There was a blur of movement, and the gangster felt a terrible agony and a sudden overwhelming weakness. In front of him, the chairman still sat, but now he held a bloody sword in his left hand. But Namaka-san was right-handed! He had been carefully watching for any sudden move, but the chairman had deceived him. He had executed a perfect left-handed draw and horizontal slashing cut from the sitting position, which had sliced open the lower torsos of the two men. The man looked down at his stomach, which now gaped open. He could see the edges of his izumi, the dragon tattoo covering much of his body which had been the symbol of acceptance into his group. It was now cut in two, the careful workmanship desecrated. Beside him, his companion had slumped forward.
Waves of pain engulfed him, but still, although swaying slightly, he sat upright, blood draining from his body as he waited for the killing blow. His chin was held high. He expected the customary decapitation. "Namaka-san," he said, pleading. He could just manage the words. Blood flowed from his mouth.
Namaka did not move. His katana was at rest. The blow did not come. "You have stolen from the clan," he said. "I take no pleasure in your death, nor in the manner of it, but examples must be made. You will die in the ovens."
It was at that moment that the man's composure broke. He tried to scream, but blood filled his throat. He attempted to struggle as he was strapped to a wooden stretcher and carried down to the production floor.
The end of the two interi yakuza was watched in close-up on the big television monitor by the chairman and his security chief. The heat of the oven was so great that in minutes nothing remained.
Kei's greatest sword-fighting expertise was in iai-do — the art of drawing a sword. The blow he had executed in one continuous movement following his blade clearing the scabbard was a classic cut. Kitano had rarely seen it executed better.
Kei had completed chiburi — shaking the blood off the blade by making an arclike movement over his head and then snapping the blade down by his side — and now commenced polishing the surface with a soft cloth and powdered limestone. He worked with care, both for his own well-being — the weapon was razor-sharp and lethal if mishandled — and for that of the sword.
Too much polishing could damage the surface. Forty-five strokes had been determined over the centuries as the recommended optimum.
He erred on the conservative side and gave the blade forty-two. Finally, he rubbed the gleaming surface with a very light coating of clove oil and replaced it in its sheath.
11
Connemara RegionalHospital
February 8
There was the sound of heavy breathing on the phone and then a giggle.
The custom was that Fitzduane would put the phone down last, and Boots played this to the hilt at bedtime. When Boots was not sleeping over in the hospital, Fitzduane and he talked every night before Boots was tucked in. Boots still had some way to go with his telephone technique, but he made up for it with sheer zest.
His gaiety made Fitzduane's heart sing. And there was the added reassurance of knowing his son was safe. Oona was looking after him, Christian de Guevain had flown over for a few weeks to lend a helping hand, and there was now a regular Ranger presence on the island.
"’Night and big hug for the fifth time, you little monster," said Fitzduane, laughing. "Now! GO TO BED!"
Boots burst into fits of giggles and then Fitzduane could hear Oona in the background and Boots's fading "’Night, ’night! Daddeee..." as he was carried to his bed. Whatever they were feeding him, Boots was in demon form.
"Hugo?" It was de Guevain's voice.
"Still here," said Fitzduane.
"All is well here, mon ami," said de Guevain, amused. "The only threat here is from Boots."
Fitzduane laughed. "I can hear that." His tone became more serious. "Christian, your keeping the home fires burning in much appreciated."
de Guevain made a dismissive noise, and Fitzduane smiled to himself. His friend had film-star good looks, a debonair manner, and a way with gestures and body language that put most other Parisians of Fitzduane's acquaintance to shame. An ex-paratrooper and now a Paris-based merchant banker, the Frenchman had originally met Fitzduane as a result of a shared social interest in medieval weaponry and fencing. The two were expert swordsmen. It was a rather impractical skill in the late twentieth century, but for both, something of a family tradition.
Their friendship had nearly come to an abrupt end during the Hangman's attack on the castle. It had been a grim business which had affected all the survivors, but also created a special bond between them. When de Guevain had heard from Kilmara about the attack on Fitzduane, he had come immediately. He was confident that his bank, wife, and mistress would prosper in his absence. They were all mature elements in his well-ordered social structure. He was equally confident, with good reason, that they would welcome him back with open arms. Christian de Guevain had that kind of charisma.
"And how goes it for you, Hugo?" continued de Guevain. "I'm on red." The slight drop in voice quality and change to a more impersonal, manufactured sound confirmed the switch to encryption.
"These people are not going to go away," said Fitzduane grimly, "and I'm not going to sit around waiting for their next play."
"Japan?" said de Guevain. "You've decided."
"Japan," confirmed Fitzduane. "The interrogation of Sasada has confirmed that the Namakas are directly involved. Sasada was briefed by the Namaka security chief, who is a member of the Namaka inner sanctum, and the word is that Kitano does nothing that does not come from the Namakas themselves."
"Is there any chance of getting the Namakas through the courts?" asked de Guevain, without any real hope of getting an affirmative response. "Using Sasada as a witness?"
"Not a snowball's chance in hell," said Fitzduane. "Kitano is the cutout, and there is the slight problem that Sasada did not come out of interrogation too well. Kilmara broke him, but there was a price."
"Merde," said de Guevain, but with understanding. As a young man, he had served his time as a parachute lieutenant in Algeria, fighting in a very dirty war, and there were some situations where the Geneva conventions did not apply. Few people liked it, but in counterterrorism, it was sometimes a matter of weighing unpalatable alternatives.
"Hugo," he went on, "if you go to Japan you are going to need friends. A foreigner alone won't get very far. The Japanese..."
"...are very Japanese, and different from us Western types," completed Fitzduane dryly. "Yeah, I've heard that. It's even rumored they have their own language and eat with wooden skewers."
de Guevain laughed. "It is clear that you are recovering, Hugo. But you know what I mean, and in Japan, friends in high places are particularly important. If you are going to go up against people as powerful as the Namakas, you need — must have — a player of equal or greater influence. Believe me, I know. We bank there."