Rules of the Hunt (53 page)
As if on cue, the room started to shake, not violently but steadily.
After about ten seconds, the movement
stopped.
Kilmara was still talking, but
Fitzduane had not been listening.
It had
been frightening.
"Hell," he said, "they really do have earthquakes
here.
It's scary."
"They are due a big one soon," said Kilmara, "or so I
hear.
Something to take your mind off
all this blood and guts you seem to attract.
Just remember to stay away from reinforced concrete buildings and stuff
like that.
They do you no good at all if
they fall on you — especially at your age."
"I feel pretty young tonight," said Fitzduane, eyeing the
obstinate bulge which had come unscathed through the earth tremor, "but
unfortunately there is no one around to share this insight with."
"Yeah, hotel rooms are like that sometimes," said Kilmara.
"But not always.
I remember when you and I were in..."
Fitzduane laughed.
He was asleep
minutes later.
*
*
*
*
*
The New Otani,
June 20
The New Otani complex was a fitting monument to the new superrich,
self-confident
and Fitzduane, having learned something about Japanese property prices,
shuddered at what it might be worth.
It was part luxury hotel and part office complex, and doubtless there
were expensive apartments hidden away there also.
The atrium was spectacular and looked high
enough to have its own microclimate.
Certainly you could jump off one of the internal balconies and
hang-glide inside it if you were so inclined — provided you were well-tailored
and wore polished Gucci loafers.
There
was an implied dress code.
The soaring atrium was a truly magnificent waste of
Such impracticality cheered up Fitzduane
immensely, and he was already in a good mood.
His favorite waiter had brought
cold
milk for his tea that morning, and no one had taken a shot at him or tried to
cut him into pieces when he had gone for a prebreakfast run with his convoy.
Also, it had not been raining, which was a
decided improvement.
It was soon clear that the loss the developers of the New Otani had taken
with the atrium was being compensated for elsewhere.
The offices of the Japan-World Research
Federation were exquisitely finished, but tiny.
It was the smallest suite of offices Fitzduane had ever seen, and
everything — desks, cupboards, tables, chairs — seemed to be shrunk in
proportion.
Schwanberg was small, too, a
not-quite-a-yuppie-anymore in his early fifties with thinning hair and a
smooth, manufactured face.
He wore a tie
with a stickpin, and as he moved there was a flash of red suspenders.
His jacket buttons were covered with the same
material as his suit.
For a brief moment Fitzduane remembered that horrendous scene from
decades earlier as, without explanation or warning, Schwanberg suddenly
inserted the blade of his knife into that young Vietnamese girl's mouth.
He could never forget the gush of red blood
and the terrible animal noise she had made.
It had been reported, but then the Tet Offensive had intervened, and
when the fighting died down again the file had been lost and the affair glossed
over.
Fitzduane despised the man.
In his
opinion, Schwanberg was vicious and cunning but absolutely without core
values.
He was also an extraordinarily
colorless individual.
Fitzduane had the
feeling Schwanberg knew clamps were needed to climb the slippery bureaucratic
pole, but otherwise he had been chose to match the furniture.
Still, Kilmara had made the current
introduction, and the game was not played by being overly concerned about
personalities.
"Colonel Fitzduane," said Schwanberg, smiling broadly and
taking Fitzduane's hand in both of his.
"This is a genuine pleasure and a privilege.
It's good to see an old war buddy.
We've both come a long way since then."
Fitzduane extracted his hand, kept his face in neutral, and barely
restrained himself from doing something painful and destructive to the little
toad.
The man's eyes were curiously
dead, as if feelings and emotions were alien.
Schwanberg snapped his fingers.
Fitzduane's umbrella was removed by a bowing office lady and he was
shown into a miniature conference room.
Tea was brought in by another OL.
Frankly, he could not see where they put all these people.
The place was seriously small.
They must rack up the staff in the filing
cabinets.
There did not seem enough
space for a couple of real humans.
Schwanberg pressed some buttons on a console recessed into the conference
table and the door slid shut and there was the sound of humming.
"We're now totally secure," said Schwanberg.
"A bubble.
A lot of dollars went into this place.
Totally soundproof, totally bugproof.
Nada gets out, Hugo, so we can speak quite
freely."
Fitzduane smiled disarmingly.
"Speak away, Schwanberg," he said, and sat back in his
miniature chair expectantly.
Schwanberg
looked at him, as if expecting him to say something.
Fitzduane just nodded reassuringly, but said
nothing.
"You know, Colonel," said Schwanberg, "you've got one hell
of an impressive track record.
Most in
the counterterrorism business just shuffle paper, send each other classified
E-mail, and maneuver to get the most out of the public trough, but you and I
and General Kilmara get right in there and get our hands bloody."
He grinned.
"Forgive me.
I've been a desk jockey too long.
The fact is that, compared to most in this
business, you two are right at the top in terms of hands-on experience.
You guys are not the product of endless
expensive training and computer war games.
You people have actually done it.
You've tracked down the bad guys and wasted them.
You know what to do and how to do it and how
to get others to do it.
In fact, apart
from maybe the Israelis, there are few people more experienced at the
game."
Fitzduane drank his tea.
He had
absolutely no idea where Schwanberg was heading, except that he was being
flattered for some, doubtless unpleasant, purpose.
"Schwanberg," he said, "what you say is probably true
about General Kilmara, but if your records are accurate, they will show that
apart from a stint in the Irish Army, I have spent most of my life, including
my stint in Vietnam, as a war photographer.
I became involved in counterterrorism by accident, by being on the
receiving end, and I am here as a consequence of that accident.
I am not the expert you imagine.
My rank is a reserve title, nothing
more."
"Colonel," said Schwanberg, the thumb and forefinger of his
right hand repeated pinching the flesh on the back of his left in an irritating
mannerism, "you're entitled to your story, but how you tracked down our
friend the Hangman is a classic right up there with the
You may have gotten into this business by accident, but you sure operate
as a professional and you come highly recommended.
And that's why we're talking.
You're one of us.
You're a member of the club, and, frankly,
it's hard to get into, but it's even harder to leave."
It crossed Fitzduane's mind that even if he had not realized it, he
had
crossed the line between amateur and
professional.
What the unpleasant
Schwanberg was saying was true.
Circumstances had forced him into the bloody world of counterterrorism,
and the reality was that he seemed to have a talent for it.
But it was not a concept he enjoyed.
Violence might be necessary on occasion, but it was corrosive to the
spirit.
He thought of Boots.
He wanted desperately to shelter his small
son from that world.
But the paradox was
that, to shield him, he was prepared to do what had to be done.
It was the endless spiral of destruction that
seemed integral to the human condition.
"The club?" he said.
"The small group of us," said Schwanberg, "who do what is
necessary so that Mr. and Mrs. Average Citizen have nothing more serious to
worry about than the IRS.
The protectors of Western values, if you want to be pompous about
it."
"That is being pompous about it," said Fitzduane.
"I am really not overly keen on
flag-waving.
And to focus this
discussion a little more, where does
values?"
Schwanberg flashed his organization man's professional grin.
"That's the question that preoccupies us
local boys," he said, "and right now it is a little delicate.
Bergin will have told you some of it, but
he's an old man now and out of the game, so he doesn't know much.
I'll tell you what you need to know.
It's a minefield out there, and we don't want
a good friend and fellow club member treading on any of the mines.
They are there for a purpose.
We have specific targets in mind."
"Hodama and the Namakas," said Fitzduane.
"Onetime allies who strayed
a little and got too greedy and now have exceeded their shelf life.
Time for a little stock
rotation.
It's something the CIA
is pretty good at.
Look at what is
happening in
Schwanberg was no longer smiling.
He was looking at Fitzduane intently, s if weighing the issues, and as
if one of those issues was the Irishman's continued existence.
"You sound judgmental, Colonel," he
said.
"I would be disappointed to
find that you are that naïve.
notions of going its own way, but that is just
tatemae
.
The
honne
is that
kuromaku
, and since the end of World War
Two that has been Uncle Sam's job.
People like Hodama were the tools of power but not truly powerful in
themselves — and circumstances change and tools wear out.
That's the way life really is.
People are organic.
They degrade."
Fitzduane spoke coldly.
"Spare me the lecture, Schwanberg, and get to cases.
What do you want and what have you got to
offer?"
"Hodama is gone, so that's history," said Schwanberg.
"Now we want the Namakas permanently out
of circulation.
When they go, we can
move another Japanese
kuromaku
into
place
who
will be more amenable, and then engage in a
little rearranging.
The government has
served us well, but the public is getting unhappy.
We need an illusion of change."
"Katsuda," said Fitzduane, "with some politician on a
reformist platform fronting for him."
"Jesus Christ!" said Schwanberg slowly.
"You've only been here a couple of
weeks.
How the hell did you come up with
that one?"
"People talk to me," said Fitzduane, "and some have long
memories.
Who had reason to want to kill
Hodama in that gruesome way and who was filling the power vacuum?
Means, motive, and opportunity — the classic
criteria — and they end up pointing clearly at Katsuda.
The method of Hodama's killing was a
mistake.
It was so obviously
personal.
It should have looked like a
professional hit.
No signature.
Just a dead body."
"All the evidence is stacked against the Namakas," said
Schwanberg, "and there is no way of tying this in to Katsuda.
Believe me, I know.
Katsuda may be guilty, but it will never be
proved.
A lot of care went into clearing
up the loose ends.
The Namakas will take
the blame."
