Six Four (50 page)

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘I’m not sure what you’re trying to suggest,’ Suwa said, his head swinging forwards in defiance. ‘I’ve been working with the Press Club for six years. I know how scary things can get when we lose the ability to keep them under control.’

‘Scary? Come on. Have you ever suffered any real damage? You say things get scary. Are you sure you’re not simply afraid of what might happen to the force?’

Suwa replied with a sharp nod. ‘That should be obvious. I am a member of the Prefectural HQ. It’s my job to be scared for the organization as a whole, and it’s my duty to act in line with whatever policies have been decided.’

‘This isn’t our policy. This is Tokyo scheming.’

‘I realize that much. All the more reason we can’t go against it. We’re individuals, sure, but we’re also a part of something else.’

Mikami sucked in a long breath. Suwa had helped him clarify exactly what he needed to say. ‘Managers move on, but our duty to the force is unchanging. We should be deciding in Media Relations on how to manage the press. The four of us should make our own decisions.’

Suwa shook his head. ‘No – the entire organization is underpinned by the executive. If we ignore their instructions, what right do we have to call ourselves Media Relations?’

‘Individuals make up an organization. I don’t see any problem with an organization reflecting the will of the individuals inside it.’

‘It sounds like desperation, sir.’ Suwa’s tone hardened. He shot a contemptuous look at the bandaging on Mikami’s hand. ‘You need to think of your position. The moment you – as press director – announce our intention to go with full disclosure it becomes our official policy.’

‘Of course.’

‘Once we give them that right, it becomes next to impossible to take it away again. They would fight, much more than if they’d never had it to begin with.’

‘That’s why we won’t take it away. We’ll see it through.’

‘That’s fine for you. No doubt you’ll be happy to have established a policy. But what comes next? Come the spring, we’ll still be tied to what you said, left to suffer for it.’

‘I’m leaving in the spring, am I?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know. You know that’s what’s going to happen – that’s why you’re talking about full disclosure. You ignored direct orders, you bulldozed your way into the captain’s office and you lost it in front of the entire Secretariat. You’ll be transferred come spring. That’s why . . .’

Kuramae was frozen to the spot. Mikumo’s ears had gone bright red. She looked like she was the one under attack.

‘I’m just asking if we can’t be a little more realistic?’ Suwa switched to a more conciliatory tone. ‘We can think of some other way to prevent the boycott, one that doesn’t involve lying to anyone. The first thing is to apologize. Apologize, whatever might happen. If they’re unwilling to listen, we can push our way in and do it anyway. We can get down on our hands and knees. I’ll help. Kuramae and Mikumo will, too. We can stay vague about our stance on anonymity, but we’ll show we’re willing to try a compromise. “We’ll do all we can to include full details in our reports. We assure you we’ll do everything in our power to accommodate the opinions of the Press Club.” You can give them something like that. They want to interview the commissioner. There’s a chance they’ll settle for something like that, even if they do realize it’s non-committal.’

‘Did you join the force to make recommendations like that?’

‘Sorry?’

‘What about the next time? Do you intend to do the same – put off making any actual decisions, right up until the day you retire?’

Suwa flashed his teeth. ‘Choosing to be vague is a fine decision in itself. I’m fully prepared to shoulder responsibility for any suggestion I make.’

‘You’re just putting the issue on hold.
That’s
what causes suffering later on.’

‘What I’m saying is that the decision to put things off can be the appropriate one in certain circumstances. Even without that, I can’t agree that offering full disclosure is the correct thing to do. What about the woman in this case? Wasn’t it you who decided it was the right decision for us to withhold her name from the press?’

‘That was my original stance. Then I learned that Hanako Kikunishi is the daughter of the chairman of King Cement.’

They all stared at him, speechless.

‘But, doesn’t that mean—’

‘Exactly. They knew she was the daughter of someone on the Public Safety Committee. That’s why they wanted to keep her name out of this.’

There was a long silence.

Suwa’s mouth twisted, as he processed the new information.

‘It’s possible that . . . that even in that case it was still the right decision. If the committee was damaged at all, that would reflect on us, too.’

‘You really mean that?’ Mikami stared at him.

Suwa pulled a crooked smile. ‘I guess you really are a detective.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You detectives couldn’t care less about the organization. We could lose face, be torn apart, but to the detectives it’s someone else’s business. They look down on all the other jobs. Laugh, sneer. In a way, they’re no different to the bureaucrats.’

‘You think I’m like that?’

‘You don’t agree? Look – you’re only here on a temporary basis. This is a stop-gap thing until you return to Criminal Investigations. You think it’s ridiculous; you’re doing it because you’ve got no other choice. But people forge careers here, too. A huge proportion of officers go about their jobs with no reference to case work. You wouldn’t feel a thing if you were driven out from Admin. You were on your way out in any case. And it’s that mindset that lets you think you can be reckless, just like the bureaucrats.’

Mikami had stopped feeling angry. Instead, he felt a heavy melancholy. Staff pinned labels on their superiors, too. And in Media Relations, the black mark against him – the ‘criminal record’ – was reversed: it was his having been a detective. This meant that Suwa hadn’t thought to re-evaluate his initial opinion of Mikami, not once in eight months.

Mikami drew a long breath.

‘There’s one last thing I want you to know. Tokyo is planning to take over the post of director in Criminal Investigations. The commissioner’s inspection is camouflage. His real purpose is to make that announcement.’

Suwa’s mouth fell open and he slowly tipped his head so he was looking at the ceiling.

‘I won’t be returning to Criminal Investigations. I went against an order to ensure the boycott went ahead.’

Someone knocked at the door. Nobody got up to answer it. Another knock. No one moved. There was a pause, followed by the sound of footsteps moving away.

‘I agree with Suwa’s recommendation,’ Mikumo said, suddenly volunteering her opinion. ‘I think it’s the right decision to keep our position vague for now.’

‘I do, too,’ Kuramae said after her. ‘I’m happy to get on my hands and knees. If we do that, whether the boycott goes ahead or not shouldn’t—’

There was still a way out. Mikami’s resolve was unshaken.

‘That’s all I want to hear about strategy. Sometimes, when all other avenues are exhausted, a new route makes itself known. We’re going to give up on strategy. We’re going to try having some faith in the outside world.’

Kuramae didn’t nod. Neither did Mikumo; he’d expected her to agree.

‘Don’t you see? The force can’t keep itself going properly, not alone. It’s rotting on the inside and no one can even see it. It doesn’t matter that the reporters can’t be trusted, that the world’s corrupted, it’s still better to connect than let ourselves remain isolated.’

Mikami felt a surge of pain in his hand. Without realizing, he’d tensed it into a fist. Mikumo’s hands were white over her knees. Both were trembling. Kuramae let out a long, insubstantial breath. He gave Suwa, sitting next to him, a helpless look.

Mikami relaxed his hand and flexed his fingers.

‘Suwa . . .’

He didn’t respond. Only his neck was visible. He’d curled forwards to stare at his feet. Mikami waited a few seconds. Suwa showed no signs of coming back up.

‘. . . I want you to pretend we never had this talk.’

Mikami stood.

‘You two as well. I’m going next door. All of you are to remain here, on standby, until I get back.’

‘You’re going to abandon Criminal Investigations?’

A whisper. Suwa’s eyes were angled up at Mikami.

‘Okay. You’ve shown us your resolve. But . . . are you sure about what you’re doing? You’re talking about your home ground. Are you really planning to stand by and let the bureaucrats get away with this?’

Mikami turned to the door.

‘This is my home ground now. And no, I don’t plan to let the bureaucrats
or
Criminal Investigations get away with a thing.’

Mikami had always wanted there to be more of a walk. Stepping out of Media Relations, you reached the Press Room before you’d had any time to think.

This time it didn’t matter.

He didn’t hesitate as he pushed the door open. The room was full of reporters. A few looked up but chose to ignore him. They were all huddled together in groups, according to their respective papers. Ushiyama, Kasai and Ami Kiso were there from the
Yomiuri
. Sudou and Kamata from the
Sankei
. Horoiwa and Hayashiba from
NHK
. Kakei and Madoka Takagi from the
Asahi
. Akikawa and Tejima were both there from the
Toyo
, the former whispering something to the latter. Utsuki from the
Mainichi
looked sulky, his feet flung over a desk; Kadoike from
Kyodo News
was lying down on one of the couches. The room was oddly quiet, especially considering that the majority of the other news agencies were in there, too. Even those that had made a story had missed two. It was hard to gauge their mood; with no outright victors, the Press Room’s usual rapacity was gone. No one tried to speak to Mikami, even though they’d all seen him come in. It was as though they were all saying they had no further need for Media Relations now the three conferences were over.

Mikami spoke up, unwavering.

‘I have an announcement to make. If you could make sure everyone is here.’

He had addressed the
Toyo
’s desk. Just as he finished, Ushiyama, who’d been sitting ahead of Mikami, got to his feet with a note in his hand. He sighed and gave Mikami a look that said
whatever you want
. He walked straight by and left the room. Sudou muttered a gruff ‘excuse me’ and started for the door after him. A number more filed by on either side, their faces impassive and mask-like. ‘Just give me a second . . .’ Mikami had started to speak when he heard a voice in the corridor behind him.

‘Ushi, Ushi. Come on, there’s no need to act like that. The press director told you he had an announcement, right?’

It was Suwa. Ushiyama was responding.

He’s only going to request we call off the boycott. I don’t have the time to do that again.

I know, I know.
Equable and calming.
No point jumping the gun, though, it won’t take a minute. You, too, Sudou. It’s a big thing for you guys.

A few moments later the two men trudged back into the room, Suwa patting them on the shoulders. The other reporters trailed back in behind them, despondent looks on their faces. Kuramae was next. Mikumo followed him. She closed the door behind her and stood with Suwa and Kuramae so they blocked the exit.

Mikami turned back to the reporters. His state of mind was already different to that of moments earlier. He could feel the support behind him.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

Tejima spoke first. Akikawa was still sitting next to him, glaring in Mikami’s direction. None of the other reporters tried to hide their aggravation.
Is this detention or what? What right do you have to keep us here?

‘If everyone’s here, I’ll proceed with the announcement.’

‘We don’t want an apology if that’s what this is. You can leave.’

Tejima was cold. He’d made the statement as though it was already consensus. Backing him up was the fact that no one had raised an objection. Yamashina was there at the far end of the
room, as was Yanase from the
Jiji Press
, but it was too much to expect them to say anything now.

‘I’m not here to offer an apology.’

‘Well, what
are
you here for?’

‘I’m here to announce a new policy on anonymous reporting.’

‘A new policy?’ Tejima shot Akikawa a sideways glance. He scanned the room before coming back to Mikami. ‘Okay, everyone’s here. Might as well let us have it.’

Mikami nodded. He felt a wave of tension from behind.

‘From now on, our policy will be based on the principle of full disclosure.’

Everyone froze around him. A moment later, the room burst into uproar. Akikawa spoke up to calm the noise.

‘What’s the condition?’

‘No condition.’

‘You want us to call off our boycott of the commissioner’s interview?’

‘No condition means no condition. We’re hoping you’ll consider doing that, of course, but I’m not going to make it a bargaining point.’

Again the room fell into a state of turmoil. Ushiyama’s voice carried over the others.

‘What brought this on?’

‘The decision was made after careful deliberation. We’re going to make a leap of faith, and trust in your discretion.’

‘This came from your boss?’

‘This came from me.’

‘Right, so it could be turned around? If your boss decides against it.’

‘No.’

There was a pause. Ami Kiso raised a hand, at Ushiyama’s side. ‘So you don’t object to us seeking confirmation from Director Akama?’

‘Not at all. He’s not in today, though.’

‘Mikami,’ Akikawa said, reclaiming the floor. ‘Why
the principle
of full disclosure?’

Mikami stared right back.

‘Because there will be cases in which I’m sure we’ll both agree that an anonymous report will be best.’

‘Why would we agree to something like that? I don’t see it. Tell me – what kind of cases?’