“The Japanese emperor no longer exists,” says Reizo Shiga.
“True, very true,” says Rokurobei. “But the emperor, boy, we are all that divine being. And our culture has always revered the beauty of cruelty. A man like myself can’t exist without that dramatic beauty. Surely someone like you can understand that.”
Reizo has a feeling that these are the man’s final words. He toys with the idea of bargaining with Mitsuko’s life. But if these killers find her prison, he’s sure to die, and probably a more painful death than they originally planned for him.
Rokurobei leans closer. He seems to be interested in the expression on Reizo’s face. Reizo hangs his head, but his hands fly up unexpectedly, fast and furtive, and tear away the mask.
87
Takeda runs through their plan one last time. He peers at Beate Becht out of the corner of his eye. She’s hardly said a word since her declaration of love in front of the hotel. Did she mean it, or was she just messing around, trying to be provocative? She seems the serious type. Takeda likes her. She’s smart and seems to enjoy the unexpected. But at the same time she’s too eager, as if she’s trying to prove something. Takeda would like to get to know her better, but the temptation scares him.
He tries to concentrate on the confrontation with Takamatsu. The chief commissioner is keeping his options open, he’s sure of that. Takeda has his duty weapon with him. He’s not sure if it will be enough if he’s forced to use it. He figures they’ll try to kidnap him in the restaurant. They won’t use a sniper to take him out because they want the documents and they’re in a safe place. He just has to wait and see what happens. He stuck his neck into the rope of fate and it became a noose. Only detachment can help in such a situation. Is he capable of detachment? He’s surprised at the amount of sadness and fear that have invaded him. Sadness at the death of his wife, more profound than he could ever have imagined. Fear of failure, kept at bay for as long as he can remember. He asks himself if it was jealousy, greed or just sheer badness that had turned Takamatsu into a corrupt cop. He remembers a conversation with the chief commissioner a couple of years back when the man had just been promoted to Keishi-sei, chief commissioner. His face flushed and red from alcohol, Takamatsu had made an allusion to colleagues who had climbed the career ladder faster than him because they knew “which buttons to push”. Takamatsu was the stiff and proud type and wasn’t prone to such outbursts so the remark had stayed with Takeda. Takeda had been inspector for more than ten years. He took part in exams for Keishi, commissioner, a couple of times and was rejected on both occasions. He’s convinced that it had to do with him not being 100% Japanese, not having pure Japanese blood. There were always hundreds of candidates for promotion, whatever the rank, and competition was stiff to say the least, but with his record of service he should have been promoted.
Abuse is rampant in the ranks. Unions are forbidden and the force is divided into prefectures. A Commission for Public Safety is supposed, in theory, to exercise a control function, but in practice it counts for little. In recent months, the cops on the beat have been complaining about the power of the “desk samurai”, and there’s a clear need for unions, but in the meantime nothing has changed. A small group of bureaucrats rules the roost in the prefectures. Takeda’s heard incredible stories about violent feuds inside the force that have been swept under the carpet. The police big wigs seem to be able to do what they want.
Killing the inspector’s wife to try to discredit him seems extreme, incomprehensible perhaps, but since Takeda heard about the identity of the man behind the name Rokurobei he knows he can’t win this fight. Where was his infamous intuition when confusion and arrogance were his only response to Takamatsu’s gibes about his Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Bank theory? He should have guessed that something wasn’t right when the chief commissioner overreacted as he did. He should have apologised a thousand times and thanked Takamatsu profusely for preventing him from making an error of judgement that would ruin his career. Instead he had answered back. From that moment onwards he was a marked man.
“The stakes are high,” he says to break the awkward silence in the taxi. “With the information we received from Yori we’ve been able to piece together an outline of the facts. But does it all tally?”
Beate Becht clears her throat. “When I was a teenager I put together a picture of the life of my uncle on the basis of stories I’d heard from family members. He was an SS officer, involved in the death camps. It was only years later that I managed to persuade my father to tell me the whole story. Then I realised that the picture I had in my mind was pretty close to reality.”
Takeda takes a moment to digest what the German photographer has just told him. He figures it’s a mark of confidence on her part, but decides not to pursue it given the circumstances.
“If my interpretation is correct,” he says, “we’re dealing with a criminal fraternity that calls itself the Yuzonsha, which has links with powerful people in different social circles. The leader’s called Rokurobei, and they venerate him because he…”
The taxi driver interrupts. He’s from Pakistan and he’s tired and losing patience. “Wasn’t I supposed to drop the lady here?”
Takeda looks outside. As a precaution he had decided to drop Becht a couple of streets away from the agreed rendezvous with Takamatsu. Beate Becht nods and grabs her bag.
Takeda bites the bullet: “I’m honoured by what you said back there, miss Becht, but I think…”
“I know.” She glances at him and looks away, shy, bashful… “It’s because…”
“I understand. You’re a ravishing young woman with exceptional talents.”
Why all the politeness, Takeda asks himself. This isn’t his usual style.
“Thank you.”
“And very courageous,” says Takeda when Becht gets out of the taxi. “When all this is over…”
The taxi driver hits the accelerator.
88
Reizo Shiga involuntarily drops the mask when he sees Rokurobei’s face. The man in front of him has monkey-like features, thick skin and heavy stubble all the way up to his eyes. Reizo has never seen eyes blacker than these or ears so enormous. Without the mask the long neck seems even longer. But in spite of his rugged lips, forehead, nose and jaws, the expression on his face is almost gentle. He smiles. His polished teeth glisten in the lamplight.
“Ah? So you want to look the demon I embody in the eye, boy? Courageous of you.” A pair of unnaturally large hands come to rest on Reizo’s shoulders. “But young Japanese men like you know that demons don’t exist. Am I right? You’re convinced that what you see looks like acromegaly, a metabolic disorder caused by a problem birth.”
Reizo doesn’t answer. The hands hold him motionless. The man’s heavy forehead comes closer. He whispers: “But if you look deep into my eyes you begin to have doubts, don’t you, Reizo Shiga?”
Reizo looks Rokurobei in the eye. He nods.
Rokurobei makes a gesture of appreciation and returns his hefty hand to Reizo’s right shoulder. “A warrior must wake up every morning with the idea that this is his last day. Have you done that, Reizo Shiga?”