Rules of the Hunt (59 page)
He was not in
He was in
and the person ministering to him, judging by the full-body tattoo that
protruded from his kimono at his chest and arms, was a
yakuza
.
And the barrel was
not a barrel; it was a wooden bucket with a rope handle.
He was conscious and he could see, but he still felt sick and
groggy.
He gave himself a couple of
minutes, and then when the
yakuza
's
back was turned he tried to raise himself.
As he did so, the
yakuza
turned and almost absentmindedly kicked Fitzduane in the stomach and sent him
flat on his back again.
The bad news, thought Fitzduane, is that I now feel even shittier.
The good news, to look on the bright side, is
that I can now be reasonably sure the natives are not friendly.
And knowledge supposedly is power.
It really did not seem worth the effort.
He closed his eyes and concentrated on trying to restore some sort of
equilibrium.
Clearly he had been drugged
in some way, but he had no idea how.
What had happened?
Where was
he?
Who were his captors?
It did not seem as if they were going to kill
him immediately, else why had he been allowed to wake up — but what sort of
plans had they for his longer-term well-being?
On reflection, he was not at all sure he wanted to know.
The
yakuza
were fond of edged weapons and making their victims disappear.
Fitzduane contemplated without enthusiasm
ending up as fish food in
foundations of one of the examples of
Alternatively, if that was going to be his
fate, he could do without advance warning.
Anticipating a painful death was not the most pleasant way to pass the
time.
He decided he had better find something more cheerful to think
about.
The subject of women came to
mind, but that was not exactly pain-free.
Instead, he thought of
Fitzduane started to smile at the memories, and then a voice cut in.
"Fitzduane-
san
, I am glad to see you are enjoying yourself.
It is part of the
samurai
code, you must know, to make the best of adverse
circumstances.
In your case, your
position somewhat exceeds adverse.
Technically, you are dead.
Dismembered.
Blown to pieces.
A tragic loss.
It was
a simple matter to arrange a double."
Kei Namaka!
The confident booming
voice was unmistakable.
Fitzduane opened
his eyes.
Kei stood there in full
traditional
samurai
regalia, down to
the two swords tucked into his sash.
He
looked decidedly pleased with himself.
"And I'm in heaven, Namaka-
san
,"
said Fitzduane dryly.
"I have to
tell you it's a big disappointment."
Kei laughed and then translated what the
gaijin
had said.
Other
laughter could be heard.
Fitzduane,
bearing in mind what had happened the last time he had tried to rise, did not
move or look around, but he estimated there were three or four others in the
large room.
He was lying on a hard
wooden floor.
Looking straight ahead
past Kei, he could see antique weapons on the walls.
That information, tied in with the Namaka
chairman's costume, suggested he was in a
dojo
,
the Japanese equivalent of a
salle
d'armes
.
Christian de Guevain had
died in such a place, he remembered.
"You are a brave man," Kei said, "and I like you, so I had
better explain."
He talked for
several minutes, describing with immense satisfaction the operation to snatch
Fitzduane.
"So you blew up three of your own people to snatch me," said
Fitzduane.
Kei made a dismissive gesture with something he was holding in his right
hand.
Fitzduane looked closer, and
realized with incredulity that it was a folded fan.
The man was really getting into his role.
"So what is on the agenda now, Namaka-
san
?" said Fitzduane.
"You certainly get an A for effort for grabbing me, and I'm
flattered, of course, but I imagine you have something more in mind — a bottom
line to this exercise, if I may borrow some financial terminology."
Kei beamed expansively.
"Fitzduane-
san
," he
said.
"I am looking forward to
being your host without the constraints that have limited our relationship up
to now.
At last we can speak
freely.
Complications like the police
are no longer something we have to worry about, and I can tell you everything
you want to know.
We shall enjoy each
other's company, and I can promise you that you will be fascinated.
We shall start with a tour of a place you
expressed particular interest in, Namaka Special Steels."
"I tour factories better when I'm vertical," said
Fitzduane.
"Can I get up without
someone kicking me in the balls?"
Kei barked an order and two
yakuza
rushed forward and helped Fitzduane to his feet.
Then Kei spoke again and another man came
forward.
He also wore traditional
samurai
clothing, but somewhat
awkwardly, as if slightly embarrassed.
"My name is Goto," he said.
"I am the new security chief of the Namaka Corporation.
The chairman has asked me to explain a few
points.
Unfortunately, there have to be
some restrictions on your freedom."
Fitzduane felt his arms being seized, and seconds later his arms were
handcuffed in front of him and secured to a chain around his waist.
Leg restraints were then placed around his
ankles.
Goto pointed to a corner of the
dojo
and Fitzduane saw his Calico and throwing knives on a small table, together
with the other contents of his pockets.
They had left him his shirt and trousers, but everything else, including
his shoes, had been removed.
"Shortly after you were shot with the tranquilizer dart, we found a
miniature transmitter attached to your belt, Fitzduane-
san
," said Goto.
"It was immediately deactivated, so please do not expect any help
from that source.
You are outnumbered,
physically constrained, and have no weapons, and your friends
think
you are dead.
You would be wise to accept your fate and cause us no trouble.
Frankly, you can do nothing."
Fitzduane shrugged, and his chains clanked.
He had been brought up to look on the
brighter side of things, but was having a hard time finding any positive
element in his present situation.
"Goto-
san
," he said,
"it is not considered polite, in my part of the world at least, to belabor
the obvious."
Goto blushed.
Fitzduane
grinned.
"Let's go and see a steel
mill," he said.
Inside, he was
fighting hard to keep control.
There had
to be something he could do, but he could not imagine what.
Hope had taken a serious knock with the discovery
of the belt transmitter.
"You should know, Fitzduane-
san
,"
said Goto, indicating three unfriendly-looking thugs glowering at Fitzduane,
"that your
yakuza
guards are
members of the Insuji
-gumi
— the very
organization that you humiliated outside the
They feel they have a score to settle."
"And is that on the agenda?" said Fitzduane.
"Oh, yes, Fitzduane-
san
,"
said Goto, smiling unpleasantly.
Fitzduane stayed silent, but he made a mental note to remove Goto
permanently from circulation if ever a suitable opportunity should arise.
Unfortunately, it did not seem likely.
*
*
*
*
*
The
dojo
, Fitzduane judged, as
he shuffled across the floor, legs hobbled between two
yakuza
guards, was about the size of a Western school gymnasium.
The décor was understated simplicity, but the room was quite
magnificently finished and appointed.
Japanese craftsmanship at its best was truly something to see.
The floor, made of planks of some richly hued
hardwood, was seamless, ever plank impeccably aligned.
The roof was arched and paneled with the same
wood.
The walls were plastered and
racked with an extraordinary selection of medieval pikes, swords and fighting
knives from all over the world.
Glancing
across, Fitzduane noticed everything from Spanish rapiers to Malayan fighting
knives.
Firearms were conspicuous by their absence.
Kei Namaka's orientation was more toward
fantasy than fact, though that did not make him any less dangerous.
The small procession made its way through two sets of double doors,
donning shoes in the lobby in the middle.
As they passed through the second set of doors, which were double-glazed
and of heavy industrial quality, the noise level rose and Fitzduane could see
the highly specialized equipment of a modern steel plant spread out ahead of
them.
So the
dojo
was actually in the
plant.
Now he was beginning to
understand things better.
The
The steel plant was Kei's personal baby.
Costing billions, it was a grown-up box of toys.
They were standing on a railed catwalk of perforated metal.
The cat-walk, in turn, led to metal stairs
which would bring them to the factory floor, but instead of continuing, Kei
Namaka held up his hand to indicate they should halt and turned to Fitzduane.
"Steel, Fitzduane-
san
,"
he said, "is my passion and joy.
It
is at the same time so elemental and yet so extraordinarily sophisticated.
It is a manifestation of man's superiority
and the supreme link between man and nature.
It is the very stuff of legend.
It is the raw material of the sword, the very symbol of
It is strong, beautiful, infinitely
malleable, supremely versatile, and technologically elegant.
It is the principal material of war and one
of the major blocks of peace.
Ships,
aircraft, and all wheeled communication
depends
on
it.
Nations have been built with
it.
We cut our very food with
it."
He paused.
"And the creation of steel products on
the scale we operate at here is a process of unsurpassed excitement.
It is physically exciting — indeed, sexually
arousing in its power and drama and beauty."
After he had finished speaking, Kei Namaka stared at Fitzduane with an
extraordinary intensity, as if he were trying to communicate his enthusiasm for
steel telepathically.
The scene was quite bizarre.
Kei,
in the foreground in full
samurai
armor including an ornate horned helmet, looking like something out of the
Middle Ages, and over his shoulder the vast machines, ovens
.
And
other devices symbolic of advanced late-twentieth-century metals
technology.
Yet curiously, Kei did not
really look out of place.
The
relationship of steel and the warrior was ever valid.
Steel, for so much of history, was indeed at the cutting edge of power.
Fitzduane held up his hands as far as the handcuffs and the restraining
chain permitted.
"I am bound by
steel, Namaka-
san
," he said
quietly.
"It tempers my
enthusiasm."
Kei's face flushed with rage, and for a moment it looked as if he was
going to strike Fitzduane.
Then he
started to laugh.
"‘Tempers
my enthusiasm’ indeed, Fitzduane-
san
.
A clever pun.
You have a good sense of humor for a
gaijin
."