "but you're not going
to tell me.
What the hell is this, Mike?"
"I guess you'd call it a conflict of interest," said
Bergin.
"I have added some ethics
as I've gotten older.
I'm not in so much
of a hurry."
"If the Namakas did not kill Hodama," said Fitzduane, "and
someone else did, then they've gone to a great deal of trouble to blame it on
the Namakas.
Which
means they have it in for the Namakas — which means we have something in
common.
And thinking further
about it, the timing of the killing has to be important.
It's not just paying off an old grudge.
It's more about rescheduling the pecking
order."
Bergin nodded and chuckled.
"That's my interpretation," he said, "but policemen have
to go on the evidence.
Frankly, it has
been a neat operation so far and it does not look good for the Namakas.
And the truth is not really very
relevant.
They've run their course.
Now it's just a matter of time."
"You sound very sure," said Fitzduane.
"I've read the Namaka file.
They are redoubtable people."