Floating City (6 page)

He listened, tears streaming down his cheeks, even after the beating had ceased, straining for each echo as it rose up the night-black canyon of steel and glass, dying away in the tungsten- and antimony-tinged air high above Tokyo.

When at last the final reverberation had played itself out in the confines of the room, he turned from the window, which he had thrown open just before midnight. As he did so, the octopus on his back and sides rippled its eight arms. This elaborate
irizumi,
the traditional, highly charged tattoo of the Yakuza, spread over his torso and upper arms. The octopus was a great brown creature, eyes full of violent sorrow. It was garlanded with
sakura
—cherry blossoms—as if it had emerged from a hillside in Nara, rather than from the depths of the ocean. Four of the octopus’s arms were engaged in a struggle with a fierce, bearded warrior wielding a battle ax; the remaining four arms erotically embraced a magnificent seminude woman. The dual nature of the octopus was rampant in Japanese legend; its sexual potency was believed to be unparalleled. And why not? With eight arms, it must surely be a better lover than a man.

The octopus in motion, Chosa faced the Plexiglas case placed against one otherwise bare wall. In it resided a life-size wax replica of Marilyn Monroe in the one pose from
The Seven Year Itch
that had passed from mere fame into genuine legend. Legs spread, hands splayed between her legs, a startled moue on her face, this Marilyn mannequin wore the same dress the real one had worn when stopping on a subway grate while hot air billowed it up around her sensational thighs. Chosa had paid through the nose for it. In his replica, a small motor blew the air upward, the dress eternally waving like the flag at the grave of the Unknown Soldier.

“What is it you see in her?”

The unmistakable voice turned him slowly around until he was looking into the exquisite face of Naohiro Ushiba, Daijin of MITI. Ushiba gazed with obvious distaste at the image of Marilyn. “Everything about her is so... exaggerated, as gross as an American cross-dresser.” He made a parody of the moue Marilyn used to seduce the world, making Chosa laugh.

The sound irritated Ushiba further. “It’s like a corruption of the soul, this image.”

Chosa shrugged. “Whose soul? And what is your definition of corruption?”

Ushiba glowered at Chosa. “I fear the dark night of the American psyche is imprinting itself on you. You know my definition of corruption: American work ethic, American hedonism, American shortsightedness, American elitism.”

Chosa smiled. “So dour, Naohiro. So different from your ebullient act in front of the press.” Chosa gestured at the cityscape outside the windows. “Look out there. We are the land of the empty symbol.” He pointed to the Marilyn replica. “Now that you have a degree of celebrity you should be more sympathetic. This is just another symbol—and quite a fascinating one. Who better than we to understand it?”

Chosa was an impressive man. His wide face and chunky body appeared attached without the need for a neck, the beach-ball head smashed cruelly down between massive shoulders.

The
irizumi
made him seem larger, more commanding than he might otherwise be. The force of the tattooing, the hyperimaginative covering of his flesh in colored inks, served the same purpose as a mask might on someone with less personality. Ushiba, who knew him better than anyone else, was of the belief that its facade allowed Chosa the freedom to employ chimerical personality shifts without the leash of conscience or remorse, as if the creatures crawling over him might be responsible for this behavior and not Chosa himself.

“You make me sick,” Ushiba said, but his glance briefly touched the spot on Chosa’s flesh where beast and woman joined most intimately. “These bastard Americans...” He seemed to strangle on bitter emotion.

“It’s the Americans we’re in bed with who make you sick,” Chosa said, moving into the kitchen to prepare tea.

“That we need them at all is galling.” Ushiba lit a cigarette as he followed Chosa. “I wonder that you don’t feel it.”

“Oh, I
do
feel it.” Chosa put water on to boil, taking cups from a cabinet, measuring out tea. “But, unlike you, I’ve learned to live with it.”

This suite, part of a triplex Chosa owned in the building, was reserved only for him and his occasional guests. Bodyguards and servants lived in the rooms below. He was one public figure who cherished his privacy. Midnight might seem an odd time to meet with the chief minister of MITI, but after all, Chosa was Yakuza, and such direct links between the underworld and the bureaucracy required absolute security. That the Daijin Ushiba was an adviser to the former Kaisho’s three-member inner council was a secret no one involved wanted known. Since Tomoo Kozo’s death late last year, the inner council consisted of Chosa, Tetsuo Akinaga, and Tachi Shidare, a young man elevated to Kozo’s position of
oyabun
of the Yamauchi clan. With the exception of Shidare, who was as yet too young, these men—along with Ushiba—were reigning members of the Godaishu who had become discontented with Mikio Okami’s power as Kaisho. After months of bitter debate, they had agreed to oust him, but somehow, someone unknown had transformed that decision into a death sentence for Okami.

“It’s humiliating,’’

“No.” Chosa turned on the Daijin abruptly. “It’s humiliating being privy to your weakness.” He poured tea into two cups, and they sat at the kitchen table, staring into one another’s face.

“Yes.” Ushiba blew out a cloud of smoke. “My doctor tells me my ulcer is worse. The Americans are making it bleed; don’t you think I have reason enough to despise them?”

Chosa handed Ushiba the tea. As he did so, he gave him a skeptical look. “Oh, yes. But you delimited the Americans. Just like you helped us delimit the Kaisho.”

“Murdering Mikio Okami. Is that what you term
delimiting?”

Chosa raised his eyebrows. “Okami is dead? Do you know something I do not, Naohiro?”

“Well, no, of course not.” Ushiba made a grimace of pain, wrapped his fine fingers tightly around the earthenware cup. “I was merely assuming his demise.”

“With Okami that would be a mistake.” Chosa drained his cup, ran his fingertip around the bottom, picking up the limp tea leaves. He deliberately ignored the Daijin’s pain; to do otherwise would make Naohiro lose face.

“But surely if Okami were alive, we would have heard some word of him by now.”

Chosa sucked his fingertip into his mouth, chewed meditatively on the bitter leaves. “True, I have heard no word of Okami. But his would-be assassin is now dead, so firsthand verification is impossible.” He smiled, putting his hand over Ushiba’s. “Don’t worry about the Kaisho. His power has been destroyed. It is as my grandfather said, ‘Count as friends only those who have the ability to destroy you.’“ Chosa cherished these moments because they were the only time when he could confront Ushiba honestly.

“If you truly thought Mikio Okami was alive, you would do something about it,” Ushiba continued as he tapped ash off the end of his cigarette.
“He
was your problem.”

“Yes. The Kaisho.” Chosa’s face was thoughtful. “A latter-day shogun. What a disaster he was for us! So much power concentrated in one man. Disgraceful!”

“Disgraceful only because he managed to put himself beyond the scope of even your power. I, myself, could admire him for that.”

“Pah!” Chosa appeared disgusted. “With all your spies, don’t tell me you didn’t know I was the one who ordered his death.”

Ushiba’s beautiful face turned hard. “Your habit of making fun of me will be the death of you, one day. I assure you I knew nothing of that plot.”

Now Chosa could not contain his mirth. “Of course the Americans have put a hole in your stomach. You’ve been busting a gut trying to understand their humor.”

“And you,” Ushiba said, scowling, “have picked up too much from them.”

“Well, if so, I’ve lost nothing in the process, so I wish you’d quit worrying about it. Bad for your stomach.”

“So’s this tea.” Ushiba pushed the cup away from him. He got up, went quickly to the bathroom, leaving Chosa alone with his thoughts.

It was true, he thought mournfully, the Americans would be the death of Naohiro. That would be a sad day, for he, Chosa, would lose his edge with the other
oyabun,
his shining path to the ministries of Japan. Well, it was a difficult decision, but he knew he must plan for that day. Naohiro was not getting better, despite the best efforts of his physicians. He should have been in hospital months ago for a week of intravenous drug therapy and utter calm, but Naohiro would not—or possibly could not—agree to it.

Naohiro possessed
kan,
a word adapted from the Chinese that referred to the home of a ruling mandarin. In modern Japanese it was the definition of power for the bureaucrat and was the basis for the word
kanryodo,
the way of the samurai-bureaucrat.

Naohiro was a true samurai-bureaucrat. His work at MITI meant everything to him. The one sure way to kill him quickly, Chosa mused, would be to take him away from his work. The physicians knew that so they had not insisted.

Chosa revered Ushiba; he might even in his own way love him. But Chosa was, first and foremost, a pragmatist. In the world of violence and treachery that he inhabited, there was little room for compassion or sentiment except as acceptable symbols at specified and infrequent intervals.

Ushiba returned to the kitchen, white-faced and silent. He lit another cigarette, stood silently smoking for some time.

Knowing he had offended the Daijin, Chosa now sought to win back the ground he had lost. He went to the refrigerator, brought back a carton of milk from which he filled Ushiba’s teacup. “Cheer up, my friend. At least, you don’t have to worry about Tomoo Kozo anymore.”

Ushiba gave a disgusted grunt. “Crazy
oyabun!
He tried to destroy Nicholas Linnear and wound up being killed by his prey.”

“Look on the bright side. The Kaisho’s inner council is better off without him.”

Ushiba shrugged as he sat down. “That may well be true, now that you and Tetsuo Akinaga have agreed on Tachi Shidare’s accession to
oyabun
of the Yamauchi clan. You two will have more control than you did when Kozo was the Yamauchi
oyabun.”

Ushiba scowled as he looked down into the milk. “But you had best make certain Linnear never discovers that it was Kozo’s man tailing his wife when she had the fatal accident. Considering how he feels about Yakuza in general, he’d come after all of us, not just the Yamauchi. The police we can control through the politicians whom we own, but Linnear is the one man who can destroy us.”

Chosa grunted. “We’ve made certain that Linnear will never learn the true nature of the incident. The truck driver knows nothing more than he gave to the police in his statement. There was no mention of the white Toyota. Even Tanzan Nangi has no idea that Kozo was having Linnear’s wife followed. Why would he? Kozo was crazy, we all knew it. What did Kozo have to gain by having her followed?”

“That’s simple. Once Kozo learned of the link between Okami and Linnear, he put Linnear’s wife under surveillance in hopes of finding her husband.”

“Who was this man she went to meet, who she spent the night with in a Tokyo hotel?”

“He was her lover, an advertising executive.” Ushiba continued to stare into his milk, smoke curling around his face. “They were both innocent.”

“Yes, but we didn’t know that then. All Kozo knew was that the man was an American who, upon arriving in Japan, had gone straight to Tanzan Nangi. Kozo, already wary of our American partners in the Godaishu, became suspicious.”

“Paranoid, you mean,” Ushiba said in contempt.

“There is always a whiff of paranoia to suspicion, isn’t there?” Chosa was thoughtful for a moment. “In any event, Kozo had Linnear’s wife followed. She must have spotted the white Toyota following her and panicked.”

“So the death of Linnear’s wife was accidental.”

“Not at all,” Chosa said thoughtfully. “If you think about it, it’s Linnear’s fault. The life he chose to live murdered her. She was always looking over her shoulder, jumping at shadows.”

The Daijin laughed harshly. “You’ve put an interesting spin on nasty events.”

“Nicholas Linnear. As you have said, he’s very dangerous, highly skilled. There isn’t an
oyabun
alive who isn’t terrified of him.”

“Except you, eh?” Ushiba said archly.

“Especially
me.” Chosa poured himself more tea, tried to ignore Ushiba’s milky cup. “I have a more realistic respect than most for Linnear’s hatred of the Yakuza.”

“Don’t let’s bring a sense of personal vengeance into a situation that is already fraught with enough difficulty.”

“Is that what you think?” Chosa eyed Ushiba. “I’m going after Linnear for a very good reason. Somehow, Okami learned of my plot to have him eliminated, and he responded in an altogether extraordinary manner—he enlisted the aid of Nicholas Linnear.”

Ushiba shook his head. “But how was that possible? Linnear despises all Yakuza.”

“Of that I have no doubt. But inside Linnear is Japanese, just as his father, Colonel Linnear, was. There is a family debt owed to Okami and Linnear is obligated to fulfill it.
Giri.
He became Okami’s protector.
That
is why I have no faith in the assumption that the Kaisho is dead. And that is why I put to you that Linnear must be destroyed.”

“Whatever arguments you put to me, I must forbid you to act against Linnear.”

Chosa looked at him archly.
“You
forbid
me?”

“Listen to me, I am the voice of reason. Kozo tried it and he’s dead. But I know you. You think you’re better than Kozo. You think you can outsmart Linnear.”

“I
know
it. He is a man, after all, not a machine or a god. And he is vulnerable just like any man.”

“You will jeopardize the entire Godaishu because you want to prove your erection is bigger than his.”