Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

His heart leaped. The American – well, all gaijins in his experience were American – had entered the lobby from the direction of the elevators. He was checking a map and, better yet, carrying an umbrella.

This was excellent. With his heart pounding, the oyabun watched as the target moved out of sight as he approached the main entrance. Seconds later, he reappeared on the pavement outside and turned left and headed down toward

Yasukini-dori Avenue .

The oyabun barked into his microphone. At his command, the driver of the van with the tinted windows abandoned his pachinko game, leaped out of the side door, and jumped into his seat. In the confusion, the piles of yen notes on the table in the back were dislodged. Several notes drifted out the door when it was opened. The three yakuza scrabbled around the floor on their hands and knees and tried to recover the others. In the turmoil, although the foreigner was quickly identified, none of the yakuza paid any attention to the two Japanese who were following at a respectable distance behind Fitzduane. A connection might have been made under normal circumstances, despite the excitement and chaos of going in for the kill, but it was raining. Fitzduane and both of his bodyguards had put up their umbrellas. All eyes were fixed on the large golf umbrella in green, white, and gold – the colors of the Irish flag. It was easy to follow. Apart from its color scheme, it protruded a good foot higher than the Japanese umbrellas. Obviously, it was carried either by a freak or a foreigner.

Fitzduane, equipped with a map, had been well-briefed by the concierge at the Fairmont.

There was an obvious concern over the ability of a foreigner to find his way about Tokyo. Since he could not read a word of Japanese and most streets had no name, Fitzduane shared that concern in a mild way, but he formed the view that with Sergeant Oga and Detective Reido behind him, he should not get into serious trouble. Further, he had been advised that there were police boxes all over the place, so if he somehow lost his guardians he had a fallback. Of course, none of this should be necessary. In Tokyo, Fitzduane had been assured, he would be safe.

He actually felt safe as he strode through the rain. Tokyo was over six thousand miles from the bloodshed in Ireland. The memories of the shooting and Christian de Guevain's death faded temporarily from his mind. His injuries had healed. He was fit and greatly enjoying his new surroundings. Life is pleasant, he thought, as he quickened his pace and turned right onto Yasukini-dori. He was heading downhill to Jinbocho, the bookshop area, to do a little browsing.

Detective Superintendent Adachi had been enjoying Sunday lunch with his parents until the subject of his marriage came up.

Mostly, it came up directly, but this time his mother was talking about the royal family and looking at him in that particular way. Continuity, his mother stressed, was vital. It was essential, for example, that the Crown Prince marry sooner rather than later. The inference was clear. Adachi might not have the mystical well-being of one hundred and twenty-nine million Japanese resting on his shoulders, but he was the direct concern of his parents. If the Crown Prince could be pressured to marry – as he surely was, both by the Imperial Household Agency and the media – then the Adachi parents could certainly pressure their son.

Adachi fled rather sooner than planned and headed into headquarters to check on the team and reread the file on this Irishman. A murder investigation was distinctly more restful than his parents when they had the bit between their teeth.

He thought of Chifune and ached inside. He loved her and missed her, but even when he was with her he had the sense that he was losing her. If ever he had wanted to marry anyone, it was Chifune, but she was a New Japanese Woman and somehow marriage did not seem to be on her mind. Oh women, women! What a pleasure, what a pain, what a distraction. And these days, who know where they belonged? Certainly, they did not, not anymore.

He returned the salutes of the smartly uniformed riot police in their jump boots and took the elevator. In the squad room, on a Sunday afternoon, no fewer than eleven of his team were present. He felt proud to be Japanese. Of course, they were all watching a baseball game on television, but it was the principle that mattered. He joined the group and watched the rest of the game and drank a couple of beers.

Afterward, he wandered into his office to scan the gaijin 's file and found Inspector Fujiwara hard at work there. He had not even broken off to watch the game. Given Fujiwara's fondness for baseball, this was true dedication. Adachi felt quite embarrassed.

He drank some tea with Fujiwara and headed off to the Fairmont. He sill had a little time since he was not due to meet Fitzduane until five, so he thought that instead of taking the subway direct to the nearest station, Kudanshita, he would get off a station early at Jinbocho, window-shop a little, and enjoy the walk up the hill. There was a police box just below Kudanshita, and he might drop in as he passed. Sergeant Akamatsu, the grizzled veteran who had trained Adachi in his first years on the street, was normally on duty there on Sundays, and Adachi visited when he could.

The sergeant's wife had died a few years earlier and his children had left home, so he found Sundays at home particularly hard. The police force was now his family. Adachi, he supposed, was a kind of surrogate son. Well, whatever he was, he was fond of the old man. Yes, he would drop in. Also, Akamatsu knew things from the old days. Perhaps the time had come to talk to him about this Hodama business. If anyone would, he would know something about the earlier years. And the old sergeant had wisdom and hat elusive commodity Adachi was chasing – perspective.

He thought of the Irishman he was about to meet and wondered whether he could really bring anything to the investigation. The superintendent doubted it, but he was curious. The DSG had originated the matter. Chifune, when she had phoned after returning from Ireland, had spoken highly of him. The man must have something.

Judging by his file, he also seemed to have a talent for violence. Well, that was something he would find scant use for in Tokyo. The city was extraordinarily peaceful by any standards, let alone by those of a Western capital. His request that he be allowed to carry a gun was ridiculous; Adachi thoroughly supported the DSG's decision. Threats – if any, which he doubted – would be taken care of by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

Adachi strolled through Jinbocho, browsed at a couple of stores, then headed up to the police box – actually a miniature police station of two stories – on Yasukini-dori. A young policeman, by the look of it only just out of the academy, was at the open entrance. His main business at this time of day was giving directions. He went pink, as a couple of very pretty OLs in their Sunday gear of jeans and T-shirts approached him with an inquiry. Adachi waited politely, and when the OLs had finished, showed his ID. The young policeman became flustered when he realized he had kept such a senior officer waiting.

Adachi suppressed a smile, removed his shoes, and went through to the back and up the tiny stairs to the tatami room above. It was not protocol to wear shoes in a private home of traditional building, and as a relaxation area, the tatami room came into that category. Besides, street shoes and police boots were unkind to the straw tatami mats, particularly in the rainy season.

Before reaching the top, he called ahead. He had studied under Sergeant Akamatsu, so he addressed him as if he, Superintendent Adachi, were still the pupil. It was the way in Japan. The initial relationship established the mode of address thereafter. There was no rush to first names in the Western sense. A growing friendship or close professional relationship did not need to be symbolized by such a superficial change as that. If it was there, it would be felt and understood without words.