Chapter 42: The Pawn
In April 1987 the night wind in Meguro Ward carried the dry scent of dust.
It was two o'clock in the morning.
The famous upscale residential district had long since fallen into slumber. Behind the tall barriers of the "Seibu Forest Park" construction site, only the faint glow of distant neon lights could be seen.
Because of the ongoing dispute, work had been suspended. No night lighting had been installed, leaving dozens of yellow heavy machines to lie quietly in the shadows like sleeping beasts.
The barbed-wire fence that bisected the site stood alone amid the waist-high wild grass.
It looked flimsy—merely a layer of galvanized wire.
Yet it proved stubbornly obstructive, blocking the flow of billions of yen belonging to the Seibu Group.
"Zzz—"
Three unlicensed gray Toyota HiAce vans, headlights extinguished, glided through the side gate like ghosts.
Before the vehicles had fully stopped, their side doors were flung open.
More than a dozen men in dark-blue work clothes and masks leaped out. They carried heavy hydraulic wire cutters, iron rods, and several plastic buckets filled with liquid.
The bald leader spat out his cigarette butt, eyes gleaming with predatory focus.
These were hired hyenas, paid to do dirty work.
The task was straightforward: cut through the damned fence, pull up the boundary stakes, and douse the weeds with gasoline before setting the whole area ablaze.
Once an "accidental" fire had done its work, the land would be rendered unrecognizable. By morning the bulldozers could roll in under the pretext of clearing a fire-damaged site.
"Move quickly," the bald man growled. "Leave no traces."
"Snap."
The cold jaws of the wire cutter bit into the first strand of wire.
Fifty meters away, in deeper shadow, several black cars formed a protective formation around a black Nissan President sedan. They were parked behind a stack of prefabricated panels, their bodies coated in a thin layer of dust that helped them blend seamlessly into the night.
Inside the sedan the lights remained off.
Satsuki sat in the spacious rear seat, a Scottish cashmere blanket draped over her legs. She held a thermos cup, steam curling gently from its opening.
Through the window she watched the figures scurrying like rats around the fence. Although she had anticipated their arrival, she could not suppress a flicker of disgust.
"How filthy," she murmured, her voice as cold as if she were commenting on a bag of roadside refuse.
In her previous life on Wall Street she had preferred to crush opponents through economic means. When force became necessary, not just anyone had been qualified to stand beside her.
Fujita, in the driver's seat, gripped the steering wheel tightly, brow furrowed.
"Young Miss, these men are likely yakuza. The Seibu Group must be desperate, seeking to create a fait accompli. Or perhaps Gonda is acting alone. Should I signal the guards…"
He made a subtle gesture toward the window.
"No," Satsuki replied, taking a sip of hot tea. "I want him to act on his own."
"If it were not for the fact that he is Gonda, I would not have provoked him so deliberately."
Fujita withdrew his hand.
"Young Miss, what do you mean?"
"Fujita, are you familiar with the anchoring effect in behavioral economics?"
"When the human brain processes information or makes decisions, it tends to rely excessively on the first piece of information received—the 'anchor.' That initial datum sets the framework for all subsequent thinking. Even when new evidence arrives later, it is difficult to escape the influence of the original anchor."
"When Gonda handles disputes, he is already conditioned to apply 'power' to pressure others. When legal avenues fail, he instinctively turns to forces outside the rules. This is his mindset, his anchor."
She set the cup aside and picked up the heavy Motorola mobile telephone from the seat beside her.
"Such behavior is usually effective—it maximizes short-term efficiency. But when a man cannot distinguish whom to apply those methods against, and remains captive to his own past anchor, then we have room to maneuver."
Satsuki extended the antenna and dialed a number with practiced ease.
It was not 110.
"Beep—beep—"
The phone rang only twice before it was answered.
A young woman's voice, still thick with sleep, nevertheless maintained impeccable courtesy.
"Isokawa residence."
"Reiko."
Satsuki's tone was steady, colder than when she chaired school committee meetings.
"It is Satsuki."
The breathing on the other end sharpened instantly.
"Chairwoman?"
Isokawa Reiko's voice now held no trace of irritation—only instinctive obedience. Within the Rose Society of Seika Academy, Saionji Satsuki's will remained absolute.
"I apologize for disturbing you at this hour, but something requires immediate attention."
Satsuki watched the shadows frantically attacking the fence, her fingers tapping lightly on the leather armrest.
"Some rats have entered my land in Meguro Ward."
"People from the Seibu Group?" Reiko responded at once.
"More precisely, a group of yakuza armed with iron rods and gasoline cans," Satsuki said calmly. "They are cutting my fence and preparing to set a fire."
"How rude," Reiko snorted.
Though the Takeshita faction maintained a working alignment with Yoshiaki Tsutsumi, such behaviour was clearly excessive, and she had no objection to demonstrating her stance to Satsuki.
"It seems some of Chairman Tsutsumi's subordinates have forgotten the rules."
"Since they do not understand the rules, we shall teach them."
Satsuki's voice remained level, as though she were merely instructing the vice-chairwoman to arrange tomorrow's tea.
"Reiko, that person you mentioned last time—your grandfather's former secretary—has he recently been promoted to chief of the Metropolitan Police Department's Security Bureau?"
"Yes, Uncle Onodera. He visited our home only last week."
"Call him."
"Tell him a violent gang is attacking the Saionji family's private property and attempting arson. Instruct him to dispatch the Mobile Investigation Unit immediately to secure the area."
"And," Satsuki paused, a cold glint flashing in her eyes, "I want every one of those men arrested and prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Even if the Seibu Group attempts to bail them out, they are not to be released."
"In exchange, my father will cooperate with your grandfather on a matter in the House of Peers."
"…Understood."
After a brief pause to weigh the implications, Reiko replied without hesitation.
"Anyone who dares lay a hand on the Chairwoman's property is slapping the entire Rose Society in the face. I will handle it at once."
"Police cars will arrive within five minutes."
"Thank you for your trouble."
The call ended.
Satsuki tossed the heavy mobile telephone onto the seat beside her with a dull thud.
She picked up her teacup once more and gently blew across the surface.
Throughout the entire exchange she had not even furrowed her brow. That absolute composure left Fujita in the front seat feeling an inexplicable awe.
"Grandfather Fujita, please close the window a little tighter."
Satsuki leaned back, closed her eyes, and allowed a faint, playful smile to curve her lips.
"It is about to become rather noisy."
In the centre of the construction site the bald man had already cut a wide gap.
"Move faster!" He kicked a subordinate carrying a gasoline can. "Pour the fuel on the grass, light it, and withdraw immediately! If anyone is slow and gets burned, do not blame me!"
"Boss, something feels wrong here," the subordinate muttered nervously. "Why isn't there even a single guard?"
"No guard is better! That Saionji family is soft—actually believing a sign could stop the Seibu Group…"
Before he could finish, a blinding beam of light erupted from the site entrance, engulfing the group in harsh white glare.
"Who's there?!"
The bald man instinctively raised his iron rod to shield his eyes.
Immediately afterward—
"Woo—woo—woo—"
It was not the usual police siren but a deeper, more urgent, oppressive wail.
Red emergency lights flashed violently, dyeing the night sky a bloody crimson.
One, two, five… a total of eight unmarked dark-blue police cars surged onto the site like hunting sharks. Close behind came two fully armed Mobile Investigation Unit armoured vehicles.
There was no preliminary announcement.
Before the vehicles had even stopped, dozens of special police officers in tactical vests, wielding long batons and riot shields, poured out.
Their movements were synchronised—a well-oiled machine of controlled violence.
"Everyone on the ground!"
"Resisters will be shot!"
The amplified command thundered across the site.
The bald man stood frozen.
He had come merely to dismantle an illegal structure and perhaps cause a minor disturbance—how had he summoned an anti-terrorism response? What did "shot on sight" even mean in this context?
"Run! Run now!"
He shouted, turning to flee toward the perimeter wall.
He managed only two steps.
"Bang!"
A tear-gas canister exploded at his feet.
White smoke billowed, stinging his eyes and choking his breath. Before he could react, a heavy baton struck the back of his knee.
"Ah!"
The bald man screamed and collapsed into the muddy water.
Cold handcuffs snapped shut around his wrists.
In less than two minutes the dozen or so burly men who had arrived so arrogantly were pressed face-down into the mud like slaughtered pigs.
The subordinate carrying the gasoline can was pinned by two officers; fuel spilled across the ground, mingling with the earthy smell.
At the site entrance a black Toyota Crown sedan rolled slowly forward.
A middle-aged man in a trench coat stepped out.
He was a superintendent from the Metropolitan Police Department's Fourth Investigation Division, specialising in organised-crime countermeasures.
Having received a direct midnight order from the chief of the Security Bureau—"a violent gang is attacking the private property of an important person; treat as extremely serious"—he had rushed over without even changing into uniform.
"Superintendent, fourteen individuals in total, all secured," a squad leader reported, jogging up.
"Investigate thoroughly!" the superintendent ordered, his face grim as he eyed the gasoline cans. "This is attempted arson! Find their group leader. Tell him that if he fails to provide a full explanation, I will raid his office tomorrow!"
"Yes, sir!"
After securing the scene the superintendent straightened his collar and turned toward the black Nissan President waiting in the shadows.
He knew exactly who occupied that car.
Although his superiors had not named the individual, the implication had been unmistakable: this was someone even the powers in Nagatacho were obliged to treat with deference.
The superintendent drew a deep breath and jogged to the front of the sedan.
He did not knock on the window. Instead he bowed deeply from a respectful distance.
"We apologise for the disturbance."
The window lowered halfway.
Satsuki's exquisite yet icy profile appeared.
She did not glance at the superintendent; her gaze merely swept across the thugs being loaded into police vans.
"Thank you for your hard work."
Her voice was soft.
"However, I must remind you. These men are merely the knives."
"The one holding the knife is still asleep."
The superintendent paused, then understood.
"Please rest assured. The Metropolitan Police Department will pursue this matter to its conclusion. No matter who is involved, if the law has been broken we will not tolerate it."
Though the statement was formal, under the circumstances its weight felt particularly heavy.
"Good."
Satsuki turned her head and finally looked at him.
"Tell the Seibu people this."
A cold smile touched the corner of her mouth.
"Next time they wish to enter my garden, they should remember to knock first. Otherwise the price will not be as simple as a night in jail."
"…Yes."
The superintendent felt a chill run down his spine.
He bowed once more.
The window rose.
"Let us go home, Grandfather Fujita."
Satsuki pulled the blanket a little higher.
"The show is over."
The black convoy started, engines emitting a low rumble as they glided away from the chaotic construction site.
Along the route all the police officers instinctively made way, watching the vehicles depart and privately speculating which powerful figure could summon them to work in the dead of night.
Meanwhile, several kilometres away at Seibu Group headquarters, Gonda had just taken a call from the police station.
The news that crackled through the receiver caused the expensive whiskey glass in his hand to slip and shatter on the carpet with a dull thud.
It was not the arrest of the dozen thugs that shocked him.
It was the superintendent's cold parting remark:
"Deputy Manager Gonda, Councilor Isokawa's office has already inquired about this case. You would be wise to watch your step."
Isokawa.
At that moment Gonda understood he was truly finished.
The Saionji family possessed not only land but influence as well.
Moreover, the Seibu Group would never risk confrontation with an ally merely to protect him. A swift internal purge would follow.
He had become, in effect—
The pawn.