Goto spoke with the freedom that came from a long and trusted association. Also, he and Fumio were close personal friends. Nonetheless, they still addressed each other with some formality.
"There is a certain irony to our situation, Namaka-san," said Goto. "Our illegal activities have remained consistently profitable. It is our entirely legal expansion that is creating these difficulties. First we invested in the dollar and that went through the floor; then we had a flyer on gold, and that, which had always gone up, now seems to be going nowhere; and finally, we bought and expanded Namaka Steel. It is the steel plant that really lies at the root of our problems. There is now overcapacity worldwide. And as to our investment in the Special Steels facility — that has been the last straw."
Fumio sighed. He adored his big brother, and Namaka Steel was Kei's passion. It made him feel like a proper industrialist. And as for the investment in the new Special Steels facility, that had been made as a result of a strategic decision by MITI, the supposedly infallible Ministry of International Trade and Industry. MITI had devised a plan to take over the international aerospace industry in the 1970s, and Namaka Special Steels had been a key element in that plan. The project had enjoyed massive prestige. Encouraging speeches had been made by a series of ministers and other politicians.
The plan had gone precisely nowhere. There had been some modest progress, but for all practical purposes, the Americans still owned the skies — with the Europeans, supposedly in decadent decline, in a healthy second place. It was frustrating for MITI, but it was disastrous for Namaka. A few defense contracts helped in the short term, but nothing would substitute for a major breakthrough.
That breakthrough was no longer possible in the time available through normal legal commercial trading. The only chance that either Fumio or Goto could see lay with the sale of some of the more esoteric products of Namaka Special Steels. Project Tsunami, the production of nuclear-weapons-plant equipment for the North Koreans, was illegal — absolutely against the laws of Japan — but it represented a vast amount of cash money.
With Hodama dead, the North Korean weapons project was now fundamental to the Namaka keiretsu's survival. It was that simple.
"I don't think we will trouble the chairman with these figures," said Fumio. "He had other things on his mind."
Goto nodded in agreement. An untroubled Kei Namaka was important. As chairman, his confident dynamism was of enormous help with the major institutions. It would not do to trouble him with unpleasant details. Anyway, Kei had enough trouble just reading martial arts manga, the adult comics. Balance sheets and cash flow forecasts were beyond him.
Goto had never been a traditional yakuza, so the issue of the full-body tattoo had not arisen. However, early on in his life he had discovered a simple truth which he had tattooed in Japanese characters — kanji — across his torso. The modest design was attractive, but it was designed for Goto's use principally; it could be read only in a mirror.
The elegant tattooed characters read: CASH IS KING.
* * * * *
The West of Ireland
February 17
Kilmara drove the Land-Rover slowly down the unpaved track toward the beach.
They reached a grassy area at the bottom and parked. Ahead of them, a short steep path wound its way through rocks to the sand and sea below. Against a backdrop of mountains, the beach seemed to curve endlessly.
They left the car. The day before, winds of up to eighty miles an hour had been blowing. Now the breeze off the Atlantic was down to a tenth of that and the waves were almost gentle.
The same was firm nearer the waterline and made for easy walking. From time to time they stopped to look at driftwood thrown up by the storm or an unusual stones or shells. Clouds scudded overhead and the sun darted in and out. The air, though chill, was invigorating.
Kilmara stopped and looked back. They had walked for perhaps half a mile in companionable silence, and their footsteps could be seen stretching back to the rocks below where the car was parked. Theirs were the only footsteps to be seen. He turned around, and ahead of them the beach was unmarked and empty.
"I've been to half the countries in the world," he said with feeling, "and I have seen amazing sights and the most beautiful scenery, but, somehow, nowhere compares to Ireland. This country gets into your soul and it touches you and that's it — you're hooked, you're marked for life. If you leave, there is always a bit of you that yearns to be back in Ireland. There is something in the fabric of this land that is unique. And the most beautiful part of this land is the West."
Kathleen looked at him, a little surprised. She had not expected Kilmara to have the soul of a romantic. In most of her dealings with him he had been an authority figure, dominating — a little frightening even — in his uniform and so often in the company of his armed Rangers.
Now, alone with her and in civilian clothes, he seemed more accessible, easier to talk to, and more like a normal person. There was less of the General and more of the man. He was someone, perhaps, who could be a friend.
"The romantic General," she said with a smile. "Another romantic we both know said something rather similar."
Kilmara laughed. "I'm a part-time romantic," he said. "Very part-time. My nature is to be practical, to see the world the way it is without the expectation that I can change it. Hugo is the real thing. Even worse, he is a romantic and an idealist. He believes things can and will get better, and in such notions as honor and duty and fidelity. That's what gets him into so much trouble. Yet I envy him his nature. He can be a lethal son of a bitch, but in essence, he is a good man."
"And you're not?" said Kathleen.
Kilmara took his time answering. He was thinking of Sasada, of drugs and sensory deprivation, of other terrible techniques; of what they had done to the man to make him talk.
The man now slobbered and grunted and could no longer control his bowels. He was permanently insane.
"No," he said heavily. "My world demands other qualities, and it appear that I may have them. But goodness is not high on the list."
Kathleen had the sense that he was referring to something specific, and she shuddered. His was a fearful world and he had spent a lifetime in it. Violence was a perversion of all civilized values. How could one be exposed to such a culture of destruction and remain unaffected? And yet she was being unfair. Violence was a reality, and the relative peace that most people enjoyed depended on such men as her companion. Without people such as the Bear and Kilmara, she reminded herself, she would now be dead.
She took his arm companionably. "You're a kind man," she said thoughtfully, "and a good friend to Hugo."
Kathleen had not seen Fitzduane since the carnage at the hospital. In view of the investigations after the incident, she had been sent to a hospital elsewhere and released after a week. Her physical injuries were not serious and were now almost healed. Then there had been her father's funeral and her mother to look after. And there was a sense of shock and violation that was taking a lot longer time to overcome; it might take years.