by Barry Eisler
My mother didn’t make it easy for me afterward, though I believe she tried her best. She had been a State Department staff lawyer in Occupation Tokyo with MacArthur’s Supreme Command of Allied Powers, part of the team MacArthur charged with drafting a new constitution to guide postwar Japan into the coming American Century. My father was part of Prime Minister Yoshida’s staff, responsible for translating and negotiating the document on terms favorable to Japan.
Their romance, which became public shortly after the new constitution was signed into law in May 1947, scandalized both camps, each convinced its representative had made concessions on the pillow that could never have been achieved at the negotiating table. My mother’s future with the State Department was effectively ended, and she remained in Japan as my father’s wife.
Her parents broke with her over the cross-cultural, mixed-race marriage, which she entered into against their command, and so my mother, in reaction to her de facto orphanage, adopted Japan, learning Japanese well enough to speak it at home with my father and with me. When she lost him, she lost her moorings to the new life she had built.
Had Midori been close with her father? Perhaps not. Perhaps there had been awkwardness, even fights, over what to him might have seemed a frivolous career choice. And if there had been fights, and painful silences, and struggling attempts at mutual comprehension, had they had a chance to reconcile? Or was she left with so many things she wished she could have told him?
The hell is with you? I thought. You’ve got nothing to do with her or her father. She’s attractive, it’s getting to you. Okay. But drop it.
I looked around the room, and all the people seemed to be in pairs or larger groups.
I wanted to get out, to find a place that held no memories.
But where would that place be?
So I listened to the music. I felt the notes zigzagging playfully away from me, and I grabbed on and let them pull me from the mood that was rising around me like black waters. I hung on to the music, the taste of Caol Ila in my throat, the melody in my ears, until Midori’s hands seemed to blur, until her profile was lost in her hair, until the heads I saw around me in the semidarkness and cigarette haze were rocking and hands were tapping tables and glasses, until her hands blurred faster and then stopped, leaving a moment of perfect silence to be filled with a burst of applause.
A moment later, Midori and her trio made their way to a small table that was left open for them, and the room was filled with a low murmur of conversation and muffled laughter. Mama joined them. I knew I couldn’t slip away without paying my respects to Mama, but didn’t want to stop at Midori’s table. Besides, an early departure would look odd no matter what. I realized I was going to have to stay put.
Admit it, I thought to myself. You want to hear the second set. And it was true. Midori’s music had settled my roiled emotions, as jazz always does. I wasn’t upset at the prospect of staying for more. I would enjoy the second set, leave quietly, and remember this as a bizarre evening that somehow had turned out all right.
That’s fine. Just no more of that shit about her father, okay?
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mama walking in my direction. I looked up and smiled as she sat next to me.
“Well? What do you think?” she asked.
I picked up my bottle, which was considerably less full than it had been when I arrived, and poured us each a glass. “An angry Thelonious Monk, just like you said. You’re right, she’s going to be a star.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Would you like to meet her?”
“That’s nice Mama, but I think I’m in more of a listening mood than a talking mood tonight.”
“So? She can talk, and you can listen. Women like men who listen—they’re such rare birds, aren’t they?”
“I don’t think she’d like me, Mama.”
She leaned forward. “She asked about you.”
Shit. “What did you tell her?”
“That if I were a little younger, I wouldn’t tell her anything.” She clapped a hand over her mouth and shook with silent laughter. “But since I’m too old, I told her you’re a jazz enthusiast and a big fan of hers, and that you came here tonight especially to hear her.”
“That was good of you,” I said, realizing I was losing control of the situation, and not sure how to regain it.
She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Well? Don’t you think you should introduce yourself? She told me she wants to meet you.”
“Mama, you’re setting me up. She didn’t say anything like that.”
“No? She’s expecting you—look.” She turned and waved to Midori, who looked over and waved back.
“Mama, don’t do this,” I said, knowing it was already over.
She leaned forward abruptly, the laugh disappearing like the sun behind a cloud. “Now don’t embarrass me. Go say hello.”
The hell with it. I had to take a leak anyway.
I got up and walked over to Midori’s table. I sensed she was aware of my approach, but she gave no sign until I was directly in front of her. Then she looked up from her seat, and I was struck by her eyes. Unreadable, even looking right at me, but not distant, and not cold. Instead they seemed to radiate a controlled heat, something that touched you but that you couldn’t touch back.
I knew instantly I had been right about Mama setting me up. Midori didn’t have a clue who I was.
“Thank you for your music,” I said to her, somewhat formally in Japanese, trying to think of something else to say. “It rescued me from something.”
The bass player, super cool in his head-to-toe black threads, long sideburns, and rectangular Euro glasses, snorted audibly, and I wondered whether there was anything between them. Midori conceded a small smile that said she’d heard it all before, and simply said “Domo arigato,” the politeness of her thanks a form of dismissal.
“No,” I told her, “I mean it. Your music is honest, it’s the perfect antidote for lies.”
I wondered for a moment what the hell I was saying.
The bass player shook his head, as though disgusted. “We don’t play to ‘rescue’ people. We play because it pleases us to play.”
Midori glanced at him, her gaze detached and registering the slightest disappointment, and I knew these two were dancing steps they knew well, steps that had never led to the bass player’s satisfaction.
But fuck him anyway. “But jazz is like sex, isn’t it?” I said to him. “It takes two to really enjoy it.”
His eyes flared open. Midori pursed her lips in what might have been a tightly suppressed smile.
“We’re happy to go on rescuing you, if that’s what we’ve been doing,” she said in a tone as even as a flatlined EKG. “Thank you.”
I held her gaze for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to read it, then excused myself. I ducked into Alfie’s washroom, which has about the same square footage as a telephone pole, where I reflected on the notion that I had survived some of the most brutal fighting in Southeast Asia, some of the world’s worst mercenary conflicts, but still couldn’t beat one of Mama’s ambushes.
I emerged from the washroom a few moments later and returned to my seat, acknowledging Mama’s satisfied grin en route. As I waited for the second set to begin, I heard the club’s door open behind me, and casually glanced back to see who would be walking through it. My head automatically returned to the front less than a second later, guided by years of training—the same training that prevented the attendant surprise from revealing itself in my expression.
It was the stranger from the train. The one I had seen searching Kawamura.
CHAPTER 4
I keep a number of unusual items on my key chain, including several homemade lock picks and a sawed-off dental mirror. The mirror can be held up to the eye unobtrusively, particularly if the user is leaning forward on an elbow and supporting his head with his hand.
From this posture I was able to watch the stranger arguing with a scowling Mama as the second set be
gan. No doubt she was telling him he wouldn’t be able to stay, that there weren’t any more seats and the room was already overcrowded. I saw him reach into his jacket pocket and produce a wallet, which he then opened, revealing something for Mama’s inspection. She looked closely, then smiled and gestured magnanimously to the far wall. The stranger walked in the proffered direction and found a place to stand.
What could he have used to trump Mama? ID from Tokyo’s liquor-licensing authority? A police badge? I watched him throughout the second set, but he gave no indication, leaning expressionless against the wall.
When the set ended, I had a decision to make. On the one hand, I assumed he was here for Midori, and wanted to watch him to confirm and to see what else I could learn. On the other hand, if he was connected with Kawamura, he might know the heart attack had been induced, and he might recognize me from the train, where we had spoken briefly over Kawamura’s prone form. The risk was small, but, as Crazy Jake once liked to put it, the penalty for missing was high. Someone could learn of my current appearance, and the cocoon of anonymity I had been so careful to build would begin to unravel.
Also, if I did stay to watch his interaction with Midori, I wouldn’t be able to follow him when he left. Either I’d have to share Alfie’s five-person elevator with him, in which case he’d make me, or I’d have to beat him using the stairs, which was uncertain. And if he got to the street first, by the time I caught up, he might already have been carried off by the tides of pedestrians sweeping across Roppongi-dori.
Although it was frustrating, I had to leave first. When the applause for the second set ended, I watched the stranger heading toward the stage. Several patrons stood and began milling about, and I kept them between us as I headed for the exit.
Keeping my back to the stage, I stopped to return the remnants of my Caol Ila. I thanked Mama again for letting me in without a reservation.
“I saw you talk to Kawamura-san,” she said. “Was that so hard?”
I smiled. “No, Mama, it was fine.
“Why are you leaving so early? You don’t come by nearly enough.”
“I’ll have to remedy that. But tonight I have other plans.”
She shrugged, perhaps disappointed her machinations had come to so little.
“By the way,” I said to her, “who was that gaijin who came in during the second set? I saw you arguing with him.”
“He’s a reporter,” she said, wiping a glass. “He’s writing an article on Kawamura-san, so I let him stay.”
“A reporter? That’s great. With what publication?”
“Some Western magazine. I don’t remember.”
“Good for Kawamura-san. She really is going to be a star.” I patted her on the hand. “Good night, Mama. See you again.”
I took the stairs down to the street, then crossed Roppongi-dori and waited in the Meidi-ya supermarket across the street, pretending to examine their champagne selection. Ah, an ‘88 Moët—good, but hardly a bargain at 35,000 yen. I examined the label and watched the elevator to Alfie through the window.
Out of habit I scanned the other spots that could serve as setup points if you were waiting for someone to emerge from Alfie. Cars parked along the street, maybe, but you could never count on getting a space, so low probability there. The phone booth just down from the Meidi-ya, where a crew-cut Japanese in a black leather jacket and wraparound shades had been on the phone as I emerged from the stairwell. He was still there, I could see, facing the entrance to Alfie.
The stranger emerged after about fifteen minutes and made a right on Roppongi-dori. I stayed put for a moment, waiting for Telephone Man’s reaction, and sure enough he hung up and started down the street in the same direction.
I left the Meidi-ya and turned left onto the sidewalk. Telephone Man was already crossing to the stranger’s side, not even waiting until he got to the crosswalk. His surveillance moves were blatant: hanging up the phone the instant the stranger had emerged, the constant visual contact with the exit before that, the sudden move across the street. He was following too closely, too, a mistake because it allowed me to fall in behind him. For a second I wondered if he might be working with the stranger, maybe as a bodyguard or something, but he wasn’t close enough to have been effective in that capacity.
They turned right onto Gaienhigashi-dori at the Almond Cafe, Telephone Man following by fewer than ten paces. I crossed the street to follow, hurrying because the light was changing.
This is stupid, I thought. You are in the middle of someone else’s surveillance. If there’s more than one and they’re using cameras you could get your picture taken.
I imagined Benny, putting a B-team on Kawamura, playing me for a fool, and I knew I would take the risk.
I followed them for several blocks, noting that neither exhibited any concern about what was going on behind him. From the stranger I saw no surveillance-detection behavior—no turns or stops that, however innocent seeming, would have forced a follower to reveal his position.
At the fringes of mad Roppongi, where the crowds began to thin, the stranger turned into one of the Starbucks that are exterminating the traditional kissaten, the neighborhood coffee shops. Telephone Man, constant as the North Star, found a public booth a few meters farther on. I crossed the street and entered a place called Freshness Burger, where I ordered their eponymous entrée and took a window seat. I watched the stranger order inside Starbucks and then take a seat at a table.
My guess was that Telephone Man was alone. If he had been part of a team, it would have made sense for him to peel off and change places at some point to avoid detection. Also, my periodic checks as we progressed down the street hadn’t identified anyone behind me. If he had been with a team and they were as clueless as he appeared to be, I would have made them easily as we moved along.
I sat quietly, monitoring the street, watching the stranger sipping his Starbucks beverage and checking his watch. Either he was waiting for someone to meet him there, or he was killing time before a meeting elsewhere.
Turned out it was door number one. After about half an hour had gone by, I was surprised to see Midori heading down the street in our direction. She was checking storefronts as she walked. When she saw the Starbucks sign, she headed in.
Telephone Man pulled out a mobile phone, pressed a key, and held the unit to his ear. Nice move for a guy standing in a public phone booth. He hadn’t needed to input the whole number, I noted, so whomever he was calling was a speed dial, someone he would call frequently.
The stranger stood when he saw Midori approaching his table and bowed formally. The bow was good, indicating someone who had been in Japan for some time, who was comfortable with the language and culture. Midori returned his bow but at a lesser angle, uncertainty in her stance. I sensed they were not well acquainted. My guess was Alfie had been their first meeting.
I glanced over at Telephone Man and saw him put away his mobile phone. He stayed where he was.
The stranger gestured for Midori to sit. She accepted and he followed suit. He gestured to the counter, but Midori shook her head. She wasn’t ready to break bread with this man.
I watched them for ten minutes. As their conversation progressed, the stranger’s gestures took on an air of entreaty, while Midori’s posture grew increasingly rigid. Finally she stood, bowed quickly, and began to back away. The stranger returned her bow, but much more deeply, and somehow awkwardly.
Which one to follow now? I decided to leave the decision to Telephone Man.
As Midori exited the Starbucks and headed back in the direction of Roppongi, Telephone Man watched her go but held his position. So it was the stranger he wanted, or wanted more.
The stranger left shortly after Midori. Telephone Man and I followed him to Roppongi Station, maintaining our previous positions. I stayed with them down to the tracks, waiting a full car’s length down from both until an Ebisu-bound train arrived and we all boarded. I kept my back to them, watching in the reflection of the glass,
until the train stopped in Ebisu and I saw them exit.
I stepped off a moment later, hoping the stranger would be heading away, but he was coming toward me. Shit. I slowed my pace, then stopped in front of a station map, examining it at such an angle that neither would be able to see my face as he passed.
It was late, and there were only a half-dozen people leaving the station with us. I kept a full riser of stairs between us as we left the bowels of the station, then let them pull ahead a good twenty meters before emerging from the station entrance to follow.
At the edge of Daikanyama, an upscale Tokyo suburb, the stranger turned into a large apartment complex. I watched him insert a key in the entrance door, which opened electronically and then closed behind him. Telephone Man also took obvious note, then continued for about twenty paces past the entrance, where he stopped, pulled out his mobile phone, pressed a key, and spoke briefly. Then he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and sat on the curb.
No, this guy wasn’t on the stranger’s team, as I had briefly considered. He was tailing him.
I moved into the shadows at the back of a small commercial parking lot and waited. Fifteen minutes later a scarlet racing-style motorcycle, its exhaust modified to produce the maximum Godzilla-like rumble, roared onto the street. The driver, in matching scarlet racing leathers and full helmet, pulled up in front of Telephone Man. Telephone Man gestured to the stranger’s building and got on the back of the bike, and they blasted off into the night.
A safe bet the stranger lived here, but the building housed hundreds of units and I had no way of telling which was his or of checking for a name. There would be at least two points of egress, as well, so waiting wouldn’t make sense. I stayed until the sound of the motorcycle had disappeared before getting up and checking the address. Then I headed back toward Ebisu Station.
CHAPTER 5
From Ebisu I took the Hibiya line to Hibiya Station, where I would catch the Mita line home. I never change trains directly, though, and I emerged from the station first to run an SDR.
