by Barry Eisler
“I’m not sure I’d be what you’re looking for. Where is your club?”
“In Tokyo,” he said. “I doubt you would have heard of it. My club… isn’t generally open to foreigners.” He recovered quickly. “But, of course, you are Japanese.”
Probably I should have let it go. “Yes. But you approached me in English.”
He paused. “Your features are primarily Japanese, if I may say so. I thought I detected some trace of Caucasian, and wanted to satisfy myself. I’m usually very sensitive to such things. If I had been wrong, you simply wouldn’t have understood me, and that would have been that.”
Reconnaissance by fire, I thought. You shoot into the tree line; if someone shoots back, you know they’re there. “You find… satisfaction in that?” I asked, consciously controlling my annoyance.
For a moment, I thought he looked oddly uncomfortable. Then he said, “Would you mind if I were to speak frankly?”
“Have you not been?
He smiled. “You are Japanese, but American also, yes?”
My expression was carefully neutral.
“Regardless, I think you can understand me. I know Americans admire frankness. It’s one of their disagreeable characteristics, made doubly so because they congratulate themselves for it ceaselessly. And this disagreeable trait is now infecting even me! Do you see the threat America poses to Nippon?”
I regarded him, wondering if he was a crackpot rightist. You run into them from time to time—they profess to abhor America but they can’t help being fascinated with it. “Americans are… causing too many frank conversations?” I asked.
“You’re being facetious, but in a sense, yes. Americans are missionaries, like the Christians who came to Kyushu to convert us five hundred years ago. Only now, they proselytize not Christianity, but the American Way, which is America’s official secular religion. Frankness is only one, relatively trivial, aspect.”
Why not have some fun. “You feel you’re being converted?”
“Of course. Americans believe in two things: first, despite everyday experience and common sense, that ‘all men are created equal;’ and second, that complete trust in the market is the best way for a society to order its affairs. America has always needed such transcendental notions to bind together its citizens, who have come from different cultures all over the world. And Americans are then driven to prove the universality of these ideas, and so their validity, by aggressively converting other cultures. In a religious context, this behavior would be recognized as missionary in its origins and effect.”
“It’s an interesting theory,” I allowed. “But an aggressive outlook toward other cultures has never been an American monopoly. How do you explain the Japanese colonial history in Korea and China? Attempts to save Asia from the tyranny of Western market forces?”
He smiled. “You’re being facetious again, but your explanation isn’t so far from the truth. Because market forces—competition—are what drove the Japanese into their own imperial conquests. The Western nations had already taken their concessions in China, and America had institutionalized the plunder of Asian with its so-called Open Door policy. What choice had we but to take our own concessions, lest the West encircle us and gain a chokehold on our supplies of raw materials?”
“Tell me the truth,” I said, fascinated despite myself. “Do you really believe all this? That the Japanese never wanted war, that the West caused it all? Because the Japanese launched their first campaigns against Korea under Hideyoshi, over four hundred years ago. How did the West cause that?”
He faced me directly and leaned forward, his thumbs hooked into his obi, his toes taking his weight. “You are missing my larger point. Japanese conquest in the first half of this century was a reaction to Western aggression. In earlier times there were other causes, even such base ones as the lust for power and plunder. War is a part of human nature, and we Japanese are human. But we have never fought, we have certainly never built weapons of mass destruction, to convince the world of the rightness of an idea. It took America and its bastard twin, communism, to do that.”
He leaned closer. “War has always been with the world and always will be. But an intellectual Crusades? Fought on a global scale, backed by modern industrial economies, with the threat of a nuclear auto-da-fé for the unbelievers? Only America offers this.”
Well, that confirmed the crackpot rightist diagnosis. “I appreciate your speaking frankly with me,” I said, bowing slightly. “Ii benkyou ni narimashita.” It’s been an education.
He returned my bow and started backing away. “Kochira koso.” The same here. He smiled, again with some seeming discomfort. “Perhaps we will meet again.”
I watched him leave. Then I walked over to one of the regulars, an old-timer named Yamaishi, and asked if he’d ever seen the guy before. “Shiranai” he said with a shrug. “Amari shiranai kao da. Da kedo, sugoku tsuyoku na. Randori, mita yo.” I don’t know him. But his judo is very strong. I saw your fight.
I wanted to cool off before showering, so I went down to an empty dojo on the fifth floor. I left the fluorescent lights off when I went in. This room was best when it was lit only by Korakuen Amusement Park, which twinkled and hummed next door. I bowed to the picture of Kano Jigoro on the far wall, then did ukemi rolls until I reached the center of the room. Standing in the quiet darkness, I looked out over Korakuen. Just barely, I could hear the roller coaster ratcheting slowly to its apogee, then suspended silence, then the whoosh of its downward plunge and the screaming laughter of its passengers, the wind whipping away their cries.
I stretched in the center of the room, the judogi uniform wet against my skin. I came to the Kodokan because it’s the premiere spot to study judo, but, like my neighborhood in Sengoku, the place has become much more to me than it was at first. I’ve seen things here: a grizzled old veteran who’s been doing judo every day for half a century, patiently showing a child in an oversized gi that the proper placement of the hooking leg in sankakujime is at a slight angle to, not straight behind, one’s opponent; a young sandan, third-degree black belt, who left his native Iran to practice at the Kodokan four years ago, hardly missing a day of practice since, drilling his osoto-gari in such precise and powerful repetitions that his movements come to resemble some vast natural force, the movement of tides, perhaps, the dancer becoming the dance; a college kid quietly crying after being choked out in a match, the crowd cheering for his victorious opponent and taking no heed of his dignified tears.
The roller coaster was making its familiar ratcheting sound, the last of the light fading from the sky above it. It was past seven, too late for me to get to the Blue Note. Just as well.
CHAPTER 9
I had no special plans the next day, so I decided to stop at an antiquarian bookstore I like in Jinbocho, a part of the city best known for its warren of densely packed bookshops, some specializing in Eastern fare, others in Western. I had checked in a few days earlier with the shop’s proprietor, who told me he had located and was holding for me an old tome on shimewaza—strangles—that I had been trying to find for a long while, to add to my modest collection on bugei, the warrior arts.
I picked up the Mita subway line at Sengoku Station. Sometimes I use the subway; other times I take the JR from Sugamo. It’s good to be random. There was a priest in Shinto garb collecting donations outside the station. It seemed these guys were everywhere lately, not just in front of parliament anymore. I took the train in the direction of Onarimon and got off at Jinbocho. I meant to leave the station at the exit nearest the Isseido Bookstore, but, distracted by thoughts of Midori and Kawamura, I wound up taking the wrong corridor. After turning a corner and coming upon a sign for the Hanzoman line, I realized my error, turned, and rounded the corner again.
A pudgy Japanese was moving quickly down the corridor, about ten meters away. I flashed his eyes as he approached but he ignored me, looking straight ahead. He was wearing a pinstriped suit and a striped shirt. Must have heard somewher
e that stripes make you look taller.
I glanced down and saw why I hadn’t heard him coming: cheap shoes with rubber soles. But he was carrying an expensive-looking black attaché case, a lid-over model, maybe an old Swaine Adeney. A businessman who knew good attachés but assumed no one would notice his shoes? Maybe. But this wasn’t really the place for business—Kasumigaseki or Akasaka would be more likely. I knew the shoes would make for comfortable attire on a long walk—if following someone were part of the likely itinerary, for example.
Aside from the attaché, his hands were empty, but I tensed anyway as we passed each other. Something about him bothered me. I slowed down a little as we passed each other, looked over my shoulder, marked the way he walked. Faces are easy to disguise, clothes you can change in a minute, but not too many people can conceal their gait. It’s something I look for. I watched this guy’s walk—short stride, bit of an exaggerated, self-important arm swing, slight side-to-side swaying action of the head—until he turned the corner.
I cut back the other way, checking behind me before I left the station. Probably it was nothing, but I’d remember his face and gait, watch my back as always, see if he showed up again.
Principles of Strangles was in excellent condition, as promised, with a price to match, but I knew I would greatly enjoy the slim volume. Although I was eager to depart, I waited patiently while the proprietor carefully, almost ceremoniously, wrapped the book in heavy brown paper and string. He knew it wasn’t a gift, but this was his way of showing his appreciation for the sale, and it would have been rude to hurry him. Finally, he proffered the package with extended arms and a deep bow, and I accepted it from a similar posture, bowing again as I left.
I headed back to the Mita line. If I had really been concerned someone was tailing me, I would have caught a cab, but I wanted to see if I could spot Attaché Man again. I waited on the platform while two trains pulled in and departed. Anyone trying to follow me would have had to stay on the platform, also—incongruous behavior that makes a person stand out. But the platform was deserted, and Attaché Man was gone. Probably it had been nothing.
I thought of Midori again. It was her second night at the Blue Note and she’d be starting her first set in about an hour. I wondered what she would think when I didn’t show for the second time. She was human; she would probably assume I hadn’t been interested, and wonder if she had been a little too forward in inviting me. It was unlikely I would ever see her again, or, if we did by chance bump into each other, it would be slightly awkward but polite, two people who met and started an acquaintanceship that just didn’t take off, certainly nothing out of the ordinary. She might ask Mama about me at some point, but all Mama could say is that I pop into Alfie from time to time without warning.
I wondered what it would have been like if we’d met under other circumstances.
It could have been good.
I almost laughed at the absurdity. There was no room for anything like that in my life and I knew it.
Crazy Jake again: There’s no home for us, John. Not after what we’ve done.
That was about the truest advice I’d ever received. Forget about her, I thought. You know you have to.
My pager buzzed. I found a payphone and dialed the number.
It was Benny. After the usual exchange of bona fides, he said, “There’s another job for you, if you want it.”
“Why are you contacting me this way?” I asked, meaning why not the secure site.
“Time-sensitive matter. You interested?”
“I’m not known for turning away work.”
“You’d have to bend one of your rules on this one. If you do, there’s a bonus.”
“I’m listening.”
“We’re talking about a woman. Jazz musician.”
Long pause.
“You there?” he said.
“Still listening.”
“You want the details, you know where to find them.”
“What’s the name?”
“Not over the phone.”
Another pause.
He cleared his throat. “All right. Same name as a recent job. Related matter. Is that important?”
“Not really.”
“You want this?”
“Probably not.”
“Significant bonus if you want it.”
“What’s significant?
“You know where to find the details.”
“I’ll take a look.”
“I need an answer within forty-eight hours, okay? This needs to be taken care of.”
“Don’t they all,” I said, and hung up.
I stood there for a moment afterward, looking around the station, watching people bustling back and forth.
Fucking Benny, telling me “This needs to be taken care of,” letting me know someone else would be doing it if I didn’t.
Why Midori? A connection with Bulfinch, the reporter? He had sought her out, I saw that at Alfie, along with Telephone Man. So whomever Telephone Man worked for would assume that Midori had learned something she wasn’t supposed to, or maybe that her father had given her something, something Bulfinch was after. Something not worth taking any chances over.
You could do it, I thought. If you don’t, someone else will. You’d at least do it right, do it fast. She wouldn’t feel anything.
But they were just words. I wanted to feel that way but couldn’t. What I felt instead was that her world should never have collided with mine.
A Mita-sen train pulled in, heading in the direction of Otemachi, the transfer point to Omotesando and the Blue Note. An omen, I thought, and got on.
CHAPTER 10
If you want to survive as long as I have in the world I inhabit, you have to think like the opposition. I learned that from the gangs that pursued me when I was a kid, and refined the lesson with SOG in Cambodia. You have to ask: If I were trying to get at me, how would I go about it?
Predictability is the key, geographical and chronological. You need to know where a person will be and at what time. You learn this by surveillance, analyzing the routes to work, the times the target comes and goes, until you’ve identified a pattern, and choke points through which the target can almost always be counted on to pass at a certain time. You choose the most vulnerable of these, and that’s where you lay the ambush.
And if that’s what you’re doing, you’d better not forget that all the time someone is running the same kind of operation on you. Thinking like this is what divides the hard targets from the soft ones.
The same principle works for crime prevention. If you wanted to grab some quick cash, where would you wait? Near an ATM, probably, and probably at night. You’d scout around for the right location, too, someplace with enough pedestrian traffic to save you a long wait, but not so much of a crowd that you’d be impeded from acting when you identified a good target. You’d look for a dark spot far enough from the machine so the target wouldn’t notice you, but close enough so you could move right in once the cash transaction was completed. Police stations close by would make you nervous, and you’d probably hunt for a better place. Et cetera. If you think this way, you’ll know exactly where to look for someone lurking, and you’ll know where you’re vulnerable, where more alertness is required.
With Midori, extensive surveillance wasn’t even necessary. Her schedule was publicly available. Presumably that was how Bulfinch had known to find her at Alfie. And that would be the easiest way for Benny’s people to find her now.
From Otemachi I rode the Chiyoda-sen subway seven stops to Omotesando, where I exited and took the stairs to the street. I walked the short distance to the Yahoo Café, a coffee shop with Internet terminals. I went in, paid the fee, and logged on to one of the terminals. It took just a few seconds to access the file Benny had posted. It included a few scanned publicity photos, Midori’s home address, a concert schedule with tonight’s appearance at the Blue Note, and parameters indicating that the job had to look natural. They were offering the ye
n equivalent of about $150,000—a substantial premium over our usual arrangement.
The reference to tonight’s appearance at the Blue Note, first set at seven o’clock, was ominous. Predictability, time and place. If they wanted to take her out soon, tonight would be almost too good to pass up. On the other hand, Benny had told me I had forty-eight hours to get back to him, which would suggest she would be safe for at least that long.
But even if she had that much time, I didn’t see how I could parlay it into a reasonable life span. Warn her that someone had just put a contract out on her? I could try, but she had no reason to believe me. And even if she did, what then? Teach her how to improve her personal security? Sell her on the benefits of an anonymous life in the shadows?
Ludicrous. There was really only one thing I could do. Use the forty-eight hours to figure out why Benny’s people had decided Midori was a liability and to eliminate the reasons behind that view.
I could have walked the kilometer or so to the Blue Note, but I wanted to do a drive-by first. I caught a cab and told the driver to take me down Koto-dori, then left to the Blue Note. I was counting on traffic to make the ride slow enough so that I could do a quick sneak-and-peek at some of the spots where I would wait if I were setting up surveillance outside.
Traffic was as heavy as I’d hoped, and I had a good chance to scope the area as we crawled past. In fact, the Blue Note isn’t that easy a place to wait around unobtrusively. It’s surrounded mostly by stores that were now closed. The Caffe Idee restaurant across the street, with its outdoor balcony, would offer a clear enough view, but the Idee has a long, narrow external staircase that would render unacceptably conspicuous anyone descending quickly to follow a target.
On the other hand, you wouldn’t have to linger long. You can time the end of a Blue Note set to within about five minutes. The second set hadn’t yet begun, so if anyone was planning on visiting Midori after the show tonight, they probably hadn’t even arrived yet. Or they could already be inside, just another appreciative audience member.