Graveyard of Memories

by Barry Eisler

  McGraw stared at me for a moment. Then he chuckled. The chuckle migrated to a laugh. The laugh became a guffaw. The guffaw went on and on. He looked at me, wiping tears from his eyes. A few times he tried to speak, but was unable. I watched him. I was tempted to make him stop laughing. More than tempted. And I could have. I could have made it so he never laughed again. But I needed him. Maybe I was learning to control my temper. If so, he had no idea how lucky he was.

  Finally, his fit subsided. “Oh come on, son. I know you SOG guys are tough. But what are you going to do, take on the entire Japanese mafia?”

  “From what you’ve told me, I don’t have a problem with the entire Japanese mafia. Just with Fukumoto. And his Mad Dog son.”

  McGraw was watching me. He wasn’t laughing anymore. “You’re serious.”

  I said nothing.

  “No,” he said. “I can’t authorize this. It’s—”

  “Who said anything about authorization? We’re just…this is all just hypothetical.”

  He snorted. “Hypothetically, where would you get your intel? Their locations, movements, that kind of thing.”

  “Who could say? Maybe I could hear a rumor. An anonymous tip.”

  “Yeah? What would be in it for the informant?”

  I looked at him. “That would depend on what the informant wanted.”

  He rubbed his chin. I thought he looked intrigued. Certainly he seemed to be considering something.

  He went back to the fried rice. After a few moments, he said, “You need intel on two people. What if the informant gave you intel on three?”

  I didn’t even pause. “Then I’d take care of all three.”

  He nodded. “That might make it worthwhile.”

  “It would also have to make us even. The informant and me, I mean. Hypothetically.”

  It amazes me now, that something like that once struck me as tough negotiating.

  “I’m sure it would,” he said.

  I didn’t even pause. “All right. Who’s the third?”

  He looked at me for a long moment. “You sure you’re up for this, son? Have you really thought it through?”

  “Have you?”

  “I just did. But you’d be the one taking all the risk. You really want that?”

  “Who’s the third?”

  He shrugged. After a pause, he said, “Hypothetically? The third would be Kakuei Ozawa.”

  The name was vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. “Kakuei Ozawa…”

  “The LDP sōmukaicho.”

  “The Liberal Democratic Party LDP?” This was the political party that had been running Japan since the war. And presumably, the primary beneficiary of the American largesse I delivered regularly in a briefcase to Miyamoto.

  “The same.”

  “And…the sōmukaicho, you mean the chairman of the Executive Council.”

  “I do, yes.”

  “You’re talking about the second most powerful politician in Japan.”

  “Third, actually, or even fourth. The secretary-general and the chairman of the Policy Affairs Research Council have more clout, at least on paper. But the sōmukaicho has the most influence over the day-to-day dispensation of patronage. More even than the prime minister himself.”

  “And you want me to waste this guy.”

  McGraw winced at my directness. “You want my help with your problem? Help me with mine.”

  “All I need from you is intel. You’re asking me to pull the trigger. On an extremely high-profile target.”

  “I didn’t know you SOG guys were so squeamish.”

  “If that’s what you call my preference for not spending the rest of my life in a Japanese prison, then fine, I’m squeamish.”

  “You only go to prison if you’re caught.”

  I didn’t much care for how smoothly it glided out of his mouth. “What’s that, the official CIA slogan?”

  “No, our official slogan is, ‘And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.’ John 8:32.”

  “Odd choice of slogan for people who lie for a living.”

  “Sometimes, son, we’re defined by our paradoxes.”

  “And sometimes by our bullshit.”

  He laughed. “Sometimes they’re one and the same.”

  “Anyway. I’m not doing it.”

  He shrugged. “Up to you, hotshot. Nobody’s holding a gun to your head.”

  I nodded, wondering whether that was true, strictly speaking.

  He polished off the last of the fried rice and slid back his chair. “Well, good luck with everything. I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

  “Wait a minute. What about…the intel. On Fukumoto. And his son.”

  “I thought you didn’t want that.”

  “That’s…you know I want it. I told you I did.”

  “And I told you what it would cost. You said you didn’t want to pay. That’s fine. Just capitalism at work.”

  “It’s not capitalism. You’re trying to gouge me.”

  “Call it what you want. Either way, it’s what the market will bear. Or not.”

  I didn’t answer. I was looking for a way out, and didn’t see one.

  He looked at me, as though wondering where he found the patience. Then he pulled his chair in again and leaned forward. “Let me explain something to you, son. We’re not partners. We’re not friends. We’re not brothers-in-arms. This is a business relationship. You provide some benefit, and you represent a cost. Well, now your own damned stupidity has increased the cost you represent, by turning you into a shit magnet for the yakuza. You want me to keep you on the payroll anyway? Fine. Tell me what’s in it for me. How are you going to increase the benefit you provide to offset the increased cost? Tell me. I’m listening.”

  I said nothing.

  “All right then, I think I understand. You want me to keep you around, at increased risk to my own operation, and you want me to provide you with classified intelligence files to help you commit what the Japanese judicial system would surely call murder, and you expect me to do that…what, out of the goodness of my heart?”

  Again I said nothing. Inside, I was smoldering. Half at the situation, half at the brutally direct way he’d just characterized it. He had me, had me so tight he didn’t even have to pretend otherwise. I hated it. I hated that I had no choice.

  “All right,” I said. “You win.”

  He chuckled. “Don’t think of it that way, son. This is business, remember? We’re both coming out ahead.”

  I blew out a long breath, trying to shake off the humiliation. “What did Ozawa do?”

  McGraw frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you want him dead?”

  “Listen, son, don’t forget your pay grade. You don’t need to know why. All you need to know is who. That’s all.”

  Maybe I sensed this new thing he wanted gave me leverage I hadn’t had earlier. Maybe I just couldn’t tamp down the anger anymore regardless. I said, “Like hell I do. You want to keep me in the dark about a bunch of cash in a briefcase? Fine, I don’t give a shit. You ask me to grease the fucking Executive Council chairman of the LDP? I want to know what I’m getting into.”

  He smiled slightly, as though impressed by my gumption. “All right. Suppose the U.S. government supported elements of the Japanese government. In exchange for the continuation of policies the U.S. government finds desirable. Maintenance of the mutual security and cooperation treaty. Keeping the Seventh Fleet at Yokosuka. The Marines on Okinawa. Purchase of aircraft from U.S. defense contractors. That kind of thing.”

  “The U.S. government bribes Japanese politicians?”

  “Capitalism at work, son, how many times do I have to tell you? Each side has something the other needs.”

  “You mean, one has policies to sell and the other has cash to pay.”

  “Like I said, you’re not as dumb as you act. Keep this up and you might start to understand the way the world really works.”

  I wo
ndered for a moment if McGraw’s insults might really be intended as terms of endearment. I thought it would be helpful if I could look at it that way. Otherwise, at some point I might lose my temper, as he liked to put it.

  “So what’s the problem with Ozawa? He’s asking too much?”

  “He’s giving out too little. He seems to have developed the idea that the program is a private annuity. It isn’t. And the people he’s freezing out are beginning to squawk. As in, ‘If we don’t get dealt in properly, we go to the press.’ They’ll nuke the financial gatekeepers and the whole program along with it. We need someone who’ll spread the wealth more equitably. Someone with a diplomat’s touch, not a selfish entitled prick like Ozawa. Got the picture now?”

  “I think so. How do I get to him?”

  “I’ll get you his particulars. He’s no hard target. Should be a piece of cake for a SOG hard case like you. How it happens is your call. Within certain parameters.”

  “Which are?”

  There was a pause, then, “Make it look natural.”

  “How am I going to do that?”

  “What, now you’re asking me to micromanage you? You’ll figure something out. What we don’t want is for the LDP Executive Council chairman to eat a bullet, not unless the coroner would prove it came from his own gun and by his own hand. He’s not the prime minister, not even close, but a straight-up assassination of a prominent political figure would bring down way more heat than anyone is willing to accept. Do this well, and you’ll be in a position to call in a lot of favors. But don’t fuck it up. You’ll find yourself in a very uncomfortable position if you do.”

  “Give me the information on the two yakuza first.”

  He laughed. “Do you know something called the ‘call-girl principle,’ son?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “It means the value of services rendered plummets immediately after the rendering. Right now, you need me, so you like my price, or at least you’re willing to pay it. Once I give you the two yakuza, all you’ll want to know is what I’ve done for you lately.”

  “If I do Ozawa first, how do I know you’ll follow through with the information I need?”

  “If I don’t, will you kill me?”

  I looked at him, and a strange chill settled inside me. “I think I’d have to, yeah.”

  He laughed. “I told you. You’re not as dumb as you act.”

  chapter

  seven

  Back on Thanatos, bombing through night Tokyo, I was roiled with conflicting emotions. Relief that I had a potential solution to my yakuza problem. Fear at how extreme and unlikely the solution was. Anxiety at the implications of what I had just agreed to do—those I could imagine, and even more, those I was probably missing. But for now, there was nothing I could do but wait for McGraw’s intel and continue to avoid places like the Kodokan, where Mad Dog and his friends would be looking for me.

  I shoved it all aside and thought about the girl at the hotel, instead. I liked how unruffled she’d been in the face of that drunken guy’s bullshit. And how tough she’d been with me after. And the wheelchair…why? Something congenital? An accident? The reason the sight of it had surprised me so much was that she had struck me as so competent, confident, in control. I realized these weren’t qualities I associated with someone needing a wheelchair, and that my unconscious expectations were simply assumptions based primarily on foolish prejudice, itself likely the product of a lack of thought and experience. Was it weird I found her attractive? I decided I didn’t care. I didn’t even know if she could have sex. But…I wondered. Anyway, thinking about her was much more enjoyable than pondering the guerrilla war I was about to wage against mobsters determined to kill me.

  I knew I shouldn’t go back to the same hotel, especially not twice in a row. But I told myself there would be no harm. It wasn’t like the girl knew my name, or even the first thing about me. There was no way anybody could trace me there. One night, two nights, it wasn’t going to make any difference. I needed a place to stay. And someplace familiar wouldn’t be the worst thing.

  It didn’t take long to get back to Uguisudani, park the bike, and run the gauntlet of streetwalkers again. As I walked through the front entrance of the hotel, I was suddenly gripped by doubt. Maybe I was being stupid. Maybe she would think I was a creep for coming back. Maybe she wouldn’t even be there.

  But she was. A different sweatshirt this time—gray, and no lettering. Other than that, she looked just the same. Just as good.

  She glanced up and saw me. There was a pause, then she said, “I didn’t expect to see you back here.” There was a slight emphasis on the “you.” Other than that, her tone was as neutral as her expression.

  She was listening to jazz again. I wondered who, and why she seemed to like it so much.

  “Yeah, well, the Imperial was full.”

  I thought that was reasonably funny, but she acknowledged it with only the barest hint of a smile. “Let me guess. A stay?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Intuition.”

  Her expression was still so neutral, I had no idea what she was thinking. I said, “What are you…doing here? This job, I mean.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean…you’re young. You know, mostly it’s an oba-san.”

  “You stay at love hotels often?”

  I felt myself blush. “No. Everyone knows that.”

  She shrugged. “If you say so.”

  Man, I was really striking out. “So really, why?”

  “The interesting people I meet.”

  The robot-neutral affect was killing me. Laughing to conceal my embarrassment at what I thought was a dismissal, I pulled out a five-thousand-yen note and slid it under the glass. “I guess it would work for that.”

  She slid the bill into a drawer and came out with a thousand-yen note. She held it, not yet pushing it under the glass, and looked at me as though trying to decide something. “A job where I can sit is good. One where I can sit and study is even better.”

  I grabbed onto the reprieve. “What are you studying?”

  “English.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” This time her tone wasn’t neutral. It was vaguely irritated.

  Jesus, I couldn’t seem to say anything right. “I mean, what do you want to do with it?”

  I thought I detected something in her eyes—amusement, maybe? As though I was a well-meaning pet that was maybe just cute enough to deserve a little patience. But overall, other than the fact that she was talking, there was no evidence that she was the least bit interested in me. It was disconcerting.

  “You might have noticed, I need a job that requires a lot of sitting. If I speak English, maybe I can get something a little better than this one.”

  “I don’t know. I speak English, and it hasn’t helped me get the job I want.”

  “What job do you want?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

  That glimmer of amusement flashed in her eyes again, then was gone. “Do you really speak English?”

  I nodded. “I’m half American.” I didn’t know why I said it. It wasn’t something I ordinarily shared with Japanese.

  She scrutinized my face, searching, I knew, for the mongrel in it. “Now that you mention it, I think I can see it. Your mother was Japanese?”

  I shook my head. “Father.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “Both places.”

  “You’re lucky. America’s where I want to go.”

  “Why?”

  She looked around. “Because I hate it here.”

  Given my own love-hate relationship with the country, I wasn’t sure how to respond. So I just nodded.

  She looked at me. “You don’t?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Were they hard on you?” She didn’t need to be more specific than that. She was talking about the ijimekko—school bullies.

&n
bsp; “Sometimes.” A monumental understatement.

  She held my gaze for a moment, then slid the thousand-yen-note under the glass, followed by a room key. I took both, feeling I was being dismissed, trying to think of something I could use to engage her further, coming up with nothing.

  Finally, in a fit of creativity, I said, “I’m Jun.” Jun was my given name, bastardized to John in English.

  She nodded as though this was possibly the least interesting thing she’d ever heard.

  “What’s your name?” I said, going double or nothing.

  She looked at me for a long beat. I imagined I knew what a microbe felt like under a microscope.

  “Why would you want to know my name?” she said.

  “I don’t know. So I have something to call you, I guess. Wait, now you’re going to ask why I would need to call you something, right?”

  She raised her eyebrows and nodded slowly as though impressed by what a quick study I was.

  “I don’t know,” I said, flailing but plunging ahead regardless. “In case I’m back here. If I come back, it could be the third time I talk to you. I feel like the third time I talk to someone, I should know her name. I’m not sure why. It just feels…like I should.” I realized I was babbling and couldn’t seem to find the off switch.

  “I’m not familiar with that custom.”

  Jesus. “Yeah, well, I guess that’s because I just made it up.”

  She smiled at that, I thought half out of good humor, half out of pity. “Well, Jun, if you come back again and we talk for a third time, maybe I’ll tell you my name then.”

  I tried to think of something witty to say and couldn’t. So I just nodded and took the key, then headed for the elevator. I hoped she would think my wordless exit was confident and cool. But I was pretty sure she knew better.

  chapter

  eight

  I went out early the next morning, the same time as the day before. I wanted to catch the girl again before the shift change.

  She watched me wordlessly as I slid the key under the glass. “Don’t you ever get any sleep?” I asked, casting about for something to start a conversation.