Victor O'Reilly - Rules of The Hunt

The bloody envelope had laid out the story. An indiscretion years earlier had made Sekine vulnerable. More recently, the marker had been called in and the prosecutor had been enrolled as part of the move by Katsuda against Hodama and the Namakas. He did not even have to do anything except keep Katsuda informed and push the prosecution forward in his normal, thorough way.

But then Adachi had upset the plan. Instead of taking the easy way out and working the case based upon the evidence against the Namakas so carefully prepared by Katsuda, he had played the masterful detective. His foolish cleverness had destroyed the case against the Namakas, who well deserved prosecution, and had placed the prosecutor in the position of having to make a choice between his obligations toward Katsuda and his affection for Adachi. And the resolution had been his life. Mistakes or not, he was an honorable man and his death was an honorable death. But what a waste, what a terrible waste.

There was not a scrap of evidence against Katsuda. Even Sekine's suicide not had avoided the man's actual name. The context was clear enough to Adachi, but the letter would be useless for legal purposes. No, Katsuda would end up as the new kuromaku and there was not a thing that Adachi could do about it.

The system was corrupt at the top and, subject to some window dressing, that would remain the situation. If he had any sense, he would bend like the proverbial bamboo or else someone was likely to break him.

The final betrayal was the confirmation that the informant inside his team was his ever-reliable Inspector Fujiwara. The man had been operating under orders of the prosecutor, so he may have thought he was doing the right thing, but his behavior hurt horribly.

Fujiwara had been implicated by name in the prosecutor's letter. Adachi had already guessed as much since the Sunday of the baseball match, but had pushed the thought to the back of his mind. Of course, it was unlike Fujiwara to by working on a Sunday when the rest of the team were glued to the TV, but that just might not have been significant.

Unfortunately, it was. Adachi's instincts had been right. The question now: Was Fujiwara merely working for the prosecutor or did the trail lead right back to Katsuda? Did the sergeant have yakuza connections? Adachi was not looking forward to finding out. Anyway, did it matter? He felt drained and bone-weary.

The gray sky was looking ominous. Adachi turned away from his contemplation of the moat as the first drops rippled into the water. Soon, the warm, oily drops were falling in sheets and every stitch of clothing on his body was soaked. The only dry thing left was the prosecutor's letter in his pocket, tucked bloody but safe into a plastic evidence bag.

Adachi knew he should call in or at least return to headquarters, but he could not do it. He could not face the pressure and the questions. The DSG would certainly want to talk to him about the prosecutor's death. What could Adachi say? Would the truth serve any useful purpose? Where did the DSG's loyalties lie? No he could not face this kind of thing for the moment. Today was one day he had to be alone.

He headed away from the grounds of the ImperialPalace and back toward Jinbocho and his apartment. The rain grew heavier.

Inspector Fujiwara had had a set of keys to the superintendent's apartment since he had been sent to pick up some things for his boss shortly after the start of the Hodama investigation.

It had been a simple matter to have an additional set cut, and since that time he had made periodic use of them. There was little risk. He normally knew where Adachi was, and the man lived alone. Even if Fujiwara had been caught, he had a story about arranging a surprise party for the superintendent. It would have been awkward, but it would have worked.

It was during one of these visits that he had first learned of Adachi's parallel investigation into the Hodama affair. Paradoxically, he had been annoyed at first. The man did not even trust his own men. Then the inconsistency of his reactions had hit him. The truth was that Adachi was a smart cop and an excellent man to work for. And as a smart cop, Adachi had smelled something wrong. But he had not suspected that Fujiwara was the mole. The sergeant was sure of that.

Fujiwara let himself into the superintendent's apartment and relocked the door. As a reflex he started to remove his shoes and then realized the ridiculousness of the action. Instead, he used his jacket to dry his wet shoes so they would leave no mark on the tatami mats and moved across the living room into the bedroom.

Inside, he unzipped the flight bag he had been given by his yakuza contact and removed the silenced machine gun. It was a British-made 9mm L34A1 Sterling, curved with a thirty-four-round box magazine inserted from the left side. This gave the weapon a low profile when firing from the prone position. The yakuza was a gun enthusiast and had spelled out the weapon's specification in detail.

The most important element, from Fujiwara's perspective, was the effectiveness of the silencer. He had been reassured on that point. The silencer, in this case, was integrated into the barrel and was so well-designed it could use standard high-velocity ammunition and still make no more noise than the sound of a person spitting. The seventy-two radial holes drilled into the bore bled off enough of the propellant gas to make the rounds emerge subsonic. This model had been issued to the British SAS.

Fujiwara had to wonder about the gun's history and how such a weapon had ended up in Japan. Internationalization, he thought. It is not always a good thing.

He inserted the magazine, cocked and locked the weapon, and settled himself on the bed. It was now just a matter of time. Then one long burst and a second close up to make sure, and he would vanish into the night. His long coat, hat, and glasses were a sufficient disguise if he met anyone on the stairs. Once in the nearby subway, he would be anonymous.

In the most unlikely event of the subsequent investigation including him among the suspects, he had a foolproof alibi arranged. It would almost certainly be unnecessary. It was more likely that he would be a key member of the team doing the investigation.

How did I get myself into this situation? he thought as he waited. Very few Tokyo MPD cops are on the take. Money, money, and more money. It was a simple answer, and one he found greatly satisfying. He enjoyed the rewards of his activities.

The general lack of police corruption had created its own opportunity. The price of inside information became higher, and then it was just a matter of initiative and displaying an entrepreneurial streak and knowing whom to connect with. Working in an anti- yakuza unit made the last part easy. The coming gang were the Katsuda- gumi , no question about it. Hard men, but they paid well. For this hit, the paid superbly. A double squeeze on the trigger would bring him enough money to retire. Well, it was all a matter of being in the right place at the right time and knowing what moves to make.

He could hear keys in the lock, and then the door opened.

Over the years, Fitzduane had developed an aversion to walking straight into places where something unpleasant might be waiting.

A planned ‘domestic accident’ certainly put Adachi's apartment into that category. God knows what the Katsuda- gumi might have planned. So far – though he was still learning – the Japanese seemed to favor direct action and edged weapons. Opening the front door and walking straight into a bunch of sword-wielding yakuza struck him as being not a good idea.

Granted, he could send his convoy of bodyguards in first, but it really did not seem like the decent thing, and explaining a diced quartet of Tokyo MPD detectives to the Deputy Superintendent-General would be embarrassing.