be so kind as to tell me what is in that fucking box?'
'The kind of thing you would leave with someone you trusted,' said Fujiwara, 'if you were a prick like Hodama. Mementos of negotiations, secret conversations, and the like.'
'Grrr…' said Adachi. 'It's too late. I'm too tired. What the hell are you talking about?'
'Tapes,' said Fujiwara hastily. 'Just like President Nixon. Tapes.'
' Banzai! ' said Adachi. A thought struck him. Magnetic evidence was prone to vanish into the ether. It was not nice and physical, like paper of bloodstains. One quick pass with a powerful magnet and tape recordings were history. 'Have you checked them? Is there anything on them?'
'Relax, boss,' said Fujiwara. 'This is really something.'
The Chief Prosecutor always dressed well but conservatively.
He favored the unostentatious gray look, reflected Adachi; the guise of the silver fox. The focus tended to be on his face and, in particular, on his eyes. Day in, day out, for decades, those eyes read the souls of men. When the prosecutor stared intently at you, you just knew that it was pointless to lie. You were aware you could not hide. You understood immediately that he did not really need to ask. It was not merely that he could read your mind: He knew.
Smoke and mirrors, thought Adachi. Did a trick of nature slant you in one particular direction because you looked the part, or did the look follow the occupation? Either way, the success of so much that you did was so often slanted toward how you looked when you did it.
That evening the prosecutor was dressed for a function. He looked different, less like a dedicated public servant and more like a public figure; perhaps a minister or a leading businessman. The dark-blue silk suit was of Italian cut. The white shirt gleamed like a soap-powder ad. The tie was a discreet hand-painted design. The tassled black shoes had a sheen reflecting dedication bordering on obsession.
Did Mrs. Prosecutor graft away with the polishing attachment on her Makita drill, or did Mr. Prosecutor burnish his own shoes? Somehow, Adachi regarded the latter scenario as unlikely. People's personal habits were interesting in what they revealed.
He found the way the prosecutor was dressed that evening unsettling. It did not seem to reflect the man he thought he knew. Well, he was tired. Notions tended to introduce themselves when blood sugar was low.
The tape came to an end. 'There were over two hundred tapes in a fireproof safe inside Chiba- san 's blanket chest,' said Adachi, 'all neatly labeled and cross-indexed. There are some prominent names mentioned on the tapes. The most interesting tape is the one you just played. The quality is not good, but the content is compelling.'
'The two speakers are Hodama himself' said the prosecutor, 'and Fumio Namaka.'
Adachi nodded in agreement. 'Both names are mentioned in the course of the conversation, and we have already obtained separate confirmation. Hodama's reedy voice is quite distinctive. Namaka's is also clear enough. No one else seemed to be present.'
'So here we have Hodama saying he is withdrawing support for the Namakas,' said the prosecutor, 'and giving as his reasons the financial weakness of the Namaka keiretsu and their links with Yaibo. Hodama, despite their long association, cannot afford scandal and to go down with a sinking ship.'
'That's how it sounds,' said Adachi. 'It is a thirty-five minute discussion. The go over the points several times, the way one does I that kind of conversation. The message is very clear. The Namakas are going to be ditched by their kuromaku – with deep regret and despite their long association.'
'Are these tapes genuine?' asked the prosecutor.
'Our technical boys say they are,' said Adachi slowly. 'But that's a judgment, not certainty. Tape is tricky, but they have put twenty of the two hundred tapes through state-of-the-art equipment and the results indicate the genuine article. Also, they pointed out there is too much here to fake. It would be a massive job. So, best assessment is: the tapes are genuine.'
Despite his words, Adachi was uneasy about the tapes. Tape was a reliable enough medium if you used it yourself and kept the evidence chain intact, but where a third party was involved he was cautious. There were all kinds of electronic tricks you could play these days. Also, the fact that some tapes were genuine did not mean all were. The sheer number of tapes would tend to suggest authenticity, but what better place, when you thought about it, to hide a couple of fakes. He resolved to check the tapes further with a speech analyst. But that would take time. Meanwhile, they would have to go with what they had.
The prosecutor closed his eyes, lost in thought. He was wearing a lapel pin, Adachi noticed: miniature crossed silver brooms; the sweeping out of corruption. It had become associated with some of those who were working to clean up Japanese politics. So far, wearers were in something of a select and extremely small minority. The average voter knew the system was deeply flawed but also knew the economic gains made by Japan and the steady progress of individual well-being. The system was imperfect, but it worked. So why change it? Power would always be a money game. That was human nature.
'Means, opportunity, and motive,' said the prosecutor. 'I find it hard to believe that the Namakas would turn on their kuromaku…'
'But,' said Adachi, 'There is the matter of the evidence.'
'Quite so,' said the prosecutor. 'And the evidence is quite convincing.'
'Bring them in?' said Adachi.
The prosecutor shook his head. 'I think we should talk to the Namaka brothers fairly soon,' he said, 'but not quite yet. Let us see what we can turn up in the next couple of weeks. The indicators are clear, but a successful outcome will require more in the way of proof.'
'We are working on it,' said Adachi. Despite some unease, which he did his best to suppress, he could feel the case beginning to crack. The feeling was that of exhilaration, the lust of the hunter. It would give him the greatest pleasure to put the Namaka brothers behind bars.
'This is encouraging progress,' said the prosecutor in dismissal. Adachi bowed respectfully. He felt tired but good.
Three days later, the Tokyo MPD forensic laboratory cracked the encryption code which had prevented Hodama's security video from being viewed.
The encryption technology was similar to that used to prevent unauthorized viewers from watching satellite TV without a decoder. The principle was easy to understand. Finding the key to the particular code used by Hodama was another matter. The permutations seemed to be endless. It was a problem for a supercomputer, it seemed, the kind of thing that the U.S.'s worldwide eavesdropping agency, the NSA, excelled at.
In the end, thinking laterally, old-fashioned police work rather than technology was brought into play. A detailed examination of Hodama's business connections revealed a shareholding in a company that manufactured decoders. From then on, it was just a matter of talking persuasively to the company president. At first he was unwilling to cooperate. A trip to police headquarters and a tour of some of the facilities for overnight guests worked wonders.
The lab sent over several unlocked copies of the tape which could be played on an ordinary video machine. Adachi had an initial viewing in the squad room, then took a copy back to his apartment to study at his leisure. Besides, he wanted Chifune's input; and he wanted Chifune.
Surprisingly, she was available. She tended to be elusive. She said that unpredictability stimulated ardor. Privately, Adachi thought his ardor for Chifune did not need any help. He only had to think of Tanabu- san for his desire to become well-nigh intolerable. Other women no longer interested him. He had tried a few times since he had started sleeping with Chifune, but the alternatives paled in comparison. It was a damn nuisance.
He was accustomed to a robust and uncomplicated sex life enjoyed in much the same physical way as a bout of kendo – and now his whole being was involved. It was a marvelous, awful, terrifying feeling; and a bloody nuisance. Running any murder investigation required absolute focus and concentration. And the Hodama business was not just any old slice of mayhem.
