Fitzduane spoke coldly. "Spare me the lecture, Schwanberg, and get to cases. What do you want and what have you got to offer?"
"Hodama is gone, so that's history," said Schwanberg. "Now we want the Namakas permanently out of circulation. When they go, we can move another Japanese kuromaku into place who will be more amenable, and then engage in a little rearranging. The government has served us well, but the public is getting unhappy. We need an illusion of change."
"Katsuda," said Fitzduane, "with some politician on a reformist platform fronting for him."
"Jesus Christ!" said Schwanberg slowly. "You've only been here a couple of weeks. How the hell did you come up with that one?"
"People talk to me," said Fitzduane, "and some have long memories. Who had reason to want to kill Hodama in that gruesome way and who was filling the power vacuum? Means, motive, and opportunity — the classic criteria — and they end up pointing clearly at Katsuda. The method of Hodama's killing was a mistake. It was so obviously personal. It should have looked like a professional hit. No signature. Just a dead body."
"All the evidence is stacked against the Namakas," said Schwanberg, "and there is no way of tying this in to Katsuda. Believe me, I know. Katsuda may be guilty, but it will never be proved. A lot of care went into clearing up the loose ends. The Namakas will take the blame."
Fitzduane shook his head. "There is a good cop on the case, and I think your frame-up has been detected."
Schwanberg looked surprised. "We'd have been told."
"As I said," said Fitzduane, "the man is a good cop — and he's also smart. I think he knows you've got a mole in there, and maybe even who."
"Fuck this," said Schwanberg. "We're supposed to be on the same side on this. We both want the Namakas. Sure, they didn't kill Hodama, but so what. They certainly were behind the hits on you. So let's work together and nail the suckers. As to your cop friend Adachi, he's been showing signs of being difficult for some time, so there are arrangements in place. He's a natural for a domestic accident."
Fitzduane, his face masking his inner feelings, wanted to reach across and strangle the man facing him. The cynicism and callousness of this little shit appalled him. Here was this bureaucrat talking about the death of a fellow human being as if it were no more significance than ordering more photocopy paper.
He imagined the Namakas ordering his killing in the same indifferent way, and was extremely angry. His heart wanted him to rush out and somehow contact Adachi and prevent whatever was planned. His head advised caution. He must stay longer. There was more to come out of Schwanberg, and the man must not suspect the thoughts going through Fitzduane's brain.
"So what do you want me to do?" said Fitzduane.
"Help steer the whole Hodama business toward the Namakas and keep Katsuda in the clear," said Schwanberg, "and keep us informed." He was silent, but clearly he was working toward something of greater significance.
"One way or another, we'll get the Namakas," continued Schwanberg, "but they are only part of our mutual problem. There is also their tame terrorist organization — the people who shot you. Whatever you may think, these are a group we are not responsible for We didn't make the connection with the Namakas for some time, as so far we haven't been able to do anything about it. But we want Yaibo taken out. The Namakas are the right place to start, but putting them out of business will still leave a very lethal residue."
Fitzduane nodded. "I see the political logic and I agree with it, but I don't have to like it."
Schwanberg shrugged.
"One extra thing," said Fitzduane, "lay off Adachi. Let me worry about him."
Schwanberg looked uncomfortable. "We influence matters," he said, "but we don't necessarily run them."
"What the fuck does that mean?" said Fitzduane.
"The world about Adachi has been passed to Katsuda," said Schwanberg. "I think an operation is already in the pipeline and that it is going to happen soon. Of course, I don't actually know any of the details. And nor do I want to."
"How soon?" said Fitzduane.
"I don't know exactly," said Schwanberg, "but maybe today. Maybe it has already happened. Katsuda is the impatient type when let off the leash. Proactive on wet matters, you might say."
"Nothing personal, Schwanberg," said Fitzduane, "but if anything happens to Adachi, I'm going to break your scrawny little neck. Now open this bell jar and let me out of here."
* * * * *
Tokyo, Japan
June 20
Fumio Namaka came into his brother's office.
Kei was swinging the Irish ax he had been given by Fitzduane in much the same casual manner as another executive might fool around with a golf club. Kei was not keen on paperwork and detail bored him. But his interest in the world of martial arts rarely flagged. In his mind, he was a medieval samurai, and the twentieth century an unfortunate error in timing.
"Kei," said Fumio, "I'd like you to come into the corridor and tell me what you see."
"I'm busy," said Kei, as he whirled the long-handled ax around his head and then slashed it down in a scything diagonal blow. "I'm trying to get the hang of this thing. It's trickier than it seems. It builds up enormous momentum, but that very force makes it hard to control. If your blow doesn't hit, then the ax carries on and you're vulnerable. Still, I'm sure there is a technique that can compensate for that, If I can just work it out."
Effortlessly, he brought up the blade again, and Fumio felt both irritation and a rush of affection for his older brother. Kei could be maddening, but his enthusiasm was infectious.
"It concerns the disposal of this gaijin, Fitzduane-san," said Fumio. "I'm running a small experiment which I think you will find interesting."
Kei snorted but put the ax down. "Where do you want me to go?" he said.
"Open the door and look left and tell me what you see in the corridor," said Fumio patiently.
"Games!" said Kei disparagingly, and marched across to the door, opened it, and peered out. He was back instantly, his face pale.
"It's the gaijin," he said, "the Irishman. He's here, just standing there at the end of the corridor with his back to the window. What's he doing here? How did he get past security? What's he up to?"
"I have absolutely no idea," said Fumio. "Are you sure it's the gaijin?"
"Of course I'm sure," said Kei instantly, and then took in Fumio's expression. "What do you mean?" he said.
"The man in the corridor is not Fitzduane-san," said Fumio. "Same height, same build, same clothes, same haircut and color — but he is not the gaijin. His back was to the window so his face was in shadow, but if you look again more closely you will see the differences. But the important thing is that he fooled you the first time and you were not expecting to see him. People see what they expect to see."
Kei opened the door again, and this time went down the corridor a dozen paces until he was much closer to the figure. Now he could tell the difference quite easily, but it was still a good likeness.
"Remarkable, Fumio," he said to his brother, as he returned to his office and closed the door, "but what is the purpose of this proxy — this doppelgänger?"