He unpacked the other parcels. One of them was a surprise. It was a golf umbrella from Kilmara. Fitzduane swore. The sod must have known it was the rainy season and had said nothing. The umbrella came with instructions, which Fitzduane read. He then experimented. The thing was really quite ingenious.
The deal with the Japanese was that he should not carry a gun. That did not mean he had to be stupid.
* * * * *
The Oyabun of the Insuji-gumi tasked by the Namaka security chief with terminating this gaijin, Fitzduane, was something of an expert in the human-removal business.
Nonetheless, he had never before killed a foreigner, and he had never killed anyone at all under this time pressure. Normally, he would be given a name and an address and could determine a time and place of his own choosing. Further, he tended to be dealing with someone whose habits he was familiar with and whose behavior he could predict. In this case, he was going to have to improvise, and he would probably have to leave the body where it fell.
This was a pity. A disappearance — the Insuji-gumi had a meat-packing plant among their other interests, which contained all kinds of useful machinery — did not engender the same reaction from the police as a murdered corpse. Still, the Insuji-gumi were indebted to Kitano-san and obligations must be met. They were old-fashioned yakuza, with full-body tattoos for the initiated, and they prided themselves on their traditional values. Their code was rather like the bushido code of the samurai, and it was conceivable that it not be followed.
The oyabun had been supplied with a description and photograph of Fitzduane and the approximate time he would be checking in to the Fairmont Hotel. From then on, he would have to improvise.
Fortunately, the Fairmont was well set up for observation. A coffee shop with large windows to the left of the entrance was open all day, and the hotel itself was quite small. Any new arrival could easily be seen. From an appropriate table, it was also possible to overlook much of the lobby.
The oyabun, armed with an automatic for emergencies and with a short sword concealed in his raincoat, settled himself in the coffee shop to wait, with on kobun as company. The remaining four kobuns waited nearby in a Mazda van with tinted windows. Their swords were in a baseball bag. The overall boss of the Insuji-gumi was an avid baseball fan, so a display of enthusiasm for the sport and attendance at all major matches was virtually obligatory. There was not much place for the nonconformist in Japan, and none at all in the traditional yakuza.
The oyabun boss and his kobun were arguing about baseball scores and working their way through the fixed-price lunch menu and a beer or two, when Fitzduane arrived. The oyabun's first reaction was at the height of this foreigner. He was a good head taller than the Japanese around him and was built in proportion. It was going to be satisfying to cut him down to size. The oyabun was tempted to rush into the lobby and do the deed there and then, but he suddenly recognized Yoshokawa-san and blanched. To commit an assassination in front of one of Japan's leading industrialists, and possibly to harm him in the mêlée, would really be inviting an excessive police reaction. To kill the odd foreigner was one thing. To threaten Japan's industrial might would be an act of a different order of magnitude.
He looked out the window at the weather. Well, it was not actually raining and it was still early enough in the day. With a bit of luck, the gaijin would not hole up in his room but would do a little sight-seeing. The Yasukini Shrine was nearby. The Nippon Budokan, the concert hall where the Beatles and Bob Dylan had once played, was worth a look. The grounds of the ImperialPalace were only a stone's throw away.
He pressed the transmitter button on the radio clipped to his belt and held up his arm so that the microphone in his cuff would pick up his voice. "The gaijin has arrived," he said, "so stop playing with yourselves and stay alert. He has gone up to his room. When he comes down and leaves the hotel, we'll do the job."
Across the table, his companion looked relieved that he could finish his lunch, and went on slurping his bean curd soup. This kind of work made him hungry. In the van with the tinted windows, the four yakuza on standby opened more beer and played with their portable pachinko board for reasonably serious money. Pinball was a marvelously mindless way of killing time when you were on a stakeout.
Yoshokawa departed and the oyabun looked up at the heavens and thanked whoever was up there. The skies darkened and it started to pour, and he felt betrayed. After a further twenty minutes, the rain ceased and an uncertain sun peeked through the clouds. The oyabun felt his spirits lifting again. The gaijin, he presumed, had not come all those miles to sit in his room and watch CNN on the TV. He must have some spirit of adventure if Kitano-san wanted to have him killed.
His heart leaped. The American — well, all gaijins in his experience were American — had entered the lobby from the direction of the elevators. He was checking a map and, better yet, carrying an umbrella.
This was excellent. With his heart pounding, the oyabun watched as the target moved out of sight as he approached the main entrance. Seconds later, he reappeared on the pavement outside and turned left and headed down toward Yasukini-dori Avenue.
The oyabun barked into his microphone. At his command, the driver of the van with the tinted windows abandoned his pachinko game, leaped out of the side door, and jumped into his seat. In the confusion, the piles of yen notes on the table in the back were dislodged. Several notes drifted out the door when it was opened. The three yakuza scrabbled around the floor on their hands and knees and tried to recover the others. In the turmoil, although the foreigner was quickly identified, none of the yakuza paid any attention to the two Japanese who were following at a respectable distance behind Fitzduane. A connection might have been made under normal circumstances, despite the excitement and chaos of going in for the kill, but it was raining. Fitzduane and both of his bodyguards had put up their umbrellas. All eyes were fixed on the large golf umbrella in green, white, and gold — the colors of the Irish flag. It was easy to follow. Apart from its color scheme, it protruded a good foot higher than the Japanese umbrellas. Obviously, it was carried either by a freak or a foreigner.
* * * * *
Fitzduane, equipped with a map, had been well-briefed by the concierge at the Fairmont.
There was an obvious concern over the ability of a foreigner to find his way about Tokyo. Since he could not read a word of Japanese and most streets had no name, Fitzduane shared that concern in a mild way, but he formed the view that with Sergeant Oga and Detective Reido behind him, he should not get into serious trouble. Further, he had been advised that there were police boxes all over the place, so if he somehow lost his guardians he had a fallback. Of course, none of this should be necessary. In Tokyo, Fitzduane had been assured, he would be safe.