Roger Crossland - Red Ice

As the day wore on, the crowd in the next room grew more and more rambunctious. Wickersham and Gurung, its inhabitants, were on a good-to-be-alive high and inviting the others in for beer or hot sake. Their room resounded with the bumps and thumps of the spirited horseplay typical of these get-togethers. I could hear Wickersham organizing “Hokkaido’s First International All-Services Arm-Wrestling Tournament.” Before long, Lutjens, Wickersham, and Alvarez had risen to finalist level. I could hear bets called out and furniture being rearranged.

Dravit was poring over Russian newspapers when someone knocked at our door. “Party’s in the next room over!”

Frazer-san?” The words had a heavy Japanese intonation. We let the man in. It was a ferret-faced, round-shouldered Oriental in his mid-thirties. He kneeled on one knee like a crapshooter. “ O-hikae nasutte, o-hikae nasutte …,” he began, giving the traditional self-introduction of the yakuza .

“Thank you for kneeling so quickly,” I said, giving the standard response.

He went on to describe his native province, his clan, its chief, and his connections with the other clans of Sapporo in great detail. None of it meant anything to me, but this was the traditional recitation and it would have been impolite to interrupt. Dravit stood by dumbly, not understanding a word.

“Frazer-san, a Korean acquaintance of mine in Sapporo who makes a business of knowing things…”

One of Kim’s KCIA agents must have sent him.

“…has requested that I relate what information I have gathered about a man who recently met his demise in an alley in Sapporo. This man wore the tattoos of the gamblers’ brotherhood.”

His words were punctuated by a loud crash and a roar of approval from the gang next door. The semifinals were over. Put your money on Wickersham.

“The man’s name was Aoki. He left his clan several years ago after an argument with his oyabun , his clan chief. It was well known that he hired out. The rumor has been that he was recently retained by a foreigner. My Korean friend mentioned an attempted kidnapping. Kidnapping is not a normal yakuza undertaking.”

I had been surprised by the fact that there had been no further attacks or approaches on members of our group after Wickersham’s night in Sapporo. That could have meant one of two things: one, they had given up, or two, they had succeeded in turning one of our men against us. This yakuza’s information plus the camera incident made the latter alternative more likely. I had taken a greater risk than I had realized by raiding Kunashiri. We could have very easily been maneuvered into an ambush. I hoped whoever it was would be content with small-scale sabotage. His position allowed him to effect far worse damage.

The yakuza reached slowly into his waistband. Dravit took a cautious step forward. The yakuza drew a tanto dagger, then flicked it into a log by the stove. “This is Aoki’s dagger. He brought disgrace to us, and it. Perhaps it will be more use to one who has shown he can use it.”

An immense crash from next door shook the room. It was followed by yelling and cheering. I could hear Wickersham bellowing over the din, “I win! There’s no match for a Navy SEAL, a rootin’-tootin’, parachutin’, SCUBA-divin’, double-crimpin’…”

I thanked the nonplussed yakuza with the ferret face.

“…lead-spittin’, pineapple-throwin’, rubber-coated, K-Bar knife-totin’, star sapphire ring-wearin’ gentleman of experience and resource whose punctuality is only limited by the accuracy of his big fat Rolex diving watch. Oh yeah, one other thing—”

“Cut the malarkey and drink up. You realize there are children sober in China?” an unidentified voice scolded.

“I’m the last of the bareknuckle fighters!”

Third crash.

Dravit and I burst out of the door to put a halt to the impending brawl.

When we returned, the yakuza was gone.

Several nights later, a barrage of knocks on the suite’s outer door startled me from a deep sleep.

“Open up, please. We are police.”

Dravit, in the adjoining room of the suite, was already up. He had his boots and trousers on. He shrugged his shoulders. Maybe they were police, maybe they weren’t. This could be a setup. He picked up a chair and hurled it through a back window as I grabbed my clothes. Then we both dropped sixteen feet into a thick blanket of white powder. I could hear glass breaking in the other rooms. Gurung and Wickersham plummeted into the snow a few yards away.

We found ourselves in the crossed beams of several floodlights. Gray-uniformed policemen circled us—some holding revolvers on lanyards. Wickersham took a poke at one policeman and found himself flat on his back. The Japanese police take their hand-to-hand training seriously.

“As the inspector said, we are police. Excuse handcuffs please.”

They herded the nine of us into a waiting police van. Puckins was missing, he’d probably stepped out of his room for a second. Matsuma looked dismayed.

“Poor showing of Japanese hospitality,” Dravit said, looking around the inside of the van for cameras or bugs. “Seems a group of outdoorsmen can’t enjoy a back-to-nature, consciousness-raising session in peace.”

Some time later the van rolled into the central police station at Sapporo. Puckins was brought in moments later. They put each of us into a separate interrogation room. I rated one in restful pale green. Two men told me to take a seat.

“I’m Chief Inspector Koizumi of the Sapporo police. We have reason to believe you are planning to launch a mercenary operation from Japanese soil.”

He had said “mercenary” as if it hurt his mouth. He ran his fingers through his gray hair.

“Not me,” I said in partial truth. He didn’t look convinced.

“Horikawa-san of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs”—he flicked his head toward the other younger man in a well-tailored blue suit—“and I are authorized to forestall any such military operation—by any means we deem fit.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The chief inspector raised one eyebrow.

“We can hold you indefinitely if we find you constitute a threat to our national security,” said Horikawa, rising from his chair. “And despite your persistence in maintaining this little charade, I am confident we can foil your plans.”

He was polished and unflappable.

“I’m sure your contracted services are on some sort of timetable. Most military operations, no matter how ragged, seem to be. We can hold you until your organization and its project have become quite stale.”

I was beginning to dislike Horikawa; he understood too much. I wasn’t sure about my right to a lawyer, but perhaps I could get one in here anyway.

“Maybe we can straighten this misunderstanding out,” I said, hoping “straighten” would not mean explain. “Call Kiyoshi Sato at…” I gave them his office number.

Koizumi and Horikawa looked skeptical as they led me to a cell.

Legally we had little to offer in our defense, and I couldn’t bring up moral arguments without disclosing the objective of the operation. I didn’t see where Sato could be of help, but it’d give me time to think.

Someone had tipped them off convincingly that there was an operation afoot. Japan didn’t want to awaken one chilly morning to find that it had been the springboard for a surprise attack against one of its neighbors. Japan had had a bad experience with surprise attacks. Its stance was no different from the United States’ squeamishness over Cuban refugee attacks launched from Florida against Cuba. The conventional diplomatic wisdom deplored such vulgar self-help. I felt the foul, self-serving presence of the Ackert hand in all this.