"Once a gaijin, always a gaijin," said Fitzduane.
"No truer word," said Bergin. He looked distracted for a moment, and Fitzduane remembered his wife had died. She had been Japanese and had provided something of a bridge to the local community. What must it be like now?
Fitzduane reached out across the table and put his hand on top of Bergin's for a moment. "It's good to see you, you old pirate," he said, with quiet emphasis. "You're a monument to the merits of hard living. You drink, you smoke, you've fucked your way through every skin shade in Asia, and you've been under fire more often than we get rained on in Ireland — and still you look terrific."
Bergin looked up, and there was real warmth in his eyes. "Goddamn liar," he growled. "I'll get a corkscrew."
The first bottle of wine was empty by the time Fitzduane had finished his story. He trusted Mike, so he related most of what had happened under strict off-the-record ground rules.
Bergin whistled quietly to himself as the narrative came to an end, then looked across at Fitzduane and grinned. "It might be a practical move to see that your life insurance is paid up."
"Thank you for your concern," said Fitzduane dryly, "but I am hoping that with the help of a few of my friends, including the odd battle-scarred veteran, I won't need it. I'm getting tired of being a target." He smiled, and added with some irony, "I'm thinking of becoming... pro-active."
Bergin raised his eyebrows. "I would say killing four yakuza and knocking a policeman unconscious is an auspicious start. Now, how can this particular battle-scarred veteran help?"
"I need information," said Fitzduane, "background, context, history, perspective. So far I have been fed what other people think I need to know. Well, I need more than that. I need a sense — almost a physical sense" — he rubbed his fingers and thumb together to emphasize the tactile point he was making — "of what I'm up against."
Bergin stretched. "Where do you want me to start?" he said.
"The Namakas," said Fitzduane. "What do you know that I don't?"
"Just as well you brought a case of wine," said Bergin. "This talk is going to run more than a couple of bottles."
"I worked for CIC — the Counter Intelligence Corps — during the occupation as a special agent before my conversion to the Fourth Estate. They used to say you had to be lily-white to get into CIC and turn coal-black to stay in. We did what had to be done and to hell with the rules. Interesting times. Long time ago. But some things linger, like our friend Hodama."
"And the Namakas?" said Fitzduane.
"The Namakas worked for Hodama in those days," said Bergin. "He picked them out of the gutter and used them for some of the rougher stuff. And, of course, all of them worked for us. All part of putting down communism and, like I said, to hell with the rules. Then time moved on and Hodama moved up the ladder and brought the Namakas with him. And they all started wearing silk suits. But inside, nothing changed. Nor did the old alliances. So there is no way the Namakas killed Hodama."
"So who did?" said Fitzduane.
"I'm not sure," said Bergin, "but I've got a few ideas. The one thing I can tell you is this game goes way back. I think there's your pointer."
Fitzduane looked at Bergin hard. "You know what happened," he said, "but you're not going to tell me. What the hell is this, Mike?"
"I guess you'd call it a conflict of interest," said Bergin. "I have added some ethics as I've gotten older. I'm not in so much of a hurry."
"If the Namakas did not kill Hodama," said Fitzduane, "and someone else did, then they've gone to a great deal of trouble to blame it on the Namakas. Which means they have it in for the Namakas — which means we have something in common. And thinking further about it, the timing of the killing has to be important. It's not just paying off an old grudge. It's more about rescheduling the pecking order."
Bergin nodded and chuckled. "That's my interpretation," he said, "but policemen have to go on the evidence. Frankly, it has been a neat operation so far and it does not look good for the Namakas. And the truth is not really very relevant. They've run their course. Now it's just a matter of time."
"You sound very sure," said Fitzduane. "I've read the Namaka file. They are redoubtable people."
"There are some forces you can't buck," said Bergin flatly.
Fitzduane thought about what Bergin had been saying. Half of what his friend was communicating was unspoken, yet the clues were there. Suddenly, Fitzduane understood.
"You said the old alliances hadn't changed," said Fitzduane.
"Different names, that's all," said Bergin, "but the same team is still pulling the strings, even if there is a problem with one of the team members. Overenthusiasm, say some. Something nastier, say others. But the trouble is, it's hard to get a rotten apple when it's at the top of this particular tree. Hard to do it without embarrassment."
"How rotten an apple?" said Fitzduane. "As a friend to a friend, Mike."
Bergin pursed his lips. "This particular apple has been rotten since Vietnam," said Bergin. "Terminal is the description I would use."
"Terminal?" said Fitzduane. "That's a rather strong word."
Bergin met his glance. "Carefully chosen," he said.
The conversation turned to reminiscing, and later they ate together. It was near midnight when Fitzduane left. As he was saying farewell, he asked a question that had been in the back of his mind for some time.
"How long have you been with the Company, Mike?"
Bergin blinked, but said nothing at first. Then he held out his hand. "Loose lips sink ships," he said. "How did you know?"
Fitzduane pointed at the row of guest slippers. "Too many size twelves," he said.
"You always were an intuitive bastard," said Bergin, smiling. "But someone has to watch the watchers. It's been good to see you, Hugo."
Fitzduane had a lot to think about as he drove back to Tokyo, bracketed by his escorts. In particular, he was thinking about a rotten apple called Schwanberg. As the Company's head of station in Tokyo, controlling the power brokers of Japanese society, he probably felt nearly invulnerable.
In his scruffy but comfortable house in the village of Asumae, Bergin finished the open bottle of Fitzduane's excellent wine, shook his head, and made a call.
16
Tokyo, Japan
June 19
The big man in the expensive black suit, handmade shirt, and club tie listened to the progress reports on the Namaka affair with interest, pleasure, and some concern, but his face displayed no emotion.
It could not.
Nearly four decades earlier, terrible burns had disfigured it. The whole of his face had been savaged by the flames, and the flesh on the left side had been almost completely seared away. His ear had been reduced to a piece of blackened gristle. The left side of his body was horribly scarred.
Plastic surgery was not possible at the time. The Korean gangs were being hunted, and a hospital would have meant his death. By the time he was able to have surgery, the medical team could do only so much. Thanks to grafts from his thigh and buttocks, he was made functional. He could eat again and make love to a woman if she could bear it. He could open and close his eyes. His nose was rebuilt, and he had what passed for an ear.
But he was still hideous, repulsive, with his scarred, seamed face, twisted features, and tight, artificial-looking skin. People looked at him and were afraid. He was a living reminder of the terrible things that can be done to the human body. And he looked exceedingly dangerous; a man who had already been embraced by death; a man with nothing to lose.