Adachi cleared his throat. The Spider now seemed almost human. He had displayed more emotion in the last ten minutes than over the previous decade. It was almost impossible to imagine the DSG as a normal person with a home life and a family.
The DSG looked directly at him. "You are not in any way to blame for this, Adachi-san," he said. You behaved entirely appropriately and your report is excellent. The fault is mine, but I would appreciate your input as to what we should do now. Our immediate priority is to make a statement to the press. Then we can consider our next move with this Irishman.
Adachi removed his notebook and consulted it. "Fitzduane-san has made a number of suggestions," he said.
The DSG nodded.
"He has said that he is aware that this incident may be embarrassing, but that he personally does not blame the MPD in any way, and indeed regrets — very deeply regrets — the inconvenience caused."
The DSG looked extremely interested. "Fitzduane-san suggests," Adachi continued, "that the whole business be dismissed in the press release as a clash between rival yakuza gangs which was stopped thanks to the prompt actions of the police. Further, he suggests that the hero of the hour be the young policeman he was forced to knock unconscious. The yakuza oyabun was shot with Policeman Teramura's revolver, so it would seem appropriate. Fitzduane-san also respectfully recommends that Teramura-san be given a medal."
The DSG exhaled, and in Adachi's opinion, took an unconscionably long time about it. The Spider was a positive genius at buying time in a discussion while also managing to appear entirely in control. Those around him tended to wait with bated breath for the oracle to speak. The Spider had raised hesitation to a high art.
The seconds passed. Adachi was frankly impressed at how much air the little man contained. He must really be fit. When did he exercise? There was not even a rumor of him in the police dojo. Perhaps he jogged in the dead of night around HibiyaPark.
The DSG eventually took a deep breath — to Adachi's relief — and then exploded in laughter. After an appropriate interval, Adachi joined in. The DSG practically rolled off his chair, but finally got control of himself.
"Let's do it," he said. "It's a perfect solution. But weren't there witnesses?"
"Most noticed only the initial yakuza attack, said Adachi, "and then they fled. The involvement of a gaijin was seen only by a couple, and the rain was heavy. I don't think we need to worry. We'll have a quiet word about the public interest."
"Our gaijin friend," said the DSG, "is a very clever man. The Irish must have some Japanese blood in them somewhere. But tell me, Superintendent-san, what does he want?"
Adachi smiled. "He would like to continue what has been agreed upon, and he respectfully suggests that he be allowed—"
The DSG groaned.
"—to carry a firearm."
* * * * *
The Village of Asumae North of Tokyo, Japan
June 10
The village was some sixty miles north of Tokyo, so Fitzduane's bodyguards — now increased to four — had not been overly keen on his making the trip.
Their protests had been so vigorous that Fitzduane, in his Toyota four-wheel drive with unmarked police cars front and rear, had half expected to have to fight his way through the suburbs like a stagecoach careering through hostile Indians. The reality was more prosaic. It was a long, boring trip through heavy rain and endless Tokyo suburbia, until suddenly there were paddy fields and rice growing and a line of pine-covered hills in the distance.
Fitzduane's heart lifted. The green of the forests was a different shade, but there were echoes or Ireland. He greatly missed his island and the beauty of the Irish countryside. He cursed it often for its miserable weather and its failures, but the pull of his tragic, rain-washed island was in his soul. And Japan was a land of islands. There was a bond.
The rain stopped as the little company drove into the village. Even as he watched, men and women come out of their houses with hoes and sickles and started cutting at the undergrowth at the perimeter. It was clear that civic pride was alive and well in the hamlet of Asumae.
A tall, heavyset figure in his early sixties leaned against a stone ishidoro lantern outside a modest wood-framed two-story house and grinned at Fitzduane, then bowed. It was something of a pastiche. With his height and jutting jaw and craggy features, he was a decidedly un-Asian figure.
A pipe was clenched in his teeth, and he was wearing an unpressed khaki shirt of military cut and baggy cotton trousers of similar origin.
Fitzduane had known Mike Bergin since the early days of Vietnam, and his dress sense had not improved.
"I thought you'd be working, Mike," said Fitzduane with a smile, indicating the villagers hacking and hoeing away.
Bergin removed the pipe from his mouth. His complexion — tanned, weather-beaten, and blotched with the patchwork of veins of a heavy drinker — hovered somewhere between unshaven and designer stubble. But there was a presence, a strong sense of human worth.
"Hugo, the Japanese believe that man is put on this earth to work, and that work, work, and more work is the solution to everything."
"But?" said Fitzduane.
Bergin laughed. "I ain't Japanese. Anyway, Hugo, you're a good excuse for me to revert to my decadent Western ways."
"You'd normally join in?" said Fitzduane. Mike, the old Asia hand and battle-hardened war correspondent, had once been something of a mentor to Fitzduane, and the Irishman was curious to see how Bergin had adapted to living in Japan. He had settled in Japan in the mid-seventies after Vietnam, with the comment that "the Pacific rim is where the action is going to be in the future." And he had been far from wrong, in Fitzduane's opinion.
"Sure," said Bergin. "It's important for us gaijins to show we aren't complete barbarians. Anyway, I rather like some of their values. Community spirit is still a big thing here. Money isn't the sum of all gods, like in the West."
"Hell, Mike, what do you know about the West?" said Fitzduane, grinning. "You spent the late forties here with MacArthur and then didn't get much further West than Singapore. The odd foray to London and New York doesn't count."
Bergin put his arm around Fitzduane's shoulder and ushered him into the house. "You've got a point, old son," he said, " but though my lips move as I do it, I can read. Anyway, it's real good to see you. And alive, at that. Given what you get up to, it's fucking amazing."
Privately, Fitzduane was beginning to think much the same, but he made no comment as they removed their shoes and padded in the slippers provided into the living room. Fitzduane's slippers fit. Either he was wearing a spare pair of Mike's, or Mike had regular gaijin visitors. All of which was in line with Bergin's less overt occupation.
Outside the house, the security team had safeguarded the front and rear entrances, and as Fitzduane glanced up, a liveried police car drove up. Belt and suspenders. Well, he could not blame them. He slid the shoji screen shut and went to sit across from Bergin at a battered pine table.
"Thanks for the trade goods," said Mike, looking up from the case of French wine Fitzduane had brought. "Sake is good stuff and it's cheap, but it's nice to be reminded of the fleshpots every now and then. I mean, rice is great, but sometimes I yearn for potatoes."