Six Four (44 page)

Mikami watched Ikoma from the side.

His eyes hadn’t wavered when he’d said it wasn’t a problem, but Mikami couldn’t know whether the man’s faith was as
unyielding on the inside. He’d only been transferred from Security Second Division in the spring, so there was the possibility he didn’t know. Either that, or he was simply avoiding mention of the rumours so he could argue impunity later on.

Akama glanced around the people gathered there.

‘All right, then. The
Toyo
is hoping to build up the theme of negligence and repeated misconduct, to make more of this than there is. I can’t imagine much worse than them running that as a headline in the papers tomorrow morning.’

Mikami felt a sudden chill. An even worse possibility had just occurred to him. What if the
Toyo
knew for a fact that the guard had dozed off?

‘We will issue a statement committing ourselves to a severe tightening-up of discipline in the captain’s name,’ Akama announced. ‘The statement will be enough for the papers; it will make the headlines and prevent the
Toyo
from achieving its aim. Always assuming there are no other problems regarding the suicide, we still have to address the misconduct at Station F. I will inform the press that we are taking disciplinary action, and that the officer in question has been dismissed. Ishii, I assume this has already been done?’

‘Yes, earlier this morning.’

‘Good. I will then make a formal apology to the citizens of the prefecture. After this I will move on to my second statement – announcing that the captain has sent notices to all stations in the prefecture that they are to work to the standards laid out in the regulations governing the facilities. After this, I will move to questions. The
Toyo
will no doubt ask about Station T. I will emphasize that the suicide did not result from negligence and dispel any ideas of repeated misconduct.’

Wasn’t that just playing into the
Toyo
’s – no, Criminal Investigations’ – hands? They’d loaded their third arrow. They would wait for Akama to refute the claims of negligence, then shoot for his heart. They would bring up the talk of the guard having
fallen asleep and request another investigation. Akama would hesitate. His panic would be broadcast all over the evening news. It would reach even the commissioner’s circles.

Or maybe
. . .

A different scenario came to mind.

They wouldn’t say anything.
As with the cover-up during Six Four, the negligence would never come to light and, because of that, it would become an indispensable tool. Criminal Investigations had no reason to make open threats, even less to bring the public into the fray. What they wanted was a table in the shadows at which to hold their negotiations – and a sharp blade, to press up against the throat of the administrative faction. That was it. They would force Akama into committing himself during the conference. Then they would move in and attack from behind the curtains. Once he’d gone on public record about the lack of any negligence, they would whisper into his ear that, in fact, the guard had fallen asleep. That they could leak that factual tidbit to the press whenever they wanted.

The third arrow was doused in flame.

Would they really release it? Maybe it would end up as a game of chicken. Criminal Investigations was afraid of Administrative Affairs’ own arrows – also doused in flame. They were already suspicious that Kazuki Koda was in their hands.

Go and see the director.

You’ll find out when you get there.

Urushibara’s words replayed themselves in his ear. How much of the truth would Arakida give him?

‘We’ve got fifteen minutes,’ Ishii said. Even now, he wanted to make something of the fact that he paid attention to detail.

Akama dismissed everyone, but ordered Mikami to stay. It hadn’t come as a surprise.

‘Well? Come on, then.’

No sooner had the door closed than Akama waved him closer. Mikami shifted to where Shirota had been sitting, so that he
faced Akama directly. Immediately he saw the director’s blue veins and bloodshot eyes.

‘Did you find out who the source of the article was?’

Mikami nodded, feeling no resistance to telling him. All he needed to do was confirm Akama’s suspicions.

‘The leak came from Director Arakida. I believe he gave the story to Akikawa directly.’

‘That bastard!
I knew it
.’

Mikami felt himself tense. Akama resembled a wild animal, the way he’d bared his gums. After a while he spoke again, his voice back to normal as it filled the room.

‘I assume I have Arakida to thank for Nonomura’s speech, too?’

‘Most likely, yes.’

‘Just who the hell do they think they are? Do they have no shame?’

Akama’s voice became a bark for the second time. He fell silent, then brought his foot up and kicked the desk. His anger seemed to come in waves, swelling, then pulling away again. He drew himself into a stooped position. Stared at a single point on the floor. His hand tensed into a fist, slowly unfolded again. He was trying to keep his anger in check.

‘I have lots of things I need to do, you know, when I go back to Tokyo. I didn’t want to waste a single calorie of my energy, not in a backwater station like this. I have things to do for the sake of the nation. Otherwise, what’s the point in all this? Why doesn’t anyone understand?’

His anger peaked again. His face flashed bright red.

‘This is a fucking joke. They think they have me cornered, but this apology is a waste of time. Doesn’t mean a bloody thing.’

It didn’t seem that way to Mikami. This was the worst-possible scenario for Akama. Tokyo’s intention had been to conceal the true purpose behind the commissioner’s visit until the day itself, then launch a lightning strike on the Prefectural HQ to relay the ‘word from above’. That was why Akama had restricted access to
the information. Instead of bringing Shirota or Futawatari into the fold, he had manipulated Mikami, savouring his success at having brought him into line. But the information had somehow got out. The first slip-up had been to let Criminal Investigations discover the NPA’s plan. The second had been to let the backlash escalate into an actual counter-attack. Akama had been forced into this predicament. A threatening article had been printed in the lead-up to the commissioner’s visit, incurring Tokyo’s wrath; Akama had failed in his attempt to fix the situation and now had to offer a public apology. His ability to function as one of the Tokyo elite would be cast into doubt. And his drop in estimation wouldn’t end there. The trap set by Criminal Investigations, waiting for him in the Press Room, would see to that.

Should I warn him?

Mikami had been pondering the question ever since the door had closed. It was only speculation. Yet the story of Criminal Investigations’ plot came together neatly in his mind, too plausible simply to dismiss. Was he going to do nothing, let his superior officer attend a press conference he was sure was a trap?

Akama’s phone started to ring on his desk. It was Ishii.

‘Fine,’ Akama said. He put the phone down and got to his feet. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

Still uncertain, Mikami got to his feet. He followed Akama out of the room and down the corridor. He had no reason to feel loyal to the man in front of him. Yet he felt the betrayal nonetheless. The dishonesty seemed to constrict his chest.

He found himself unable to side with Criminal Investigations. He couldn’t think of a single reason to protect them. Was it because of the way they’d treated him as an exile? Was it because he’d caught a glimpse of the dark history behind Six Four? No. It was because he didn’t yet know what Tokyo was trying to do. He could tell himself he was still a detective at heart, but, as long as he was unable to imagine the danger Criminal Investigations faced, it was impossible to see things from their perspective.

And he had his own perspective. He had the feeling that he was also a victim, of Criminal Investigations having interfered with his current job, of them having violated his territory. Their trap had been laid right at the feet of Media Relations. Arakida was trying to use the press as a weapon and had set the stage for his war right in Mikami’s office.

Even so . . .

Mikami didn’t feel angry. And that was why, he realized, the skin concealing his true feelings – his guilt because he hadn’t warned Akama about the trap; his hostility for Criminal Investigations – had peeled cleanly away. Both were nothing more than footnotes. By the time they reached the stairs, Mikami had become slave to a single idea. Akama’s wiry frame stood there before him.

If he were to warn him about the trap . . .

If he were to hold out his hand, rescue this weakened, panic-stricken tourist . . .

Akama would change the way he looked at him.

Someone I can trust.

If that happened, Mikami would never have to worry about being transferred away.

Sir . . .

Mikami was on the verge of speaking up when Akama turned suddenly around. ‘You should use this as a chance to make your apology, too.’

He’d said it almost without thinking.

All the tension seemed to dissipate in an instant.

Apology? About what . . . who to?

‘To the Press Club. You need to fix the clash you had over anonymous reporting. Get on your hands and knees if you have to – just make sure the press withdraw their intention of boycotting the interview.’

Mikami couldn’t think of anything to say. He wouldn’t show himself as weak before the press. Akama had just crossed the line Mikami had drawn for himself.

‘If that’s not enough, assure them that all future announcements will include the full identity of everyone involved. We only need the commissioner’s visit to be a success. Once it’s over, you can rescind your statement, cause all the trouble you want.’

He had to have misheard.

An empty promise . . .
but this was something completely different to Shirota’s suggestion of fleshing out their services. Akama was telling him to lie, and about anonymous reporting, the most incendiary issue his office faced.

‘You should see yourself.’ Akama smiled, without looking amused. ‘We’ll have to put up with it for three days. But there’s nothing to worry about. Criminal Investigations can wriggle all it wants. Come Thursday, it’ll be gone.’

The press conference had been continuing without issue.

‘. . . in light of the aforementioned circumstances, I am able to report that a disciplinary committee was convened in the Prefectural HQ earlier today at which it was decided, after a thorough discussion, that the actions of Sergeant Yoshitake Kuriyama, aged fifty, were in clear violation of the propriety and behaviour that is expected of an officer of the law. As such, Sergeant Kuriyama has been placed under emergency arrest and has today been dismissed from the force . . .’

Twenty-three reporters. Five TV cameras.

Akama was sitting at the centre of the table put out for the conference, talking in a monotone. Not having had the time to put together a full statement, all he had to hand were a few quickly drafted notes. Shirota was at his side, every now and then passing along a sheet with more scribbled notes.

Mikami was watching the reporters from the corner of the room. Apart from the two representing the
Toyo
, they all seemed to be in varying states of despondency. No one had shown displeasure when Mikami had walked into the room. The atmosphere had clearly changed from the previous week. Perhaps it
was
possible to turn the boycott around, if, as Suwa had suggested, they were able to capitalize on the other reporters’ resentment for the
Toyo
. And Mikami had been freed from his responsibilities. The format of the apology had been left to Shirota’s discretion. Mikami didn’t doubt that the lie of full disclosure
would prevent the boycott from taking place, but he also suspected that the same might be achieved without breaking any promises – if he directed his apology at the melee surrounding the written protest.

But his mind wasn’t focused on such preparations. Those kind of thoughts raced along on the surface of his consciousness but failed to breach the deeper layers of emotion.

Come Thursday, it’ll be gone . . .

Alarms were flashing red, deep in his mind. In the end, he’d let Akama take his seat without even hinting at the trap.
Gone.
The impact of that one word had been too much.

Was Mikami reading too much into it? Akama hadn’t been in a normal state when he’d made the utterance. His pride had been injured, his standing in Tokyo placed under threat. It might have been a vengeful remark, an exaggeration of the trouble Criminal Investigations would no doubt have to face. It might have been nothing more than a battle cry. And yet the alarms continued to flash, growing brighter still. What could ‘gone’ mean, supposing it hadn’t been an exaggeration? It went beyond concepts like shock, loss and damage. What it seemed to suggest was an ‘end’, an ‘extinction’.

‘. . . we are treating this case with the utmost severity. To make sure nothing like this ever happens again, Captain Tsujiuchi has called on all nineteen district stations to reinforce their controls concerning the management of the detention facilities.’

Akama gave Shirota a signal. They both stood; it was part of the ritual. The cameras flashed in waves.

‘We offer our most sincere apologies to the citizens of our prefecture and to the nation, to the victim of this heinous crime, and to everyone else affected. I believe I speak for everyone in the Prefectural Headquarters when I say that we intend to do all we can to recover the goodwill and trust lost due to our shortcomings in this case.’

The two men came forward in a bow.

Shutters clicked as countless flashes went off, bathing the front of the room with an otherworldly brightness. Akama raised his head after a few seconds, followed soon after by Shirota. They retook their seats.

‘We will take questions now.’