Rules of the Hunt (54 page)
Fitzduane shook his head.
"There is a good cop on the case, and I think your frame-up has
been detected."
Schwanberg looked surprised.
"We'd have been told."
"As I said," said Fitzduane, "the man is a good cop — and
he's also smart.
I think he knows you've
got a mole in there, and maybe even who."
"Fuck this," said Schwanberg.
"We're supposed to be on the same side on this.
We both want the Namakas.
Sure, they didn't kill Hodama, but so
what.
They certainly were behind the
hits on you.
So let's work together and
nail the suckers.
As to your cop friend
Adachi, he's been showing signs of being difficult for some time, so there are
arrangements in place.
He's a natural
for a domestic accident."
Fitzduane, his face masking his inner feelings, wanted to reach across
and strangle the man facing him.
The
cynicism and callousness of this little shit appalled him.
Here was this bureaucrat talking about the
death of a fellow human being as if it were no more significance than ordering
more photocopy paper.
He imagined the Namakas ordering his killing in the same indifferent way,
and was extremely angry.
His heart
wanted him to rush out and somehow contact Adachi and prevent whatever was
planned.
His head advised caution.
He must stay longer.
There was more to come out of Schwanberg, and
the man must not suspect the thoughts going through Fitzduane's brain.
"So what do you want me to do?" said Fitzduane.
"Help steer the whole Hodama business toward the Namakas and keep
Katsuda in the clear," said Schwanberg, "and keep us
informed."
He was silent, but
clearly he was working toward something of greater significance.
"One way or another, we'll get the Namakas," continued
Schwanberg, "but they are only part of our mutual problem.
There is also their tame terrorist
organization — the people who shot you.
Whatever you may think, these are a group we are
not
responsible
for
We
didn't make the connection with the
Namakas for some time, as so far we haven't been able to do anything about
it.
But we want Yaibo taken out.
The Namakas are the right place to start, but
putting them out of business will still leave a very lethal residue."
Fitzduane nodded.
"I see the
political logic and I agree with it, but I don't have to like it."
Schwanberg shrugged.
"One extra thing," said
Fitzduane,
"lay off Adachi.
Let me worry about
him."
Schwanberg looked uncomfortable.
"We influence matters," he said, "but we don't
necessarily run them."
"What the fuck does that mean?" said Fitzduane.
"The world about Adachi has been passed to Katsuda," said
Schwanberg.
"I think an operation
is already in the pipeline and that it is going to happen soon.
Of course, I don't actually know any of the
details.
And nor do I want to."
"How soon?" said Fitzduane.
"I don't know exactly," said Schwanberg, "but maybe
today.
Maybe it has already
happened.
Katsuda is the impatient type
when let off the leash.
Proactive on wet
matters, you might say."
"Nothing personal, Schwanberg," said Fitzduane, "but if
anything happens to Adachi, I'm going to break your scrawny little neck.
Now open this bell jar and let me out of
here."
*
*
*
*
*
June 20
Fumio Namaka came into his brother's office.
Kei was swinging the Irish ax he had been given by Fitzduane in much the
same casual manner as another executive might fool around with a golf
club.
Kei was not keen on paperwork and
detail bored him.
But his interest in
the world of martial arts rarely flagged.
In his mind, he was a medieval
samurai
,
and the twentieth century an unfortunate error in timing.
"Kei," said Fumio, "I'd like you to come into the corridor
and tell me what you see."
"I'm busy," said Kei, as he whirled the long-handled ax around
his head and then slashed it down in a scything diagonal blow.
"I'm trying to get the hang of this
thing.
It's trickier than it seems.
It builds up enormous momentum, but that very
force makes it hard to control.
If your
blow doesn't hit, then the ax carries on and you're vulnerable.
Still, I'm sure there is a technique that can
compensate for that,
If
I can just work it out."
Effortlessly, he brought up the blade again, and Fumio felt both
irritation and a rush of affection for his older brother.
Kei could be maddening, but his enthusiasm
was infectious.
"It concerns the disposal of this
gaijin
, Fitzduane-
san
,"
said Fumio.
"I'm running a small
experiment which I think you will find interesting."
Kei snorted but put the ax down.
"Where do you want me to go?" he said.
"Open the door and look left and tell me what you see in the
corridor," said Fumio patiently.
"Games!" said Kei disparagingly, and marched across to the
door, opened it, and peered out.
He was
back
instantly, his face pale.
"It's the
gaijin
," he
said, "the Irishman.
He's here,
just standing there at the end of the corridor with his back to the
window.
What's he doing here?
How did he get past security?
What's he up to?"
"I have absolutely no idea," said Fumio.
"Are you sure it's the
gaijin
?"
"Of course I'm sure," said Kei instantly, and then took in
Fumio's expression.
"What do you
mean?" he said.
"The man in the corridor is not Fitzduane-
san
," said Fumio.
"Same height, same build, same clothes, same haircut and color —
but he is not the
gaijin
.
His back was to the window so his face was in
shadow, but if you look again more closely you will see the differences.
But the important thing is that he fooled you
the first time and you were not expecting to see him.
People see what they expect to see."
Kei opened the door again, and this time went down the corridor a dozen
paces until he was much closer to the figure.
Now he could tell the difference quite easily, but it was still a good
likeness.
"Remarkable, Fumio," he said to his brother, as he returned to
his office and closed the door, "but what is the purpose of this proxy —
this doppelgänger?"
Fumio told him.
*
*
*
*
*
At least once a week Adachi had reported to Prosecutor Sekine, and this
time as he stood outside his mentor's door his heart was heavy.
Loyalties that he had taken for granted all his life were now in
question.
Like most Japanese, he had
never held politicians or the political system in high esteem, but he had
always had a great deal of faith in the basic administration of the
country.
Now he was beginning to think
he had been naïve.
Political corruption
must
spill
over into the civil administration.
Vast
sums of money were not paid over to politicians merely to perpetuate an
ineffective political system.
No, the
money was handed over to get a very real return, and the only way that could be
done was by involving senior civil servants.
To accomplish anything at all, politicians had to work through
them.
The strings of the
kuromakus
led directly to these people.
The logic was unpalatable but inescapable.
The cadre of elite civil servants who mainly
came from his, Adachi's, social circle, must be tainted.
To what extent, he did not know, but that the
rot was there he was sure.
And he was
equally positive that he was already a victim.
He knocked a second time on the door.
There was no reply so he turned the handle and entered.
It was the accepted custom that he would wait
for the prosecutor in his office.
Toshio Sekine, the much-respected and loved friend of the Adachi family,
a civil servant widely renowned for his integrity,
lay
slumped back in his chair, his head back and tilted to the right, revealing the
gaping second mouth of a slashed throat and severed jugular.
Fresh blood matted his clothing from the neck
down and stained the desk in front of him.
Beside his right hand was the file Adachi had sent him and a
blood-splashed, sealed envelope.
Adachi
looked at it.
It was addressed to
him.
He slipped it into his inside
pocket unread and moved to examine the body.
The carpet beneath the prosecutor's chair was also sodden with
blood.
The traditional folding razor he
had used to cut his throat lay just below his right hand.
Adachi bent his head as a wave of grief swept over him, and stood there
for several minutes in silent sorrow and tribute.
Then he summoned help and did what he was
trained to do.
Whatever Sekine had done
or thought he had done, there lay a fundamentally honorable man.
*
*
*
*
*
Fitzduane found half his convoy — two Tokyo MPD detectives, including the
ever-reliable Sergeant Oga — waiting patiently in the corridor outside the
miniature offices of the Japan-World Research Federation.
The other two were in the car below.
It did not do much for spontaneity to be trailed around by four men all
the time, but there were times when it had its advantages.
"Sergeant-
san
," he
said urgently, "It is very important that I talk to Superintendent Adachi
— now!"
Oga, a man of few words, blended a brief ‘Hai, Colonel-
san,
’ he said.
Everyone is logged in or out of headquarters,
and he is logged out.
We checked the
building anyway, but with no success.
He
was last reported at the prosecutor's office — there has been a death there —
but apparently he left alone.
The dead
man was someone he was close to, and he was very upset."
Bloody hell
! thought
Fitzduane.
The man could be anywhere — drowning his
sorrows in any one of
tens of thousands of bars or just walking to clear his head.
But we are all creatures of habit.
What I need is someone who knows his
habits.
No, fuck it!
There isn't time.
"Domestic accident."
Schwanberg's phrase came into his mind.
Almost certainly, it had not been meant
literally, but it was a logical angle.
You don't kill a policeman at his place of work.
You hit him when he is off duty and he is
relaxing and his guard is down.
A bar or
a girlfriend's bedroom or the street would do fine, but who knows when a cop
working the lunatic hours of Tokyo MPD would turn up in such a place, and
a good
, well-executed hit demands predictability.
But almost everybody returns home sooner or
later, and Adachi, he had gathered, lived alone.
"Sergeant-
san
," said
Fitzduane.
"Do you know where the
superintendent lives?"
"
Hai
, Colonel-
san
," said Oga in affirmation.
"It is quite near your hotel and no more
than twenty minutes or so from here.
A
lot depends on the traffic."
"
The I
suggest we get the hell over there
very bloody fast," said Fitzduane, and started to run down the
corridor.
Sergeant Oga spoke into his
radio to alert the driver below to bring the car around to the entrance, and
only then headed after Fitzduane.
The
gaijin
was still waiting for an
elevator.
Oga restrained a smile.
"Sergeant Oga," said Fitzduane, with a snarl, "you're a
good man, but I think you should know I can read your mind.
Now listen.
When this turgid technology arrives and we get down to the street, I
want the drive to break every rule in the book and get us to the
superintendent's as fast as he can.
Someone is trying to kill Adachi-
san
,
and I think it would be a real good idea if we stopped it.
What's your opinion?"