Hierarchy . . .
The reflection felt like it had come late. It wasn’t just the protest that was on his mind. Why hadn’t Captain Tsujiuchi come out of his office? There had only been a door between them. He must have heard the commotion. And Mikami doubted he’d have hidden, scared, behind his desk. He’d probably decided to ignore them. Whatever happened outside his office wasn’t his concern. Just another commotion in the provinces. He would have appeared untroubled, happy in his conviction. But how was he able to do that? It was because the captain’s office was more than just another room in the Prefectural HQ. It was Tokyo; it was the National Police Agency.
The Prefecture D Police had been diligent in their cultivation of the man’s near-divine status. They reported favourable information and insulated him from everything that wasn’t good news. They devoted themselves to ensuring that his time in the Prefectural HQ was spent in comfort. He was kept free from germs, sheltered from the troubles and worries of the local police, treated instead like a guest at a spa, and when he returned to Tokyo it would be with pockets full of expensive gifts from local companies. I enjoyed my time here, surrounded by the warmth of the local community and the officers serving it. They would feel relief as he recited the formulaic words during his departing speech, then, hardly leaving time for them to gather breath, they would begin to gather information on the personality and interests of the incoming captain.
Mikami lit a cigarette.
They’d made him a part of it. No, he’d made the decision himself. He’d considered every option, used behind-the-scenes tactics with the press, then finally deployed himself as a physical barrier, and all to protect this visitor from above the clouds. It felt as though he’d put himself beyond the point of no return. He’d let himself become a guard dog for Administrative Affairs, both in name and in deed. True to the role, he’d bared his fangs to protect the captain. It was fact; he knew he had to come to terms with it. At the same time, he knew he’d be little more than a failure if he gave up now, with the press mocking him, Akama trampling over him.
Futawatari’s expression still hung in his vision.
What had he thought, seeing the young reporters storm around Mikami? Had he laughed at the shame of it? Had he sympathized? Or had he taken a mental note, filing the incident away to use in his performance evaluations?
He had slipped away from the scene. Had he been afraid of getting dragged into the melee? Or had he left having decided it wasn’t his concern? Perhaps it simply meant the best way to succeed in Administrative Affairs was to be quick to realize – and expedite yourself away from – any potential danger.
Still . . .
The time would come when they would clash. They were moving on the same board. Six Four. The Koda memo. Both were fraught with danger. They would bring the two men into conflict, whether they liked it or not. It was an uneven fight. The game was already in motion and yet Mikami was still in the dark as to its nature. He didn’t even know if Futawatari was a partner or an opponent. It was only clear that they would clash. That the fight would be bloody. Mikami could feel it, the certainty there in his gut.
He checked the calendar on the wall. Akama had given him a list of instructions to follow. He was to treat the weekend as a cooling-off period and avoid all contact with the press. He was to work instead on the job he’d been forced to shelve: convincing Yoshio Amamiya to receive the commissioner’s visit. Early in the following week, at a round-table meeting scheduled for the ninth, he was personally to outline the process leading up to the ruckus surrounding the protest.
Even Akama, then, had reached the conclusion that it was necessary to try to placate the press. The round-table meetings were attended by the managing editors and branch chiefs from each of the thirteen groups that made up the Press Club. While the meetings were usually convened towards the middle of the month, an emergency session had been set up now, in the middle of the unrest, in order to appeal to the executives before the position of a few aggrieved reporters grew into the stance of the papers themselves.
Would it be enough to defuse the situation? Mikami had only been given permission to ‘explain’ events, not to offer an apology, or even an excuse.
He stubbed his half-smoked cigarette into his ashtray.
He had resigned himself to having to stand in the firing lane at the meeting, but the burden of having to work on Amamiya was heavy in his mind. The task of convincing him to receive the commissioner general felt untenable, regardless of how many times he might try. He could think of nothing convincing to say to the man. And he was unable to stomach the idea of tricking him into accepting. At the same time, Mikami’s desire to understand Amamiya’s plight refused to wither away. If anything, it was growing stronger.
What was the real reason behind his refusal? Why was he trying to keep the police at a distance?
If he could only learn the answer, Amamiya’s acceptance would come as a natural consequence. Mikami felt sure of it. For now, however, the best he could do – and still call it fair play – was to make an advance visit to the Investigative Team and see what they could offer him. The detectives would have to have some kind of insight into Amamiya’s current emotional state, into why it had changed over time.
His main concern was the gag order, imposed by Director Arakida himself. That, and whatever it was Futawatari was up to . . .
But that’s all for tomorrow.
Mikami dragged himself out from the kotatsu and changed into his pyjamas. Keeping quiet, he walked down the corridor and into the bathroom. He twisted the tap a fraction and used the thin stream of water to wash his face, in silence. His exhaustion clung to the mirror. This unfortunate face. The thought had come to him countless times. With no means to switch it for another, or to throw it away, he’d put up with it for forty-six years. The wrinkles had grown noticeably more pronounced under his eyes and on his forehead. The skin was beginning to loosen over his cheeks. He only needed to age a little more, another three or five years, and people would stop commenting on his resemblance to Ayumi.
She’s alive, of course she is.
It was because she was alive that she hadn’t been found. She was in hiding, that was all. And she had chosen somewhere no one knew; that was why she hadn’t turned up. Hide and seek. Tag. She’d loved to pester him to play with her, jumping around like a puppy when he got home from work or was off duty.
Recoiling suddenly, Mikami turned around.
He thought he’d heard something.
He shut off the tap and concentrated on listening.