Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

Tokyo, Japan

February 8

Sitting in his office in the NamakaTower, Fumio studied the discussion document prepared by Goto- san, the group's controller.

It was a masterly piece of work. The Namaka holdings were structured in the form of a keiretsu, the complex corporate structure favored by major Japanese groups. Goto had reduced the financial figures of scores of interlocking Namaka companies so that the bottom line reflected cash flow – and nothing else.

The figures reflected a simple truth. While showing paper profits, the Namaka keiretsu was hemorrhaging cash. A graph clearly demonstrated the moment of truth. The group would crash like a row of dominoes in less than a year unless there was a major cash injection.

Goto had been the first professionally qualified man that the Namaka brothers had hired. He had worked as controller of one of the major car manufacturers until a most ingenious fraud had come to light. To save face all around, he had resigned gracefully to live on his recently acquired riches, but then Fumio had tempted him out of his decidedly premature retirement. Goto had been recommended by Hodama. The kuromaku had a nose for talent.

The seriousness of the situation had been known for some time, but with Hodama alive Fumio had not been unduly worried. The kuromaku could always come up with a friendly bank. His influence with the Ministry of Finance was legendary. A word or two in the right ear, a little administrative guidance with a few remarks about the national interest…

It had been done before. It was how the system worked. It was why the climate of support that the Namaka keiretsu had enjoyed for so long seemed to have evaporated.

Nothing was said. Nothing specific that they were all aware of was done – and yet suddenly there was a chill everywhere. It was as if someone or some group of great power and influence was actively working against them. And yet every effort to determine who was responsible had come up with nothing.

In the past, they would automatically have turned to Hodamasensei. Efforts to find a replacement had so far failed. A long and intimate relationship was the basis of working with a kuromaku. Difficult and complex things needed to be done. The law had to be treated ‘flexibly.’ Trust was essential if prosecution was to be avoided. It was not the sort of thing you could set up overnight. All the politicians were locked into their own particular factions by obligations generated over the years. And there were very few, if any, other people of Hodama- sensei 's caliber.

Goto spoke with the freedom that came from a long and trusted association. Also, he and Fumio were close personal friends. Nonetheless, they still addressed each other with some formality.

"There is a certain irony to our situation, Namaka- san," said Goto. "Our illegal activities have remained consistently profitable. It is our entirely legal expansion that is creating these difficulties. First we invested in the dollar and that went through the floor; then we had a flyer on gold, and that, which had always gone up, now seems to be going nowhere; and finally, we bought and expanded Namaka Steel. It is the steel plant that really lies at the root of our problems. There is now overcapacity worldwide. And as to our investment in the Special Steels facility – that has been the last straw."

Fumio sighed. He adored his big brother, and Namaka Steel was Kei's passion. It made him feel like a proper industrialist. And as for the investment in the new Special Steels facility, that had been made as a result of a strategic decision by MITI, the supposedly infallible Ministry of International Trade and Industry. MITI had devised a plan to take over the international aerospace industry in the 1970s, and Namaka Special Steels had been a key element in that plan. The project had enjoyed massive prestige. Encouraging speeches had been made by a series of ministers and other politicians.

The plan had gone precisely nowhere. There had been some modest progress, but for all practical purposes, the Americans still owned the skies – with the Europeans, supposedly in decadent decline, in a healthy second place. It was frustrating for MITI, but it was disastrous for Namaka. A few defense contracts helped in the short term, but nothing would substitute for a major breakthrough.

That breakthrough was no longer possible in the time available through normal legal commercial trading. The only chance that either Fumio or Goto could see lay with the sale of some of the more esoteric products of Namaka Special Steels. Project Tsunami, the production of nuclear-weapons-plant equipment for the North Koreans, was illegal – absolutely against the laws of Japan – but it represented a vast amount of cash money.

With Hodama dead, the North Korean weapons project was now fundamental to the Namaka keiretsu 's survival. It was that simple.

"I don't think we will trouble the chairman with these figures," said Fumio. "He had other things on his mind."

Goto nodded in agreement. An untroubled Kei Namaka was important. As chairman, his confident dynamism was of enormous help with the major institutions. It would not do to trouble him with unpleasant details. Anyway, Kei had enough trouble just reading martial arts manga, the adult comics. Balance sheets and cash flow forecasts were beyond him.

Goto had never been a traditional yakuza, so the issue of the full-body tattoo had not arisen. However, early on in his life he had discovered a simple truth which he had tattooed in Japanese characters – kanji – across his torso. The modest design was attractive, but it was designed for Goto's use principally; it could be read only in a mirror.

The elegant tattooed characters read: CASH IS KING.

The West of Ireland

February 17

Kilmara drove the Land-Rover slowly down the unpaved track toward the beach.

They reached a grassy area at the bottom and parked. Ahead of them, a short steep path wound its way through rocks to the sand and sea below. Against a backdrop of mountains, the beach seemed to curve endlessly.

They left the car. The day before, winds of up to eighty miles an hour had been blowing. Now the breeze off the Atlantic was down to a tenth of that and the waves were almost gentle.

The same was firm nearer the waterline and made for easy walking. From time to time they stopped to look at driftwood thrown up by the storm or an unusual stones or shells. Clouds scudded overhead and the sun darted in and out. The air, though chill, was invigorating.

Kilmara stopped and looked back. They had walked for perhaps half a mile in companionable silence, and their footsteps could be seen stretching back to the rocks below where the car was parked. Theirs were the only footsteps to be seen. He turned around, and ahead of them the beach was unmarked and empty.

"I've been to half the countries in the world," he said with feeling, "and I have seen amazing sights and the most beautiful scenery, but, somehow, nowhere compares to Ireland. This country gets into your soul and it touches you and that's it – you're hooked, you're marked for life. If you leave, there is always a bit of you that yearns to be back in Ireland. There is something in the fabric of this land that is unique. And the most beautiful part of this land is the West."

Kathleen looked at him, a little surprised. She had not expected Kilmara to have the soul of a romantic. In most of her dealings with him he had been an authority figure, dominating – a little frightening even – in his uniform and so often in the company of his armed Rangers.

Now, alone with her and in civilian clothes, he seemed more accessible, easier to talk to, and more like a normal person. There was less of the General and more of the man. He was someone, perhaps, who could be a friend.