and I am here as a consequence of that accident. I am not the expert you imagine. My rank is a reserve title, nothing more.'
'Colonel,' said Schwanberg, the thumb and forefinger of his right hand repeated pinching the flesh on the back of his left in an irritating mannerism, 'you're entitled to your story, but how you tracked down our friend the Hangman is a classic right up there with the Entebbe raid. You may have gotten into this business by accident, but you sure operate as a professional and you come highly recommended. And that's why we're talking. You're one of us. You're a member of the club, and, frankly, it's hard to get into, but it's even harder to leave.'
It crossed Fitzduane's mind that even if he had not realized it, he had crossed the line between amateur and professional. What the unpleasant Schwanberg was saying was true. Circumstances had forced him into the bloody world of counterterrorism, and the reality was that he seemed to have a talent for it. But it was not a concept he enjoyed.
Violence might be necessary on occasion, but it was corrosive to the spirit. He thought of Boots. He wanted desperately to shelter his small son from that world. But the paradox was that, to shield him, he was prepared to do what had to be done. It was the endless spiral of destruction that seemed integral to the human condition.
'The club?' he said.
'The small group of us,' said Schwanberg, 'who do what is necessary so that Mr. and Mrs. Average Citizen have nothing more serious to worry about than the IRS. The protectors of Western values, if you want to be pompous about it.'
'That is being pompous about it,' said Fitzduane. 'I am really not overly keen on flag-waving. And to focus this discussion a little more, where does Japan fit into your Western values?'
Schwanberg flashed his organization man's professional grin. 'That's the question that preoccupies us local boys,' he said, 'and right now it is a little delicate. Bergin will have told you some of it, but he's an old man now and out of the game, so he doesn't know much. I'll tell you what you need to know. It's a minefield out there, and we don't want a good friend and fellow club member treading on any of the mines. They are there for a purpose. We have specific targets in mind.'
'Hodama and the Namakas,' said Fitzduane. 'Onetime allies who strayed a little and got too greedy and now have exceeded their shelf life. Time for a little stock rotation. It's something the CIA is pretty good at. Look at what is happening in Italy these days, to name just one other country.'
Schwanberg was no longer smiling. He was looking at Fitzduane intently, s if weighing the issues, and as if one of those issues was the Irishman's continued existence. 'You sound judgmental, Colonel,' he said. 'I would be disappointed to find that you are that naive. Japan has notions of going its own way, but that is just tatemae. The honne is that Japan has always had a kuromaku, and since the end of World War Two that has been Uncle Sam's job. People like Hodama were the tools of power but not truly powerful in themselves – and circumstances change and tools wear out. That's the way life really is. People are organic. They degrade.'
Fitzduane spoke coldly. 'Spare me the lecture, Schwanberg, and get to cases. What do you want and what have you got to offer?'
'Hodama is gone, so that's history,' said Schwanberg. 'Now we want the Namakas permanently out of circulation. When they go, we can move another Japanese kuromaku into place who will be more amenable, and then engage in a little rearranging. The government has served us well, but the public is getting unhappy. We need an illusion of change.'
'Katsuda,' said Fitzduane, 'with some politician on a reformist platform fronting for him.'
'Jesus Christ!' said Schwanberg slowly. 'You've only been here a couple of weeks. How the hell did you come up with that one?'
'People talk to me,' said Fitzduane, 'and some have long memories. Who had reason to want to kill Hodama in that gruesome way and who was filling the power vacuum? Means, motive, and opportunity – the classic criteria – and they end up pointing clearly at Katsuda. The method of Hodama's killing was a mistake. It was so obviously personal. It should have looked like a professional hit. No signature. Just a dead body.'
'All the evidence is stacked against the Namakas,' said Schwanberg, 'and there is no way of tying this in to Katsuda. Believe me, I know. Katsuda may be guilty, but it will never be proved. A lot of care went into clearing up the loose ends. The Namakas will take the blame.'
Fitzduane shook his head. 'There is a good cop on the case, and I think your frame-up has been detected.'
Schwanberg looked surprised. 'We'd have been told.'
'As I said,' said Fitzduane, 'the man is a good cop – and he's also smart. I think he knows you've got a mole in there, and maybe even who.'
'Fuck this,' said Schwanberg. 'We're supposed to be on the same side on this. We both want the Namakas. Sure, they didn't kill Hodama, but so what. They certainly were behind the hits on you. So let's work together and nail the suckers. As to your cop friend Adachi, he's been showing signs of being difficult for some time, so there are arrangements in place. He's a natural for a domestic accident.'
Fitzduane, his face masking his inner feelings, wanted to reach across and strangle the man facing him. The cynicism and callousness of this little shit appalled him. Here was this bureaucrat talking about the death of a fellow human being as if it were no more significance than ordering more photocopy paper.
He imagined the Namakas ordering his killing in the same indifferent way, and was extremely angry. His heart wanted him to rush out and somehow contact Adachi and prevent whatever was planned. His head advised caution. He must stay longer. There was more to come out of Schwanberg, and the man must not suspect the thoughts going through Fitzduane's brain.
'So what do you want me to do?' said Fitzduane.
'Help steer the whole Hodama business toward the Namakas and keep Katsuda in the clear,' said Schwanberg, 'and keep us informed.' He was silent, but clearly he was working toward something of greater significance.
'One way or another, we'll get the Namakas,' continued Schwanberg, 'but they are only part of our mutual problem. There is also their tame terrorist organization – the people who shot you. Whatever you may think, these are a group we are not responsible for We didn't make the connection with the Namakas for some time, as so far we haven't been able to do anything about it. But we want Yaibo taken out. The Namakas are the right place to start, but putting them out of business will still leave a very lethal residue.'
Fitzduane nodded. 'I see the political logic and I agree with it, but I don't have to like it.'
Schwanberg shrugged.
'One extra thing,' said Fitzduane, 'lay off Adachi. Let me worry about him.'
Schwanberg looked uncomfortable. 'We influence matters,' he said, 'but we don't necessarily run them.'
'What the fuck does that mean?' said Fitzduane.
'The world about Adachi has been passed to Katsuda,' said Schwanberg. 'I think an operation is already in the pipeline and that it is going to happen soon. Of course, I don't actually know any of the details. And nor do I want to.'
'How soon?' said Fitzduane.
'I don't know exactly,' said Schwanberg, 'but maybe today. Maybe it has already happened. Katsuda is the impatient type when let off the leash. Proactive on wet matters, you might say.'
'Nothing personal, Schwanberg,' said Fitzduane, 'but if anything happens to Adachi, I'm going to break your scrawny little neck. Now open this bell jar and let me out of here.'
Tokyo, Japan
June 20
Fumio Namaka came into his brother's office.
Kei was swinging the Irish ax he had been given by Fitzduane in much the same casual manner as another executive might fool around with a golf club. Kei was not keen on paperwork and detail bored him. But his interest in the world of martial arts rarely flagged. In his mind, he was a medieval samurai, and the twentieth century an unfortunate error in timing.
