Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

They ran through the arrangements again in the privacy of Fitzduane's hotel room before Yoshokawa departed. They had considered having Fitzduane permanently based in Yoshokawa's home, but had decided it would not be appropriate. It was too far out and it could well restrict the Namakas if they were going to make a move. The Fairmont was, so to speak, neutral ground. And bait should be visible.

The following day, Yoshokawa would contact the Namakas and try to arrange a meeting. Meanwhile, Fitzduane would settle in, and later that afternoon meet Superintendent Adachi. He would be discreetly guarded at all times by two detectives – he nodded at two men who had just joined them – who would be stationed in a room next to his. Chifune would appear on Monday to act as interpreter. Fortunately, Adachi spoke excellent English.

"Will the detectives guarding me normally speak English?" said Fitzduane. There was a staccato burst of Japanese from Yoshokawa. The two men looked embarrassed, and so did Yoshokawa. There was a momentary silence, which Fitzduane broke.

"Yoshokawa- san," he said. "Could you tell these gentlemen that they should follow me, but not restrict my movements? And could you add that I am deeply sorry that I speak no Japanese, but I feel quite confident that I am in good hands? The reputation of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department is legendary."

One of the detectives, a Sergeant Oga, looked visibly pleased at these comments, and Fitzduane realized that whatever the case about speaking English, the man understood it. That was progress. Meanwhile Yoshokawa translated, and as he finished speaking, Sergeant Oga spoke and both men bowed deeply. Yoshokawa looked visibly relieved. Wa – harmony – had been restored.

"Sergeant Oga and Detective Reido," said Yoshokawa, "much appreciate your thoughtful words and say that it is an honor to serve you, Colonel Fitzduane- san. Sergeant Oga- san says that he does speak English but he is out of practice."

Yoshokawa left a few minutes later and Fitzduane returned to his room, poured himself a glass of sake from the mini-bar, and unpacked. Through his window he could see the tops of trees and the curved roof of the Nippon Budokan. It was hard to believe he was in the center of Tokyo. The gray sky looked just like Ireland, though it was not actually raining. In the distance, he could see an airship.

He turned to the parcels delivered from the Irish Embassy. They had traveled over in the diplomatic bag. One of the smaller packages held a cuff designed to be strapped around the forearm with built-in Velcro binding. Sewn into the semirigid cloth of the cuff were two sheathed throwing knives made out of a dense plastic which would not be picked up by a metal detector. The blades were weighted with inset ceramic pieces to give perfect throwing balance. Fitzduane had learned to throw a knife two decades earlier when a soldier in the Congo. The most important thing was the ability to gauge distance, though a certain knack did not hurt. Fitzduane had the knack.

He unpacked the other parcels. One of them was a surprise. It was a golf umbrella from Kilmara. Fitzduane swore. The sod must have known it was the rainy season and had said nothing. The umbrella came with instructions, which Fitzduane read. He then experimented. The thing was really quite ingenious.

The deal with the Japanese was that he should not carry a gun. That did not mean he had to be stupid.

The Oyabun of the Insuji-gumi tasked by the Namaka security chief with terminating this gaijin, Fitzduane, was something of an expert in the human-removal business.

Nonetheless, he had never before killed a foreigner, and he had never killed anyone at all under this time pressure. Normally, he would be given a name and an address and could determine a time and place of his own choosing. Further, he tended to be dealing with someone whose habits he was familiar with and whose behavior he could predict. In this case, he was going to have to improvise, and he would probably have to leave the body where it fell.

This was a pity. A disappearance – the Insuji-gumi had a meat-packing plant among their other interests, which contained all kinds of useful machinery – did not engender the same reaction from the police as a murdered corpse. Still, the Insuji-gumi were indebted to Kitano- san and obligations must be met. They were old-fashioned yakuza, with full-body tattoos for the initiated, and they prided themselves on their traditional values. Their code was rather like the bushido code of the samurai, and it was conceivable that it not be followed.

The oyabun had been supplied with a description and photograph of Fitzduane and the approximate time he would be checking in to the Fairmont Hotel. From then on, he would have to improvise.

Fortunately, the Fairmont was well set up for observation. A coffee shop with large windows to the left of the entrance was open all day, and the hotel itself was quite small. Any new arrival could easily be seen. From an appropriate table, it was also possible to overlook much of the lobby.

The oyabun, armed with an automatic for emergencies and with a short sword concealed in his raincoat, settled himself in the coffee shop to wait, with on kobun as company. The remaining four kobuns waited nearby in a Mazda van with tinted windows. Their swords were in a baseball bag. The overall boss of the Insuji-gumi was an avid baseball fan, so a display of enthusiasm for the sport and attendance at all major matches was virtually obligatory. There was not much place for the nonconformist in Japan, and none at all in the traditional yakuza.

The oyabun boss and his kobun were arguing about baseball scores and working their way through the fixed-price lunch menu and a beer or two, when Fitzduane arrived. The oyabun 's first reaction was at the height of this foreigner. He was a good head taller than the Japanese around him and was built in proportion. It was going to be satisfying to cut him down to size. The oyabun was tempted to rush into the lobby and do the deed there and then, but he suddenly recognized Yoshokawa- san and blanched. To commit an assassination in front of one of Japan's leading industrialists, and possibly to harm him in the melee, would really be inviting an excessive police reaction. To kill the odd foreigner was one thing. To threaten Japan's industrial might would be an act of a different order of magnitude.

He looked out the window at the weather. Well, it was not actually raining and it was still early enough in the day. With a bit of luck, the gaijin would not hole up in his room but would do a little sight-seeing. The Yasukini Shrine was nearby. The Nippon Budokan, the concert hall where the Beatles and Bob Dylan had once played, was worth a look. The grounds of the ImperialPalace were only a stone's throw away.

He pressed the transmitter button on the radio clipped to his belt and held up his arm so that the microphone in his cuff would pick up his voice. "The gaijin has arrived," he said, "so stop playing with yourselves and stay alert. He has gone up to his room. When he comes down and leaves the hotel, we'll do the job."

Across the table, his companion looked relieved that he could finish his lunch, and went on slurping his bean curd soup. This kind of work made him hungry. In the van with the tinted windows, the four yakuza on standby opened more beer and played with their portable pachinko board for reasonably serious money. Pinball was a marvelously mindless way of killing time when you were on a stakeout.

Yoshokawa departed and the oyabun looked up at the heavens and thanked whoever was up there. The skies darkened and it started to pour, and he felt betrayed. After a further twenty minutes, the rain ceased and an uncertain sun peeked through the clouds. The oyabun felt his spirits lifting again. The gaijin, he presumed, had not come all those miles to sit in his room and watch CNN on the TV. He must have some spirit of adventure if Kitano- san wanted to have him killed.