by Barry Eisler
I picked up the delicate china cup and looked at him. “Tell me something, Tatsu.”
“Yes.”
“These questions. You already know the answers.”
“Of course.”
“Then why are you asking me?”
He shrugged. “I believe this man we are dealing with is a sociopath. That he is capable of killing under any set of circumstances. I am trying to understand how such a creature operates.”
“Through me?”
He nodded his head once in acknowledgment.
“I thought you just said I’m not the right model.” My tone was more forceful than I had intended.
“You are as close to such a creature as I have known. Which makes you ideally suited to hunt him.”
“What do you mean, ‘hunt him’?”
“He is careful in his movements. Not an easy man to track. I have leads, but they would need to be followed.”
I took another sip of tea, considering. “I don’t know, Tatsu.”
“Yes?”
“The first guy, with the business fronts, okay, he was strategic. I understand. But this guy, the dog fighter, he’s just muscle. Why aren’t you going after Yamaoto and the other kingpins?”
“The ‘kingpins,’ as you put it, are difficult to get to. Too many bodyguards, too much security, too much visibility. Yamaoto in particular has hardened his defenses, I believe out of fear that you may be hunting him, and is now as inaccessible as the Prime Minister. And even if they could be gotten to, there are many like them in the various factions, waiting to take their places. They are like shark’s teeth. Knock one out, and there are ten rows waiting to fill in the gap. After all, to be a kingpin is not so hard. What does it take? Some political acumen. A capacity for rationalization. And greed. Not a particularly rare profile.”
He took a sip of his tea. “Besides, this man is no ordinary foot soldier. He is ruthless, he is capable, he is feared. An unusual individual, whose loss would not be a trivial blow to his masters.”
“All right,” I said. “What are you offering me? Given that I’m under no obligation.”
“I have no money to offer you. Even if I did, I doubt that I could match what Yamaoto and the Agency were paying you previously.”
He might have been trying to get a rise out of me with that. I ignored it.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt, old friend, but you’re asking me to take a hell of a risk. Just spending time in Tokyo entails risks for me, you know that.”
He looked at me. When he spoke, his tone was measured, confident. “It would not be like you to assume that your risk from Yamaoto and the CIA is confined only to Tokyo,” he said.
I wasn’t sure where he was going with that. “It’s where the risk is most pronounced,” I said.
“I’ve told you, Yamaoto has felt compelled to live a much more heavily defended existence since the last time you saw him. He has curtailed his political appearances, he no longer trains at the Kodokan, he travels only surrounded by bodyguards. My understanding is that he does not enjoy these new restrictions. My understanding, in fact, is that he resents them. Most of all, he resents the cause of them.”
“You don’t have to tell me Yamaoto has a motive,” I said. “I know what he’d like to do to me. And it’s not just business, either. He’s the kind of man who would feel humiliated, enraged by how I helped steal that disk from him. He’s not going to forget that.”
“Yes? And none of this keeps you awake at night?”
“If I let that kind of shit keep me awake at night, I’d have bags under my eyes the size of Sado Island. Besides, he can have all the motive he wants. I’m not going to give him the opportunity.”
He nodded. “I’m certain that you wouldn’t. At least not deliberately. But, as I have mentioned, I am not the only one with access to Juki Net.”
I looked at him, wondering whether there was a threat hidden in there. Tatsu is always subtle.
“What are you saying, Tatsu?”
“Only that if I could find you, Yamaoto will be able to, also. And he is not alone in his efforts. The CIA, as you know, is also eager to make your reacquaintance.”
He took a sip of his tea. “Putting myself in your shoes, I see two possible courses. One is that you stay in Japan, but not in Tokyo, and try to return to your old ways. This is perhaps the easier course, but the less safe one.”
He sipped again. “Two is that you leave the country and start over somewhere. This is the harder course, but would perhaps afford you greater security. The problem, in either case, is that you will have left things unfinished with certain parties who wish you ill, parties with global reach and long memories, and that you will have no allies against them.”
“I don’t need allies,” I said, but the rejoinder sounded weak even to me.
“If you plan to leave Japan, we can part as friends,” he said. “But if I cannot count on your help today, it will be difficult for me to help you tomorrow, when you may need that help.”
That was about as direct as Tatsu ever got. I thought about it, wondering what to do. Drop everything and disappear to Brazil, even though my preparations weren’t complete? Maybe. But I hated the thought of leaving a loose end, something someone could grab on to and use to track me. Because, despite his obvious self-interest in emphasizing the dangers of Yamaoto and the CIA, Tatsu’s assessment was not so far off from my own.
The other possibility would be to do this last job and keep him off my back, keep him off balance while I finished my preparations. What he was offering me in return wasn’t trivial, either. Tatsu has access to people and places that even Harry can’t hack. No matter what I did next, he would be a damn useful contact.
I thought it through for another minute. Then I said, “Something tells me you’re carrying an envelope.”
He nodded.
“Give it to me,” I said.
8
I TOOK THE envelope to my apartment and perused it there. I sat at my desk and spread out the papers. I highlighted passages. I scribbled thoughts in the margins. Parts I read in order. Other times I skipped around. I tried to get the pattern, the gist.
The subject’s name was Murakami Ryu. The dossier was impressive on background, on much of which Tatsu had already briefed me, but light on the sorts of current detail that I need to get close to a subject. Where did he live? Where did he work? What were his habits, his haunts, his routines? With whom did he associate? All blanks, or too vague to be immediately useful.
He wasn’t a ghost, but he was no civilian, either. Civilians have addresses, places of employment, tax records, registered cars, medical files. The lack of such details surrounding Murakami was itself a form of information. Which provided a frame, but I still didn’t have a picture.
That’s okay. Start with the frame.
No information meant a careful man. Serious. A realist. A man who didn’t take chances, who was careful in his movements, who could be expected to make few mistakes.
I shuffled papers. Even his known organized crime associates were from multiple families. He didn’t exclusively patronize any of the known yakuza gumi. He was a freelancer, a straddler, connected to many worlds but a part of none.
Like me.
He liked hostess bars, it seemed. He had been spotted in several, typically high-end, where he would spend the yen equivalent of twenty thousand dollars in a night.
Not like me.
High rollers get remembered. In my business, careful means not being remembered. Evidence of impulsiveness? Lack of discipline? Maybe. Still, there was no pattern to the behavior, only its existence. No trail for me to follow.
But there was something there, something in those periodic splurges. I tagged that thought for reexamination, then closed my eyes and tried to let the bigger picture cohere.
The fighting. That was a common theme. But Tatsu’s information on where the underground bouts occurred, when, and under whose auspices, was sketchy.
The police ha
d broken up several, always in different locations. That the police were breaking up the fights at all meant they weren’t being paid not to. Meaning in turn that the organizers were willing to purchase overall secrecy at the price of a few random interruptions. Which showed good judgment, and perhaps some greed.
Too bad, from my perspective. If there had been payoffs, there would have been leaks, leaks that Tatsu would have uncovered.
Stay with the fights, I thought, trying to get a visual. The fights. Not work for this guy. He’s a killer. For him, it’s fun.
What would the purses be? How much do you have to pay two men to step into the ring when each knows that only one might walk away afterward?
How many spectators? How much would they pay to see two men fight to the death? How much would they bet? How much would the house collect?
They’d have to keep the crowds small. Otherwise word gets out and the police intrude.
Enthusiasts. Devotees. Maybe fifty men. Charge them a hundred, two hundred thousand yen each for admission. Betting is free. A lot of money would change hands.
I leaned back in the Aeron chair, my fingers laced behind my head, my eyes closed. Pay the winner the yen equivalent of twenty thousand dollars. The loser gets a couple thousand for his efforts, if he lives. The couple thousand goes to the crew that disposes of the body if he doesn’t. Minimal overhead. The house pockets close to eighty grand. Not bad for an evening.
Murakami liked to fight. Hell, Pride wasn’t enough for him. He needed more. And it wasn’t the money. Pride, with promotions and pay-per-view, would pay a lot more, to the winners and losers.
No. It wasn’t the money for this guy. It was the excitement. The proximity to death. The high you can only get from killing a man who’s simultaneously doing everything in his power to kill you.
I know the sensation. It both fascinates and repulses me. And, in a very few men, most of whom can live out their lives and be true to their natures only as the hardest of hard-core mercenaries, it becomes an addiction.
These men live to kill. Killing is the only thing for them that’s real.
I had known one of them. My blood brother, Crazy Jake.
I remembered how Jake would cut loose after returning from a mission. He’d be flushed, not just his mood but his whole metabolism jacked up and humming. You could see heat shimmers coming off his body. Those were the only times he would be talkative. He’d relate how the mission had gone, his eyes bloodshot, his mouth working a maniac grin.
He would show trophies. Scalps and ears. The trophies said: They’re dead! I’m alive!
In Saigon, he’d buy everyone’s beer. He’d buy whores. He threw parties. He needed a group to celebrate with him. I’m alive! They’re dead and I’m fucking alive!
I sat forward in the seat and pressed my palms on the surface of the desk. I opened my eyes.
The bar tabs.
You’ve just killed and survived. You want to celebrate. They paid you in cash. Celebrate you can.
It felt right. The first glimmers of knowing this guy from afar, of beginning to grasp the threads of what I’d need to get close to him.
He loved the fights. He was addicted to the high. But a serious man. A professional.
Work backward. He would train. And not at some monthly dues neighborhood dojo alongside the weekend warriors. Not even at one of the more serious places, like the Kodokan, where the police judoka kept their skills sharp. He’d need something, he’d find something, more intense.
Find that place, and you find him.
I took a walk along the Okawa River. Hulking garbage scows slumbered senseless and stagnant on the green water. Bats dive-bombed me, chasing insects. A couple of kids dangled fishing poles from a concrete retaining wall, hoping to pull God knows what from the murky liquid below.
I came to a pay phone and used the number Tatsu had given me.
He picked up on the first ring. “Okay to talk?” I asked him.
“Yes.”
“Our man trains for his fights. Not a regular dojo.”
“I expect that is correct.”
“Do you have information about where?”
“Nothing beyond what is in the envelope.”
“Okay. Here’s what we’re looking for. A small place. Three hundred square meters, something like that. Not in an upscale neighborhood, but not too far downscale, either. Discreet. No advertising. Tough clientele. Organized crime, biker types, enforcers. People with police records. Histories of violence. You ever hear of a place like that?”
“I haven’t. But I know where to check.”
“How long?”
“A day. Maybe less.”
“Put whatever you find on the bulletin board. Page me when it’s done.”
“I will.”
I hung up.
The page came the next morning. I went to an Internet café in Umeda to check the bulletin board. Tatsu’s message consisted of three pieces of information. The first was an address: Asakusa 2-chome, number 14. The second was that a man matching Murakami’s memorable description had been spotted there. The third was that the weightlifter had been one of the backers of whatever dojo was being run there. The first piece of information told me where to go. The second told me it would be worthwhile to do so. The third gave me an idea of how I could get inside.
I composed a message to Harry, asking whether he could check to see if my former weightlifting partner had ever made or received calls on his cell phone that were handled by the tower closest to the Asakusa address. Based on Tatsu’s information, I expected that the answer would be yes. If so, it would confirm that the weightlifter had spent time at the dojo and would be known there, in which case I would use his name as an introduction. I also asked if Harry had heard from any U.S. government employees of late. I uploaded the message to our bulletin board, then paged him to let him know it was there.
An hour later he paged me back. I checked the bulletin board and got his message. No visits from the IRS, with a little smiley face next to the news. And a record of calls the weightlifter had made that were handled by the Asakusa 2-chrome tower. We were in business.
I uploaded a message to Tatsu telling him that I was going to check the place out and would let him know what I found. I told him I needed him to backstop Arai Katsuhiko, the identity I’d been using at the weightlifter’s club. Arai-san would have to be from the provinces, thus explaining his lack of local contacts. Some prison time in said provinces for, say, assault, would be a plus. Employment records with a local company—something menial, but not directly under mob control—would be ideal. Anyone who decided to check me out, and I was confident that, if things went as I hoped, someone would, would find the simple story of a man looking to leave behind a failed past, someone who had come to the big city to escape painful memories, perhaps to try for a fresh start.
I caught a late bullet train and arrived at Tokyo station near midnight. This time I stayed at the Imperial Hotel in Hibiya, another centrally located place that lacks the amenities and flair of, say, the Seiyu Ginza or the Chinzanso or Marunouchi Four Seasons, but that compensates with size, anonymity, and multiple entrances and exits. The Imperial was also the last place I had been with Midori, but I chose it for security, not for sentiment.
The next morning I checked the bulletin board. Tatsu had given me the identity I wanted, along with the location of a bank of coin lockers in Tokyo station, from under one of which I could retrieve the relevant ID. I read the electronic message until it was memorized, then deleted it.
I did an SDR that encompassed Tokyo station, where I retrieved the papers I might need, and that ended at Toranomon station on the Ginza line, the oldest subway line in the city. From there I caught a train to Asakusa. Asakusa, in the northeast of the city, is part of what’s left of shitamachi, the downtown, the low city of old Tokyo.
Asakusa 2-chome was northwest of the station, so I approached it through the Sensoji, the Asakusa Temple complex. I entered through Kaminarimon,
the Thunder Gate, said to protect Kannon, the goddess of mercy, to whose worship the temple complex is dedicated. My parents had taken me here when I was five, and the site of the gate’s ten-foot red paper lantern is one of my earliest memories. My mother insisted on waiting in line to buy kaminari okoshi, Asakusa’s signature snack, at the Tokiwado shop, whose crackers are reputed to be the best. My father complained at having to wait for such touristy nonsense but she ignored him. The crackers seemed wonderful to me—crunchy and sweet—and my mother laughed as we ate them, urging me, “Oichi, ne? Oichi, ne?” Aren’t they yummy? Aren’t they yummy?, until my father broke down and partook.
I paused before the Sensoji Temple and looked back at the compound. Around me whirled the general din of excited tourists, of hawkers exhorting potential customers “Hai, irasshiae! Hai, dozo!,” of squealing schoolchildren being mobbed by the legions of pigeons that make the complex their home. Someone was shaking an omikuji fortune-telling can, full of hundred-yen coins deposited in the hope of good tidings. Incense from the giant brass okoro wafted past me, simultaneously sweet and acrid on the cool air. Clusters of people stood around the censer, pulling the smoke onto those parts of their bodies they hoped to cure with its supposed magical properties. One old man in a fishing cap gathered great heaps of it onto his groin, laughing with gusto as he did so. A tour guide tried to arrange for a group photo, but waves of passersby continually obliterated the shot. The giant Hozomon Gate herself stood silent through it all, brooding, dignified, inured by the decades to the clamor of tourists, the frantic photographers, the guano amassed on her eaves like wax from immolated candles.
I headed west. The din receded, to be replaced by an odd, depressing silence that hung over the area like smoke. Outside the tourist-fueled activity of Sensoji, it seemed, Asakusa had been hit hard by Japan’s decade-long decline.
I walked, my head swiveling left and right, logging my surroundings. Hanayashiki amusement park sulked to my right, its empty Ferris wheel rotating senselessly against the ashen sky above. The esplanade beyond was given over mostly to a few pigeons that had wandered there from the nearby temple complex, the occasional flapping of their wings echoing in the surrounding silence. Here and there were small clusters of homeless men smoking secondhand cigarettes. A mailman removed a few envelopes from the back of a postal box and hurried on, as though vaguely afraid he might catch whatever disease had decimated the area’s population. The owner of a coffee shop sat diminished in the back of his deserted establishment, waiting for patronage that had long since vanished. Even the pachinko parlors were empty, the artificially gay music piping out of their entranceways bizarre and ironic.
