Rules of the Hunt (31 page)
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.
11
February 8
There was the sound of heavy breathing on the phone and then a giggle.
The custom was that Fitzduane would put the phone down last, and Boots
played this to the hilt at bedtime.
When
Boots was not sleeping over in the hospital, Fitzduane and he talked every
night before Boots was tucked in.
Boots
still had some way to go with his telephone technique, but he made up for it
with sheer zest.
His gaiety made Fitzduane's heart sing.
And there was the added reassurance of knowing his son was safe.
Oona was looking after him, Christian de
Guevain had flown over for a few weeks to lend a helping hand, and there was
now a regular Ranger presence on the island.
"’Night and big hug for the fifth time, you little monster,"
said Fitzduane, laughing.
"Now!
GO TO
BED!"
Boots burst
into fits of giggles and then Fitzduane could hear Oona in the background and
Boots's fading "’Night, ’night!
Daddeee..." as he was carried to his bed.
Whatever they were feeding him, Boots was in
demon form.
"Hugo?"
It was de Guevain's voice.
"Still
here," said Fitzduane.
"All is
well here,
mon ami
," said de
Guevain, amused.
"The only threat
here is from Boots."
Fitzduane
laughed.
"I can hear
that."
His tone became more
serious.
"Christian, your keeping
the home fires burning in much appreciated."
de
Guevain made a dismissive noise, and
Fitzduane smiled to himself.
His friend
had film-star good looks, a debonair manner, and a way with gestures and body
language that put most other Parisians of Fitzduane's acquaintance to
shame.
An ex-paratrooper and now a
Paris-based merchant banker, the Frenchman had originally met Fitzduane as a
result of a shared social interest in medieval weaponry and fencing.
The two were expert swordsmen.
It was a rather impractical skill in the late
twentieth century, but for both, something of a family tradition.
Their friendship had nearly come to an abrupt end during the Hangman's
attack on the castle.
It had been a grim
business which had affected all the survivors, but also created a special bond
between them.
When de Guevain had heard
from Kilmara about the attack on Fitzduane, he had come immediately.
He was confident that his bank, wife, and
mistress would prosper in his absence.
They were all mature elements in his well-ordered social structure.
He was equally confident, with good reason,
that they would welcome him back with open arms.
Christian de Guevain had that kind of
charisma.
"And how goes it for you, Hugo?" continued de Guevain.
"I'm on red."
The slight drop in voice quality and change
to a more impersonal, manufactured sound confirmed the switch to encryption.
"These people are not going to go away," said Fitzduane grimly,
"and I'm not going to sit around waiting for their next play."
"
said de Guevain.
"You've
decided."
"
confirmed Fitzduane.
"The
interrogation of Sasada has confirmed that the Namakas are directly
involved.
Sasada was briefed by the
Namaka security chief, who is a member of the Namaka inner sanctum, and the
word is that Kitano does nothing that does not come from the Namakas
themselves."
"Is there any chance of getting the Namakas through the
courts?" asked de Guevain, without any real hope of getting an affirmative
response.
"Using Sasada as a
witness?"
"Not a snowball's chance in hell," said Fitzduane.
"Kitano is the cutout, and there is the
slight problem that Sasada did not come out of interrogation too well
.
Kilmara broke him, but there was a price."
"
Merde
," said de
Guevain, but with understanding.
As a
young man, he had served his time as a parachute lieutenant in
were some situations where the
Few people
liked it, but in counterterrorism, it was sometimes a matter of weighing
unpalatable alternatives.
"Hugo," he went on, "if you go to
going to need friends.
A foreigner alone
won't get very far.
The Japanese..."
"...are very Japanese, and different from us Western types,"
completed Fitzduane dryly.
"Yeah,
I've heard that.
It's even rumored they
have their own language and eat with wooden skewers."
de
Guevain laughed.
"It is clear that you are recovering, Hugo.
But you know what I mean, and in
in high places are particularly important.
If you are going to go up against people as powerful as the Namakas, you
need — must have — a player of equal or greater influence.
Believe me, I know.
We bank there."
"Point accepted," said Fitzduane.
"Kilmara said much the same thing.
He can make connections on the security side
— the man has pipelines everywhere — but he says that's not enough.
I'm going to need some extra weight over
there."
He paused before
continuing.
"Someone we are certain
is not allied in any way to the Namakas."
de
Guevain could see the problem.
Its base was broad, but at the top of an
extremely hierarchical society a small number of people and organizations
constituted the main movers and shakers.
And many of
this ruling group were
cross-connected.
Some of the alliances
were known, but many were not.
be considered an open society.
"Yoshokawa," said de Guevain.
"He's the obvious choice."
"He's my only choice," said Fitzduane grimly.
"I have a few other connections in
are all expatriates.
Yoshokawa-
san
is my only option, but whether he is
connected to the Namakas or not, I don't know."
"I see the problem, Hugo," said de Guevain.
"I'm going back to
few feelers.
But my guess is that
Yoshokawa is your man.
He owes you.
You saved his son's life."
"Yoshokawa would not betray me," said Fitzduane, with some
force, "but there is the matter of conflicting loyalties.
If he's already in bed with the
Namakas ,
he's going to sit on the sidelines, which may be
all very honorable but will be no use to me."
de
Guevain laughed.
"I'll check out a few sets of
entrails," he said, "and talk to a few friends, but my guess is that
Yoshokawa is your man."
The conversation came to an end, and Fitzduane replaced the phone handset
and watched the red encryption light wink out.
He lay back against the pillows of his raised bed, closed his eyes, and
thought of his baby son and his home and the comfort of good friends like
Kilmara and de Guevain and the Bear.
Life, one way and another, was a hard and random business, but all in
all he considered he was a lucky man.
Being shot, of course, was not so lucky, but overall he liked to believe
things balanced out.
de
Guevain had called from the Great Hall of
Fitzduane's castle, and as he thought about his home and felt more than a few
pangs of homesickness mixed with impatience to get out of the damned hospital,
he recalled how he had met Yoshokawa-
san
.
The Japanese industrialist had made quite an entrance.
The core of Fitzduane's castle was a rectangular stone tower known as the
Keep, built by the first Sir Hugo Fitzduane in the thirteenth century.
Subsequently, among other improvements, the
Keep had been extended by building out to one side where the site overlooked
the sea.
Unfortunately, the entire extension, known as the Great House, had been
gutted by fire during the Hangman's siege.
At first Fitzduane had thought of restoring it very much as it had been
originally.
He had grown up in
Duncleeve, and its physical fabric and traditions were important to him.
He was attached to age-blackened wooden beams, oak paneling, tapestries,
family portraits, crossed weapons, and mounted animal trophies with glass eyes
and mange, but he was blessed with an open mind.
As his ideas developed, he decided to
preserve the traditional look of the exterior of the Great House so that it harmonized
with the Keep, the curtain wall and its outhouses, and the gatehouse, but
inside to make the rooms light and airy and uncluttered.
The general tendency of his social class to live in dusty, wood-wormed
cocoons of architectural tradition and dry rot was not necessarily to their
advantage, he thought.
His peers tended
to ossify in harmony with their museumlike surroundings.
