Red Shark

Gaze fixed straight ahead, Tokugawa said, “And now he is going around you, trying to do business directly with Wu Chow Fat. Yes?”

Ojima nodded.

“Then it is time to put an end to his entrepreneurial spirit. I don’t want Wu Chow Fat caught in the middle, between you and Naito.”

Ojima barked a laugh. “Caught in the middle, Iseda-san? But that’s what Wu Chow Fat is, a middleman. He works the road between us, the North Koreans, the Mainland Chinese, and the Taiwanese. And now Naito.”

“Then there is even more reason to cut Naito out of the chain.”

“It is not easy to do. He pays for protection from the head of the prefecture police.”

The Maybach had reentered the Shuto Expressway and was speeding back to Kabukicho.

Tokugawa, his white shirt so stiff with starch that it crackled when he reached into his inside jacket pocket, removed an envelope and laid it on the seat cushion next to Ojima. “Please.”

Ojima opened the envelope and looked at a document.

Tokugawa said, “That confirms a final payment of two million dollars has been transferred from Daiwa Bank to Chase in New York. The funds are already in your designated account. A similar amount is in the Swiss account owned by the head of the prefecture police.”

“Ah…”

“Sometimes things require certain measures.”

Ojima gave Tokugawa a small head bow. “With respect, Tokugawa-san, for a stupid man, Naito has been extremely lucky—”

Tokugawa’s eyes bulged ominously. “He is clever!” he snapped, “not lucky. Above all, he is not stupid. You, Ojima, are the stupid one. You allowed Naito to make a fool of you.” Tokugawa’s eyes were about to pop from their sockets. “You should have tended to this business when it was clear he had plans to challenge your control of Kabukicho.”

Again, Ojima bobbed his head. “I apologize for my shortcomings.”

The car exited the expressway and dove into Kabukicho’s narrow streets.

Tokugawa said, “You have two days to conclude your business with Naito. Before I depart for southern waters.”

“I understand.”

Tokugawa’s driver pulled up in front of the Shinjuki Ward Office. The Maybach, its twin-supercharged V-12 engine idling imperceptibly, sat at the curb while rain, cold and steady, beat against the passenger cabin’s darkened windows. Tokugawa watched pedestrians, salarymen, and secretaries scurry through wet streets. Those without umbrellas held folded newspapers over their heads. Ojima, Tokugawa noted, had no umbrella and no newspaper.

Tokugawa said gravely, “It would not please me to see Naito doing business with Wu Chow Fat. Naito is a hothead and too involved with those Colombian powder merchants and Russian arms dealers. And frankly he’s not as easy to do business with as you are. I like our arrangement better.” He looked at Ojima and actuated the automatic door lock. “Two days.”

Tokugawa watched the downpour turn the yakuza’s jade-green suit black as he ran for cover.

The Maybach departed Kabukicho and sped east through the crowded Ginza to the Ichigaya section of Tokyo.

Tokugawa didn’t blame Wu Chow Fat for entertaining offers from Naito; Fat was a businessman, after all. Instead, he cursed Ojima and seethed at the loss of face he’d suffered. Ojima had forgotten how business was conducted in Japan. And also how to show proper respect to the person who saw to it that doing such business in Japan was possible in the first place. Lately Tokugawa had detected a subtle shift in his relationship with Ojima, who, lately, had seemed more like a lover whose ardor had grown cold. Tokugawa blamed it on the young and ambitious Naito. Ojima had two days to make amends. He knew what would happen to him if he failed.

Tokugawa arrived at the headquarters of the Japan Pacific War Veterans Association’s office north of the Imperial Palace grounds, which overlooked the abandoned but still imposing World War II Imperial Army Headquarters building.

Tokugawa stepped from the elevator and was greeted by a row of six smiling, bowing executives wearing dark, shiny suits, white shirts, and, like Tokugawa, black silk neckties.

The association’s president, Ichiro Hatoyama, chairman of Nippon Technologies, Ltd., a short, stubby man in his late fifties, greeted Tokugawa. He bowed deeply, hands held flat against his thighs. “It is such a great pleasure to see you, Iseda-san. Welcome!”