Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

In Japan, it was not considered polite to approach an established figure directly. An introduction by a mutual friend or business contact of the appropriate status was essential. In Japan, everything and everybody was ranked. Yoshokawa- san would make the appropriate introduction. He scarcely knew the Namakas, but as the chairman of Yoshokawa Electronics and a fellow member of the Keidanren, he was entirely appropriate.

All in all, the whole damn thing was connected in one way or another. More and more it seemed to Fitzduane that the world was becoming a very small place. Very small and very dangerous.

He thought of Kathleen and Boots and what he was leaving behind, and then focused on what must be done.

Much later, he slept.

Tokyo, Japan

June 6

His uniformed driver, in the front row of the crowd at the arrivals gate, was holding up his white-gloved hands a sign labeled ‘Namaka Industries’ and bearing the group logo.

The security chief himself, Toshiro Kitano, was standing well back. As a senior executive, he would normally have sent an underling to greet someone at the airport, but this visitor was important. He was the chairman of a Japanese financial institution based in London who, according to the late Hodama, possessed a creative approach toward arbitrage and stock manipulation. The Namakas wanted to tap into his expertise and had been courting him for many months. The formalities would have to be observed punctiliously if negotiations were to be concluded successfully.

Kitano regarded waiting at airports as an activity he could do without. His driver could be counted on to spot the new arrival, so he was daydreaming absentmindedly. He nearly had a seizure when a tall, broad-shouldered gaijin metamorphosed in the middle distance into someone he thought had been left for near-dead in Ireland. His heart pounded so loudly, he felt that the people around him must be able to hear. His mouth went absolutely dry. A vein in his throat started to twitch.

This Fitzduane business had initially seemed an easy matter, and yet here was this gaijin of no consequence, not only fitter-looking than a man of his age had any right to be, but here in Tokyo! This was appalling. It was unforgivable. It would make for the most terrible loss of face.

The chairman that Kitano had been expecting approached through the crowd, guided by the driver. As he approached the Namaka director, he expected that Kitano would recognize him, show pleasure at his arrival after such a long and arduous trip, and bow deeply. These were the minimum courtesies he could expect.

Instead, Kitano, even after being respectfully reminded by his driver, stared like some idiot peasant.

The chairman's face froze.

I must kill this barbarian before anyone knows he is here, thought Kitano. Here and now amid all these people, it is impossible. I must find out where he is going, where he is staying. He ran toward the exit, just in time to see the gaijin stepping into a car. Frantically, he searched his pockets for a pen to write down the license-plate number.

The one thing Fitzduane knew about TokyoAirport was that only someone who wanted to take out a second mortgage took a cab from there into the city center. The experienced traveler took the limousine, which cost a fraction of the amount and was actually a small bus.

The bus was unnecessary. Yoshokawa- san, a broad welcoming smile on his face, met Fitzduane and Tanabu- san in the terminal and guided them into a waiting car. The skies were low, gray, and unfriendly-looking, and it was raining. He had been expecting cherry blossoms and sun. He thought to himself that to travel halfway around the world to get the same appalling weather as Ireland was ridiculous. Worse, it was hot and humid.

Yoshokawa caught his skyward look and laughed: "I'm sorry," he said, "it's the rainy season. We call it ‘plum rain.’"

"We call it ‘having a nice soft day’ in Ireland," said Fitzduane, "but the stuff is still wet. When does it end?"

"It has just begun," said Yoshokawa.

"Fitzduane- san," said Chifune, "I fear you have spent too much time with our files and not enough reading guidebooks. Did we explain about earthquakes?"

"No." said Fitzduane.

"Tokyo is in an earthquake zone," said Chifune, smiling faintly, "and small tremors are very common. In 1923, there was an earthquake here in which a hundred and forty thousand people lost their lives."

"When is the next big one due?" said Fitzduane.

"Soon enough," said Chifune, "but I would not worry. I think more immediate risks will come from other sources."

"Tanabu- san," said Fitzduane. "You are an unending source of consolation."

Detective Superintendent Adachi was feeling somewhat ground down by the many months of the Hodama investigation, so he was treating himself to a morning away from the squad room and a little serious thinking.

He was having a late breakfast, cleaning his gun, and generally mooching around his apartment in his nice, scruffy house kimono.

Police headquarters was all about action and work and, even more important, the appearance of work. He was not too sure how good it was for perspective. And right now he needed perspective. He needed a sense of detachment. His nose had been to the grindstone so long that it was being ground down. That was not quite the idea. He was after a bunch of murderers. The object was not to die of overwork, even though that was a common enough occurrence in Japan. The object was to unravel this mess and put the villains behind bars. He was doing all the right things, operating by the book, and he seemed to be getting nowhere.

He was sitting comfortably on his knees on the tatami mat floor with his breakfast, his gun, and various files spread out in some disarray in front of him. Rain beat down on the skylight.

He popped a pickle in his mouth and finished cleaning his gun as he munched. He was getting used to carrying the damn thing and he was getting quite good at shooting it. Recently, he had taken to practicing with it at least twice a week.

He was feeling a little paranoid, and had the sense that he was under surveillance from time to time. He was sure his apartment had been searched. His instincts told him that he was part of a wider agenda. He had a nasty feeling that there was a leak somewhere in police headquarters or maybe even in the prosecutor's office. He really had not a clue as to where, but things were just a little too pat.

The Namakas were an unsavory pair, but they were the last people who should have wanted to see Hodama dead; yet every time the investigation against the Namakas slowed, another morsel of proof against them turned up.

But nothing was conclusive. It was as if there really was no hard evidence, but someone was manufacturing tidbits to put the pressure on the Namakas. And they were succeeding. The Namakas were the only suspects. They were now under around-the-clock police surveillance and had been brought in for questioning by the prosecutor on half a dozen occasions. The noose around the Namakas was steadily tightening, based on purely circumstantial evidence – and the absence of any alternative – but Adachi was uncomfortable. He was a policeman. He was a judge of people. He trusted his instincts. The Namakas were guilty of most things, including murder in his opinion, but not necessarily of the killing of Hodama. Adachi's gut feeling told him that the Namakas were being framed. Of course, it really could not be happening to nicer people.

A few weeks back, he had started making a few inquiries of his own, independent of his team, and without telling anyone. He had used a couple of old classmates from the police academy who were now posted away from headquarters in prefecture stations – and had sworn them to secrecy. Information had begun to trickle in; and at the same time, he had begun to feel he was under surveillance.