Walking well behind, the oyabun watched with satisfaction as his two killing teams bracketed their victim. They were walking downhill, so Mikami would have momentum on his side as he rushed in for the kill. After one terrible blow, he would then discard his sword and his rain clothing and run into the subway station.
To ensure a kill — the Namaka security chief had been adamant about that — his fellow yakuza would then deliver another blow to the fallen victim to completely sever his head and would then follow Mikami's example. The team ahead of the gaijin were there to block his escape if something went wrong. Kudanshita station was up ahead. They would have to act before reaching the station, because there was a police box a little farther down. Fortunately, the police-box entrance faced away from the location of the proposed hit.
Sergeant Oga was an experienced policeman in his forties, who'd even had special training in personal-protection work a decade earlier. However, he had forgotten much of his protection training. Because Tokyo was a safe city, when he guarded some visiting VIP, he did not regard him as being at risk. In all his years, he had never known anyone under his guard to have been seriously threatened — if one discounted the occasional politician being jostled. And giving those corrupt bastards a hard time might be a good thing.
He had heard that this gaijin, Fitzduane-san, had been attacked in Ireland, but he associated that with the IRA. Everyone knew about the IRA and that Ireland was in a permanent state of civil war. He had seen enough coverage of the explosions and shootings on TV. It seemed to have been going on for the last twenty years — a crazy way to run a country. But Ireland was six thousand miles away and there were no IRA in Tokyo. Even the few Japanese terrorists were mostly in the Middle East, he had heard. The fact was that Japan was well and tightly policed, the population supportive and, except for the yakuza — who at least were fairly well-organized and kept in check — law-abiding. It was the way it should be. Who wanted everyone running around with guns, like in America! That was no quality of life.
The sergeant had not been too happy when Colonel Fitzduane had indicated that he was going for a walk, because it would have been easier and safer to guard the man in the Fairmont, but then he realized he was being unrealistic. There was no real risk, and no one could remain cooped up in a hotel room all day. A man needed to stretch his legs. Personally, the sergeant loved the streets and hated being confined in an office. Still, it was a pity that the weather was so terrible. The gaijin should have come in spring when the cherry blossoms were out and the weather warm and balmy. Whoever had advised him to come this time of year had to done him any favors. It was hot, wet, and muggy now, and it would get worse before it got better. He wondered how long the man was staying. He was agreeable for a gaijin and almost like a Japanese in his sensitivity. A nice man, really.
The sergeant watched in horror from under his umbrella as a figure in front of him suddenly drew a sword and in the same motion raised it high above his head and ran silently at Fitzduane. The action was so unexpected, indeed surreal, that it took him two or three seconds to react — and then it was too late. He glanced at Detective Reido, who was walking beside him, and it was clear that he, too, had been caught unawares. Both men looked at each other, shocked, and then as one drew their service revolvers. The sergeant realized that he was still holding his umbrella, and as he moved forward, he threw it behind him.
Fitzduane turned as his assailant made his rush and took the blow on his umbrella, at the same time drawing out the sword concealed in its handle. The thin blade was similar to an epee, which was his preferred weapon when fencing, though it was a little lighter and lacked a hand guard.
Mikami was taken aback by the gaijin's swift turn, but expected his blade to slice right through the thin cloth of the umbrella and into his victim. He was taken aback when the blade was deflected.
Fitzduane gave fleeting thanks to Du Point for inventing Kevlar and realized that he could now resolve a conundrum which had puzzled him for years. It was an opportunity he could have done without. He collected weapons and had had several very fine katana in his collection, and he had often questioned the merits of the magnificently made Japanese swords — designed primarily for cutting — as compared to the thin-bladed European weapons, which killed mainly on the thrust. He had often debated the matter with Christian de Guevain.
A cold anger gripped Fitzduane. His attacker's blade cut across in a second vicious slashing attack intended to brush aside the umbrella and cut into his victim's body.
Fitzduane stepped back down the hill, but still kept his back to the railings, as the second stroke came at him. At the same time, he dropped the umbrella.
Mikami, expecting that his blow would have to push the umbrella out of the way as well as kill Fitzduane, had slashed with all his force. At the last minute, there was no resistance and he lurched forward off-balance.
Fitzduane deflected the katana blade upward and away, and in the same movement slid his epee into Mikami's body. His attacker's eyes rolled and he stared in surprise as Fitzduane immediately withdrew his blade and blood spurted from his wound. A bloody froth burst from his lips, and he collapsed. Blood and rainwater cascaded down the pavement.
A second figure, holding a sword in two hands low, as if to thrust, ran at Fitzduane from the same direction as his first attacker. Fitzduane extended his sword, and this assailant came to a halt. Two other attackers, the men who had been in front of him, Fitzduane realized, also approached. All three now surrounded Fitzduane in a semicircle, as he stood on guard with his back to the railings.
Fitzduane feinted, parried, and thrust at the attacker on his right, knowing that the attacker on his left would be hindered by the man in the middle. His intended victim gave ground as the epee flickered at him, giving Fitzduane just enough time to remove a throwing knife from his wrist, but not enough time or space to throw it. He now faced his attackers with a blade in either hand. It was a style with which his ancestors in the sixteenth century would have been very familiar.
The man in the center gave a cry and ran forward in a slashing attack. Fitzduane stepped forward, seemingly into the blow, as he moved and deflected the glittering steel so that it crashed into the railings, drawing sparks. Shock, and then agonizing pain, ran through the yakuza and he slumped against the barrier with Fitzduane's knife protruding from his kidneys.
Fitzduane slashed at the yakuza on his left, and the man, appalled at the ferocity and skill of his intended victim, staggered back, his cheek laid open, slipped on the wet ground, and fell hard on his back, his sword clattering away from his hand. He turned on his side and reached for it as Fitzduane stepped forward swiftly, and without hesitation, thrust his sword into the man's throat and turned. The fallen yakuza made a gurgling sound as he died. Nearby, a pedestrian, too frozen with fear to move, screamed and kept on screaming.
The oyabun had been taken aback when he had seen what he had taken for two ordinary citizens draw weapons. He immediately made the connection and was furious with himself for not having anticipated bodyguards. Just as quickly, he had shouted at his kobun and the two yakuza had run at the policemen from behind.