Rules of the Hunt (56 page)

He paused to get his breath.

A crack sounded beneath him, and the pipe below him slowly broke away
from the wall at the brace where his feet rested.

Fitzduane looked down.
 
Sergeant
Oga was shouting something, and far below he could see faces looking up.
 
All his weight was now being suspended by his
arms, and the pipe he was hanging on felt greasy.
 
That was the least of his worries.
 
If the brace above him was of the same
standard as the one below, he was going to die in
Japan
, and in the rain at that.

Oga was pointing.

Fitzduane turned his head and looked where the sergeant was
indicating.
 
There was a metal protrusion
a foot to one side and a couple of feet farther up from where his feet had been
resting; it seemed to be doing something for a neon sign that flashed below.

He stretched out his left foot and found the piece of angle iron and
slowly rested his weight on it and levered himself up.
 
The iron held.
 
He was now able to move his feet up to the
next pipe
brace,
and soon after that got his hands
over the parapet.
 
He tensed himself for
one more effort.
 
As he pushed at the
brace to gain the momentum to swing his legs over the top, the rest of the pipe
gave way.

Fitzduane lay on the parapet for a few seconds to regain his
strength.
 
His head was on the edge and,
looking down, he could see an excited crowd scurrying back after the impact of
yet another section of pipe on the pavement.

This was one hell of a way to
effect
a covert
entrance.
 
He just had to hope that whoever
was inside Adachi's apartment — if anybody — was not looking out through the
window or, failing that, would not make an association with the chaos
below.
 
He was shaking with stress
reaction, and he felt nauseous and he hoped the fallen pipe had not hit
anybody.
 
Given the population density in
Tokyo
, he was
not sure the odds were in his favor.
 
Still, he had more immediate concerns.
 
He pulled himself together and carefully transferred his weight from the
parapet to the roof.

Soon afterward, he was sprawled at the edge of Adachi's skylight, peering
in cautiously at the scene underneath.
 
On a bright day, he would have been silhouetted immediately against the
sky.
 
On this gloomy day, with the rain
pounding down and smearing the glass, he would be less obtrusive.

It was some consolation for having to lie in a pool of dirty water.
 
The drainage off Adachi's roof left a great
deal to be desired.
 
He was getting a
whole new perspective on the Japanese economic miracle.

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Adachi had arrived, scarcely a minute ahead of Fitzduane, wet, exhausted,
shivering, and burdened with an overwhelming fatigue.

The prospect of climbing five floors was more than he could
contemplate.
 
He climbed the first flight
and sat down and rested his head wearily against the wall and for a few minutes
fell asleep.
 
Rainwater from his sodden
shoes dripped from him and formed a pool at his feet.

The crash of a closing door on the floor above woke him, and then there
was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a peremptory shout, as his
neighbor saw him and mistook his dripping, beaten-down figure for a
beggar.
 
Stumbling apologies followed as
the man realized who Adachi was.
 
Then he
offered help, but Adachi brushed his concern aside.

"A touch of flu," he said, rising to his feet and bowing
politely, "but nothing serious.
 
Thank you, Samu-
san
, for your
concern."

Samu-
san
bowed in
acknowledgment, but still looked at Adachi as if wanting to help.
 
The policeman was pale and shaking, and was
clearly ill.

Adachi resolved the situation by commencing to climb the stairs
again.
 
As he passed Samu-
san
he smiled, and this reassured the
neighbor.
 
He clattered off down the
stairs once more and Adachi was left in peace.
 
He rested again for some further minutes,
then
climbed another flight.

In all, it took him nearly twenty minutes to get to the top, and he
stumbled through his door, exhausted, and closed it behind him.
 
He removed his shoes and socks and sodden
jacket, and, barefoot, trembling with fatigue and cold, walked slowly into his
living room.
 
He wanted nothing more than
warmth and the escape of sleep.

It was then that he saw Fujiwara.

The sergeant walked out of the bedroom with the weapon in his hands, its
thick, silenced barrel pointing straight at Adachi.
 
The silencer made his intentions
obvious.
 
To Adachi's surprise, he felt
neither surprise nor fear.
 
Instead,
there was a bittersweet blend of betrayal, sadness, and surrender.
 
He stood there in his wet clothes, still
trembling but otherwise immobile, his hands at his sides.

Fujiwara had always liked Adachi and regretted having to kill him.
 
But his considerable regard for his
superintendent was outweighed by his regard for what he was being paid.
 
His years on the streets had taught him that
life was about compromise and tough decisions.
 
Still, faced with this pathetic figure, he was reluctant to pull the
trigger.

"So, Sergeant Fujiwara-
san
,"
said Adachi, giving a slight bow.
 
"A friend is going to kill me.
 
Under the circumstances, it is, I suppose, curiously appropriate."

Fujiwara bowed in return, but though his upper body moved, the
Sterling
remained pointed
at Adachi.
 
"You do not seem
surprised, Superintendent-
san
."

"Nothing surprises me anymore," said Adachi.
 
"I have suspected you for a little time
— and then the prosecutor left a letter.
 
So much betrayal, so much corruption."

"Please kneel down, Superintendent-
san
," said Fujiwara, "and place your hands behind your
head.
 
You will not suffer, I promise
you."

Adachi sunk slowly to his knees and rested his clasped hands on his
head.
 
As he had lowered his body, he had
felt he firm outline of his holstered pistol press into his back.
 
From where Fujiwara stood, it could not be
seen.
 
But thoughts of using the weapon
were futile.
 
He was shaking with cold
and fever, and the submachine gun would cut him in two before he could get the
weapon out of his holster.
 
Nonetheless,
the thought was implanted in his mind and, irrationally, he found the weight of
the weapon comforting.

"Who sent you, Sergeant-
san
?"
he said.
 
"Who has ordered my
execution?
 
I would like to know before I
die.
 
Was it the Spider?"

Fujiwara laughed.
 
"The Deputy
Superintendent is a model of probity as far as I know," he said.

"Katsuda?" said Adachi.

Fujiwara nodded appreciatively.
 
"You always were a fine detective, Superintendent-
san
, unfortunately for you.
 
A less talented investigator would not be in
your present position.
 
Yes, it is the
Katsuda
-gumi
who
have
ordered your death.
 
You should have kept
the Namakas as suspects.
 
That was the
way it was supposed to work.
 
It was
never planned that you be killed."

"I am relieved to hear that," said Adachi with a faint
smile.
 
"So this whole business is
part of a Katsuda power play — and the paying off of an old grudge.
 
But who did the actual killing?
 
Was it Katsuda himself?"

"Will it help you to know, Superintendent-
san
?"
 
said
Fujiwara.
 
"Will it make any real difference?"

Adachi opened his hands in a shrug.
 
"I'd like to know the end of the story before I die," he
said.
 
"Tell me, Fujiwara-
san
, for old times' sake.
 
I would appreciate it."

"I was one of the assault
group
who killed
Hodama," said Fujiwara.
 
"The
others were members of the Katsuda
-gumi
.
 
As to who led the raid, well, he was
masked.
 
Was it Katsuda-
san
himself?
 
Frankly, I think so, but I don't know."

"A rather uncertain note on which to die," said Adachi.

Fujiwara looked regretful.
 
"Superintendent-
san
, I am
sorry," he said, "But it's all I know."
 
He leveled the weapon.

Glass splintered, and a concrete block crashed into the middle of the
floor.

Fujiwara stepped back in surprise, and in reflex fired a burst from his
weapon at the skylight, bringing down more shards of glass and ripping into the
ceiling.
 
The silenced weapon itself made
so little noise that the mechanical sounds of the weapon could be heard.

Plaster dust, wood splinters, and other debris showered down, together
with heavy rain from the now-open skylight.

Fujiwara moved his position and crouched down to try to see if anyone was
at the skylight.

Adachi rolled, reached around to the small of his back for his revolver,
and fired single-handed twice.
 
His hand
was still trembling, but the range was short and the second .38 round smashed
into Fujiwara's cheekbone, cutting open the side of his face.

Fujiwara fell back from his crouched position at the shock of being hit,
and the
Sterling
fell from his hand.
 
Adachi looked at the wounded man, the
revolver dipping in his hand.
 
He knew he
should fire again while he had the chance, but this was someone he was close to
and had trusted, an intimate member of his own group, and he could not bring
himself to do it.

Fujiwara, streaming blood, groped for his weapon and started to crawl
back to the safety of the bedroom.

Three was the sound of a body hitting the floor hard, as Fitzduane jumped
down from the skylight and did an immediate parachute-roll away from Adachi but
facing the bedroom.
 
He had the 10mm
Calico in his hands, loaded with tracer multipurpose ammunition.

Fujiwara turned at the noise and started to bring his weapon around.
 
Adachi also looked across, the revolver
waving in his hand, anticipating a new threat.
 
He was now completely exhausted and in a state of shock.

Fitzduane fired a five-round burst at Fujiwara.
 
At such a short distance, there was scarcely
time for the tracer to ignite, just pinprick flashes of red before they
vanished into flesh and bone.

The tight group hit the sergeant as he was turning to his left to bring
his weapon to bear on Fitzduane, tore open his rib cage on the left side, and
smashed him back against the bedroom door.
 
A split second later, a second burst aimed at Fujiwara's head, in case
he was wearing body armor that the multipurpose could not penetrate, blew his
throat and skull apart and he fell backwards into the bedroom.

Adachi brought his left hand up to steady his aim as he had been taught,
and tried to point his weapon at Fitzduane.
 
The image in front of his eyes was a blur, and he found it desperately
difficult to align his sights.

"Superintendent-
san
!"
 
The shout
came from the ceiling, and the voice was familiar.
 
"Superintendent-
san
, don't shoot.
 
It's
Fitzduane-
san
— the
gaijin
— a friend.
 
He has come to help.
 
You are safe now."

Oga — Sergeant Oga — that was the owner of the voice, said Adachi's
mind.
 
He lowered the revolver and he
felt it removed from his hands.
 
Finally,
exhaustion and illness triumphed, and he slid gently to one side and into
unconsciousness.

A rope dropped down from the skylight and Sergeant Oga, in his well-cut
suit, slid down.
 
The rain was so heavy
through the
aperture,
it looked like the policeman was
descending through a shower.

"Sergeant Oga," said Fitzduane.
 
"It is certainly nice to see you, but how the hell did you get up
on the roof after the drainpipe fell away?"

"Colonel-
san
," said
Oga, "it took us some time to find, but there is a metal stairs behind the
water tank at the back of the roof.
 
The
drainpipe was not necessary."

"Terrific," said Fitzduane sourly.