Minister Takahashi was incensed. His dark rugged face had turned a crimson red and the veins in his neck pulsed like worms in a bait box. One of his key lieutenants, his wakagashira and second in command, had been murdered in a way that was so shameful that he was tempted to order the whole gang, who had been at the exclusive Cherry Blossom club in downtown Tokyo that night, to commit seppuku, the ritual slicing open of their own stomachs, instantly. But Nobu Takahashi was a patient man, a virtue that had seen him rise from the son of a lowly Kyoto shopkeeper to one of the most important men in Japan. He had ordered the gang, through his saiko-komon or personal adviser Hirayama, for the oyabun himself had minimal contact with the Yakuza, to leave no stone unturned to find the killer and bring him to a swift and bloody justice.

But that was the least of Takahashi’s problems. Upon news of Yamamoto’s embarrassing death, Hirayama had discovered a list of Yamamoto’s contacts around the world and the deceased’s laptops had revealed a side interest that threatened to destroy everything that Takahashi had worked so hard for. There had always been rumors, denied religiously of course, that Takahashi was the head of the powerful Yamaguchi-gumi Yakuza faction to which Kenzo Yamamoto belonged. And Yamamoto’s blackmail victims included powerful people in Japanese and international society. Luckily, the deceased wakagashira had kept extensive records of his activities, encrypted and protected by mega-viruses but twenty computers and twenty-four hacker hours later, the extent of Yamamoto’s betrayal was clear to see.

It appeared from Kenzo Yamamoto’s communication logs that the vast majority of his contacts where basic mules, hackers and informants who had no idea what the information they provided would be used for. What worried the minister however, were the receipts for two mailed DHL packages that Yamamoto had sent abroad just hours before his death. The receipts had been found on Yamamoto’s body but the stubs for the packages, the ones that would list the names and addresses of the recipients, were missing. It appeared Yamamoto had destroyed them. And why would Yamamoto have the receipts in his wallet? That suggested that he had sent the packages personally. Why do that when he could have instructed any one of an army of Yakuza to do it for him. Takahashi wanted to know what was in the packages.

The Chinese had actually done Takahashi a favor. Without Yamamoto’s death, the scale of his betrayal would have remained a secret eating away at his legacy. Within twenty-four hours, the Yamaguchi-gumi’s army of hackers had gained access to Yamamoto’s Swiss Bank accounts and security deposit boxes and discovered assets and credit to the tune of one billion Euros. The scale of it was shocking. Money that should have gone into the collective pocket of the Yakuza had been siphoned off for Yamamoto’s personal benefit. Takahashi was determined to see the credit land in his own myriad set of Swiss credit accounts.

Hopefully his adviser Hirayama would bring him some good news before they departed his secluded mansion on the outskirts of Tokyo. The minister was soon to leave Tokyo for a rented luxury hideaway on Guam Island where he and a few of his most important kyodai, his blood brothers, had planned to spend a few days of extra-curricular activities and a little business before returning to Tokyo. Yamamoto, if he were still alive, would have been there too helping to keep the barking dogs among the ranks at bay. He might have to cancel the trip.

He had already spoken privately to the prime minister and gained his assurance that the investigation into Yamamoto’s death was pure rigmarole, a public relations exercise. The prime minister was more than pleased with the financial arrangements Takahashi had made on his behalf. They were after all childhood friends. Unlike the prime minister, Takahashi had never married. He preferred to play the dashing bachelor politician while the prime minister had gone on to give new meaning to the term extended family.

Takahashi poured himself a Remy Martin from an expensive-looking crystal decanter at the bar and strolled towards the expansive top floor balcony of his mansion. Below the balcony lay the sublime beauty of his exquisite Zen garden. In the darkness, he could make out the gilded forms of his prized koi as they swam about in the rock pools. Living art. He never failed to be amazed by the symmetry and harmony of it all, the balance created by the dark shadows that had retired to one side of the garden, LEDs blinking intermittently in the winter night. That harmony had now been temporarily broken by Yamamoto’s shameful death and his treachery.

Nobu Takahashi was of medium build but stocky with the hairy features of Japanese from southern Japan. His thick black hair was streaked with gray, naturally curly and flowed back in thick keratin waves from his impressive forehead. His nose though slightly on the large side was not large enough to be a liability. He was often described in the media as ‘ruggedly handsome’, much to his well concealed delight.

His saiko-komons voice wafted through the half open door of one of the mansions rooms that served as offices. Hirayama was tying up loose ends with the investigations. The view of Tokyo city at night was truly impressive. He sighed nostalgically, pondering how Japan could regain the technology lead that New China had taken away over the last two decades. Japan was still an innovator but it was lagging behind New China in almost every other area of trade and industry. And what to do about those two names on the list?

Hirayama walked calmly out to the balcony.

“I hope it’s good news,” Takahashi growled with feigned gruffness. Hirayama was a dog to be kept down at all times otherwise his canines might start to show.

“We found out the details on the packages Yamamoto sent and where he sent them. They were sent to two addresses. One was sent to a Dr. James Joplin in Boston and another to a Cad Caldwell in London. Our men are tracking them down right now oyabun.”

“Interesting, and what was in them?”

“It appears Yamamoto got away without declaring the contents,” Hirayama delivered this not-so-good news with his head bowed.

“But we can find out from DHL, right? They must have that information in their systems.” It was more of a statement than a question.

“Our technicians are currently attempting to retrieve this information. So far it seems there are no records of the contents at DHL Japan but we might be able to get something from their overseas systems. I really don’t understand why, in this day and age, he would send those packages to these foreigners, oyabun.”

“Yamamoto was a devious man and a traitor.”

“Yes, who would have guessed it?”

“Yet, we still revenge our own. Any ID on the assassin?”

Hirayama broke into a smile.

“He took out all the CCTVs in the building but it appears that the Cherry Blossom had hidden cameras inside the toilets of the men’s lavatory too. Why on earth they would want to film the genitals of a man easing himself is beyond understanding. Probably some new demand from young Japanese girls turning the tables on perverted male chauvinist pigs. Just yesterday the Yomiuri Shimbun reported that a salaryman was groped in broad daylight on the way home from work by a group of teenage schoolgirls. Anyway, the killer was caught on camera doctoring the toilet seat. A still image was sent to us a few minutes ago. Another toilet attendant at the Cherry Blossom has confirmed seeing a small Chinese man hanging around the toilets. The analysis of the toxin confirms this too. It’s a Chinese nanobot variant of the neuromuscular toxin botulinum.”

“Run the image against the databases and the pattern recognition AIs. Find out who he is. Tell the others that the trip to Guam is cancelled. We need to tie up these loose ends, quickly.”

“Yes oyabun. Please accept my apologies for the slow progress sir.”

“Quite the contrary, once the assassin and those foreigners are dead and the consoles retrieved safely, you will be well rewarded.”

“They are as good as dead, oyabun,” Hirayama promised, as his voice drifted out into the cool Tokyo night.