Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

Black coffee was brought after the initial pleasantries. If you spent all day meeting people of a certain social class in Tokyo, you spent all day drinking something or other. Even the yakuza bosses followed the social customs. One of the first things Adachi had learned in his anti-corruption job was to pee as and when opportunity presented itself. Sitting cross-legged with a full bladder on a tatami mat or on one of those damn low-slung sofas was agony.

"Superintendent- san," said the DSG for his consideration. People were always asking after his father. That tended to happen when your father was a senior advisor to the Emperor. The Emperor was not longer considered divine. He exercised no direct power. But his symbolic influence was considerable. A senior advisor to the Emperor was someone with friends in the highest places. It was a key reason why Adachi had been selected for his job. He had enough connections at the highest level to be considered reasonably invulnerable to political influence. And he had a temperament to match.

"The death of Hodama- san is extremely unfortunate," said the DSG.

Adachi nodded his agreement. He imagined Hodama, himself, had not been overly enthusiastic either. He noted that Hodama's staff, who had also died rather abruptly, did not get a mention. The DSG, who was an exceedingly small man, sat in a very large and well-padded black leather swivel chair. He swiveled his chair around so he could look out of the window after he spoke, and was silent. Adachi fought an impulse to peer over the DSG's desk. It was rumored that his legs dangled.

"Unfortunate," repeated the DSG quietly, almost as if talking to himself. He did not seem to expect a reply.

It was a characteristic of Japanese discussions that what was said was significantly less important than what was communicated in other ways. The ranking of participants, the context of the discussions, body language, shades of tone – all these elements were as important as the spoken word, and together added up to the dominant aspect of a meeting. Adachi understood all this as well as the next man, but considered that the DSG carried the whole process to excess. The man never seemed to say anything specific. He never committed himself. There was no feedback on recent developments. He just sat like a spider spinning some invisible web; and around him, senior street-hardened career policemen jumped if he called. He was not a popular man, nor even respected as a leader, and yet the consensus in the force was that the Tokyo MPD had never been in better shape. Whatever it was, the Spider had something. And, so it was rumored, part of that something was political clout.

"Hodama- sensei." The DSG's use of the term sensei was interesting and possibly disturbing. Sensei literally meant ‘teacher’ and was used as a term of respect. That Deputy Superintendent-General Enoke should talk about Hodama, a man who had been under active investigation by Adachi's own department, in such a way had implications. It implied connections which implied potential embarrassment for these connections; embarrassment which must be avoided. The DSG was warning Adachi to proceed carefully, to be cognizant of the political ramifications. Where the DSG stood on the matter was far from clear. He might be supportive. He might be warning Adachi off. The superintendent had not the faintest idea where the DSG stood, and he had not the slightest intention of asking. It would be pointless and it would offend protocol. The DSG was his superior, and Adachi was well-schooled in what was appropriate in such situations. This was Japan. Respect for one's seniors was fundamental.

The small man in the big chair turned to face Adachi. "Superintendent," he said, "do you have all the resources you need?"

"Yes, I do, Deputy Superintendent-General- san," said Adachi. "I have my own department, additional manpower seconded to me as it may be required, and the work of the technical support services has been exemplary." Internally, he was taken aback. It seemed he was being both warned off and offered help. It was typical of the Spider, extremely confusing.

The DSG made an approving gesture. "It is important that this matter be resolved satisfactorily."

Adachi agreed respectfully. He had the feeling that the operative word was ‘satisfactorily.’

The Spider changed the subject, or appeared to do so. "I was examining the latest crime statistics," he said. "I am concerned about the foreign element. Our own Japanese criminals behave predictably and they know how far they can go. Foreigners have no respect for authority. Their motives are often obscure. Their behavior is frequently impermissible."

Adachi agreed again. "Foreigners can indeed be difficult, and yet some are required for the economy."

"Korean criminals are a particular problem, I have noticed," said the Spider. "They have a tendency towards violence." He looked at Adachi. "Sometimes random violence. They can be a cruel people. They lack adequate respect for office and position." He rose to indicate that the interview was over.

Adachi bowed deeply and left. The DSG might be suggesting he clean up the whole Hodama business by framing some obliging Koreans; he might have remembered Hodama's early years in Korea and be suggesting a line of inquiry; he might merely have been making polite conversation. Adachi was not about to ask exactly what he meant. If the DSG had wanted to be specific he would have been. And more to the point, it was not appropriate to question a superior. Japan was a disciplined and hierarchical organization. Where would anyone be if sufficient respect for one's superiors was not shown?

Still, thought Adachi, there are times… He felt vaguely frustrated. He went down to the dojo, found a kendo partner, and worked out energetically for an hour. Bashing somebody over the head with a split bamboo cane meant loosely to simulate a katana, the long sword, while being hit as little as possible yourself was an excellent way to restore equanimity.

After the session, he bathed and went back to work refreshed. The Spider's observations he stored in the back of his mind. The pile on his desk had become even higher. There was work to be done.

ConnemaraRegionalHospital:

Intensive Care Unit

January 4

A terrible feeling suffused him.

He could not identify the feeling, nor did he understand where he was or what had happened. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He opened his eyes. He had no sense of place or time or reason.

Brightness. Noises. Electronic noises. Strange breathing sounds. He was not breathing! Terror; absolute terror. Darkness. Sadness. Blackness. Nothing.

A little peace.

A time for nightmares. He awoke again, choking, and knew only despair. He fainted.

Dr. Linda Foley was working with the senior intensive care nurse, Kathleen Burke. Fitzduane would have one-to-one attention until he left ICU. If he left ICU.

Linda Foley had a sense of unease when she looked at her patient. Something was definitely wrong, not just the physical things but something else. Dr. Foley tended to feel this kind of thing. It was a gift and it was a burden.

Working together, they checked his BP and blood gases through the arterial line; checked his CVP; checked his oxygen levels; checked his air entry with a stethoscope; watched the monitors.

Linda Foley noticed that Fitzduane had high blood pressure and a fast pulse rate. "He's in serious pain," she said, "poor sod." She prescribed morphine in the form of Cyclimorph.

Kathleen, concerned about his body temperature, added some blankets. She checked his wounds for oozing through the dressings, and changed them where necessary.

Foley looked around the futuristic-looking room as if for inspiration, and moved her neck to try to release some of the tension. Her muscles ached. She was bloody tired and too much black coffee was fraying her nerves, but she was not going to quit on this one until it felt right. And so far, it did not. No, something was decidedly wrong.