He felt the door frame of Room 6 and briefly considered blasting his way in and opening the windows to get some light. Instead, he decided the darkness could work to his advantage also.
Grady and two other Rangers watched the two terrorists through their night-vision equipment. All had activated their laser sights. The thin beams were invisible except to those wearing the appropriate goggles. As it was, the Rangers could see each of the two terrorists fixed with pinpoints of imminent death. No one fired.
Kilmara studied the situation. Both men had removed their masks to see better in the darkness, and he could now identify them. He wanted a prisoner who knew something. This was a contract job, so probably neither of them would know much, but it was worth a try.
"Filters on," said Kilmara. He flicked a switch again and an immensely powerful light blazed from the end of the corridor, then went out again immediately.
McGongal and Daid blinked in the light and mentally marked its source. They would shoot it out when it came on again.
Suddenly it flashed on and off again at bewildering speed, like some disco strobe light gone berserk.
Both terrorists fired, but the strobe effect was disorienting. They concentrated and fired short aimed bursts straight at the light. They could hear rounds whining and ricocheting, and it occurred to McGonigal that the light must be covered with bulletproof glass or transparent ballistic plastic. He began to feel sick and disoriented; then he started to shake. His weapon slid from his hands and he collapsed to the floor in what looked like a seizure.
He was the victim of a device which had initially been developed for crowd control and which exploited the discovery that certain people were disoriented by strobe lights. The developers had increased the intensity and flashing frequency of the beam and the results had exceeded their expectations. Prolonged exposure, even for a few minutes, could turn the recipient into a permanent epileptic. The technology was cheap and effective and belonged in a category known as ‘non-lethal weapons.’ Having seen the results of some of these toys – sonic beams designed to deafen, laser beams designed to blind – Kilmara found the category something of a misnomer. Still, he had to admit the Megabeam was a more compassionate alternative to being shot very permanently dead.
Unfortunately, shielded behind McGonigal, Jim Daid was not equally affected. Disoriented though he was, he still managed a desperate rush at the door of Fitzduane's room, his automatic rifle blazing.
Bullets splintered the door already blasted half open by the grenade. Sick and nauseated, Daid stumbled in, firing.
His last glimpse of life was of a near-solid line of light emanating from the far side of the room and terminating in his upper body. Flesh was ripped, bones were smashed, blood spewed from a dozen holes. Lifeless, he was thrown backwards into the corridor beside the gibbering McGonigal.
An electric motor whirred and the partition rose. The Rangers moved forward. The entire action, from the time the terrorists had started climbing the fire escape to enter the hospital, had taken two minutes and twenty-three seconds.
Fitzduane had slept through everything until the grenades had gone off. Then he had woken and reached for the Calico automatic rifle. The weapon was exceptionally easy to operate. The safety catch could be operated by either hand, and by touch alone. The cartridges ejected downward into a nylon bag as he fired. The weapon was environmentally friendly – no litter. The balance was perfect. It was loaded with red tracer. He just had to point and hose.
That is exactly what he did.
"Shit! Shit! Shit!" said Kilmara, turning the room lights back on. "May the Lord fuck you from a height, Hugo! Why did you have to shoot him? Why couldn't you just wound the fucker? We need someone to question. We need to know who is doing this. We need a prisoner. We need some answers."
Fitzduane was sitting up in his bed, smoke trickling from his automatic weapon. He looked as dangerous as anyone in pajamas can.
"A modest priority," he snarled, "I need to stay alive. Besides," he added, "I've been wounded – and believe me, it isn't fun."
Sasada heard muffled explosions and his heart leaped. It's done, he thought, it's done.
He looked at his watch, imaging bursts of automatic-rifle fire as McGonigal and his people tidied up behind them and ran down the stairs. He started the engine of the Cavalier and kept his eye on the corner. Any moment now, they would appear around it.
Seconds passed, and then suddenly a figure clad in a blue boilersuit appeared and ran toward him. He flung open the door on the passenger side. The figure still wore his Halloween mask.
The fangs of a vampire told Sasada it was McGonigal. The figure beckoned to the others behind him, though Sasada could not see them. He felt relieved. He had thought for a moment that something had gone wrong and only McGonigal had made it out.
The vampire haled at the open door and pointed his AK-47 at Sasada. The Japanese stared at him.
"New rules," said Grady. "I don't get in; you get out."
Sasada reached for the door handle and suddenly flung himself out of the car. To his surprise, Grady did not fire. Sasada, now crouched behind the front of the car, drew his automatic.
"Oh dear, oh dear," said Grady patiently. "I guess I'd better count up to ten."
Sasada suddenly stood up to fire at the spot from which the voice had come, and felt the gun plucked from his hand from behind. Seconds later, he was spread-eagled over the car's hood and being handcuffed behind his back. The handcuffs were secured to an unbreakable belt made out of the same material as body armor. Looser restraints were placed around his ankles so that he could hobble but not walk and he was hauled to his feet.
He was surrounded by men in black combat uniforms wearing body armor with built-in pouches, microphone-equipped helmets, and carrying a range of futuristic-looking weaponry, none of which he was familiar with.
A distinguished looking bearded man in the same black combat clothing and helmet walked over to him. He had an automatic weapon slung over one shoulder and a holstered handgun at his waist. He wore no badges of rank, but it was clear he did not need to.
He said nothing until two of the black-clad men completed an extremely thorough body search. Then he spoke.
"You and I are going to get to know each other very well," he said. "Normally the police and prison service handle people like you, but in this case, you will be our guest." The voice was gentle, almost friendly. "And you will talk."
Sasada felt weak and very much afraid. As he was being handcuffed, he had clung to the belief that he would be handed over to the police and the civil authorities. In such custody, he would say nothing, reveal nothing, as his oath dictated. Now the certainty in this man's voice cut through his resolution.
The man-in-black's eyes were merciless, though his voice remained relaxed. "Under the Irish legal system, you have the right to remain silent, and I'm sure your little group demands no less." He paused. Sasada felt as if his mind was being read. "But," the man continued, "you are an exceptional case and you are playing in a very special game."
Sasada wanted to defy this man in some way, but his mouth was too dry to spit and he did not want to give him the satisfaction of hearing him speak.
"And you know what my friends in the U.K. – you've heard of the SAS, I'm sure – say about our rather particular activities?"
Sasada could feel the sweat break out on his forehead, and he felt a quick pain in his upper arm. He turned his head sharply and saw a hypodermic syringe being emptied into him. He tried to struggle, but he was thoroughly immobilized by the Rangers on either side of him. He could no longer focus, and he could feel his limbs getting weaker.
His mind seemed to float away from his body. He could understand what was being said, but he could not reply. He was in despair and he knew, without being told, that his mission had failed. He also knew that this terrible man was right. He would talk. These people would do what was necessary to break him and there was nothing he could do to resist.
"Big boys' games, big boys' rules," said the voice relentlessly.
Sasada's eyeballs rolled upward in their sockets, and he stiffened in a last attempt to fight the drug, then collapsed.
Kilmara felt nauseated at what he was about to do to this man and the other he had captured, but events had gone far enough to demand special measures, and Molloys' death had tipped the balance.
These men would talk and their individual determination to resist would have no effect on the outcome, though their brains could well be permanently damaged. It was an unpleasant business, tinkering with somebody's mind, but the alternatives were worse.
Ranger Molloy's body was removed from the hospital in a body bag, and Kilmara accompanied it as it was carried to the mortuary at the rear of the hospital. He was married with three children, Kilmara recalled. The youngest had been born a few months ago, and Kilmara had attended the christening.
Big boys' games, big boys' rules.
I have no answers, he thought to himself, but a great deal to do.
Tokyo, Japan
February 1
The helicopter beat its way across the skies of central Tokyo, heading south.
Night had fallen, and the gray concrete drabness of much of the architecture was no longer evident. Instead, the city was a blaze of light, glowing with vitality. To the right, the recently erected skyscrapers of Nishi Shinjuku soared into the clouds.
Getting permission to fly across the metropolitan area was a rare privilege, but Hodama- sensei had made the necessary arrangements some five years previously, when private helicopters for Japan's business elite had started coming into vogue, and now the chairman of Namaka Industries could make the trip from the Namaka Tower at Sunshine City to Namaka Steel in forty minutes, instead of the normal two to three hours, and include a detour over the sea – a relaxing contrast to the urban sprawl.
There was no getting around it. Tokyo traffic was a bitch, and to use the faster subway-and-suburban-train combination was unacceptable from both a security and prestige point of view. A helicopter was the only way to go. It was also a measure of the scale of the Namaka brothers' achievement. As he looked down, Kei could still remember the desperation of the postwar years, the hunger, the fear, and above all the humiliation, of having and being nothing.
They crossed the docks, still a mass of activity, then went over the dark polluted waters of Tokyo bay, the traditional resting ground of yakuza victims and still popular, though now rivaled by more scientific disposal methods. The memory of so many faces frozen in fear flashed through Kei's mind as he looked down. The climb had been hard and bloody. Staying at the top was no easier. Standards had to be kept high. Examples had to be made.
The lights of Kawasaki showed up ahead, and soon the cooling towers and industrial labyrinth that was the might of Namaka Steel. The plant was vast and operated around the clock. All kinds of steel were produced there. Pride of place was given to the well-guarded inner compound which housed the long, beige, ultramodern building of Namaka Special Steels. Special Steels forged the high-specification alloys required for the aerospace industry and it also made a range of items for the Japanese Self-Defense Forces. Accordingly, the facility was classified top secret and its security guards were legally authorized to be armed. Only the most carefully selected Namaka employees worked within it.
It was an ideal location for Kei Namaka's purposes. He found the naked power of so many of the production processes an inspiration, and certain of the facilities a convenience. His favorite items of equipment were the giant forging press – which could mold white-hot forty-ton ingots as if they were plasticine – and the tempering ovens. The ovens, some bigger than a railway carriage, were used to change the molecular structure of steel by the application of heat, and could reach 1,400 degrees centigrade. When open, radiating the incredible destructive power of pure heat, they looked like the gates of Hell.
Kei Namaka had had a private dojo, a training room for martial arts, constructed high up in the Special Steels facility. One wall was of shoji screens. When they were pulled back, it was possible to see through one-way glass the giant forging press and the ovens below. A bank of television monitors and one giant screen offered close-up observation of the factory floor and the various manufacturing processes.
Kei's interest in the martial arts stemmed for the fundamental need to survive in the confused and desperate environment that was the Tokyo underworld of the 1940s and ‘50s. Most of his opponents had been unskilled thugs whom he had easily been able to overcome, given his natural speed, height, and strength; but an encounter with a seasoned yakuza of the old school, who had actually taken the time to master his weapons taught him the lesson that youth and brute force alone were not enough.
The grizzled gangster had disarmed Kei and was just about to kill him, when Fumio shot the man in the thigh. Guns were rare then and seldom used, but Fumio always used one in those days to compensate for his physical weakness. He was a terrible shot.
Kei had completed the termination of the yakuza with a thrust to the stomach, and he swore, as he watched the man writhe, that he would never again be outclassed. After a suitable interval, he had then decapitated his victim and gone to find the best sensei he could. The cleaning-up had been left to Fumio, who was good at that sort of thing and rarely failed to turn adversity into a benefit. The yakuza 's body was encased in concrete and dumped in TokyoBay. His head was embalmed in sake and sent back to his boss in a lacquer box.
Those were the days, thought Kei, good days in their way. That lacquer-box business was typical of how the brothers had prospered in the earlier years. His strong right arm and Fumio's brain had been a complementary combination, and then Hodama- sensei had taken them under his wing and their rise had accelerated, but their world had also become more complex.
Fumio was in his element. Kei was confused by the endless complexities. He let the kuromaku and his brother get on with it and devoted as much of his time as he could to bujutsu, the martial arts, and above all to iai-do, the art of swordsmanship. For much of the time, Kei Namaka wore a business suit and availed himself of all modern conveniences as required, but in his heart and dreams he was a samurai, a warrior and soldier like his father and his ancestors before him.
The helicopter set down on the landing pad on the roof of the Namaka Special Steels building and Kei jumped out into the brightly lit area. Armed company guards saluted, their uniforms whipping in the downdraft of the rotors as he strode impatiently toward the private elevator that linked with his office and the dojo below.
Kei took a quick shower and changed into kendo costume. Kendo was a poor imitation of sword fighting, in Kei's opinion, but it was an excellent sport in its own right, and vigorous exercise, and his security chief, Kitano- sensei, was an effective teacher and opponent.
They fought wearing full kendo armor; the keikogi, the loose-fitting quilted cotton jacket that both protected against bruising blows and also absorbed perspiration; the hakamu, the divided skirt made of cotton; tare, the multilayered stiff cotton waist and hip protector; the do, the chest armor made of strips of heavy bamboo lashed in place vertically and covered with heavy hide and lacquered leather; the hachimaki, the towel-like cotton cloth wrapped around the head to keep sweat from the eyes and also act as a cushioning for the helmet; the men, the helmetlike combination face mask and head protector made of steel bars and heavy, layered cotton; and finally the kote, long leather padded gloves which also protected the lower arms. Their feet were bare.
They fought for over ninety minutes.
The dojo echoed to the sound of rapidly moving bare feet on the polished hardwood floor, the creak of armor, the controlled rasping of breath, and the clashing of shinai, the split bamboo fencing foils.
Halfway through the practice session, four men came into the room. Two were Namaka employees and reported directly to Kitano. The two visitors they were escorting were interi yakuza, the new so-called intellectual gangsters who specialized in financial racketeering. Their specialty was property fraud and their area was Hawaii. Recently, with the decline in value of the dollar, returns from that area had been disappointing.
Iced tea was served, and the visitors, wearing the slippers provided, watched the training session with interest, shouting applause and clapping as points were scored. The two Namaka men stood in the background, their hands folded in front of them.
The senior of the visitors thought that Kei Namaka looked quite magnificent. His kendo armor was crimson and his do was embossed in gold with the Namaka crest. He looked every inch the traditional samurai he aspired to be. In contrast, Kitano, in dull-black armor, seemed insignificant, despite his unquestioned technical proficiency.
The practice session ended with a spectacular blow to the throat by Kei and a laugh from Kitano. "Namaka- san, you will soon be sensei," he said.
Kei bowed toward the master. "The skill of the pupil is but a tribute to the quality of the teaching."
Kei and Kitano greeted their visitors, then went to bathe and change. Meanwhile, the screens were pulled back and the two yakuza were entertained by watching the activity on the floor below. Both men were a little awed and impressed by what they saw. Iron and steel they associated with solidity and strength. Here it was being shaped and formed as if the effort were nothing. It was a stunning impression of power. There was a dynamism about such heavy industrial processes that made them compelling to watch.
Kei and Kitano returned after twenty minutes. Both were wearing the customary house clothes of a samurai and each had the traditional two swords that went with the rank, placed as normal in the sash of his kimono. The right of wearing two swords had been abolished by imperial decree over two hundred years earlier, but in their private homes some traditionalists continued the custom.
The two men and their visitors sat down cross-legged on tatami mats facing across a low table. Sake and sushi were brought. Kei and Kitano made a point of filling their guests' cups. The atmosphere was one of relaxation. Nonetheless, there were a few matters of business to be discussed before they could devote themselves completely to enjoying themselves. The senior gangster was relieved. His conscience was not entirely clear. On the other hand, he had rarely seen the chairman in better spirits.
"I confess I am a little puzzled," Kei said to him with a smile. "We have invested several billion yen in those beautiful islands and the return has not quite been what we expected. Perhaps you could explain. I am not a financial expert like my brother, but I suppose I should try and understand. Frankly, I find most of these schemes above me. I prefer the simplicity of the dojo."
He laughed and his two visitors laughed with him. The senior gangster was grateful for the extra time to think, and he composed his answer with care. Kitano did not laugh, but smiled slightly. The man did not notice. His attention was focused on the chairman. Kei refilled all the glasses and smiled encouragingly.
"The dollar has sunk dramatically and unexpectedly," said the man. "That means that when we make our returns to Japan in yen – as we have been requested to do – our returns appear to have shrunk. Actually, in dollar terms, it is as planned. It is merely when denominated in yen that it appears to be below our target."
The chairman nodded and was silent, as if pondering this. Then he spoke again. "But surely, since we are continuing to invest in yen with fresh funds, the stronger yen should be buying us more. We should be getting more assets for our money."
The man nodded in agreement. "That is so," he said, "or would be so if no other money were coming in from Japan. Unfortunately, many other organizations have the same idea as we do, and they are bidding up the price of property in Hawaii. Accordingly, our investments are costing us more than we originally planned."
He was sweating a little. The dojo was air-conditioned, but the heat from the steel works below seemed to make itself felt. Or perhaps it was his imagination. The man tried to keep his mind clear of the numbered bank account in the Cayman Islands. The transactions had all been in cash. There was no paper trail. It had been very discreet skimming.
The chairman spoke again. "Kitano- san," he said, gesturing with his left hand at the security chief, who sat beside him, "has interviewed some six of the vendors of property that we purchased. They all confirmed that what you say is true. Demand had bid up supply."
The gangster's heart had been pounding, but at Kei's reassuring words he felt a flood of relief. Then Kitano spoke. "The chairman is talking about the initial interviews," he said, with a thin smile, "but it is in the nature of my responsibility to be thorough. Further interviews – conducted with some vigor by my staff – revealed an interesting reason for the high prices."
He removed a folded sheet of paper from his sleeve, unfolded it, and placed it carefully in front of the man. The paper listed the Cayman Islands account number and each of the hidden payments. The amounts were accurate to the nearest yen. The gangster had insisted on payment in yen. He had little faith in the long-term strength of the dollar. How could you have faith in a country that would sell anything and everything for a profit? The Americans had already sold half of Hawaii and a goodly portion of California. The Statue of Liberty would be next. They were unprincipled.
His focus had been on the paper. It was, he knew, his death warrant, unless he could act quickly. Dread filled his heart. He glanced at his companion. The other yakuza was shaking with fear. There would not be much help from there. He looked across at the chairman. Namaka- san seemed almost to be in a trance. There might just be a chance to grab one of the swords from his waist and make a run for it.
There was a blur of movement, and the gangster felt a terrible agony and a sudden overwhelming weakness. In front of him, the chairman still sat, but now he held a bloody sword in his left hand. But Namaka- san was right-handed! He had been carefully watching for any sudden move, but the chairman had deceived him. He had executed a perfect left-handed draw and horizontal slashing cut from the sitting position, which had sliced open the lower torsos of the two men. The man looked down at his stomach, which now gaped open. He could see the edges of his izumi, the dragon tattoo covering much of his body which had been the symbol of acceptance into his group. It was now cut in two, the careful workmanship desecrated. Beside him, his companion had slumped forward.
Waves of pain engulfed him, but still, although swaying slightly, he sat upright, blood draining from his body as he waited for the killing blow. His chin was held high. He expected the customary decapitation. "Namaka- san," he said, pleading. He could just manage the words. Blood flowed from his mouth.
Namaka did not move. His katana was at rest. The blow did not come. "You have stolen from the clan," he said. "I take no pleasure in your death, nor in the manner of it, but examples must be made. You will die in the ovens."
It was at that moment that the man's composure broke. He tried to scream, but blood filled his throat. He attempted to struggle as he was strapped to a wooden stretcher and carried down to the production floor.
The end of the two interi yakuza was watched in close-up on the big television monitor by the chairman and his security chief. The heat of the oven was so great that in minutes nothing remained.
Kei's greatest sword-fighting expertise was in iai-do – the art of drawing a sword. The blow he had executed in one continuous movement following his blade clearing the scabbard was a classic cut. Kitano had rarely seen it executed better.
Kei had completed chiburi – shaking the blood off the blade by making an arclike movement over his head and then snapping the blade down by his side – and now commenced polishing the surface with a soft cloth and powdered limestone. He worked with care, both for his own well-being – the weapon was razor-sharp and lethal if mishandled – and for that of the sword.
Too much polishing could damage the surface. Forty-five strokes had been determined over the centuries as the recommended optimum.
He erred on the conservative side and gave the blade forty-two. Finally, he rubbed the gleaming surface with a very light coating of clove oil and replaced it in its sheath.