When it was over, there would be a new kuromaku, Katsuda- sensei . Only very few people would know. Hodama had enjoyed his public reputation. He felt it increased his influence. Katsuda had no time for such vanities. He wanted power, but cloaked in secrecy. It was the way of a true kuromaku. Invisible but all-powerful.
While still a young man, Katsuda had been impatient for revenge. The image of the destruction of his enemies had influenced his every action. It made him faster, more ruthless, and more urgent in everything he did.
Yet as time went on, he learned to savor his motivation. Anticipation in itself, he found, was greatly pleasurable. The fact that Hodama and his followers were blithely unaware of their nemesis gave the enterprise and added piquancy.
Katsuda wanted Hodama to die without ever knowing. He wanted to deny him even this slight and fleeting satisfaction. Katsuda would be the bringer of death, and the way of death would be terrible. The thoughts of Hodama himself were of little concern. Only his fear and pain would be important. The man must die in fear and he must suffer. Katsuda had seen his family die in agony, and he could not forget. He did not wish to forget.
Patiently, Katsuda studied his intended victims and waited. And waited. Then, at last, the conjunction of several events created the opportunity.
The cold war came to an end, and gradually it began to be perceived that the strategic importance of Japan had changed. For forty years and more, Japan had been offered unrivaled access to U.S. markets in exchange for being an unswerving U.S. ally. This was no longer so important.
Japanese economic success had made the leading Japanese power brokers cocky. They no longer felt obligated to America. Japan was now the world's second-largest economic power, and, in the opinion of Hodama and some others, the time had come for Japan's international behavior to reflect its economic power. The time for automatically playing second fiddle to the U. S was over.
The third development was a sense by the political analysts and intelligence services of the world's lat remaining superpower that the time of the postwar politicians was over. They had become associated with ‘money politics’ and their greed had surfaced once too often. There had been too many public scandals. The old regime had run its course. It had served its purpose.
It was time for an illusion of change.
New blood would be brought in, to public acclaim. But, of course, Japan's real kuromaku, the U.S., would continue as normal. Tatemae and honne. The public image and the private reality. Japan might indeed be the world's second-largest economy – but the operative word was ‘second.’
In the final analysis, a country of one hundred and twenty-nine million people on the wrong side of the globe, living on a chain of a thousand islands without almost any natural resources, could never fundamentally change the world's true leader. And if it thought of so doing, it would not be allowed to. What was needed to be done, would be done. Every action that might prove necessary.
The last item that made it possible, even desirable, for Katsuda to initiate his move was an act of sheer hubris by the Hodama faction. With their confidence boosted by their economic success, they started dabbling in the arms trade and then moved to supplying enemies of the West. Rumors surfaced of the North Korean deal. This was impertinent and would not be tolerated.
Nothing was said directly to Katsuda, but suddenly the signs were there that Hodama and his faction were no longer protected. It was open season, if handled discreetly and with a certain sophistication.
Katsuda made his move.
He had personally led the assault group on Hodama and had taken the greatest pleasure in linking the killing to the Namakas. Month by month, he had tightened the noose. At the same time, he had set in motion his economic initiative. The Namaka's financial power base was being weakened. The elements in the plan were working and coming together.
Yet the Namakas endured. They had taken the heaviest pressure and were still in business. And there were now signs that they were rebounding stronger than ever. Evidently, Katsuda's actions had been too subtle.
Fortunately, the Namakas' own actions had thrown up an unlikely ally. This gaijin, Hugo Fitzduane, could make the necessary difference if the right circumstances were created. An Irishman, another islander like the Japanese. An interesting man, by all accounts.
Katsuda picked up the phone.
Fitzduane looked up from his Japan Times as Adachi made his way across the floor of the hotel restaurant.
The remains of his Western-style breakfast, except for his tea and toast, were cleared away as the policeman approached.
'Good morning, Adachi- san,' said Fitzduane, waving the policeman to a chair. 'You have a look about you that suggests developments.'
A waiter rushed up and brought Adachi some green tea. The service was excellent in Japan, Fitzduane had found, though the language barrier could be a problem. His waiter, for instance, was convinced that hot milk was what the Irish gaijin required with tea, and he would not be persuaded otherwise. Still, that slight eccentricity notwithstanding, Fitzduane felt he was in good hands.
'Would you ever think of trying Japanese food, Fitzduane- san?' said Adachi. He was used to gaijins demonstrating their skill with chopsticks and endeavoring, unsuccessfully, to be more Japanese than the Japanese when it came to food. Fitzduane, in contrast, asked for a knife and fork and did not seem to feel he had to prove anything. Sometimes he ordered Japanese dishes, but mostly he ordered Western. It was easy to do so in Tokyo. Practically every type of national cuisine was represented there. 'Fish, rice, vegetables and seaweed,' continued Adachi. 'It is a very healthy diet.'
'A vicar was once served a dubious egg for breakfast,' said Fitzduane, 'and was then asked if everything was satisfactory. He replied, ‘Good in parts.’ Well, that is pretty much my impression of Japanese food.' He smiled. 'Though it is all superbly presented – a feast for the eye. Unfortunately, my taste buds do not always agree. They have a weakness for French and Northern Italian cooking, with forays into Indian and Chinese and the occasional medium-rare steak. Doubtless, they need further education.'
Adachi laughed. He had been skeptical of the DSG's initiative in bringing a foreigner into what, in his view, was a Tokyo MPD affair, but Fitzduane, for a gaijin – a fundamental qualification – was an agreeable surprise.
Despite their unfortunate introduction, Adachi found the Irishman easy to get along with. He had a generous, low-key personality that invited confidences and he was sensitive to nuance, to the unspoken word. Also, his style was intuitive. He could almost have been a Japanese in his respect and understanding for giri-ninjo, yet he was very much his own man.
Adachi was somewhat puzzled by his own reactions to the man. As a Tokyo policeman, profoundly opposed to violence, he could not forget the carnage the Irishman had wrought the day they had met, yet Adachi still found he greatly enjoyed the man's company. Here was a man whose personal code seemed to reflect the most human of values, yet who killed without hesitation and without visible remorse. Adachi had never met anyone quite like him before.
'The two yakuza of the Insuji-gumi who you captured, Fitzduanesan,' said Adachi, 'have confessed.' He did not sound surprised. It had been over a week since the botched assassination attempt. Fitzduane tried to imagine what a week of Japan's famous draconian police-custody system would have been like, under these rather embarrassing circumstances for the Tokyo MPD, and decided he did not particularly want to find out, nor was he overly sympathetic. It was hard to feel much about people who tried to kill you.
Fitzduane nodded. Adachi was slightly taken aback at Fitzduane's lack of reaction. It was yet another example of the man's atypical behavior. In his experience, most gaijin were surprised and sometimes shocked at how consistently Japanese police were able to get criminals to confess. They would raise questions of civil rights and habeas corpus and all kinds of legal mumbo jumbo, as if the rights of the victims and ordinary citizens were not an issue also. In Adachi's view, the West were hypocrites and had their priorities backward.
'The two yakuza,' continued Adachi, 'made separate confessions and have now signed statements. The contract on you, Fitzduane- san, was initiated by Kitano- san, the security chief of the Namaka Corporation. He personally briefed the killing team.'
