The lunchtime Shinjuku crowd eyed the eight-car motorcade of black Lexus sedans as they turned off the busy main street of the bustling business district and disappeared into a hole in the side of a futuristic-looking building. The black tinted shatter-proof glass windows and bullet-proof side panels suggested only one thing. Yakuza. The Japanese were used to seeing motorcades like this one all over town, but the presidential authority with which they cruised the streets never failed to inspire awe. Minister Takahashi was sitting in the back of the fifth car with his adviser Hirayama. In the front sat a heavily tattooed bodyguard in a black suit and the driver. Both Takahashi and Hirayama were on their cell phones. The minister was talking politics with some government bureaucrat while his saiko-komon was taking care of an altogether different kind of business.

“Are you sure?” the adviser Hirayama was asking someone at the other end of the line.

“Well, she’s American. Her passport says her name is Diane Jane Joplin. About the age you mentioned and there is definitely a console of some description in her luggage. We don’t see may Americans of her age traveling alone and definitely very few with consoles of that description in their luggage.”

Hirayama could barely believe his luck. Once again the scenario analysis construct had been right on the money. Once the Boston Yakuza had reported that they hadn’t found the console at Joplin’s house, Hirayama had moved into high gear. The software had narrowed the places she would go to New York, New China or Tokyo. He had rushed to issue notices to the Yakuza’s informants in the airlines and Japanese customs to call his cell phone as soon as someone fitting her description was spotted, within the next forty-eight hours.

“Did you find out where she’s staying?”

“Of course, your instructions were clear. She said she was staying at the Keio Plaza Hotel.”

“Description?”

“I have her data in front of me. One meter seventy. Slim with brown eyes and mousy blonde, almost-brown, hair. Keeps it in a pony tail. Quite pretty in that American way. She didn’t look excited like most tourists do when they visit a civilized country for the first time. I’d say she looked sad and a bit lost.”

“Good work. You will be rewarded through the usual channel.” Hirayama pressed a button on the tiny phone and slipped it into his suit pocket. The minister was still on the phone, the deep boom of his voice filling the car as it slid into one of the reserved parking slots next to the other Lexus sedans. The heavies, all dressed in black, were already lined up next to the car park exit waiting to usher their master through.

The fact that the Boston Yakuza hadn’t found the console after ransacking Joplin’s sprawling house had been a setback but the gods had set things right with this the latest piece of news. Minister Takahashi would be pleased although Hirayama knew his boss well enough to believe that he wouldn’t show it. Things were slowly being brought under control. He had successfully managed to bring Yamamoto’s ill-gotten funds under the minister’s control and the minister had wired a small fortune into one of Hirayama’s own accounts. Loyalty had its value and Hirayama’s unflinching loyalty was beginning to pay dividends. Yet, the true prize would be Yamamoto’s position within the Yamaguchi-gumi hierarchy. That job was now vacant and he hoped that the oyabun would see fit to elevate him to that position.

The position of saiko-komon or personal adviser, though powerful, was an untenable one. Yes, he had access to information that other Yakuza would give their lives for, yet, contrary to tradition, he had no gangs of his own under his own control. It was a deliberate state of affairs instituted by the oyabun. If the oyabun fell, he would fall too by proxy. His fate was irretrievably tied to that of Nobu Takahashi. Hirayama knew the gang structure better than even Takahashi himself. He was familiar with the dynamics of every aspect of this black cloud that reached into every aspect of Japanese society. Who better than he to be second in command? He suspected that after Yamamoto’s treachery Takahashi would move to promote someone trustworthy, more controllable. And who was more trustworthy or more controllable than Hirayama himself? At least that is what he wanted his boss to believe. Yet, being so close had its disadvantages. Takahashi could decide that Hirayama knew too much and that if he was made second-in-command it would be too dangerous. Also, there were others in the ranks clamoring for Yamamoto’s position.

That was the very reason they were here today in one of the Yamaguchi-gumi’s many commercial buildings in Shinjuku. The heads had requested an impromptu meeting to be updated on the Yamamoto fiasco, a mere ruse to sound out the oyabun on whom he would handpick to fill the vacuum created by the traitor’s death. They would be reading the oyabun’s eyes carefully to discern who his preference was and Takahashi himself would be reading their minds to see who wanted the job most and what their motivations were. And Hirayama would sit there detached, watching the whole silent game of cat and mouse from a position of absolute objectivity. He knew the oyabun would ask him privately who he thought wanted the job. His response would have to be well thought out, strategic. It would be a way to isolate his enemies within the ranks and they were many.

Takahashi finished his phone conversation as they entered the marble lobby of the building and moved towards the bank of elevators. Even though he was wearing dark glasses, everyone in the lobby recognized Nobu Takahashi for who he was and gave their deepest bow as the black-clad group of Yakuza strode towards the private elevators. A security guard bowed deeply and inserted his key card. The elevator doors opened and the men walked inside, surrounding their boss like vultures around a dead corpse. Hirayama felt slightly uncomfortable with all that flesh around him.

“Takahashi-san, that was customs at the airport. The girl is in town. For what I do not know but she is booked into the Keio Plaza Hotel right here in Shinjuku.”

“Hmm,” Takahashi grunted as the elevator sped towards the penthouse office on the top floor of the building. The minister had already overheard the conversation and was showing his impatience at having the information repeated even though it was Hirayama’s duty to report it.

“Should we pick her up?”

“No. Put a detail on her. Nothing conspicuous. Report what she’s up to. She’s in Japan for a purpose. Let’s see what she gets up to. Even more important, lets see who else is on her tail.” All this said while Takahashi was looking up at the ceiling of the elevator, admiring the detail of the décor.

“Of course, oyabun.”

“If nothing happens in twenty-four hours, kill her and retrieve the console.”

“Of course.”

“And the other one, the hacker?”

“I have some men on it. They are following our quarry to Hong Kong. He seems to have made some interesting friends.”

“Agency?”

“Yes oyabun.”

“Hmm.”

“Oyabun?”

“Hong Kong is an interesting choice isn’t it?”

“It is indeed.”

“There is only one agency that has the resources on the ground to mount that kind of operation from Hong Kong and that resorts to the low level tactics of freelance hackers.”

“Yes. HYDRA. Bruce Fouler.”

“This is all getting very interesting,” Takahashi said simply as they emerged into an exquisite room filled with the kyodai, the top dogs of the Yamaguchi-gumi.