A Clean Kill in Tokyo (previously published as Rain Fall)

by Barry Eisler

  “Thank you,” he said, sitting opposite me on the couch. “Now tell me, how did you find me?”

  I shrugged. “Your man Ishikawa broke into my apartment and tried to kill me. I got his mobile phone and used it to find out he’s connected to you. The rest was just taking the initiative, as you say.”

  “Ishikawa wasn’t at your apartment to kill you. He was there to question you.”

  “If that was Ishikawa’s idea of ‘questioning,’ you should send him to Dale Carnegie.”

  “Regardless. We are not after you—only the disk.”

  “Disk?”

  “Please don’t insult my intelligence. You are protecting Kawamura Midori.”

  That caught me by surprise. But then I realized—the men who were waiting for her at her apartment must have been Yamaoto’s people. They’d been focusing on her, thinking if she had her father’s things she might have the disk, and then I walked into the picture. It was only after I ambushed them and Midori went underground that they started coming at me.

  “What does she have to do with this?”

  “I know her father had the disk when he died. It’s therefore likely she has it now. And she is in hiding.”

  “Of course she’s in hiding. She had the same kind of welcome party at her apartment I had at mine. She knows she’s in danger but doesn’t understand why.”

  “Ordinarily a person in her position would go to the police. She hasn’t done so.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I don’t trust the police myself.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. She took off after the ambush at her apartment. She thought I was with your people.”

  “Really? She hasn’t resurfaced.”

  “Maybe she’s staying with friends—in the country or something. She looked pretty scared to me.”

  “I see,” he said, steepling his fingers. “You understand, Rain-san, there is information on that disk that would be harmful to Japan, useful to her enemies, if revealed. These enemies are looking for the disk, too.”

  I thought of Holtzer, how he wanted to turn the Japanese government into a “fuckboy,” as only Holtzer could put it.

  One thing I didn’t understand. “Why the contact at the Kodokan?” I asked.

  “Curiosity,” he said, his tone contemplative. “I wanted to know what would drive a man with a history like yours. If I had known of the way you would soon be involved in this matter, I would of course have avoided the contact.”

  “What do mean, ‘history?’”

  “A man of two such opposed countries and cultures.”

  “I think I’m missing something. Other than the fact that I inadvertently showed up at the same time as your men at Midori’s apartment, I didn’t know we were acquainted.”

  “Ah, of course. You wouldn’t know, but I have retained you for your services from time to time.”

  Through Benny, then. Christ, the little bastard really slept around. Probably reselling my services at a markup. Not any more, though.

  “So you see, until recently, your interests and mine have always been aligned. If we can just clear up this one matter, we can return to the status quo ante bellum.”

  He wanted that disk badly. I hoped Harry’s algorithms were up to speed.

  “The problem,” I said, “is that I don’t know where this disk is, or even what it is. If I did, I’d give it to you. But I don’t.”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that. And Kawamura’s daughter, she doesn’t know, either?”

  “How would I know?”

  He nodded his head gravely. “This is a problem. You see, until I have what I am looking for, Kawamura’s daughter is a liability. It would be much safer for her if the item were returned to me.”

  In that moment I was tempted to believe there was some truth to what he was saying. If he had the disk back, Midori wouldn’t be a liability.

  But there were other parties after it, too, and they would have no way of knowing Midori didn’t have it anymore. Besides, the logistics were impossible. Yamaoto would never let me leave on the strength of a promise to return with the disk, and I wasn’t going to tell him where to find Midori and Harry. Besides, there was no guarantee he wouldn’t go on cleaning up loose ends even after the disk had been returned.

  “For what it’s worth, I don’t think she has what you’re looking for,” I said. “Why would Kawamura have given her anything, anyway? He would have known it would have put her in danger, right?”

  “He may have given it to her inadvertently. Besides, as I’ve said already, the fact that she hasn’t gone to the police is telling.”

  I said nothing, waiting for him.

  “Enough games,” he said finally. He stood and walked over to a coat rack, where he took a suit jacket off a hanger. “I have no more time to try to persuade you. Tell me where I can find the disk, or tell me where to find Kawamura Midori.”

  “I told you I don’t know.”

  “Unfortunately, there is only one way to confirm your ignorance. I think you know what it is.”

  Neither of us said anything more for a full minute. I heard him exhale, as though he had been holding his breath. “Rain-san, you’re in a difficult position, and I’m sympathetic. But you must understand I will have what I want. If you tell me now, as a friend, I can trust you. You’ll be free to leave. But if my men have to acquire the information from you by other means, I may not be able to let you go after. In fact, you may not be in a condition to go. Do you understand? If I don’t have the disk, I am forced to do the next best thing: systematically eliminate every risk associated with it. So you see, it would be much better if you tell me now.”

  I folded my arms across my chest and regarded him. My look was impassive, but inside my head I was playing a map of the hallway, the staircase.

  He must have really been hoping I would crack—he waited a long time. Finally he called for his men. The door opened, and I was surrounded and pulled to my feet. He barked orders in Japanese: “Find out where the disk is. And Midori. Whatever it takes.”

  They hauled me out of the room. Behind me Yamaoto was saying, “I am very disappointed.” I barely heard it. I was too busy looking for a way out.

  CHAPTER 18

  They took me back down the hallway. I noted the entrance as we went past—double glass doors, a deadbolt visibly locked in the small gap between them. The doors had opened outward when we came in. If I hit them dead center, on the fly, the lock might give. If it didn’t, and I had time to back up and try again, I could try to go through the glass, hope not to get cut too badly. Lousy options, but they beat being tortured to death by Flatnose and his handsome friends.

  They were pretty rough shoving me down the hallway ahead of them. I tried to emanate waves of fear and helplessness so their confidence would build. I wanted them to feel in control, to believe I was cowed by their size and their numbers. That might give me some small chance at surprise. Beyond that, I had only one advantage, the same one SOG always had against the North Vietnamese, even when we were operating in their backyard: Considering what was coming, I was more motivated to escape than they were to hold me.

  They took me to a room at the farthest end of the corridor. It was small, about three meters square. The door had a window of frosted glass in its center and opened inward, to the left, at the back of the room. To the right was a small rectangular table with two chairs on either side of it. They pushed me into one of the chairs, my back to the door. I put my hands on my knees, under the table.

  Flatnose disappeared for a few minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a large wooden truncheon. He took a seat on the other side of the table, facing me. I heard the other two take up positions behind me, to either side.

  There was about a meter of empty space between Flatnose’s back and the wall. Good.

  They hadn’t locked the door. Why bother? There were three of them, and they were big bastards. This was their place. They knew they were in c
ontrol.

  I lifted the table a fraction with my knees, getting a feel for its weight. Despite its size, it was satisfyingly heavy. My heart was thudding in my ears, my neck.

  Flatnose started to say something. I didn’t hear what. As soon as the words began, I sprang up, my arms catching the table from underneath, driving it up and into him. The force of it slammed him backward into the wall. I felt the impact jolt through my arms.

  The other two leaped forward. I shot my leg out into the guy coming in on my right. It caught him squarely in the gut, so hard his momentum continued to carry his feet forward. He went down and then the other one was on me.

  He grabbed me from behind and tried for hadaka jime, a sleeper hold, but I turtled my neck and his forearm closed across my mouth. Still, his grip was so strong it felt like he was going to unhinge my jaw. I opened my mouth and the leading edge of his arm jammed between my teeth. Before he could twist free I bit down hard. I felt my teeth sinking into muscle and heard him howl.

  The grip loosened and I spun inside it, pumping uppercuts into his abdomen. He dropped his arms to protect his body and I caught him with a solid palm-heel under the nose. He didn’t fall, but he was dazed. I shoved him to the right and scrambled for the door.

  The guy I’d kicked grabbed my leg from the ground but I shook free. I gripped the doorknob hard and twisted it, flung the door open. It rocketed into the wall, the frosted glass exploding.

  I stumbled into the hallway, running and almost falling. It took me only a second to reach the entrance doors. I hit them hard, not holding anything back, and they burst open at the center. I spilled into the hallway, rolled to my feet, and bolted for the stairwell. When I reached the outer door I wrenched it open and plunged down the stairs four at a time, my hand on the railing for balance. Just as I cleared the first riser I heard the door slam open. They were already after me—not quite the head start I’d hoped for.

  I had to get out of there before reinforcements started pouring in. Shibakoen subway station was on the opposite side of Hibiya-dori. I bolted across the street, trying to flow diagonally into the traffic, tires screeching as I jumped in front of cars.

  Thick crowds of pedestrians were exiting at the top of the steps to the station—a train must have just come in. I glanced back as I hit the entrance and saw two of them sprinting after me.

  I could hear the chimes of another train pulling in. Maybe I could make it. I had no doubt they would shoot me now if they could. In this crowd, no one would know where the shots had come from. I fought frantically for space, ducking past three slow-moving old women who were blocking the stairway, and spun left at the bottom of the stairs. There was a concession stand in front of the ticket windows, and as I dodged past it I grabbed a palm-sized canned coffee. Hundred and ninety grams. Hard metal edges.

  I shoved my way through the wickets and onto the platform. I was too late—the doors had already closed, and the train was starting to move.

  The platform was crowded, but there was a clear passage alongside the train. I maneuvered into it, glanced back and saw one of them pass the wickets and burst through the crowd into the clear space next to the train.

  I turned and measured the distance. About five meters, closing fast.

  I threw the can like a fastball, aiming for center mass. It caught him in the sternum with a thud I could hear even over the noise of the crowd. He went down hard. But his buddy was right behind him, his gun out.

  I spun around. The train was picking up speed.

  I dropped my head and sprinted after it, my breath hammering in and out. I heard a gunshot. Then another.

  Two meters. One.

  I was close enough to reach out and touch the vertical bar at the back corner of the car, but I couldn’t get any closer. For an instant, my speed was perfectly synchronized with the train. Then it started to slip away.

  I gave a wild yell and leaped forward, my fingers outstretched for the bar. For one bad second I thought I’d come up short and felt myself falling—then my hand closed around cold metal.

  My body fell forward and my knees smacked into the back of the train. My feet were dangling just over the tracks. My fingers were slipping off the bar. I looked up, saw a kid in a school uniform staring at me out the back window, his mouth open. Then the train entered the tunnel and I lost my grip.

  I twisted instinctively, getting my left arm under and across my body so I could roll with the impact. Still, I hit the tracks so hard that I actually bounced instead of rolling. There was one enormous shock all down my left side, then a brief sensation of flight. An instant later I felt a dull whump! and came to a sudden stop.

  I was on my back, looking up at the ceiling of the subway tunnel. I lay there for a moment, the wind knocked out of me. I wiggled my toes, flexed my fingers. Everything seemed to be working.

  Five seconds went by, then another five. I managed to draw in a few hitching breaths.

  What the hell did I land on?

  I grunted and sat up. I was on a large sand pile to the left of the tracks. Beside it were two hard-hatted Japanese construction workers, looking at me, their mouths slightly agape.

  Next to the sand pile was a concrete floor the workers were repairing. They were using the sand to mix concrete. I realized if I had let go of the train even a half second later, I would have landed on concrete instead of sand.

  I slid over to the ground, stood, and began brushing myself off. The shape of my body was imprinted in the sand like something from an over-the-top cartoon.

  The expressions on the construction workers hadn’t changed. They were still looking at me, mouths still agape, and I realized they were in mild shock at what they had just seen.

  “Excuse me,” I began in Japanese, not knowing what else to say. “Do you have a bathroom?”

  They maintained their frozen postures, and I realized my question had discombobulated them further. Just as well. I saw I was only a few meters inside the tunnel and started walking out.

  I considered what had happened. Yamaoto’s men must have seen me go into the tunnel hanging on to the back of the train, but not seen me slip, and I was going too fast for them to expect I’d let go deliberately. So they were figuring that, in three minutes, I would be deposited at Mita Station, the end of the line. They must have bolted out of the station to Mita to try to intercept me.

  I had a wild idea.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the earpiece I had pocketed before Flatnose and his crew had caught me in the van, then slipped it into place. I felt in my pocket for the adhesive-backed transmitter. Still there. But was it still transmitting?

  “Harry? Can you hear me? Talk to me,” I said.

  There was a long pause, and just as I started to try again the earpiece came to life.

  “John! What the hell is going on? Where are you?”

  It felt great to hear the kid. “Relax, I’m okay. But I need your help.”

  “What’s going on? I’ve been listening to everything. Are you in a train station? Are you all right?”

  I hauled myself up onto the platform, which was mostly deserted now, presumably in reaction to the gunshots. Some people stared at me, but I ignored them, walking past as though it was perfectly natural that I had just emerged filthy and bruised from the depths of one of Tokyo’s subway tunnels. “I’ve been better, but we can talk about that later. Is the equipment still up and running?”

  “Yes, I’m still getting a feed on all the rooms in the building.”

  “Okay, that’s what I need to know. Who’s still in the building?”

  “Infrared says just one guy. Everyone else left right after you.”

  “Yamaoto, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s the guy who stayed behind?”

  “Very last room on the right as you face the building—where the three men took you. He’s been there since you got out.”

  That would be Flatnose or one of his boys—must not have been in condition to come afte
r me. It felt good to know.

  “Okay, here’s the situation. They all think I’m on the back of a subway to Mita, and that’s where they’re going to converge in about four minutes. It’ll take them maybe another five to figure out I’m not there and they’ve lost me, and another five after that to get back to the Conviction building. So I’ve got fourteen minutes to get back in there and plant the bug.”

  “What? You don’t know where they are. What if they didn’t all go to Mita? They could come back while you’re still in there!”

  “I’m counting on you to let me know if that’s going to happen. You’re still getting a video feed from the van, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s still broadcasting.”

  “Look, I’m practically at the building now—still all clear?”

  “Still all clear, but this is crazy.”

  “I’m never going to get a better chance. They’re all out of the building, nothing’s going to be locked, and when they get back, we’ll be able to hear everything they say. I’m going in.”

  “Okay, I can see you now. Do it fast.”

  That advice I didn’t need. I went through the stairway doors and turned right, then jogged down the hallway to the entrance. As I expected, they had left in a hurry and the front door was wide open.

  Yamaoto’s office was three doors down to the right. I was going to be in and out in no time.

  The door was closed. I reached out for the knob, tried to turn it.

  “Oh, fuck,” I breathed.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s locked.”

  “Forget it—put the bug somewhere else.”

  “No use—this is where we need to listen.” I examined the lock and could see it was only a regular five-pin tumbler. Not a big deal. “Hang on a minute. I think I can get in.”

  “John, get out of there. They could come back anytime.”

  I didn’t answer. I slipped out my keys and detached one of my homemade picks and the dental mirror. The latter’s long, slim handle made for a nice field-expedient tension wrench. I slipped the handle into the lock and gently rotated it clockwise. When the slack in the cylinder was gone, I eased in the pick and started working the fifth tumbler.