From the Fatherland, with Love, page 26
Everyone at the round table had relaxed somewhat following Kido’s speech to the nation and Shigemitsu’s press conference, but now the doctor’s comments about the database caused a new stir. “What’s that all about?” demanded Kido and Shigemitsu, getting to their feet and turning to Araki Yukie, Minister for Home Affairs. She immediately got on the phone to Kai Tomonori, head of the Local Government Wide Area Network (LGWAN) and told him to come right away. Kai was a former private university professor who had supported the creation of the national database of Japanese citizens commonly known as the Juki Net. Shigemitsu, meanwhile, had called up the mayor of Fukuoka to check whether the Juki Net had been leaked. The mayor confirmed that the people in charge had been threatened with the execution of hostages, and had handed over all the resident-register codes to the KEF. They hadn’t been hiding this fact, he said apologetically, but there were just so many things to do that they hadn’t yet had time to report it. “The resident codes?” muttered Kido, a baffled look on his face. “But how come the terrorists have access to all their personal details?”
“Can we say something?” The head of the National Police Agency raised his hand and indicated the man seated next to him, who was dressed not in uniform but in a smart gray suit. The man got to his feet and introduced himself as Kosaka, head of the police Info-Communications Bureau. “Prime Minister, I’m sure you and the other ministers are aware that under the amendment of the tax system it was made possible for people to use their resident-register code as their tax-registration number.” Kosaka glanced at Kido and Shigemitsu, both of whom nodded. “When the tax-registration number was originally established, it seemed practical to link it to the basic pension number. However, there were two major problems with this. To begin with, there were legal issues involved in linking two numbers administered by different ministries. Even if these could be resolved, a further problem was that not everybody was registered for a pension and some would have had to apply separately for the tax number. This meant that it was more convenient to link it to the resident-register code. Nevertheless, the ban against private use of resident codes was a major obstacle to this, and accordingly the law was amended to make this permissible on condition that it was supervised by the requisite authority.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said the PM, shaking his head. “What does revoking the ban on the personal use of the resident-register code have to do with the terrorists being able to get their hands on personal information?” Few of the politicians at the round table were computer savvy. Some were frowning and whispering amongst themselves: Did you understand that? Yamagiwa himself hadn’t realized that personal information could be so easily leaked from the resident codes, either. In reality, the main reason for linking the resident code and the tax number and allowing its private use was that local councils just prior to the collapse of regional finances had been unable to afford to run the Juki Net. The fact that there had not been any serious problems with the Juki Net up until then had also been a factor in the decision.
“Are you saying that anyone who has access to the resident codes can steal personal information?” asked Kido. Just then, however, the director general of LGWAN arrived, and Kosaka let him take over. Kai Tomonori had apparently been nicknamed Tom while studying in America, and he liked this pet name to be used even at work. With the appearance of Tom Kai, the atmosphere there instantly felt lighter. At forty-three, with a dark, lean face and trim body, he was a lot younger than anyone else at the round table. Kai was about to take the empty seat next to Araki Yukie, but she objected, telling him that its occupant had just popped out to the restroom. “Oh, I’m sorry. Well then,” he said, remaining standing as he started his explanation.
Kai was dressed in a dark-blue suit of a well-cut, light wool fabric, a pale-blue shirt with a white collar, and a pink-and-yellow-striped tie. He looked like a young Wall Street financier, thought Yamagiwa. A few strands of his oiled hair hung down over his forehead. But his looks were betrayed by a slight reticence in his speech. When Umezu told him to speak up, he looked wounded and apologized with unnecessary deference. Kai came from a wealthy family and had studied electronics at Tokyo University and in the US, although no one could accuse him of being a career academic. It was said that he had wept tears of joy when his appointment to the Home Affairs Ministry was announced. He had the high-handed air common among the elite who had studied in America, but also gave the impression—perhaps because of his dark eyes and long eyelashes—of being somewhat spineless.
According to Kai, as long as you had the resident-register codes, it wasn’t hard to get hold of the corresponding personal information. The codes themselves were extremely secure, but if they were leaked, then it would be possible to acquire all the personal data associated with them via the government Internet database or various private sources. “Even I could do it,” said Kai regretfully, as though he were somehow to blame. Nobody had ever imagined a scenario where the codes might actually be handed over to a bunch of terrorists by the authorities themselves. “Hold on a minute,” someone interrupted. “You’re not saying that private information on everyone in Japan has been leaked, are you?” Kai’s reply was barely audible. “No,” he said. “Just everyone in Fukuoka.”
A little before nine in the morning, the mayor of Fukuoka and his two colleagues arrived at one of the KEF checkpoints. They had an NHK TV crew in tow, and although the sound was poor, for the first time the KEF soldiers were shown in close-up on TV screens. The Chief of Staff of the Ground SDF, Shinomiya, had summoned a subordinate from his seat by the wall and instructed him to make a note of all the KEF equipment and weapons. The checkpoint had been set up on the Jigyohama side of the Yokatopia Bridge, and consisted of a sandbag bunker mounted with a machine gun. “That’s a PKM general-purpose machine gun,” muttered the aide, noting it down. One of the commandeered small trucks was parked alongside the checkpoint, and inside the sandbag boundary was a small wooden hut about the size of two telephone booths shoved together.
Visible inside the hut were a cellphone, a radio set, and a laptop computer. A tall, sturdily built officer came out to meet the visitors. “Ohayo gozaimasu,” he greeted them in Japanese, looking them up and down without even the trace of a smile. The three were asked to show some identification, but when they put their hands inside the breast pockets of their suits, the two soldiers behind the officer instinctively leveled their rifles at them. Yamagiwa was impressed by the speed and fluidity with which the soldiers reacted. With guns pointed at them from both sides, the mayor and his colleagues tensed, and the image shown on TV wavered as the cameraman took a step backwards.
“I hope they’re okay,” muttered Oikawa, his eyes glued to the TV. “Why shouldn’t they be?” asked Shigemitsu. “Because that third man isn’t really the prefectural police chief,” Oikawa said, glancing over at Sadakata of the National Public Safety Commission, who was snoring in his chair and in danger of slipping from the armrest at any moment. Oikawa may have been the only minister there who remembered Sadakata’s suggestion to send his subordinate in place of the prefectural police chief. It hadn’t been much of a plan in the first place, but what difference would a cop’s affiliation make to the KEF? “You sent someone else?” asked Kai, but nobody answered him. After the brief glimpse inside the shed, the TV cameraman had been ordered not to film there, and now the TV screen was filled with the nervous faces of the mayor, the governor, and Okiyama.
Suddenly the officer shouted, and a pistol was leveled at Okiyama’s head. “A Browning FN Hi-Power pistol,” noted Shinomiya’s aide. “It’ll splatter his brains all over the place if he’s shot at such close range.” The women ministers, and some of the men, averted their eyes. “You are not the prefectural chief of police! You shall be publicly executed!” came the voice. “They might really shoot him,” said Shigemitsu matter-of-factly. A female KEF officer was saying something, but the mike was too far away for them to hear. All the voices sounded muffled, in fact, and the lone camera was aimed into the sunlight to focus on Okiyama’s profile and the pistol, both in dark silhouette.
What he was seeing on the screen seemed unreal to Yamagiwa—not quite like a movie, but not like plain news footage either. With no commentary or narration, it might have been one of those shows that pulled hidden-camera pranks. Okiyama had ill-assorted features—puffy eyelids, flat nose, protruding front teeth. His mouth hung open and his jaw was trembling. “He’s following government orders,” the mayor was heard explaining. “Idiot!” exclaimed Shigemitsu, and Umezu groaned: “What a thing to say!” But the mayor had told the truth. What if Okiyama was actually shot? Even this probably wouldn’t seem quite real in these peculiar circumstances.
It reminded Yamagiwa of an almost identical scene from the Vietnam War—the famous footage of a senior South Vietnamese official executing a Vietcong prisoner. Yamagiwa remembered that the prisoner had had his hands tied behind his back and looked as though he’d already given up hope, but when the pistol was thrust against his temple his face had contorted in fear. The bullet was discharged with a puff of smoke, and the barrel jerked upward as a black hole opened up in the side of the man’s head. A stream of blood spurted out and the POW, face still twisted, toppled over sideways and out of frame. On the TV screen now, the KEF officer shouted at Okiyama: “You’re a criminal!” He withdrew the pistol from Okiyama’s head, and the camera pulled back for a wider shot as he added: “You are under arrest for the serious crime of identity theft.” The mayor and the governor stood rooted to the spot. Two soldiers approached Okiyama and tied his hands behind his back with what looked like wire. Okiyama screwed up his face and pleaded with the officer that he had a wife and children.
As they watched the man being taken toward the Sea Hawk Hotel, Moriyama Kazue told Umezu that she’d heard that when North Korean police catch defectors at the border with China, “they put wire through their noses to lead them away.” Umezu looked shocked. “Are they really that nasty?” he said. “Oh, yes. Japanese NGO workers always say they’d rather kill themselves than be caught by the North Koreans.” Okiyama disappeared into the underground passage leading to the hotel. The mayor and the governor were ushered into a waiting car. The TV cameraman was put into another car, and there was a brief shot of the KEF camp before the picture went dead and the screen cut back to the NHK studio.
“The police chief appears to have been arrested by the Koryo Expeditionary Force. But what on earth for?” the anchor asked a commentator. “Get the name right!” Shigemitsu barked angrily at the screen. “The North Korean terrorist group calling itself the Koryo Expeditionary Force!” Justice Minister Nagano concurred: “As our national TV station, they ought to be toeing the line.” Finance Minister Takahashi nodded agreement with a wry smile. They could hear the puzzled-looking commentator wondering what they’d meant by “government orders.” Shigemitsu leaned toward the PM to whisper hoarsely, “The calls from the press’ll be coming in soon,” and Kido, looking pained, said, “I know, I know.”
The KEF officer had said the charge was identity theft. But Okiyama was only there under false pretenses because Sadakata had suggested he go. Relegated to the provinces, Okiyama’s career had been undistinguished. He had no particular investigatory skills, and had never been likely to accomplish much by pretending to be the prefectural police chief—no one at the round table had had any illusions about that. Okiyama was in this fix basically because a few muckety-mucks had been irked by having to depend on secondhand information from the media and local government in Fukuoka. They had also been unwilling to offend an old man by refusing his proposal, and had assumed that a bunch of North Koreans wouldn’t be able to distinguish between one branch of the police and another anyway. Sadakata, meanwhile, was still fast asleep, dribbling. Kido and Shigemitsu beckoned Oikawa over, no doubt to discuss the issue of responsibility for the arrest.
Oikawa kept glancing at Sadakata. All NHK had to do to find out about the circumstances behind the event was to phone the Fukuoka city council. The Home Affairs Minister had been the one to issue the order to send Okiyama to the meeting, and the decision to do so had been made at the highest level of the government. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that he might be caught out. Kido and Shigemitsu were probably putting pressure on Oikawa, as commissioner general of the National Police Agency, to ask Sadakata to assume responsibility for this fiasco and resign. Sadakata was of an age where it wouldn’t be at all strange for him to retire from public service, and he had little to lose by resigning. Of course, there were plenty of others who could take the rap in his place. The PM and Cabinet Secretary themselves were scarcely blameless—they had taken up Sadakata’s proposal after practically no discussion. Until a few hours ago, thought Yamagiwa, he too had been part of that same world. If he hadn’t been relieved of his post, he probably would have recommended making Sadakata take responsibility. Now he wasn’t so sure.
More people arrived at the crisis-management room. From the Ministry for Land, Infrastructure and Transport were Kamamoto, director general of the Policy Bureau, along with his colleagues Shibayama of Freight Distribution Facilities and Kobayashi of the Freight Forwarders Division; Kanaya of the Roads Bureau; Aisaka of the Ports and Harbors Bureau; Gonda of the Railways Bureau; Maeyama of the Maritime Bureau; and Sagara Yumiko, director general of the Civil Aviation Bureau, along with Sakakibara of the Flight Standards Division and Susaki of the Air Traffic Services Department. Representing the Ministry of Health, Labor, and Welfare was Enami of the Health Policy Bureau and his colleague from the National Hospitals Division, Takigawa; Unno of the Pharmaceutical and Food Safety Bureau; and Yamamoto of the Health Insurance Bureau. They were followed by Tokoi of the General Food Policy Bureau in the Ministry of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries, and Masuyama Yukiko, director general of the Local Administration Bureau of the Ministry of Home Affairs. Clutching thick dossiers, they gathered behind their respective ministers to discuss the practicalities of the blockade of Kyushu and guaranteeing supplies of foodstuffs, medical supplies, and fuel.
Yamagiwa periodically nodded off in his seat at the far end of the round table. Trays of sandwiches and rice balls kept circulating, and every time he ate something he tended to doze off. He still had not been told whether he should leave or stay. Kido and Shigemitsu had probably even forgotten that they’d dismissed him from his post. The matter of Sadakata’s resignation had been more or less forgotten in the furore caused by a statement made earlier by the mayor of Fukuoka at a joint press conference with the KEF. The mayor had appeared on his own, prompting some people to wonder whether the governor had been arrested too, but according to information received by NHK from a KEF spokesman he was feeling unwell and was resting in another room.
The press conference was held in a screened-off section of the lobby of the Sea Hawk Hotel, and the figure of an armed guard could be glimpsed through a gap in the screen. The only press to have been invited were an NHK TV crew and four newspaper reporters, each with their own photographer, who were seated on sofas in the lobby. With such a small media presence and the mike stand decorated with artificial flowers, it didn’t feel much like a press conference at all. The diminutive mayor, wearing a pained expression and repeatedly adjusting the frames of his reading glasses, read out the basic points of agreement reached between the city of Fukuoka and the KEF. Beside him stood the KEF commanding officer, calmly observing. Firstly, the mayor said, they had agreed that Fukuoka City and surrounding areas should endeavor to coexist peacefully and prosperously with the Koryo Expeditionary Force; secondly, that the specific details of this coexistence would be decided thereafter by consultation between Fukuoka City and the Koryo Expeditionary Force; and lastly, that Fukuoka City and the Koryo Expeditionary Force would ultimately seek independence from Japan.
There was a moment of stunned silence at the word “independence,” and then the crisis-management room erupted in fury. “He must have been coerced,” Shigemitsu protested, but Umezu said that casually mentioning secession like that was not something the head of a local government should do even under the threat of death. “But remember, there are civilian hostages,” Ohashi reminded him, his tone conveying less sympathy for Mayor Tenzan than rage against the KEF. The mayor had clearly been threatened; everyone in the room understood this. Even so, the very mention of independence from Japan was anathema to the government. It was like seeing your wife embraced by another man, Yamagiwa thought—you’d be enraged even if you knew it was done under threat of violence and against her will. And your anger would be directed not only at the aggressor, but at the one succumbing to him.
The mayor and the KEF commander kept repeating the words “peace” and “coexistence.” It was to coexist with the citizens of Fukuoka, and to bring true peace and prosperity to the city, that they had come from North Korea. They had not invaded Fukuoka and intended no harm to its citizens, but any individuals or organizations hostile to the project, or carrying out any military attack or violent protest or pernicious propaganda activity, would be punished. It was a transparently contrived rationale, which Yamagiwa felt he’d heard before. It wasn’t all that different from what the Americans had said after invading Afghanistan and Iraq, and in fact Saddam Hussein had made similar announcements after invading Kuwait. The Japanese military had probably said something of the sort while establishing their rule over Manchuria. The French in Algeria, the British in India, the Israelis in Palestine, and even Hitler in Eastern Europe—hadn’t they all claimed something similar? Anyone invading another country by force of arms justified it in much the same way. For the side being oppressed, however, it was an absurd line of reasoning—apart from anything else, it wasn’t as if they’d invited their oppressors over or wanted to coexist with them.
