Tokyo Kill
Page 16
“I heard that, too. Nakamura-sensei takes the intrusion seriously but he is more upset with how his pupils responded. Their actions fall outside the spirit of kendo. He’s passed down punishment. Attention to your action he’s left to the police. But between us, if you were to apologize in person, the matter would evaporate.”
A lot is forgiven in Japan in return for a sincere apology and an exhibit of remorse.
“Maybe once my work is done, I’ll do that,” I said. “Does Kiyama feel the same way?”
“Of course. He’s standing right beside me.”
“Well, I appreciate the advice.”
“You won’t forget my request for rare swords? I’m always in the market for new specimens.”
“I’ll put you at the top of my list.”
“Great.”
We said good-bye and disconnected.
Even in death, the rest of the world carries on.
* * *
Flanked by relatives from both sides of the family, Hamada’s widow and the twins sat stoically to the side of the traditional flower-bedecked dais, with the closed coffin underneath. Attendees approached, added a pinch of incense to a burning pile, and offered prayers.
The twins took it like men, but their eyes were red. They’d already cried it out. Every time I glanced their way, it tore me in two. Robbed of their father at thirteen. One day my Jenny might find herself on the receiving end of the same insurance policy—financially secure but with her biggest fear realized. Every step I took for Brodie Security in my father’s shadow summoned up images of my daughter’s anxiety. The idea haunted me. But helping others pulled me powerfully in the opposite direction. My father had built a smoothly oiled machine and passed half of it on to me. A Brodie family legacy. And, amazingly, I seemed capable of handling the work. As if it and the art were seared into my DNA.
* * *
The funeral went off without disturbance. All but Noda stayed until the end. The brooding detective disappeared minutes after offering condolences, his lips compressed, his bulldog face red with rage.
I wanted to follow him out the door, but I was duty-bound to remain. At least I knew without asking that Noda was out there fighting the fight.
* * *
At the appointed time I strolled into the kushi-katsu restaurant on a backstreet in Ginza.
Kushi-katsu are skewered morsels of seafood, meat, vegetables, and other edibles briskly breaded and deep-fried in a light oil.
As he had in Golden Gai, Tomita had secured us a window seat, this time overlooking a narrow lane with a famous tempura place across the street. Since we were meeting in a popular area, I’d waved off backup, a choice that circumvented what—I later realized—could have led to disaster.
Even with the decidedly high-end menu, Tomita went low: beer and yakitori—skewered chicken bits grilled over charcoal. Curious, but not unexpected, considering my host’s pocketbook.
As soon as the waitress was out of earshot, Tomita plunged in, not with a thank-you for the Japantown story but a tease for the next one: “The, uh, guy got in touch early this morning. Called from Seoul and agreed to meet you day after tomorrow. I had to offer benefits.”
“What kind of benefits?”
“You don’t want to know. But from me, not you.”
“I want to know.”
“Future benefits. Everything costs with him. That’s all I’m going to tell you. You okay with this?” I nodded and Tomita said, “Good, because there’s a rule book.”
“Let’s have it.”
“First, only when he says no does it mean no. Everything else is up in the air.”
“Diplomatic tendencies?”
“Officially, that’s what he is, yeah. There may be hope for you yet, Brodie.”
“And unofficially?” I asked.
“You got what you ordered. One authentic Chinese spy. You owe me big for this.”
Tomita had pulled off a minor miracle.
“You got it,” I said, “if we can trust him.”
“We can.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“My sister-in-law married his cousin.”
“So you’re a relative.”
“Hardly. But spies collect people, and the guy’s taken a liking to me.”
“And the cousin?”
“An entrepreneur.”
“Ah,” I said.
Asian entrepreneurs could be legit or shady.
“Ah about sums it up. You still want in?”
“Yes. And stop asking that. How do you get a yes out of him?”
“He’ll say, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Deniability in case of electronic ears. Everything else will depend on context.”
“You do know some characters, Tommy.”
“Glass houses, Brodie.”
The skewered chicken arrived and we eyed it skeptically. Both of us seemed to have lost our appetite.
* * *
Tommy stood and stretched. “Restroom run. Be right back.”
A minute later our third beers arrived.
Two minutes after that a handsome Chinese man in a stylish tan blazer over a pale-green Ralph Lauren knit shirt slid into Tommy’s seat. His eyes were dark, narrow, and alert. They sat prominently in a face tanned and practiced at looking relaxed and nonchalant.
I started. “Sorry, you’ve got the wrong table. My—”
His smile was thin and cool, his look penetrating.
Son of a bitch. No matter what happens . . .
“Ah,” I said. “You’re not in Seoul.”
“No.” No means no.
“Bet you never even went. Since when do men in your profession give out their itineraries?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yes.
“You choose this place?”
“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.” Another yes.
“The time?”
He nodded. Which according to Tommy’s playbook could mean anything.
Tomita’s unnamed spy had given himself some breathing room I’d not had. An edge he’d probably used well. I wondered how well.
I said, “You have me watched?”
He frowned. “Tommy told me you were an amateur. Maybe you’re not.”
“I’m the new kid on the block. Not a fool.”
Dark brown eyes drilled into me without reserve. They probed, appraised, searched, cataloged, memorized. They sucked up every telling feature—strengths, weaknesses, where pressure could be applied, where it couldn’t. I went into deadpan mode as fast as I could, which wasn’t fast enough.
An eerie kinetic energy flowed between us. There was a physical sense of information being extracted bodily. From my psyche. The sensation was unnatural. Overpowering. Creepy. But very real. I’d heard of such powers but they usually resided with temple monks or mountain mystics. I raised my guard as high as it would go.
“A fool?” he said, the smile turning frigid, his lips stretching. “I suppose not. Just so you know, I’ve read your dossier.”
“That’s ridiculous. The Chinese embassy couldn’t possibly have a dossier on me.”
He gave a languid wave of his hand. “It does now. I ordered one as soon as I got off the phone with Tommy last night.”
His Japanese was polished and polite. Worse, it was disarming and sincere, suggestive of camaraderie without stepping over the line. His linguistic ability was perfect. Frighteningly perfect.
A waitress sidled up to the table and my Chinese visitor ordered from the high end of the menu:
“Take away this yakitori, would you? I’ve seen better dog chow. You don’t mind, do you, Brodie?” he asked, giving me a sideways glance but not waiting for an answer. “Bring us your best sashimi.” He flipped rapidly through a menu. “Also some shirako, some Hokkaido kani, kani miso, and the kushi-katsu deluxe set. Plus a large flask of the Gyoku-ryu daiginjo saké, heated not chilled.”
He’d ordered a world-class lineup of delicacies: top-of-the-line ra
w fish, cod milt, the most flavorful crab from Hokkaido, a soup or paste of the crab’s organs, and Jewel Dragon saké, culled from the highest grade of the traditional brew. The skewered food set started with foie gras, duck, a rare Camembert cheese, rabbit, and lobster. A distinctly French twist on a traditional Japanese cuisine.
Once our server departed, I picked up where we’d left off. “You’re a careful man.” His mention of a dossier had started my nerves popping.
“I like to stay alive.”
“I thought spies didn’t kill each other anymore.”
The saké arrived, my new host poured, we drank, and he refilled the glasses, urging me to drink up. After a third round, he set down his cup with a satisfied smile. “Who said anything about the other side?”
“Ah,” I said. “I hear it can be hard on the mainland.” Brodie, the diplomat.
His eyes darkened. “Survival requires infinite skill. Especially in China.”
“Been true for a long while.”
“It’s another reason I like Tokyo. Compared to Beijing this city’s benign. A baby could thrive here. But in China it only takes a single misstep and . . .”
Before the last word left his mouth, he had the saké flask up again to refill my glass, gesturing me to drink before he topped off my glass. I drank, raised my cup to accept the pour, then drank again, as local etiquette dictated. He waited a beat, topped off my cup once more, then refilled his own.
We’d just run through a double flask. He waved the empty bottle at our waitress to reorder.
The brew was brilliant and complex. Jewel Dragon bloomed when served warm, and we soon found the sweet spot as the temperature settled. The drink was nectar on the tongue, sensual and slightly smoky. Whatever else the man before me might turn out to be, he knew his drink. His connoisseurship allowed him to transcend the dogma that all high-grade saké must be chilled.
“One thing before we start,” he said.
The intense stare was back.
“What’s that?”
He pointed to the roof of the five-story office building across the street that housed the famous tempura shop. I saw a movement, then a flash of reflected glass. The hair on the back of my neck rose. I wanted to lean back, out of the area framed by the window, but it was too large. I’d have to get up and change seats to remove myself from the target area.
He noted my reaction. “You know a sniper when you see one. That’s not . . . promising.”
“I know a gun scope aimed my way.”
“Security measures.”
My anger surged. “What? No red dot dancing over my shirt?”
He made a sign. A laser dot appeared. “Better?”
“No.”
He gestured again and the circle vanished.
It’s a window onto a world I don’t think anyone should ever have to look through, Tomita had said.
Too late now.
CHAPTER 49
THE sashimi arrived with the next round of saké, and my still-unnamed host took up the fresh bottle as a gesture of reconciliation and repeated his early offering.
We both drank. He poured for me, waited a beat for me to drink, refilled my cup then his, and drank. His eyes bored into mine, open and dark and revealing nothing. He offered more saké, again politely waiting and replenishing my cup before giving himself some. We drank more. The saké got smoother.
His eyes continued their scan of my every feature.
And then I got it.
It was a subtle move, which he’d used in the previous rounds as well. And I hadn’t caught on. I was drinking twice as much as he was. He wanted me drunk. Or at least loosened up. And had chosen a seductive brew as temptation.
I drank out of courtesy, and because of the excellence of his offering—all the while expecting an apology for the gunman on the roof. Which hadn’t come. The body language was there but little else. He played on convention, courtesy, and expectation to keep me drinking. This was a clever man. And dangerously subtle.
“Don’t stand on ceremony,” he said. “Have some sashimi. The fish is brought in daily and kept in tanks in the kitchen until ordered.”
Fresh slices of raw fish beckoned from a large platter decorated with mounds of shredded daikon radish, shiso leaves, parsley, and minute purple flowers with teardrop petals.
“Looks great,” I said, taking a few modest pieces.
“You won’t regret it. The master has a great connection down at the market.”
I selected a few pieces of glistening seafood and sipped some saké at a measured pace, giving myself time to think. Window seat, long gun on a rooftop less than thirty yards away.
I was pinned down. Even if I managed to avoid the sharpshooter, there was the spy across the table, for one. I glanced around the restaurant and another man looked quickly away. Well dressed. Flat Chinese brow. A female companion with her back to me. The trap was complete.
I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Thought Tommy vouched for me.”
“He said you have no intelligence background. Is that really true?”
“I deal in Japanese art. I’m here on a buying trip.”
“Art’s a good cover. Gets used all the time.”
“Not in my case.”
He waved the finger and the red dot reappeared. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
My jaw tightened. “Brodie Security is an inheritance. I’m half owner and care about the people there, but art is my primary focus. Your ‘dossier’ doesn’t cover that?”
“You’re an investigator.” The dot bounced around.
“A fledgling one. By default.”
“Maybe you were turned. Maybe you got close to Tommy to get to me.”
“I’ve known him for years. I’ve never heard of you. I don’t even know your name.”
“Except for your relationship to Tommy, all unprovable. Maybe someone who knows you two are friends persuaded you to approach Tommy to draw me out. Gave you some cash. Applied some pressure.”
In his world trust was an elusive, oft-abused commodity. Treasured when steady, deadly when it was flipped on you. I felt sorry for this guy. I bet the number of sleepless nights outweighed the peaceful ones.
“You never know what’s real, do you?” I said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Yes.
“I wouldn’t want your life. Ever.”
He broke into a smile. Suddenly he radiated sunshine. All the hostility was gone. “That, my friend, is one of the few answers that won’t get you shot.” He waved his finger and the bright-red spot vanished.
With this guy you’ll be stepping into an alternate universe. . . . Can you be ready or not?
CHAPTER 50
I’D been allowed to step back from the precipice, so I wasted no time shifting gears.
I said, “You have a name?”
“Ten of them. Take your pick.”
“Any of them real?”
“As real as anything else in this world. How does Zhou sound?”
A philosopher and a spy. Tommy-gun could pick them. “Old-school mainland. Why not? As long as your information is real.”
“It will be.”
“How do I know?”
His smile warmed even more. “Once I accept you, you’re in.”
The rest of the food arrived. Before I could protest, Zhou loaded a small plate with delicacies for me, then one for himself. To reciprocate, I filled his saké glass. With the bottle I motioned for him to drink, holding the flask ready to refresh his cup. His trick. He smiled with a bottomless charm, drank, then set his cup off to the side, out of reach, and politely relieved me of the flask, renewed my drink, and bid me to drink, immediately topping off my cup as soon as I took a sip.
He hadn’t fallen for his own ploy, but I glimpsed a hint of curiosity in his look. Had I seen through his maneuver or was my gesture merely a polite echo of his?
I drank a second time, deciding to keep him guessing. Two could play at this game.
Zhou waved down a waitress and ordered another flask. His voice intensified and softened. In it I heard compassion, understanding, and an offer of friendship. “You know, I haven’t been in Tokyo long, but this is a great city, don’t you think? The people are considerate, the food superb. You must love coming here.”
“It is special,” I said.
His smile widened. “I bet you see things. Meet lots of people. Do you ever go to museum openings? I hear the most interesting people attend exhibition previews.”
“All the time,” I said, relaxing now that he seemed to be heading into more open waters.
“It’s got to be exciting. Getting an advance viewing of classic art pieces hundreds of years old. Especially something as unique as Japanese art.”
“It is rewarding.”
He nodded, desire lighting up his eyes. “I wish I could be involved in something creative. I really do. My work is so dull. You might think it glamorous but I spend most of my time chained to a desk. Filling out forms. Meeting boring businessmen and diplomats like myself. Attending endless embassy parties with the same old people. Dull, let me tell you. Good food and drink, and the occasional good company, like tonight, are the only things that liven up a very stale life. Believe me. I bet you meet much more exciting people.”
“At times.”
“Your world is so glamorous. Meeting VIPs from Japan and the U.S. at special events. Through your work. Do you have clients from Europe?”
“Some. I never would have thought you’d be interested in my line of work,” I said, hoping to guide the focus back toward him.
“But I am. I work for a bunch of bureaucrats. Drab is their middle name. You want to hear a joke one of the party higher-ups told me?”
“Sure.”
Finally, a shift toward neutral ground.
“Good. You can see how feebleminded they all are. Here goes: ‘What’s the price of a loaf of bread in Los Angeles ten years from now?’ ”
His smile was broad and congenial, telegraphing how sure he was I would enjoy this jest at his colleagues’ expense.