Rain Fall

by Barry Eisler

  “I am not such an easy man to get to, as you know.”

  “You’re taking a lot of chances.”

  “I am playing for stakes.”

  “I guess you know what you’re doing,” I said, not caring anymore.

  He looked at me, his face impassive. “There is another reason I must be careful with the disk’s contents. It implicates you.”

  I had to smile at that. “Really?” I asked, imitating his country-bumpkin routine.

  “I had been looking for the assassin for a long time, Rain-san — there have been so many convenient deaths of ‘natural causes.’ I always knew he was out there, although everyone else believed I was chasing a phantom. And now that I have found him, I realize he is you.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “That is for you to decide.”

  “Meaning?”

  “As I have told you, I have deleted all evidence of your activities, even of your existence, from the Keisatsucho’s databases.”

  “But there’s still the disk. Is this your way of telling me that you’re going to have leverage over me?”

  He shook his head, and I saw the momentary disappointment at my characteristic American lack of subtlety. “I am uninterested in such leverage. It is not the way I would treat a friend. Moreover, knowing your character and your capabilities, I recognize that the exertion of such leverage would be futile, and possibly dangerous.”

  Amazing. The guy had just put me in jail, failed to publish the disk as he had implied he would, sent Midori to America, and told her I was dead, and yet I felt ashamed that I had insulted him.

  “You are therefore free to return to your life in the shadows,” he went on. “But I must ask you, Rain-san, is this really the life you want?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “May I say that I had never seen you more . . . complete than you were in Vietnam. And I believe I know why. Because at heart you are samurai. In Vietnam you thought you had found your master, your cause larger than yourself.”

  What he said hit a nerve.

  “You were not the same man when we met again in Japan after the war. Your master must have disappointed you terribly for you to have become ronin.” A ronin is literally a floater on the waves, a person with no direction. A masterless samurai.

  He waited for me to answer, but I didn’t. Finally he said, “Is what I am saying inaccurate?”

  “No,” I admitted, thinking of Crazy Jake.

  “You are samurai, Rain-san. But samurai cannot be samurai without a master. The master is yin to the samurai’s yang. One cannot properly exist without the other.”

  “What are you trying to tell me, Tatsu?”

  “My battle with what plagues Japan is far from over. My acquisition of the disk provides me with an important weapon in that battle. But it is not enough. I need you with me.”

  “You don’t understand, Tatsu. You don’t get burned by one master and just find another. The scars go too deep.”

  “What is your alternative?”

  “The alternative is to be my own master. As I have been.”

  He waved his hand as if to dismiss such nonsense. “This is not possible for human beings. Any more than reproduction is possible through masturbation.”

  His uncharacteristic crudeness surprised me, and I laughed. “I don’t know, Tatsu. I don’t know if I can trust you. You’re a manipulative bastard. Look what you’ve been up to while I’ve been in jail.”

  “Whether I am manipulative and whether you can trust me are two different matters,” he said, easily able to compartmentalize such things because he was Japanese.

  “I’ll think about it,” I told him.

  “That is all I would ask.”

  “Now let me out of here.”

  He motioned to the door. “You have been free to go since I came in.”

  I gave him a small smile. “I wish you’d said so sooner. We could have done this over coffee.”

  25

  I TOOK MY time getting back to Tatsu. There were a few things I needed to settle first.

  Harry, for one. He had hacked the Keisatsucho files the same day I ambushed Holtzer at Yokosuka, so he knew I’d been arrested and “detained.” Several days later, he told me, all references to me had been deleted from their files.

  “When I saw those files had been deleted,” he said, “I thought they had disappeared you. I figured you were dead.”

  “That’s what people are supposed to believe,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “They want my help with certain matters.”

  “That’s why they let you go?”

  “Nothing for nothing, Harry. You know that.” I told him about Midori.

  “Maybe that’s for the best,” he said.

  He had most of the pieces, I knew. But what would be the use of either of us acknowledging any of that?

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked me.

  “I haven’t figured all that out yet.”

  “If you ever need a good hacker, you know where to find me.”

  “I don’t know, Harry. You had a lot of trouble with that music lattice reduction or whatever the hell it was. The Keisatsucho cracked it no problem.”

  “Hey, those guys have access to supercomputers at Japanese universities!” he sputtered, before noticing my grin. Then: “Very funny.”

  “I’ll be in touch,” I told him. “I’m just going to take a little vacation first.”

  I FLEW OUT to Washington, D.C., where Tatsu said they had shipped Holtzer. Processing his “retirement” would take a few days, even weeks, and in the meantime he’d be in the Langley area.

  I thought I’d be able to find him by calling all the hotels listed in the suburban Virginia Yellow Pages. I worked my way outward from Langley in concentric circles, but there was no guest named William Holtzer at any of them. Probably he had checked in somewhere under an assumed name, using cash and no credit cards, afraid I might be coming after him.

  What about a car, though? I started phoning the 800 numbers of the major rent-a-car companies. It was William Holtzer calling, wanting to extend his service contract. Avis didn’t have a record of a William Holtzer. Hertz did. The clerk was kind enough to tell me the license plate number of the car, which I told him I needed for some supplementary insurance I wanted to get through my credit card company. I was ready for him to ask why I didn’t just get the information from the key chain or the car itself, but he never did. After that, all I had to do was search a DMV database to learn that Holtzer was driving a white Ford Taurus.

  Back to concentric circles. That night I drove through the parking lots of the major hotels closest to Langley, slowing to examine the license plate of every white Ford Taurus I passed.

  At about two o’clock that morning I found Holtzer’s car in the parking garage of the Ritz Carlton, Tyson’s Corner. After confirming the license plate, I drove over to the nearby Marriott, where I took the license plates from a parked car. At the edge of the deserted parking lot of the Tyson’s Corner Galleria, I switched the plates over to the rental van I was driving. The new plates and the light disguise I was wearing would be enough to beat any unforeseen witnesses or security cameras.

  I drove back to the Ritz. The spaces adjacent to the Taurus were taken, but there was an empty spot behind it to one side. It was better not to park alongside him anyway. If you’re savvy about the ways of my world, or even just sensitive to where and how you’re likely to be mugged, you’ll get nervous if you see a van parked right next to your car — especially a model with darkened rear windows, like mine. I pulled in, nose forward so the van’s sliding door would be facing Holtzer.

  I checked my equipment. A 250,000-volt “Thunder Blaster” guaranteed to cause disorientation upon contact and unconsciousness in less than five seconds. A medium-sized pink rubber “Super Ball,” available for eighty-nine cents at pretty much any drugstore. A portable defibrillation kit like the ones some airlines are beginni
ng to keep on their commercial jets, small enough to tote around in an ordinary briefcase and considerably more expensive than the Super Ball.

  Shocking someone out of a ventricular fibrillation is tricky business. Three hundred and sixty joules is a massive dose of electricity. If a shock like that is applied at the top of the heart’s T wave — that is, between beats — you’ll induce a lethal arrhythmia. Modern defibrillators, therefore, have sensors that automatically detect the QRS complex of the heartbeat, which is the only instant at which the shock can safely be applied.

  Of course, the same software that is designed to avoid the T wave can be reconfigured to initiate it.

  I reclined the electronic seat a few degrees and relaxed. It was a safe bet that Holtzer would be heading over to the CIA’s campus sometime in the morning, so I expected to have to wait only a few more hours.

  At six-thirty, about a half hour before it would get light outside, I walked over to the far end of the garage and urinated into some potted hedges. I limbered up for a few minutes, then headed back to the van, where I enjoyed a breakfast of cold coffee and Chicken McNuggets, left over from the previous evening. The culinary joys of surveillance.

  Holtzer showed an hour later. I watched him emerge from the elevator and head toward me. He was dressed in a gray suit, white shirt, dark tie. Standard Beltway attire, practically Agency issue.

  His mind was elsewhere. I could see it in his expression, his posture, the way he failed to check the likely hot spots in the garage, especially around his car. Shame on him, being so careless in a potential crime zone like a parking garage.

  I slipped on a pair of black cowhide gloves. A click of the switch on the Thunder Blaster produced a sharp arc of blue sparks and an electric crackle. I was ready to go.

  I scanned the garage, satisfying myself that for the moment it was empty. Then I slipped to the back of the van and watched him move to the driver’s side of the Taurus, where he paused to remove his suit jacket. Good, I thought. Let’s not get any wrinkles on your funeral suit.

  I waited until the jacket was just past his shoulders, the spot that would make effective reaction most awkward for him, then swung the van’s side door open and moved in on him. He looked up when he heard the door open, but had no chance to do anything but drop his mouth open in surprise. Then I was on him, my right hand jamming the Thunder Blaster into his belly, my left propping him up by the throat while the shock scrambled his central nervous system.

  It took less than six seconds to drag his dazed form into the van and slide the door shut behind us. I pushed him onto the ample backseat, then gave him another hit with the Thunder Blaster to make sure he was incapacitated long enough for me to finish.

  The moves were routine and it didn’t take long. I buckled him in with the lap and shoulder belt, pulling the latter all the way out and then letting it retract fully until it was locked in place. The hardest part was getting his shirt open and his tie out of the way so I could apply the paddles directly to his torso, where the conducting jelly would prevent any telltale burn marks. The seat belt and shoulder restraint kept him in place while I worked.

  As I applied the second paddle, his eyes fluttered open. He glanced down at his exposed chest, then looked up at me.

  “Way . . . way . . . ,” he stammered.

  “Wait?” I asked.

  He grunted, I guessed to affirm.

  “Sorry, can’t do that,” I said, affixing the second paddle with medical tape.

  He opened his mouth to say something else and I shoved the Super Ball into it. I didn’t want him to bite his tongue from the force of the shock — it could look suspicious.

  I shifted to the side of the van to make sure I wasn’t touching him when the shock was delivered. He watched me as I moved, his eyes wide.

  I flicked the switch on the unit.

  His body jerked forward to the limit of the automatically locking shoulder belt and his head arched backward into the anti-whiplash head restraint. Cars are amazingly safe these days.

  I waited for a minute, then checked his pulse to be sure he was finished. Satisfied, I removed the ball and the paddles, wiped off the residue of the conducting jelly with an alcohol swab, and fixed his clothes. I looked into his dead eyes and was surprised at how little I felt. Relieved, maybe. Not much more.

  I opened the door of the Taurus with his key, then placed it in the car’s ignition. I scanned the garage again. A woman in a business suit, probably on her way to an early meeting, came out of the elevator. I waited for her to get in her car and drive off.

  Using a modified fireman’s carry, I scooped up the body, walked it over to the car, and dumped it into the driver’s seat. I closed the door, then paused for a moment to examine my work.

  That’s for Jimmy, I thought. And Cu Lai. They’ve all been waiting for you in hell.

  And waiting for me. I wondered if Holtzer would be enough to satisfy them. I got into the van and drove away.

  26

  I HAD ONE more stop to make. Manhattan, 178 Seventh Avenue South. The Village Vanguard.

  I had checked the Vanguard’s Web site, and knew that the Midori Kawamura trio was appearing at the club from the first Tuesday in November through the following Sunday. I called and made a reservation for the 1:00 A.M. set on Friday night. I didn’t need to use a credit card, although I knew they’d give away my seat if I didn’t show up at least fifteen minutes before the set, so I was easily able to use an alias: Watanabe, a common Japanese name.

  I headed up Interstate 95, crossing from Maryland to Delaware and then to New Jersey. From the turnpike I could have picked up I-80 and gone on to Dryden, two hundred miles and someone else’s lifetime away.

  Instead I left the turnpike for the Holland Tunnel, where I entered the city and drove the quarter mile to the Soho Grand Hotel on West Broadway. Mr. Watanabe had reserved a suite for Friday night. He arrived before six o’clock to ensure that the hotel didn’t give away his reservation, and paid cash for the suite, counting out fourteen hundred dollar bills for the night. The staff, to their credit, evinced no surprise, probably guessing that the wealthy man with a passion for anonymity would be meeting his mistress.

  The early arrival gave me time to shower, sleep for three hours, and enjoy an excellent room service dinner of Paillard of Veal and an ’82 Mouton from the hotel’s Canal House Restaurant. With another hour to kill before I left for the Vanguard, I repaired to the visually spectacular Grand Bar, where the ambience of the high ceilings, warm lighting, and wonderfully symmetrical black glass tables made up for an unimaginative selection of single malts and the annoying house music. Still, there’s no quarreling with a twenty-five-year-old Macallan.

  I walked the mile or so from the hotel to the Vanguard. It was cold, and I was glad for the charcoal gabardine trousers, black cashmere mock turtleneck, and navy blazer I was wearing. The charcoal trilby I was wearing low across my forehead also provided some warmth, while obscuring my features.

  I picked up my ticket at 12:35, then continued walking until almost 1:00 sharp. I didn’t want to take a chance on Midori or anyone else in her trio walking past me at the back of the wedge-shaped room before the set began.

  I passed under the trademark red awning and neon sign and through the mahogany doors, taking a seat at one of the small round white tables in back. Midori was already at the piano, wearing black like the first time I saw her. It felt good to watch her for the moment, unobserved, separated by a sadness that I knew she must have shared. She looked beautiful, and it hurt.

  The lights dimmed, the murmur of conversation died away, and Midori brought the piano to life with a vengeance, her fingers ripping into the keys. I watched intently, trying to lock in the memory of the way she moved her hands and swayed her body, the expressions of her face. I knew I’d be listening to her music forever, but this would be the last time I would watch her play.

  I had always heard a frustration in her music, and loved the way it would at times be replaced by a
deep, accepting sadness. But there was no acceptance in her music tonight. It was raw and angry, sometimes mournful, but never resigned. I watched and listened, feeling the notes and the minutes slipping away from me, trying to find some solace in the thought that perhaps what had passed between us was now part of her music.

  I thought about Tatsu. I knew he had done right in telling Midori I was dead. As he said, she would have figured out the truth eventually, or it would have found its own way of forcing itself into her consciousness.

  He was right, too, about my loss not being a long-term issue for her. She was young and had a brilliant career opening up right in front of her. When you’ve known someone only briefly, even if intensely, death comes as a shock, but not a particularly long or deep one. After all, there was no time for the person in question to become woven tightly into the fabric of your life. It’s surprising, even a little disillusioning, how quickly you get over it, how quickly the memory of what you might have shared with someone comes to seem distant, improbable, like something that might have happened to someone you know but not to you yourself.

  The set lasted an hour. When it was done, I stood up and eased out the back, exiting through the wooden doors and pausing for a moment under a moonless sky. I closed my eyes and inhaled the smells of Manhattan’s night air, at once strange and yet, connected to that long-ago life, still disturbingly familiar.

  “Excuse me,” a woman’s voice came from behind me.

  I turned, thinking Midori. But it was only the coat-check girl. “You left this behind,” she said, holding out the trilby. I had placed it on the seat next to me after the lights had gone down and had then forgotten it.

  I took the hat wordlessly and walked off into the night.

  Midori. There were moments with her when I would forget everything I had done, everything I had become. But those moments would never have lasted. I am the product of the things I have done, and I know I will always wake up to this conclusion, no matter how beguiling the reverie that precedes the awakening.