Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

"I confess I am a little puzzled," Kei said to him with a smile. "We have invested several billion yen in those beautiful islands and the return has not quite been what we expected. Perhaps you could explain. I am not a financial expert like my brother, but I suppose I should try and understand. Frankly, I find most of these schemes above me. I prefer the simplicity of the dojo."

He laughed and his two visitors laughed with him. The senior gangster was grateful for the extra time to think, and he composed his answer with care. Kitano did not laugh, but smiled slightly. The man did not notice. His attention was focused on the chairman. Kei refilled all the glasses and smiled encouragingly.

"The dollar has sunk dramatically and unexpectedly," said the man. "That means that when we make our returns to Japan in yen – as we have been requested to do – our returns appear to have shrunk. Actually, in dollar terms, it is as planned. It is merely when denominated in yen that it appears to be below our target."

The chairman nodded and was silent, as if pondering this. Then he spoke again. "But surely, since we are continuing to invest in yen with fresh funds, the stronger yen should be buying us more. We should be getting more assets for our money."

The man nodded in agreement. "That is so," he said, "or would be so if no other money were coming in from Japan. Unfortunately, many other organizations have the same idea as we do, and they are bidding up the price of property in Hawaii. Accordingly, our investments are costing us more than we originally planned."

He was sweating a little. The dojo was air-conditioned, but the heat from the steel works below seemed to make itself felt. Or perhaps it was his imagination. The man tried to keep his mind clear of the numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands. The transactions had all been in cash. There was no paper trail. It had been very discreet skimming.

The chairman spoke again. "Kitano- san," he said, gesturing with his left hand at the security chief, who sat beside him, "has interviewed some six of the vendors of property that we purchased. They all confirmed that what you say is true. Demand had bid up supply."

The gangster's heart had been pounding, but at Kei's reassuring words he felt a flood of relief. Then Kitano spoke. "The chairman is talking about the initial interviews," he said, with a thin smile, "but it is in the nature of my responsibility to be thorough. Further interviews – conducted with some vigor by my staff – revealed an interesting reason for the high prices."

He removed a folded sheet of paper from his sleeve, unfolded it, and placed it carefully in front of the man. The paper listed the Cayman Islands account number and each of the hidden payments. The amounts were accurate to the nearest yen. The gangster had insisted on payment in yen. He had little faith in the long-term strength of the dollar. How could you have faith in a country that would sell anything and everything for a profit? The Americans had already sold half of Hawaii and a goodly portion of California. The Statue of Liberty would be next. They were unprincipled.

His focus had been on the paper. It was, he knew, his death warrant, unless he could act quickly. Dread filled his heart. He glanced at his companion. The other yakuza was shaking with fear. There would not be much help from there. He looked across at the chairman. Namaka- san seemed almost to be in a trance. There might just be a chance to grab one of the swords from his waist and make a run for it.

There was a blur of movement, and the gangster felt a terrible agony and a sudden overwhelming weakness. In front of him, the chairman still sat, but now he held a bloody sword in his left hand. But Namaka- san was right-handed! He had been carefully watching for any sudden move, but the chairman had deceived him. He had executed a perfect left-handed draw and horizontal slashing cut from the sitting position, which had sliced open the lower torsos of the two men. The man looked down at his stomach, which now gaped open. He could see the edges of his izumi, the dragon tattoo covering much of his body which had been the symbol of acceptance into his group. It was now cut in two, the careful workmanship desecrated. Beside him, his companion had slumped forward.

Waves of pain engulfed him, but still, although swaying slightly, he sat upright, blood draining from his body as he waited for the killing blow. His chin was held high. He expected the customary decapitation. "Namaka- san," he said, pleading. He could just manage the words. Blood flowed from his mouth.

Namaka did not move. His katana was at rest. The blow did not come. "You have stolen from the clan," he said. "I take no pleasure in your death, nor in the manner of it, but examples must be made. You will die in the ovens."

It was at that moment that the man's composure broke. He tried to scream, but blood filled his throat. He attempted to struggle as he was strapped to a wooden stretcher and carried down to the production floor.

The end of the two interi yakuza was watched in close-up on the big television monitor by the chairman and his security chief. The heat of the oven was so great that in minutes nothing remained.

Kei's greatest sword-fighting expertise was in iai-do – the art of drawing a sword. The blow he had executed in one continuous movement following his blade clearing the scabbard was a classic cut. Kitano had rarely seen it executed better.

Kei had completed chiburi – shaking the blood off the blade by making an arclike movement over his head and then snapping the blade down by his side – and now commenced polishing the surface with a soft cloth and powdered limestone. He worked with care, both for his own well-being – the weapon was razor-sharp and lethal if mishandled – and for that of the sword.

Too much polishing could damage the surface. Forty-five strokes had been determined over the centuries as the recommended optimum.

He erred on the conservative side and gave the blade forty-two. Finally, he rubbed the gleaming surface with a very light coating of clove oil and replaced it in its sheath.

Connemara Regional Hospital

February 8

There was the sound of heavy breathing on the phone and then a giggle.

The custom was that Fitzduane would put the phone down last, and Boots played this to the hilt at bedtime. When Boots was not sleeping over in the hospital, Fitzduane and he talked every night before Boots was tucked in. Boots still had some way to go with his telephone technique, but he made up for it with sheer zest.

His gaiety made Fitzduane's heart sing. And there was the added reassurance of knowing his son was safe. Oona was looking after him, Christian de Guevain had flown over for a few weeks to lend a helping hand, and there was now a regular Ranger presence on the island.

"’Night and big hug for the fifth time, you little monster," said Fitzduane, laughing. "Now! GO TO BED!"

Boots burst into fits of giggles and then Fitzduane could hear Oona in the background and Boots's fading "’Night, ’night! Daddeee…" as he was carried to his bed. Whatever they were feeding him, Boots was in demon form.

"Hugo?" It was de Guevain's voice.

"Still here," said Fitzduane.

"All is well here, mon ami," said de Guevain, amused. "The only threat here is from Boots."

Fitzduane laughed. "I can hear that." His tone became more serious. "Christian, your keeping the home fires burning in much appreciated." de Guevain made a dismissive noise, and Fitzduane smiled to himself. His friend had film-star good looks, a debonair manner, and a way with gestures and body language that put most other Parisians of Fitzduane's acquaintance to shame. An ex-paratrooper and now a Paris-based merchant banker, the Frenchman had originally met Fitzduane as a result of a shared social interest in medieval weaponry and fencing. The two were expert swordsmen. It was a rather impractical skill in the late twentieth century, but for both, something of a family tradition.