Leaving the two detectives to look after the driver, he walked the short distance to where the still-smoking remains of the Namaka limousine lay, and looked inside.
He felt his mind separate as he looked. The interior reeked of explosive residue and cooked flesh and was plastered within the blackened bloody fragments of human remains, and he wanted to be sick. Another part of his mind, that of the trained detective, noted that the bottom pan was still intact, though bowed outward. Clearly, the device had been placed inside the car or was a projectile like a rocket which had penetrated from the outside and then exploded. There was no entry hole in the metal frame that he could see, but it could easily have come through one of the windows.
Repulsive though the task was, he tried to work out how many bodies could be made up from the pieces in the limousine, and whether he could recognize the gaijin.
After several minutes, he reeled away, nauseated, and with all hope destroyed. The corpse in the rear of the car was the right size, weight, and build of Fitzduane-san and was definitely Caucasian. The clothing, insofaras he could tell, was Fitzduane's. He could just make out a watch similar to the military Rolex that Fitzduane normally wore.
There was no doubt. The gaijin was dead. Deeply shocked and depressed, Sergeant Oga went back to the battered unmarked police car and tried the radio. To his surprise, it was still working.
He began to make his initial report. When he finished, he found Tanabu-san examining the wreckage. He was not particularly surprised. Koancho made their own rules, and Chifune Tanabu certainly had her own agenda; and a special, though discreetly displayed, interest, he had noticed, in the gaijin.
"Sergeant-san," said Chifune, "did you see what happened?"
Oga noticed that she looked more puzzled than saddened, and he was surprised. Granted, Koancho agents were a hardened lot, but he had expected a more human reaction in this particular case. He explained briefly.
Tanabu-san stood in thought for about half a minute when he had finished. Then she turned to him. "Sergeant Oga-san, I think we can help each other. Come with me."
19
Tokyo, Japan
June 28
There was the sound of a slap, then another.
A pause followed, and then another blow, and Fitzduane felt pain and realized that he might be directly involved with what was happening. He was not sure, though. His head was muzzy and his eyes were closed, and for a short while he thought he was back in the hospital in Ireland, recovering from an anesthetic after a surgical procedure. This business of being shot was a great deal of work. He wanted to go back to sleep.
There was yet another blow, this time even harder. "Kathleen," he murmured in protest. Why were they hitting him?
He could hear people speaking but could not understand what they were saying. That was odd. He felt suddenly cold and wet and started to splutter. There was water everywhere, cascading into his mouth and nose, and it kept on coming. It was like being under a waterfall and he was drowning. He could not breathe.
The waterfall stopped. He opened his eyes. They would not focus properly, but something wooden seemed to be suspended over him. He could see the lines where the boards joined, and he was reminded of a barrel — a rather small barrel. What was a barrel doing up there?
The image above him came reluctantly into focus. The next hard task was to link the sight with his brain. Suddenly, like a car that will not start that is being pushed and is gathering momentum, he felt a sputtering ignition. His brain cells started to do what they were designed to do, and almost immediately he wished they had not. They were coming up with the most unpleasant findings.
He was not in Ireland with a solicitous nurse bending over him. He was in Japan, and the person ministering to him, judging by the full-body tattoo that protruded from his kimono at his chest and arms, was a yakuza. And the barrel was not a barrel; it was a wooden bucket with a rope handle.
He was conscious and he could see, but he still felt sick and groggy. He gave himself a couple of minutes, and then when the yakuza's back was turned he tried to raise himself. As he did so, the yakuza turned and almost absentmindedly kicked Fitzduane in the stomach and sent him flat on his back again.
The bad news, thought Fitzduane, is that I now feel even shittier. The good news, to look on the bright side, is that I can now be reasonably sure the natives are not friendly. And knowledge supposedly is power.
It really did not seem worth the effort. He closed his eyes and concentrated on trying to restore some sort of equilibrium. Clearly he had been drugged in some way, but he had no idea how.
What had happened? Where was he? Who were his captors? It did not seem as if they were going to kill him immediately, else why had he been allowed to wake up — but what sort of plans had they for his longer-term well-being? On reflection, he was not at all sure he wanted to know. The yakuza were fond of edged weapons and making their victims disappear. Fitzduane contemplated without enthusiasm ending up as fish food in TokyoBay, or being sunk in the earthquake-proof foundations of one of the examples of Japan's building boom. Alternatively, if that was going to be his fate, he could do without advance warning. Anticipating a painful death was not the most pleasant way to pass the time.
He decided he had better find something more cheerful to think about. The subject of women came to mind, but that was not exactly pain-free. Instead, he thought of Ireland and his island and Boots's ridiculous antics and his laughter.
Fitzduane started to smile at the memories, and then a voice cut in. "Fitzduane-san, I am glad to see you are enjoying yourself. It is part of the samurai code, you must know, to make the best of adverse circumstances. In your case, your position somewhat exceeds adverse. Technically, you are dead. Dismembered. Blown to pieces. A tragic loss. It was a simple matter to arrange a double."
Kei Namaka! The confident booming voice was unmistakable. Fitzduane opened his eyes. Kei stood there in full traditional samurai regalia, down to the two swords tucked into his sash. He looked decidedly pleased with himself.
"And I'm in heaven, Namaka-san," said Fitzduane dryly. "I have to tell you it's a big disappointment."
Kei laughed and then translated what the gaijin had said. Other laughter could be heard. Fitzduane, bearing in mind what had happened the last time he had tried to rise, did not move or look around, but he estimated there were three or four others in the large room. He was lying on a hard wooden floor. Looking straight ahead past Kei, he could see antique weapons on the walls. That information, tied in with the Namaka chairman's costume, suggested he was in a dojo, the Japanese equivalent of a salle d'armes. Christian de Guevain had died in such a place, he remembered.