Fishing for Stars (32 page)

When my wake-up call came I lay in bed for a while wondering what the night might bring, then showered and dressed. I thought about ordering room service but suddenly felt the need to be with normal people and went downstairs to the dining room just in time for last orders, although I feel sure that, had I arrived even later, the kitchen would have remained open to midnight or beyond. It isn’t hard to see how people get hooked on power. My entry into the dining room was met with a frenetic scurrying of waiters and the clatter of dishes being hastily cleared. It was as if the inspector of kitchen hygiene had arrived. The maître d’
,
short and stout, came trotting towards me, clicking his fingers for a waiter to follow him. It seemed every eye in the room was drawn towards me, so I guess notoriety must also have its downside.

Once in the Toyota, which thankfully arrived with a minimum of fuss, the
wakagashira
kept a respectful silence, except for the perfunctory grunts and monosyllabic affirmations that usually accompany servile attention, as we drove back to the penthouse apartment. They treated me as they would an
oyabun
,
while the young
kobun
,
one of whom was usually in a car for training purposes, avoided eye contact and squirmed constantly in his seat beside me, obviously nervous in my presence.

To my surprise, once we reached the apartment building I was taken directly to the floor where the
wakagashira
on duty were based, along with the brightest
kobun,
orphans and boys from the slums who showed promise and were being groomed to be more than standover men, riot breakers and guards.

I was escorted to a small and very austere reception room. The
tatami
matting on the floor was old and frayed, and four canvas cushions surrounded a low and much-scuffed table in the centre. The premises were scrubbed and clean but redolent of a boy’s boarding school, Japanese style. I was served green tea from a chipped enamel pot by a
chinpira – 
a young
yakuza
, not yet
kobun – 
who held the pot in both hands to fill my cup while avoiding my eyes. My head almost reached the level of his own when I was seated on the cushion and I felt sure he must have wondered what the giant
gaijin
was doing amongst them
.
I reached over and touched the side of the teapot to discover it was almost too hot to hold. The lad was burning his hands rather than allow me to see they were shaking. He had already begun the long and disciplined road to fortitude. The only sign of pain was that he kept nervously lifting one foot then the other as if he needed to urinate.

‘Put the pot down at once!’ I ordered. He placed the enamel teapot on the table and immediately hid his left hand behind his back. ‘Let me see,’ I said gently. He produced the damaged hand with the palm facing downwards. ‘Turn it over,’ I instructed. He did so and I noted that his palm had turned almost scarlet from the burn. ‘Ouch! That hurts, eh?’ I said, sympathising.

‘No,’ he said, tears welling.

‘To be strong without being foolish is the hardest lesson of all to learn. You have kept your pride but made yourself unfit for battle.’ I grinned in an attempt to put him at ease. ‘Next time bring a cloth, worthy
chinpira
.’

‘Yes,
Oyabun
,’ he said, barely above a whisper, still avoiding my eyes.

‘I will tell your superior of your courage
.
’

A look of dismay crossed his face and he glanced up fearfully, meeting my eyes for the first time. ‘Please! No,
Oyabun
!’ he begged. ‘I will lose my rice bowl!’

His fear of being expelled from his
yakuza
family and finding himself back on the streets was palpable and his small frame shook visibly. ‘I understand,’ I said hurriedly. ‘Now run to the bathroom and splash cold water over your hand, it will take away the immediate pain. Tonight go to the kitchen and ask them for a little honey to heal the burn.’

‘Yes,
Oyabun
.’ He reached for the teapot.

‘No, leave it. I may require a second cup.’ The child bowed deeply, then turned and scurried away like a small rodent.

Shortly after the boy’s departure
Fuchida-san
arrived carrying a red Moroccan leather box roughly the size of a double-layer cigar box. He placed it on the table and with a small sigh lowered himself onto a cushion, whereupon a young bloke three or four years older than the first little guy appeared with a fresh teapot, and placing a cup in front of him, poured green tea into it, bowed deeply and left. Unlike the previous lad, his hand didn’t shake. He was, I thought, a little further along the road to being trained in the art of fearlessness.

‘
Nick-san
, I have a gift for you,’
Fuchida-san
said, nodding towards the box.

‘You have been too generous, honourable
Fuchida-san
. Already I am unable adequately to repay your kindness.’

‘Ah,
Nick-san
, between true friends kindness is always repaid and accepted without a sense of obligation.’ He laughed. ‘But ah . . . perhaps one day the Queen Alexandra’s Birdwing
 . . . 
? Imagine a butterfly with a wingspan of 31 centimetres!’ He leaned forward and pushed the box towards me. ‘Open it,
Nick-san
,’ he instructed, clearly excited.

I reached out, lifted the brass clasp, and opened the lid. Inside, resting in a black felt-covered mould, was a Belgian Browning Hi-Power 13-shot automatic, arguably the finest handgun made at that time.

‘Jesus!’ I exclaimed.

‘The best!’
Fuchida-san
laughed. ‘I have one myself. Now we not only have butterflies in common; tonight we are partners in this operation.’

I confess I wasn’t quite as pleased about his comrades-in-arms notion as he seemed to be, but I tried not to show it. ‘I am speechless,
Fuchida-san
,’ I said, beaming, but feeling somewhat the hypocrite. I loved the gun but not how it might come to be used in the next few hours. The last time I had used a handgun was in New Guinea as a coastwatcher. The standard issue for officers was the Webley Mk IV revolver, although I had chosen to use the American issue 1911A1 Colt Automatic because I regarded it as a better weapon. Although I wasn’t a bad shot, I had never fired it in anger. And in combat I preferred the Owen submachine-gun.

‘You have killed before,
Nick-san
. We both know only the first time is difficult. Come, we must prepare. We have a firing range, it is soundproof and only fifteen metres, but it will make you familiar with this weapon.’

The pistol range was obviously in frequent use, judging from the black human silhouette that was so perforated it seemed to consist of more bullet holes than metal. My first few shots were far from accurate until I recalled the wartime training I had received from Special Services. Adopting the front-facing two-handed method I began to feel in control and after twenty or so shots I was able to create a reasonable grouping, although with all the bullet holes already around the heart area of the target it wasn’t easy to tell. In my overlarge hands the Browning seemed to almost disappear but the kickback of the 9-millimetre was nothing compared to the solid whack of the .45 calibre Colt. This was a precision weapon that could do a lot of damage in the hands of a good marksman.

I had obviously impressed
Fuchida-san
, for as we cleaned our weapons he said, ‘You have the steady hand of a killer,
Nick-san
.’ He grinned, placing his own hand on my shoulder. ‘I would trust you at my side in a fire fight.’

‘I have big hands and it is a small gun,’ I laughed.
Please God let these practice shots be the only ones I fire while I’m in Japan,
I silently prayed.

At twenty-five minutes after midnight Miss Sparkle called
Fuchida-san
to the phone and after a short conversation he returned. His expression was deadpan and my first thought was that something had gone wrong.
Fuchida-san
was a naturally exuberant character and surprisingly apt to display his feelings for someone in his line of business. I had regarded the even tone of the Jade Mistress’s intimidation as a performance, but now I saw that it was simply a different aspect of the
yakuza
boss. I was now witnessing the cool-headed leader completely in possession of his emotions. ‘It has been done.
Saito-san
and his three
ninja
have brought the old woman out. The remainder of the household is still asleep. It is time to go,
Nick-san
.’

‘
Saito-san
was true to his word then? He has not lost his touch,’ I said admiringly.

‘
Hai!
I should not have questioned his powers. In public life he is one of the three great kendo masters in Japan but is also possibly the most deadly practitioner alive of the art of the
katana
. The old texts teach us that to have at your side one such sword-master is equivalent to thirteen lesser swordsmen. I should not have been surprised that even now his footsteps leave no mark in the dust.’

For once we arrived quietly with only one Toyota accompanying the Mercedes. We drew to a halt in a side street close to Konoe Akira’s residence in the diplomatic quarter of Tokyo and quite close to the imperial palace, then walked a few yards and turned a corner to see a large compound directly facing us.
Fuchida-san
checked the address. ‘It is this one,’ he said quietly.

I would return to this area again in daylight and observe that, judging from the high stone and brick walls surrounding them, there were perhaps a dozen compounds of similar size in the immediate area. All, with the exception of Konoe’s family residence, were embassies. In Tokyo space is at such a premium that only the truly rich can afford what I would have estimated was an area no bigger than a third of an acre, not much more than the land occupied by the average middle-class outer-suburban home in Sydney or Melbourne and about a twentieth the size of the grounds of Beautiful Bay. I was amazed to see that the wall surrounding Konoe Akira’s residence was made of brush.

‘The brush wall . . . ?’ I said, my implication being that it wasn’t the greatest protection from intruders.

‘We are lucky again. It is a traditional fence.’
Fuchida-san
pointed to the wooden shingles on the roof, visible in the city lights reflecting from the low cloud cover. ‘You will see, every detail is as it has always been. I do not think Konoe Akira is a man who is prepared to compromise on anything.’

So far we had not seen a single person. This was surprising as we were close to the centre of the city, and while it was well past midnight, Tokyo, like most great cities, never sleeps. ‘My men have done a good job; the immediate area is clear,’ the
yakuza
boss observed. The only sounds were our own footsteps and the distant hum of traffic a city block or so away. A soft call came suddenly from directly behind us. I turned, surprised to see
Saito-san
and the three other
yakuza
who had performed the abduction standing no more than a couple of metres away. I swear I hadn’t heard a single step other than our own; absolutely zilch. One moment we were alone and the next they were standing large as life directly behind us, barefoot and dressed in what appeared to be heavy black cotton karate uniforms.
Saito-san
carried a
katana
tied to the belt at his waist.

Unlike myself, the
yakuza
boss didn’t seem surprised at their sudden appearance. ‘It went well?’ he asked.

‘As you requested,
Oyabun
,’
Saito-san
replied.

‘The ambulance?’

‘It left without the need to use a siren.’ He chuckled softly. ‘The old crone didn’t need sedation. She remained asleep even in the ambulance. If it wasn’t for her snores we would have thought she was dead.’

‘Was there a nurse in the house?’
Fuchida-san
asked.

‘Yes, but she too remained asleep. We gave her the needle anyway.’

‘
Kato-san
’s man has cut the phone connections?’

Saito nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘And you came out immediately?’

‘Yes, but we await your instruction to go back in to fetch —’

‘No, he is mine. Konoe Akira belongs to me,’ I said quietly, not knowing what had suddenly possessed me to make such a demand, but equally certain that I should be the one to bring Konoe Akira out.

The
yakuza
looked at me, waiting for
Fuchida-san
to speak. ‘
Nick-san
, it is not wise.
Saito-san
knows the layout of the house.’