Second Skin (13 page)

The two men were in Machida’s Tokyo house. It was a cultural landmark, having been built in the 1920s after designs of Frank Lloyd Wright. It was constructed entirely of concrete blocks that had been carved in a vaguely Mayan pattern. The result was both otherworldly and wildly futuristic, a combination that most people found forbidding, oppressive, and much too intense.

Machida, however, adored it. Restrained in every other way, the house was his one passion in life, and keeping it in pristine condition had become an obsession.

‘I am a deconstructionist,’ Mick was saying. ‘By careful textual analysis I dismantle history piece by piece until, by peeling away the layers of misinterpretation, misrepresentation, and manipulation – in other words all subjectivism – I come upon the truth.’

Machida stared into the varnished stone and polished bronze hearth while he considered this. He was a dark-complexioned man with a flat face, slicked-back hair, and the predatory manner of a successful litigator, which is precisely what he had been before ascending to the exalted apex of the Tokyo Prosecutor’s Office. He had a wide mouth and huge, coal-black eyes that seemed to see everything at once.

At length, he turned to Mick, who stood slouched in a black Issey Miyake suit, looking every inch a visitor from another planet. ‘You deny everything that has come before. You manipulate. In effect, you murder the past.’

‘No, no, no. Just the opposite,’ Mick said. ‘I seek a reinterpretation, a forum to show – as in the case of the so-called holocaust – how past events have been misinterpreted – in some cases, as with the Jews, systematically manipulated to portray a victimization that never actually occurred.’

Machida possessed that form of stillness, a serene authority, most prized by the Japanese. Without it, one could never ascend into the starry firmament of business or bureaucracy. ‘Six million Jews did not die by Nazi hands. This is your contention.’

‘Yes.’

‘And all the documentation –’

‘Staged, doctored, faked.’ Mick made a gesture, the flat of his hand cutting diagonally through the air. ‘I told you, the systematic manipulation of past events is endemic. The
science
of history is only now making itself heard all over the globe. But its time is coming. I promise you, it will not be denied.’

Machida allowed himself the ghost of a smile, as he went to a silver and black marble deco bar decorated with a frieze of borzois and whippet-thin women. ‘Yes, your philosophy is quite dynamic, quite... compelling.’ He laughed. ‘You won me over in a single sitting, and these men... well, so as not to be indiscreet, let me just say that they are predisposed to this body of thought.’

As if you’re not,
Mick thought as he strode across the room. Putting his face close to the chief prosecutor’s, he said, ‘You know what clay pigeons are? That’s it, exactly. You take care of getting me in to see these bozos and I’ll do the rest.’

Machida, who did not care for close proximity to others, did not give so much as an inch. ‘Often, you know, I wonder at the wisdom of entering into an alliance with you.’

‘Then get the hell out,’ Mick snapped. ‘I don’t care for partners with dancing feet.’

Machida, who had poured them both large glasses of Suntory Scotch, now handed one to Mick. ‘I can’t get out. Not at this late date. I have gone to a great deal of trouble to locate and identify all the members of Denwa Partners who would be, er, responsive to your message. Promises have been given, deals have been struck, compensation has changed hands. You have been in Asia a long time; you understand these things.’

Mick politely took a sip, then put the glass down. ‘Yes, I do.’ He didn’t much care for Japanese Scotch.

‘Good.’ Machida made no physical movement, but something inside him seemed to extend out, pushing against Mick like a negative charge, making his skin tingle and the little hairs at the back of his neck quiver. ‘Because I know you have had partners in the past. None, I believe, have survived. Those are bad odds.’ Machida shrugged without seeming to move his shoulders. ‘This does not faze me. I have made and maintained my reputation on situations with bad odds. They are, so to speak, my rice.’

‘Is this a threat?’

That ghost of a smile returned to play at the corners of Machida’s wide mouth. ‘When you know me better, you will see that I never make threats. I make predictions.’

Mick had also been in Asia long enough to understand this game of who had the larger
katana.
The Japanese were absolutely passionate about seeing how far you would allow yourself to be pushed before you held the line. It was only then they might grant you a measure of respect.

‘Everywhere around me,’ Machida continued, ‘I see the closed faces of those who fear the changes proposed by the so-called reformers. I, alone, am unafraid of these reformers because they have no power. I am the power. I buy and sell deals, I purchase people the way other people buy rice. This is the way it has been in Japan since the war in the Pacific and it is how it will remain. The reformers are not only powerless, they are naive. Their “coalition” is a joke. Already, it has fallen apart so many times that defections have made its face unrecognizable. Special interest is what, in the end, makes Japan run like a well-oiled engine. The old Japan will abide;
I
will abide, despite the ineffectual efforts of the reformers – political or otherwise.’

Mick knew all this, of course. It was why he had come to Machida in the first place. ‘As Nietzsche said, “If you want the bond to hold, bite on it – free and bold.” If I have had no partners who survived their bond with me, it was because they lacked the will – or the courage – to bite on it boldly.’

Machida clacked his white teeth together loudly. Possibly he was amused, although it was difficult even for Mick to tell. At that moment, the doorbell rang, and without moving at all, Machida said, ‘An unfortunate but necessary interruption.’ He gestured. ‘There is a wide range of interesting books in the library down the hall. Some of them are even in English.’

‘I read Japanese,’ Mick said, instantly regretting the admission. You never knew when such an advantage would come in handy, whether among friend or foe.

Nodding to Machida, he went down the hall, out of sight.

When he had made certain Mick was out of sight, Machida went into the entryway and opened the front door.

‘Chief Prosecutor,’ Takuo Hatta said, bowing deeply.

Machida ushered him inside. He was a small, compact man with iron-gray hair cut so short his scalp gleamed through. He wore round, steel-rimmed spectacles, his watery eyes magnified by the thick lenses. He carried a battered leather attaché case, which he clutched as if it held all the secrets of the state.

‘I thought I told you to buy yourself a new attaché case,’ Machida said with some distaste. ‘This one looks as if the dogs got to it.’

‘Yes, Chief Prosecutor,’ Hatta said in the midst of an orgy of continuous bowing. ‘I simply haven’t the time to –’

‘Are you complaining about the workload?’

‘No, Chief Prosecutor.’

‘Because I did you a great favor by naming you my administrative adjutant. The way you botched the Noguchi prosecution was enough for serious reprimand. I cannot understand how you failed to conduct a proper set of interviews. It is inexcusable that you missed Noguchi’s illicit connection with Tora Securities. You are a competent administrator, but when it comes to people... pah!’

With that sound of disgust, Hatta winced, watching from the corner of his eye as Machida went to the bar, drank a sizable gulp of Scotch. There was another glass there and he almost downed that, as well. ‘Every time I see you my stomach turns over,’ he said unkindly. ‘Noguchi is still laughing at your incompetence. You dishonored the entire office.’ He turned around. ‘And I
would
have demoted you save for the fact that my former adjutant resigned to move to Kyoto the day your debacle came to light. I needed an adjutant and there was no one else available. Bad luck for me, perhaps; good luck for you.’ He came back across the room. ‘When I tell you to do something, do it. Get a new attaché during your lunch break tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Chief Prosecutor.’

‘Now, have you reviewed the brief Tanaka Gin submitted on Tetsuo Akinaga?’

Hatta dived into the open attaché. ‘Right here, Chief Prosecutor.’

Machida took the folder from his adjutant, grunted as he read. ‘Perhaps I did not make such a blunder with you, Hatta-san. You demonstrate you are not stupid. Plus, your single status affords you the luxury of working my late hours.’

Hatta bowed. ‘I do not deserve such praise, Chief Prosecutor,’ he said, watching as Machida went through the brief, which was to be filed the next morning. Machida was notorious for nitpicking a brief until it was virtually unassailable in court.

Machida was frowning. ‘I’m only on page two and I already see problems.’ His forefinger stabbed out. ‘Here, here, and here. Ministerial signatures are missing, noted testimony is missing or incomplete.’ He looked up. ‘We cannot bring Akinaga into court with the brief in this state. Where is Tanaka Gin?’

‘He is working the Kurtz murder, Chief Prosecutor.’

‘Ah, yes. Gin-san has a reputation for piling his plate high, eh, Hatta-san?’

‘Yes, Chief Prosecutor.’

‘This Kurtz matter is high profile. The man was an
iteki,
a foreigner, and a fabulously wealthy one at that, involved in business all over Asia. I need Gin-san on that case and I have no one else for reassignment.’ His forefinger stabbed out again. ‘I have an idea, Hatta-san.’ He pushed the folder into his adjutant’s hands. ‘You rework the Akinaga brief, obtain the missing material. I have marked the trouble spots. Then I will review it with you.’ He nodded, settling the matter in his mind. ‘In the meantime, you will have to petition the court for a postponement.’

‘Akinaga-san’s attorneys are apt to make the most of it. Gin-san has already been granted two delays in order to get the brief to this state.’

‘Just do it,’ Machida said dismissively. ‘Keep me informed if you run into trouble.’

But by Machida’s tone Hatta knew he was expected to gain the delay on his own. ‘Yes, Chief Prosecutor. First thing in the morning.’

Machida saw Hatta out, shutting the door firmly behind him. When he turned around, Mick was already standing in the living room.

‘Trouble in paradise, Chief Prosecutor?’

‘Nothing a few more billion yen would not cure.’ Machida sighed, pouring himself another Scotch. ‘This recession is becoming tiresome.’

‘Even for the Dai-Roku, I imagine,’ Mick said, bringing the conversation back to where it had been going when they were interrupted.

Machida turned. ‘It is not, perhaps, a good idea to mention this word aloud.’

‘What, here?’ Mick guffawed. ‘This is your own home, for Christ’s sake. Lighten up, will you? We’re talking a group of guys here.’

Machida looked as if he were chewing on a lemon wedge. ‘Dai-Roku is more an ideal than a group. There are no meetings, no notes taken, only verbal exchanges made, never over any electronic media. Dai-Roku is a way of life, a continuation of traditions of strength and value prevalent in samurai Japan before the Meiji Restoration of the nineteenth century stripped away their power and influence.’

Mick shrugged. ‘Group or ideal, it makes no difference to me. I struck a deal with you because I had been told that you could make contact with the Dai-Roku, that you could identify those within it who were also Denwa Partners in Sato International’s TransRim CyberNet. And that you have done with admirable efficiency.’

Machida bowed deferentially. ‘You did the right thing,’ he said with a warning note. ‘Dai-Roku does not take kindly to gaijin – to Westerners. If you had been foolish enough to attempt to contact them yourself, you would have run into a stone wall. Those who adhere to Dai-Roku all have great power and influence and insight into the way the world will be tomorrow and tomorrow. They trust me implicitly. Why, how many services have I done them – and they me.’ He chuckled a moment. ‘With me as an intermediary, they will see you. As for the rest...’ He shrugged, indicating that the rest would be up to Mick.

‘That is why they’re perfect for my plan,’ Mick said. ‘I need visionaries, people who are as concerned with all the tomorrows as they are with today.’

They had come to a kind of understanding, at least an equilibrium. But Mick did not for a moment believe Machida’s assertions of humility. That, he knew, was just the Japanese way of communicating, that damnable Confucian thing all Asians had of being humble, of saying ‘can do’ when they meant ‘can’t do’ or ‘won’t do.’ Everything was possible in Asia, if you were foolish enough to believe it.

Mick suspected that Machida was not the Dai-Roku’s lackey runner, as he apparently wanted Mick to believe. Mick believed that he was one of the men Mick needed to win over, to sell his potent brand of deconstructionism.

If, as Machida maintained, Dai-Roku was a kind of philosophy of samurai purity, it functioned as a loose-knit alliance of businessmen and bureaucrats who not only believed in this almost mythical purity of purpose but, in more practical terms, had come together out of mutual necessity.

The recent evolution in Japanese politics had proved that business could no longer go on as usual – the kickback schemes to keep politicians in one’s back pocket were no longer feasible as a simple solution to getting favorable legislation passed or assuring tax breaks or industry incentives that would give one’s company an edge over all one’s rivals.

More subtle forms of influence peddling were required if those who believed in Dai-Roku were to maintain their positions and continue to build their wealth and suzerainty. These men – all captains of multibillion-dollar
keiretsu
or chief ministers of their respective bureaucracies – were akin to the feudal lords of seventeenth-century Japan. Each had his particular fiefdom from which he derived his power and status in society. Therefore, those domains were of paramount importance to them.

Mick knew that for all their vaunted influence, deep down these men were running scared. Yet they maintained the disposition of a glacier. Change came to them in infinitesimal degrees, if it came at all, and then only after an earth-shattering struggle.