Six Four (12 page)

Mikami frowned, concentrating on the cowardly idea that had risen, scum-like, to the surface. If things did come to a head, he could always force a reset by giving them Hanako Kikunishi’s name. Doing so might flip the situation to his advantage. There wouldn’t be any damage. The press only wanted the police to reveal her identity. He’d already made sure to labour the point that she was pregnant and suffering from high levels of stress. As they tended to be oversensitive when it came to the weak, they wouldn’t run an article exposing her true identity. Even supposing
they
were
considering it, the story would be three days old if they ran it in the next day’s news. No: it was highly unlikely any of them would actually put it in print.

There was, of course, the issue of saving face. If he overturned their policy of not revealing the woman’s identity, he would be admitting that the Prefectural HQ had made a mistake. They would also have to ready themselves for this about-turn becoming a precedent, fuelling the press to escalate their demands.

But the loss of face would be nothing compared to what might happen if he failed to act and let the press barge into the captain’s office. And worries of losing face would be the last thing on his mind if the trouble disrupted the commissioner’s visit.

‘I’m going upstairs for a bit.’

Mikumo approached as he got to his feet, looking a little anxious. ‘Sir.’ Her face was flushed. Her eyes sharp, even angry. ‘Please let me go to Amigos with the others.’

Mikami felt his head spin. Suwa had put her up to this. Either that, or she was trying to help, unwilling to stand back and watch him suffer.

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ he snapped, hurrying out of the room. He stopped himself after a few steps then turned to face the door again.
Not a good idea?
He turned back into the room. ‘Forget about it, for good,’ he commanded. Mikumo looked crestfallen. Even Mikami had been surprised by the harshness in his voice.

But the poison was already coursing through his blood. He had for a moment considered taking advantage of the fact that Mikumo was a woman, and he knew he would come to regret it.

It was dark beyond the windows.

Mikami was making his way to the first floor, this time via a different set of stairs from those that led to Administrative Affairs. The red carpet ran all the way up these stairs, starting at the entrance to the station, turning right at the landing to the first floor, and stretching as far as the Secretariat and the Public Safety Committee’s office. Mikami pushed open the door to the Secretariat. His gaze met that of Aiko Toda, who was sitting closest to the door. He couldn’t see Ishii at his desk.

‘Is the chief in?’

‘Yes, he’s in the visitor’s room.’

Mikami glanced at the door set in the right-hand wall. The visitor’s room was a kind of annexe within the Secretariat, its main function to host confidential discussions.

‘I’ll wait.’

He walked over the carpeted floor and settled into one of the couches in the middle of the room, its quality and comfort far superior to the ones in Media Relations. A selection of indoor plants had been arranged at even intervals, doubling up as a screen that could shield you from the office’s view if you sat in the right place.

The room was soundless. Even though Mikami had grown used to it, it still managed to put him on edge. His eyes drifted off to the corner furthest to the left. A set of double doors fashioned out of finely grained wood announced the entrance to the
captain’s office. The lamp was on, indicating that the room was occupied.

The office staff were all hard at work. Even with the chief out of the office, it was rare for them to relax their sense of professional formality. They were polished and always on the ball – all the way down from the vice-chief through the section managers to the rank and file – impressive, even if compared to their colleagues in the Prefectural Government.

The difference was incredible. Although his office was located separately, Mikami was also a member of the Secretariat. Welcoming the station captain from Tokyo. Protecting him. Returning him unscathed back to the NPA. There was no exaggeration in saying that these were the Secretariat’s principal duties.

Toda came over with a mug of tea.

‘Will he be long?’ Mikami asked, keeping his voice low.

Toda inclined her head a little. ‘He’s been in there for a while, so I wouldn’t—’

‘Who’s he with?’

‘Inspector Futawatari.’

Mikami held his breath until Toda left. It was warm when he slowly exhaled.
A second brush with Futawatari in a single day
. It was becoming harder to dismiss it as coincidence. Futawatari would be meeting Ishii to discuss the commissioner’s visit, or something else to do with Six Four. Mikami had to assume this much.

His eyes bored into the door. For a moment it was as though he could see Futawatari’s scrawny back through it. The sharp, clearly defined lines of his face. The razor-sharp intelligence of those cutting eyes.

But . . .

The look that had been burned in Mikami’s retina was altogether different.

A summer day, long ago. It came vividly back: the unfathomable expression, fixed on Mikami as he held out a wet towel in
both hands. They’d been in the same class in high school. Both members of the kendo club. It was their last prefectural tournament as third-year students; Mikami had been
taisho
– captain of his team – while Futawatari had reconciled himself to being in reserve. He’d lacked the necessary flair. He’d also been unlucky to find himself in a group of elites many of whom, in their year and the year below, had come up through the local
dojo
. Round one. Mikami had landed a
nukido
– a sharp strike to the abdomen – on the
taisho
of one of their main rivals. He had returned triumphant to the corridor that served as the rest area. Drenched in sweat, he’d looked for one of the wet towels the first years had to get ready but been unable to find any. The bus carrying the team’s supporters had been late to arrive, and the junior members had been sent to help unload luggage. Mikami had snapped around, annoyed, his eyes landing on Futawatari.

However much he tried, Mikami couldn’t recall what had happened next. He suspected his eyes had barked the order.

Get me a fucking towel.

Futawatari had jumped into action. He’d disappeared behind the stands and reappeared moments later with a cooler box slung over his shoulder. He’d taken out a towel and proffered it in silence. Following the tradition of the club, he’d presented it with both hands. But he hadn’t shown any sign of deference. His eyes had remained fixed on Mikami. But their expression had been abnormal. They’d lacked any kind of light. Empty of consciousness or feeling, they’d appeared as black pits. He’d suppressed everything. Taken control. At seventeen years of age, Futawatari had been able fully to conceal all the humiliation, anger and bitterness that would have been seething inside him.

A few months later, on the recommendation of a graduate of the kendo club, Mikami had sat the entrance exams to join the police. When he’d spotted Futawatari in the same examination hall, he’d stared, wide-eyed.
I thought the civil service might be a good fit.
That was all Mikami had managed to get out of him. Even
now, Mikami wasn’t sure what had motivated Futawatari to chose a career in the force. The kendo club was a sizable organization. A harsh environment where you earned a place to fight by defeating your companions. Mikami had never considered a man like Futawatari, who had never handled a
bokuto
before entering the club, as an equal. He’d worked hard at it; that much was true. Never missed a practice session. Mikami had never heard him whine or complain. And he hadn’t been the kind of man who schemed behind people’s backs to bring them down. Although maybe that was just the impression he gave. The memories were hazy.
Sure. Of course. I agree.
Mikami couldn’t remember much beyond the man’s emotionless responses. For Mikami, whose high-school years had been physically and emotionally wild and unrestrained, the reticent and boring Futawatari, forever on reserve, had never been of interest, and nothing dramatic had ever happened to impart the feeling that they’d spent a part of their youth together. Considering they’d been in the same club in the same school for three years, he knew far too little about the man.

Mikami had graduated third in his year in police school. He would never forget his surprise when he learned that Futawatari had graduated first. The greater surprise had been yet to come. Futawatari began to race through his promotion exams, swiftly ascending through the ranks. He focused on administration, specializing in Personnel, and was made superintendent at forty – the youngest in the history of the Prefectural HQ. His record still stood.

He spent the following seven years as an inspector in Administrative Affairs, the key position in managing personnel, enjoying a reputation as the department’s ‘ace’. He was highly regarded among the career officers, and Mikami had heard he’d been put in charge of drawing up the plans for executive transfers. A succession of directors had taken him in as their right-hand man; he had become the implicit authority behind decisions concerning personnel, and was on his way to becoming truly untouchable.

You’re just their pet, nothing more.
Mikami had muttered his contempt each time Futawatari crossed his thoughts. It wasn’t that he was a bad loser. His position as a detective had furnished him with a sense of pride and exclusivity. He belonged to a no-nonsense world, a family, where influence depended on the number of perps you brought in, a world divorced from the departments that competed to have stars on their collars. His ‘record’ hadn’t disappeared, but he’d beaten it with results. They’d needed him, and he’d always delivered. He’d been far removed from Futawatari’s reach in Personnel. He’d never doubted that was the truth.

But . . .

What if Futawatari
had
got to him?

Mikami had always avoided thinking about it. He knew he would become a hostage to the suspicion if he did. He would lose sight of the reason for being in Media Relations; he would lose control. The fear of that happening had compelled him, until now, to look away.

But there it was.

Had his appointment really been down to Akama, and Akama alone?

It had been this time last year. Word had begun to spread that Mikami might receive a transfer to be part of the Criminal Investigations Bureau in Tokyo.
It’s looking likely. The decision’s all but made.
Mikami had himself heard the whispers. Yet, when the announcement was made, it had been a different story. The promotion to superintendent – and the concurrent transfer to Tokyo – had been awarded to Yasuo Maejima, one of Mikami’s contemporaries. Postings to Tokyo were traditionally provided to groom candidates for the post of director. Mikami had been left stranded, as if the passport to his future career had been seized at the moment he boarded the flight. He could have perhaps shaken it off if that had been as far as it went. Told himself he’d never wanted to serve in Tokyo. And, at first, he’d been proud of
how well he’d taken the blow. The real shock had come later, when he’d received the informal confirmation of his own upcoming transfer. His ‘criminal record’ hadn’t been the only thing that had crossed his mind. He’d recalled again the eyes like black pits, devoid of light and feeling, from that summer day long ago.

He had suspected something underhand. Futawatari and Maejima had been good friends. They had shared a dorm room in police school and – as far as Mikami was aware – were still close, their friendship extending beyond the professional divide that stretched between Criminal Investigations and Administrative Affairs.

There was a sudden bustle. Mikami glanced at the door to the visitor’s room. No sooner had he done so than the door opened and Ishii and Futawatari emerged side by side.

‘Mikami,’ Futawatari greeted him, the first to speak.

Even more than before, he gave the impression of someone belonging to the elite. Gone was the feeble reserve at the kendo club, the man Mikami could have taken his
bokuto
to and beaten a hundred per cent of the time. Mikami worried he might be unable to keep his voice level.

‘Futawatari. Seems you called, this morning?’

Futawatari nodded. ‘Ishii just brought me up to speed.’

Which meant the call had been to ask after Ayumi. Concern for a fellow officer? Or had he wanted to confirm something as an Administrative Affairs inspector?

It was a relief.
Futawatari’s eyes conveyed the message as he strode from the room, not putting it into words. The effect was that of having caught sight of a businessman jumping from one country to the next.

Why are you digging into Six Four? What the hell is the Koda memo?
Mikami felt an urge to chase and interrogate him, but he remained where he was. It had thrown him to learn that Futawatari’s call had been about Ayumi. But that wasn’t all. He’d been unnerved
at seeing the virtual display of Futawatari’s status. This was his arena. Mikami couldn’t expect to win with a half-hearted attack.

‘Right then, Mikami.’ Ishii waved him over and went back into the visitor’s room.

‘What did Futawatari want?’ Mikami asked, having seated himself on a couch inside.

‘Ah yes, that was about the renovation of the headquarters. The work’s coming up next summer, so we’re getting to the point when we need to start thinking about temporary offices. We’re probably not going to be able to avoid having two different sites, so the first thing to decide is where we’re going to locate the captain. As you know, the captain’s office determines the official address of the police headquarters . . .’

Ishii lacked the ability to lie coherently. Mikami doubted he could have answered so fluently if the two had really been in covert discussions concerning Six Four. Which probably meant it was taking place over Ishii’s head. Futawatari was acting on direct orders from Akama. That seemed the more likely scenario, especially when you factored in his status as Akama’s right-hand man.