Rules of the Hunt (67 page)

"The Namakas were a lost cause anyway," said Schwanberg,
"and now Kei is dead and that's one less person who knows about us.
 
Also, look on the bright side.
 
The North Koreans are now going to be
screaming for product, which is going to raise the price.
 
And there are other plants around.
 
Relax, we'll work something out.
 
We'll channel it through Katsuda."

"I've got two concerns," said Spencer Green, the third member
of the private team, "the cop, Adachi, and Bergin."
 
Green was tall, thin, balding, and looked
like the bookkeeper that he was.
 
He
handled the paperwork for the group's operations.
 
He was something of an administrative genius,
but he was a worrier.
 
"Adachi is
now
back
on duty and he is pursuing the Hodama
investigation with a vengeance.
 
And
Hodama was our main connection.
 
Just
suppose Adachi turns up something.
 
A link with us.
 
Hell,
we know he kept audio- and videotapes.
 
Suppose we missed something."

"Why do you think I went along on the Hodama hit?" said
Schwanberg, irritated, "except to sanitize the place?
 
I missed fucking nothing.
 
Unless, of course, one of
the hit team displayed some private initiative."
 
He thought for a moment.
 
"Like that bent cop, Fujiwara.
 
Anyway, if Adachi turns up something, we
should be the first to know.
 
The guy is
bugged to his eyeballs, and we've still got friends on the inside."

"So what's this about Bergin, Spence?" said Palmer.
 
"The guy's retired.
 
He's practically senile."

Green shook his head.
 
"I
dunno," he said, "he's been talking to people.
 
I think he's up to something.
 
In my opinion, if he doesn't know, he at
least suspects.
 
The guy may be old, but
he's no fool, and my gut tells me he's still a player."

Schwanberg was silent, thinking about what had been said.
 
There was some merit in being concerned about
Adachi, he thought, but he really could not see Bergin posing any threat.
 
Of course the guy had lunch with his old
friends every now and then.
 
He must go
nuts rotting out in that little Jap village.

He looked across at Green.
 
"So, Spence, what does your gut tell you about Fitzduane?"

Green smiled.
 
"Namaka Special
Steels apart," he said, "Fitzduane's no problem.
 
On the contrary, we're on the same side.
 
There is still one Namaka brother to go, and
it looks like he's going to do the job for us.
 
Now, what could be neater?"

"It's nice to see you smile, Spence," said Schwanberg thinly.
 
"You should smile more and worry
less."
 
He nodded at Palmer.
 
"Chuck, let's talk some more about
Adachi-
san
.
 
We were unlucky last time.
 
Let's have no mistakes the second time
around.
 
And after Adachi, let's put
something terminal in the pipeline for Fitzduane.
 
He is going to be useful in the short term,
but I don't trust the fucker."

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Fitzduane's
Island
,
Ireland

July 1

General Kilmara donned earmuffs and peered through the thirty-power
spotting telescope.
 
It was matched to
the telescopic sight the sniper was using.

A target eighteen hundred meters away looked as if it was within sixty
meters, easy hailing distance.
 
Alternatively, every body tremor or movement was magnified thirty
times.
 
The latter was the downside of
long-range shooting.
 
The very business
of staying alive, of your heart pumping, your nervous system reacting to its
surrounds, of doing something as utterly normal as breathing, worked against
you.
 
The issue was leverage.
 
The more accurate your rifle, the more the
slightest movement — if your point of aim was initially correct — would send
the round off target.
 
And that was just
the beginning.

Other factors entered the equation.
 
Wind and weather were the major ones, but there were many others.

Was the propellant blended properly?
 
Were the grooves in the barrel perfectly machined?
 
Was there wear?
 
Had a shade too much oil been applied with
the pull-through?

Kilmara had watched the finest of shooters at their art and afterward had
spoken
to
many of them.
 
He was not a religious man, but eventually he
had come to the conclusion that with those at the pinnacle of perfection, it
was more than a matter of science.
 
It
was almost something mystical.

The figure lying prone twenty meters away was oblivious to him.
 
He lay there as if in a trance until the
three random targets popped up.

There was a pause of about half a second as the shooter absorbed the
visual information and mentally programmed ahead the three-shot firing
sequence, and then the huge .50-caliber semiautomatic Barrett gave its
distinctive, deep, repetitive crack.
 
The
muzzle brake absorbed most of the shock, and dust rose in the air from the
deflected blast.
 

Three hits.
 
All were within the
kill zone, though one was near the edge.
 
Given the lethality of the multipurpose armor-piercing explosive
ammunition all hits would have been instantly fatal, but the sniper shook his
head disgustedly.
 
Since the shooting of
Fitzduane, he had become obsessive and practiced at every conceivable
opportunity.

That day, he should have been faster.
 
The image of the consequences of being slower than his aspirational
optimum stayed with him.
 
A little boy,
whose back of the head had been laid open in a crimson line.
 
Fitzduane lying there, soaked in blood as if
he had been bathed in it, the light fading from his eyes.

It was not good enough.
 
Deep
inside, he knew it.
 
He could — he really
could — do better.

Kilmara left the spotting telescope and walked over to the shooter.
 
The man had risen to his feet and was engaged
in the routine rituals of range safety management.
 
There was the final check that his weapon was
safe and his magazine clear, and only then did Kilmara speak.

"Remember Colonel Fitzduane, Al?"

Lonsdale did not salute.
 
In the
Rangers, saluting was reserved for the parade ground.
 
But he smiled, a little ruefully.
 
"I'm scarcely likely to forget him,
General," he said.
 
"I saw him
shot and I visited him afterwards in the hospital a few times.
 
I wish I could have been quicker."

Kilmara had little patience for what might have been.
 
"Colonel Fitzduane has asked for you,
Al," he said.
 
"How do you feel
about shooting accurately from a slow, moving platform a thousand feet
up?"

"How slow?" said Lonsdale.

"Thirty to fifty clicks an hour," said Kilmara.
 
"Maybe slower.
 
And one extra detail..."

He paused.

"It will be at night."

*
         
*
         
*
         
*
         
*

Tokyo
,
Japan

July 10

Adachi had recovered from the virus that had laid him low, but the sense
of alienation and betrayal which had gripped him after the prosecutor's suicide
and Fujiwara's attempt on his life was harder to shake off.

His ordered world was shattered, and since his return from leave he had
found it next to impossible to integrate back into his role as leader of the
team.
 
If Fujiwara, his most trusted
subordinate, could have been suborned, then so could anyone else in his
operational group.
 
All were
suspect.
 
None could be trusted
absolutely.
 
And if none could be relied
upon absolutely, then he must work virtually alone.

Ironically, he knew he could trust Chifune and the
gaijin
, Fitzduane, but then he saw the two of them together, and
though nothing was said he knew instantly what had happened.
 
He did not blame either of them, because that
was not his nature and such things were natural, but inwardly he wept.

He focused on the Hodama investigation.
 
That whole miserable business had turned his life upside down, and he
had now adopted the view that only with its resolution would sanity be restored
in his life.
 
He craved some peace of
mind, and he had become convinced that only wrapping up the Hodama affair would
bring it to him.

He was listening to tapes in his office when the summons from the Spider
came
 
That
was another
twist in this affair.
 
If he had
suspected anyone of corruption it would have been the enigmatic and ambitious Deputy
Superintendent-General, but it turned out that the Spider was one of the
reformers.
 
His father had told him
so.
 
Both were involved in some
organization called Gamma.

More intrigue, albeit in a worthy and decidedly uphill cause.
 
Adachi, the policeman,
craved duty and simplicity.
 
It
was why Adachi Senior, who was immensely proud of his son, had not asked him to
join Gamma.
 
Whatever the rationale,
Superintendent Adachi was not made of the stuff of conspirators.
 
He had simple direct values
,
 
and
Gamma had to deal with complex
issues, where sometimes difficult decisions had to be made for the greater
good.
 
The reform of
Japan
was a
life-or-death struggle, and the stakes were immense.

The Spider waved Adachi to a chair and tea was brought.
 
Adachi was taken aback by the wave.
 
The slightest gesture of the right hand was
more the Deputy Superintendent-General's style.
 
Further, there was a definite nuance of friendliness in the Spider's
demeanor.
 
True, it was no more than a
nuance, but that, for the Spider, was downright extroverted behavior.

"Superintendent-
san
,"
said the Spider.
 
"It is good to
have you back.
 
How long has it
been?"

"I have been back on duty one week,
sensei
," said Adachi.

Adachi had lost weight and was looking pale and gaunt.
 
In the Spider's opinion, another few weeks'
rest and relaxation would have been in order, but he made no comment.
 
The aftereffects of the virus were not the
problem.
 
This man's very foundations had
been shaken to the core.
 
First, learning that the prosecutor was betraying him, and then the
near-fatal assault by Sergeant Fujiwara.
 
The man must be feeling quite paranoid.
 
Perhaps the best solution lay in work, after all.
 
He must learn that the failings of a couple
of people were not representative of the majority.

"I am sorry that we have not had an opportunity to talk
earlier," said the Spider.
 
"Tidying up this regrettable business at Namaka Steel has been
distracting and there have been many ramifications.
 
However, you must know, Superintendent-
san
, that you have my full support.
 
The full resources of this department and
other friends of goodwill are right behind you.
 
You must remember that."

Adachi inclined his head respectfully.
 
"Other friends of goodwill":
 
it was an interesting euphemism for Gamma.
 
He felt sudden warmth for the Spider.
 
That apparently distant, elusive,
cold-blooded manipulator was reaching out, was genuinely trying to help.
 
And, of course, he was right.
 
One venal policeman did not mean the whole
department was dirty.
 
He should still be
able to trust his team, he thought.

But then doubt clouded his mind.
 
Of course corrupt cops in the Tokyo MPD were the exception, but that did
not mean that Fujiwara was an isolated case.
 
Who else might be playing a double game?
 
He could talk freely to the Spider, he now knew, but who would back him
up in the field?
 
Who could he trust with
his life at the sharp end?
 
Who could he
be
absolutely
sure of?