Unfortunately, it was. Adachi's instincts had been right. The question now: Was Fujiwara merely working for the prosecutor or did the trail lead right back to Katsuda? Did the sergeant have yakuza connections? Adachi was not looking forward to finding out. Anyway, did it matter? He felt drained and bone-weary.
The gray sky was looking ominous. Adachi turned away from his contemplation of the moat as the first drops rippled into the water. Soon, the warm, oily drops were falling in sheets and every stitch of clothing on his body was soaked. The only dry thing left was the prosecutor's letter in his pocket, tucked bloody but safe into a plastic evidence bag.
Adachi knew he should call in or at least return to headquarters, but he could not do it. He could not face the pressure and the questions. The DSG would certainly want to talk to him about the prosecutor's death. What could Adachi say? Would the truth serve any useful purpose? Where did the DSG's loyalties lie? No he could not face this kind of thing for the moment. Today was one day he had to be alone.
He headed away from the grounds of the ImperialPalace and back toward Jinbocho and his apartment. The rain grew heavier.
* * * * *
Inspector Fujiwara had had a set of keys to the superintendent's apartment since he had been sent to pick up some things for his boss shortly after the start of the Hodama investigation.
It had been a simple matter to have an additional set cut, and since that time he had made periodic use of them. There was little risk. He normally knew where Adachi was, and the man lived alone. Even if Fujiwara had been caught, he had a story about arranging a surprise party for the superintendent. It would have been awkward, but it would have worked.
It was during one of these visits that he had first learned of Adachi's parallel investigation into the Hodama affair. Paradoxically, he had been annoyed at first. The man did not even trust his own men. Then the inconsistency of his reactions had hit him. The truth was that Adachi was a smart cop and an excellent man to work for. And as a smart cop, Adachi had smelled something wrong. But he had not suspected that Fujiwara was the mole. The sergeant was sure of that.
Fujiwara let himself into the superintendent's apartment and relocked the door. As a reflex he started to remove his shoes and then realized the ridiculousness of the action. Instead, he used his jacket to dry his wet shoes so they would leave no mark on the tatami mats and moved across the living room into the bedroom.
Inside, he unzipped the flight bag he had been given by his yakuza contact and removed the silenced machine gun. It was a British-made 9mm L34A1 Sterling, curved with a thirty-four-round box magazine inserted from the left side. This gave the weapon a low profile when firing from the prone position. The yakuza was a gun enthusiast and had spelled out the weapon's specification in detail.
The most important element, from Fujiwara's perspective, was the effectiveness of the silencer. He had been reassured on that point. The silencer, in this case, was integrated into the barrel and was so well-designed it could use standard high-velocity ammunition and still make no more noise than the sound of a person spitting. The seventy-two radial holes drilled into the bore bled off enough of the propellant gas to make the rounds emerge subsonic. This model had been issued to the British SAS.
Fujiwara had to wonder about the gun's history and how such a weapon had ended up in Japan. Internationalization, he thought. It is not always a good thing.
He inserted the magazine, cocked and locked the weapon, and settled himself on the bed. It was now just a matter of time. Then one long burst and a second close up to make sure, and he would vanish into the night. His long coat, hat, and glasses were a sufficient disguise if he met anyone on the stairs. Once in the nearby subway, he would be anonymous.
In the most unlikely event of the subsequent investigation including him among the suspects, he had a foolproof alibi arranged. It would almost certainly be unnecessary. It was more likely that he would be a key member of the team doing the investigation.
How did I get myself into this situation? he thought as he waited. Very few Tokyo MPD cops are on the take. Money, money, and more money. It was a simple answer, and one he found greatly satisfying. He enjoyed the rewards of his activities.
The general lack of police corruption had created its own opportunity. The price of inside information became higher, and then it was just a matter of initiative and displaying an entrepreneurial streak and knowing whom to connect with. Working in an anti-yakuza unit made the last part easy. The coming gang were the Katsuda-gumi, no question about it. Hard men, but they paid well. For this hit, the paid superbly. A double squeeze on the trigger would bring him enough money to retire. Well, it was all a matter of being in the right place at the right time and knowing what moves to make.
He could hear keys in the lock, and then the door opened.
* * * * *
Over the years, Fitzduane had developed an aversion to walking straight into places where something unpleasant might be waiting.
A planned ‘domestic accident’ certainly put Adachi's apartment into that category. God knows what the Katsuda-gumi might have planned. So far — though he was still learning — the Japanese seemed to favor direct action and edged weapons. Opening the front door and walking straight into a bunch of sword-wielding yakuza struck him as being not a good idea.
Granted, he could send his convoy of bodyguards in first, but it really did not seem like the decent thing, and explaining a diced quartet of Tokyo MPD detectives to the Deputy Superintendent-General would be embarrassing.
No, the indirect approach was required here, combined with reconnaissance. Your parents might have done their very best to bring you up direct, honest, and forthright, but there were times when there was a definite role in life for sneakiness. Kilmara was a strong advocate of guile in a combat situation, and Fitzduane had been an apt pupil.
Adachi's apartment was on the top floor of a six-story building and was reached through a locked front door that was squeezed between a martial-arts store and a bookshop. The locked door looked solid. That was another argument in favor of sneakiness. They did not have any keys, and Fitzduane did not want to alert anyone who might be inside by playing with the bells. Apart from the radio beeper, he had tried phoning Adachi at the apartment, but there had been no reply. A further check revealed that there was a fault on the line. This did not make Fitzduane feel good at all.
"Sergeant-san," he said. "Leave two men here and tell them to stop anyone entering or leaving — and in particular to stop Superintendent Adachi from entering. The rest of us will find a way up to the roof.."
The block consisted of some ten adjoining buildings. From the pavement looking up it was hard to tell, but the roof looked roughly flat, and getting across to Adachi a simple matter of crossing a few parapets.
It turned out to be more complicated. Having reached roof level from an entrance three houses away, after some badge-flashing and shouting by Sergeant Oga to a remarkably stubborn little old lady, they found themselves one level below the next building.