PRIMAL Fury (The PRIMAL Series) (21 page)

CHAPTER 41

KOBE

Bishop’s fears were allayed when they alighted from the bullet train at Shin-Kobe station. He had been on the money; the police had not yet arrived.

“Follow me.” Kenta led them through the station to the parking lot, where a pair of black Mercedes waited. Another dark-suited Yamaguchi opened the doors and they climbed in. Kenta got into the car behind them.

As the convoy sped out of the parking lot, the sound of police sirens filled the air.

“This isn’t good,” said Bishop as a police car blocked the exit.

The first Yakuza sedan screeched to a halt mere inches from its bumper. The driver of the Mercedes honked his horn and wound down his window, yelling angrily.

The police car gave an almost apologetic wail of its siren and backed out of the entrance, leaving a gap.

“Pretty bloody clear who’s running the show,” murmured Bishop.

“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” responded Saneh.

“This was your idea.”

The cars raced across the city of Kobe, running red lights and forcing other cars off the road. It was midday and the traffic in Japan’s fifth-largest city was flowing freely. The black sedans blasted past a speed trap, continuing to demonstrate seeming immunity from the police, up to and including the most major traffic laws. None of the officers showed the slightest interest in pulling over the Yakuza vehicles.

“Excuse me.” Bishop reached forward and tapped the man in the passenger seat on the shoulder. “Where are you taking us?”

The man looked at him blankly and then spoke to the driver in Japanese.

“We take to
oyabun
,” the driver explained in halting English. “Great honor.”

“Where is that?”

“Great honor,” the man repeated.

Bishop leaned back. “Great honor,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“I think we’re there,” said Saneh.

They slowed as they approached a high stone wall topped with razor wire on the outskirts of the city. The cars turned through a pair of heavy steel gates and onto a gravel driveway. CCTV cameras stared down at them from almost every vantage point. A blue uniformed guard armed with a radio manned the entrance.

Despite the high security, the compound radiated a sense of serenity. The noise and pollution of the city were replaced with the idealized landscape of an immaculate Japanese garden. Perfectly manicured lawns and bonsai trees surrounded a number of ponds teeming with water lilies and multicolored koi.

The cars drove up a small rise and came to a halt in front of a wide stone staircase. A blue-uniformed Yakuza servant opened the car door while another offered them a tray filled with hot towels. Bishop waved him away but Saneh used the opportunity to clean the gunpowder residue from her hands.

“Now that’s impressive.” Bishop gave a low whistle as he took in the mansion that loomed above them.

The base of the two-story building was built of solid rock; the stairs led up to a ground floor clad in heavy black wooden panels. Perched above it were a series of layered tiled roofs and a smaller second floor. Ornate carvings at the corner of each roof gave the whole building a majestic feel. It looked like something out of a movie about seventeenth-century Japan. Bishop half-expected black-clad ninjas to leap off the roof and do battle with an army of samurai.

“It’s stunning,” Saneh whispered.

“Edo period if I’m not mistaken,” said Bishop. He was an architecture buff, and the simple lines of the era’s buildings appealed to him. “It must have been in the family for hundreds of years. Talking about old, where’s that Kenta character disappeared to?” They had not seen him since the station.

“This way.” A servant waved them up the stairs to the entrance.

Both of the PRIMAL operatives noticed the thick, steel-lined door and the additional CCTV cameras; security was just as tight inside the mansion.

The uniformed servant led them to a waiting area. Like the rest of the building it had obviously been constructed by master artisans. A hardwood wall had a large logo engraved into it, a bold black diamond, the same that adorned all of the servants’ uniforms. Beside the emblem hung full-size portraits of the previous masters of the manor.

“You will wait here.” He waved Saneh toward a low wooden bench. Bishop went to sit but the servant stopped him. “No, woman wait. You come to
oyabun
now.”

Saneh looked at Bishop. He shrugged his shoulders.

A side door slid open and a heavily tattooed Yamaguchi-gumi dressed in a short-sleeved shirt and black pants gestured for Bishop to enter.

The room was as traditional as the rest of the building. On the polished wooden floor covered in bamboo mats sat a low table surrounded by cushions. The walls were paper screens emblazoned with martial scenes depicting samurai engaged in combat. A number of windows faced out over the gardens. Bishop noted the refraction caused by the bulletproof glass.

“Please, come in.” A deep voice emanated from the other side of the room, where a man was gazing out one of the windows.

Bishop kicked off his shoes and padded softly to the low table. Behind him the tattooed Yakuza closed the door and stood off to the side.

The man at the window crossed the floor at a slow place, the pad of his feet matched with the tap of a walking stick.

“
Oyabun
.” Bishop dipped his head in a polite bow.

The head of Japan’s most influential Yakuza clan nodded slightly.

Bishop put his age at early seventies. A once-powerful frame hunched over with old age, evidence of hard labor as a boy. His hair was snow white, as were his eyebrows. Intelligent brown eyes held Bishop’s own gaze.

“Please, sit.” The Yamaguchi-gumi boss lowered himself deftly onto a low chair at the end of the table.

Bishop followed his example, adjusting himself to find a comfortable position at the low table. Another blue-uniformed servant appeared with a pot of coffee and cups.

“Kenta tells me you saved his life.”

The servant poured two cups and then backed away from the table, his head bowed.

“The other way around, I’m afraid. Sorry about the loss of your man.”

The
oyabun
dipped his head in acknowledgment as he lifted his cup and gestured for Bishop to do the same. “I understand you have traveled from America to find men…‘trafficking in women’ is the phrase, I believe?”

“That’s correct. I’m looking for criminals dealing in human slavery. Yakuza to be precise.” Bishop sipped, wondering how much the Yakuza boss actually knew.

“Have you been to Japan before, Mr. Wilson?” The old man’s gaze never wavered.

“A few times, just holidays and the like.” He was a little surprised at the use of his cover name. It was unlikely that Baiko had passed the information. It was more probable that the Yamaguchi had people in immigration.

“So you know a little of the Yakuza?”

“Only what I have read as a part of this investigation, and what’s in the papers.”

“And what picture did they paint?”

“To be completely honest, not a good one. Typical criminal activities are extortion, illegal gambling, muggings, kidnappings, theft, prostitution, blackmail…The list is long and not particularly flattering.”

The
oyabun
placed his cup of coffee back on the low table. “It is true, that at one time or another, we have been involved in such things. But they do not embody what it is to be ‘true’ Yakuza. The Yamaguchi-gumi follow a strict code, the
ninkyodo
.”

“
Ninkyodo
?”

“It is the path of fighting the strong and protecting the weak. We are not petty criminals. We are businessmen and humanitarians who belong to an exclusive brotherhood.”

“Humanitarians?” Bishop almost snickered.

“Your media does not report everything, Mr. Wilson. When the tsunami struck Fukushima it was the Yamaguchi-gumi who moved first. While the government was bogged down in bureaucracy and corruption, it was we who first brought aid to the people of Japan.”

“Indeed. And yet there are elements of the Yakuza who clearly pay no heed to your rules. Hence, my coming here.”

A frown creased the forehead of the
oyabun
and anger flashed in his brown eyes. “They are not true Yakuza. They are dogs who have stolen the name of the honorable and sullied it with immoral crimes and drugs.”

“Dogs like the Mori-Kai?”

“Yes, they may well be the worst.”

“What do you know about them?”

“What little they reveal. My men have had some minor encounters.”

“So you’re sure they exist?”

The Yamaguchi
oyabun
nodded his head as a servant scurried forward to replenish his coffee. “Yes, our investigations have been limited but I can confirm the rumors are true.”

“What sort of rumors?”

“An underground Yakuza that holds no respect for our traditions. A small syndicate that is well connected, heavily armed, and trading in Western flesh. They display ruthlessness that overshadows even the most hard-line of the Yamaguchi-gumi.”

“And this poses a threat to your organization?”

“It is the responsibility of the Yamaguchi-gumi to oversee Yakuza activities, but the Mori-Kai play by their own rules. This is unacceptable.” The
oyabun
stared intently while he sipped his coffee.

Bishop nodded. “It would seem that we have a common enemy. I need to investigate the Mori-Kai, locate their headquarters and key personnel, identify their criminal ventures, and report back to my superiors.”

The
oyabun
laughed. “And then what?”

“The FBI can then work with your authorities to put an end to them.”

“What makes you think you can succeed where the Yamaguchi-gumi have not?”

“We have our ways. I have already shut down the Mori-Kai’s operations in Europe.”

“I had not heard of this.” The
oyabun
gave him a strange look. “You are aware that they will be stronger here in Japan. They have killed a number of my men. Escaped my spies…”

“They didn’t seem to bother Kenta.”

“That is because he is different, old Yakuza. A powerful
kyodai
in an army of
shatei
.” The old man drank from his coffee.

“Yes, Kenta is strong, but the little brothers have eyes,” said Bishop translating the Yakuza term. “They can help.”

The
oyabun
’s eyebrows raised in surprise at the Westerner’s comprehension of the Yakuza ranks. “And if what you say is true, you have teeth. Perhaps a partnership could take advantage of these strengths.”

“What do you suggest?”

The
oyabun
raised his voice and rattled off a number of commands in Japanese. He turned back to Bishop. “My Kobe
waka-gashira
will provide you with everything you need. Eyes and ears, cars, a base of operations.”

The tattooed man standing by the door bowed and walked to the table. He was slightly built but still managed to strike an imposing figure. The sleeves of his business shirt were rolled up to the elbow, revealing intricate tattoos that covered his forearms. His head was closely shaved and tinted glasses covered his eyes.

“Agent Wilson, I would like you to meet “Saemonsaburou Takahiro.”

The man bowed as Bishop climbed to his feet and shook his hand.

The
oyabun
issued a directive to the man in rapid-fire Japanese, then rose to his feet. “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Wilson. The
waka-gashira
will get you anything you need.” He turned and walked stiffly toward a door on the other side of the room.

“Hang on, what do you want from us?” Bishop asked.

The
oyabun
continued walking. “That is simple. I want you to help us destroy the Mori-Kai.”

With that, the
oyabun
disappeared through the sliding door.

“So just you and me, hey?” Bishop said to Takahiro.

The Yakuza lieutenant nodded.

“How’s your English?”

“My English is passable.”

“That’s good news. The bad news is, I’m not even going to try to pronounce your name. How about I just call you Hero?”