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

by Barry Eisler

  “You never told me about what happened in the States after the war,” Harry said after a moment. “Is that why you left?”

  “Part of it.” The terseness of my reply was meant to indicate I didn’t want to go there, and Harry understood.

  “What about Benny?” he asked.

  “All I know is he was connected to the LDP—an errand boy, but trusted with some important errands. And apparently he was also a mole for the CIA.”

  The word “mole” felt unpleasant in my mouth. It is still one of the foulest epithets I know.

  For six years, SOG’s operations in Laos, Cambodia, and North Vietnam were compromised by a mole. Time and again, a team would be inserted successfully, only to be picked up within minutes by North Vietnamese patrols. Some of these missions had been death traps, with entire SOG platoons wiped out. But others were successful, which meant that the mole had limited access. If an investigator could have compared dates and access, we could have quickly narrowed the list of suspects.

  But MACV—the U.S. Military Assistance Command, Vietnam—refused to investigate due to sensitivities about “counterpart relationships.” That is, they were afraid of insulting the South Vietnamese government by suggesting a South Vietnamese national attached to MACV might have been less than reliable. Worse, SOG was ordered to continue to share its data with the ARVN. We tried to get around the command by issuing false insert coordinates to our Vietnamese counterparts, but MACV found out and there was hell to pay.

  In 1972, a traitorous ARVN corporal was uncovered, but this single, low-level agent couldn’t possibly have been the only source of damage for all those years. The real mole was never discovered. It was a mystery I had to live with. And I was one of the lucky ones.

  I took Benny’s and the kendoka’s mobile phones from my jacket pocket and handed them to Harry. “I need two things from you. Check out the numbers that have been called. They should be stored in the phones.” I showed him which unit had belonged to the kendoka, and which to Benny. “See if there are any speed-dial-programmed numbers, too, and try chasing them all down with a reverse directory. I want to know who these guys were talking to, how they were connected to each other and to the Agency.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll get you something by the end of today.”

  “Good. Now the second thing.” I took out the disk and put it on the table. “What everybody is after is on this disk. Bulfinch says it’s an exposé on corruption in the LDP and the Construction Ministry that could bring down the government.”

  He picked it up and held it up to the light.

  “Why a disk?” he said.

  “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “Don’t know. It would have been easier to move whatever’s on here over the Internet. Maybe a copy management program prevented that. I’ll check it out.” He slipped it inside his jacket.

  “Could that be how they knew we were on to Kawamura?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How they found out that he’d made the disk.”

  “Could be. There are copy management programs that will tell you if a copy has been made.”

  “It’s encrypted, too. I tried to run it but couldn’t. Why would Kawamura have encrypted it?”

  “I doubt he did. He probably wasn’t supposed to have access. Someone else would have encrypted it, whoever he took it from.”

  That made sense. I still didn’t understand why Benny had put me on Kawamura weeks earlier, though. They must have had some other way of knowing he had been talking to Bulfinch. Maybe telephone taps, something like that.

  “Okay,” I said. “Buzz me when you’re done. We’ll meet back here—just input a time that’s good for you. Use the usual code.”

  He nodded and got up to leave. “Harry,” I said. “Don’t be cocky now. There are people who, if they knew you had that disk, would kill you to get it back.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

  “Careful’s not good enough. Be paranoid. You don’t trust anyone.”

  “Almost anyone,” he said with a slightly exasperated pursing of the lips that might have been a grin.

  “No one,” I said, thinking of Crazy Jake.

  After he’d left, I called Midori from a payphone. We had switched to a new hotel that morning. She answered on the first ring.

  “Just wanted to check in,” I told her.

  “Can your friend help us?” she asked. I had told her to watch what she said over the phone, and was pleased she was choosing her words carefully.

  “Too early to tell. He’s going to try.”

  “When are you coming?”

  “I’m on my way now.”

  “Do me a favor, get me something to read. A novel, some magazines. I should have thought of it when I went out for something to eat. There’s nothing to do in this room and I’m going crazy.”

  “I’ll stop someplace on the way. See you in a little bit.”

  Her tone was less strained than it had been when I first told her I had found the disk. She had wanted to know how, and I wouldn’t tell her. Obviously couldn’t.

  “I was retained by a party that wanted it,” I finally said. “I didn’t know what was on it at the time. I didn’t know the lengths they would go to in trying to get it.”

  “Who was the party?” she had insisted.

  “Doesn’t matter,” was my response. “All you need to know is I’m trying to be part of the solution now, okay? Look, if I wanted to give it to the party that paid me to find it, I wouldn’t be here with it right now, discussing it with you. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  Not knowing my world, she had no reason to doubt that Kawamura’s heart attack had been due to something other than natural causes. If it had been anything other than that—a bullet, even a fall from a building—I knew I would be suspect.

  I headed to Suidobashi, where I began a thorough SDR by catching the JR line to Shinjuku. I changed trains at Yoyogi and watched to see who got off with me, then waited on the platform after the train left. I let two trains pass at Yoyogi before I got back on, and one stop later I exited at the east end of Shinjuku Station, the older, teeming counterpart to sanitized, government-occupied west Shinjuku. I was still wearing sunglasses to hide my swollen eye, and the dark tint gave the frenzied crowds a slightly ghostly look. I let the mob carry me through one of the mazelike underground shopping arcades until I was outside the Virgin Megastore, then fought my way across the arcade to the Isetan Department Store, feeling like a man trying to ford a strong river. I decided to buy Midori an oversized navy cashmere scarf and a pair of sunglasses with wraparound lenses that I thought would change the shape of her face. Paid for them at different registers so no one would think the guy in the sunglasses was buying a neat disguise for the woman in his life.

  Finally, I stopped at Kinokuniya, about fifty meters down from Isetan, where I plunged into crowds so thick they made the arcade seem desolate by comparison. I picked up a couple of magazines and a novel from the Japanese best-seller section and walked over to the register to pay.

  I was waiting in line, watching to see who was emerging from the stairway and escalator, when my pager starting vibrating in my pocket. I reached down and pulled it out, expecting to see a code from Harry. Instead, the display showed an eight-digit number with a Tokyo prefix.

  I paid for the magazines and the book and took the stairs back to the first floor, then walked over to a payphone on a side street near Shinjuku-dori. I inserted a hundred-yen coin and punched in the number, glancing over my shoulder while the connection went through.

  I heard someone pick up. “John Rain,” a voice said in English. I didn’t respond at first, and the voice repeated my name.

  “I think you’ve got the wrong number.”

  There was a pause. “My name is Lincoln.”

  “That’s cute.”

  “The Chief wants to meet with you.”

  I understood then that the caller wa
s with the Agency, that the Chief was Holtzer. I waited to see if Lincoln was going to add something, but he didn’t. “You must be joking,” I said.

  “I’m not. There’s been a mistake and he wants to explain. You can name the time and the place.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You need to hear what he has to say. Things aren’t what you think they are.”

  I glanced back in the direction of Kinokuniya, weighing the risks and possible advantages.

  “He’ll have to meet me right now,” I said.

  “Impossible. He’s in a meeting. He can’t get free before tonight, at the earliest.”

  “I don’t care if he’s having open-heart surgery. You tell him this, Abe. If he wants to meet me, I’ll be waiting for him in Shinjuku in twenty minutes. If he’s one minute late, I’m gone.”

  There was a long pause. Then he asked, “Where in Shinjuku?”

  “Tell him to walk out the east exit of Shinjuku JR Station directly toward the Studio Alta sign. And tell him if he’s wearing anything besides pants, shoes, and a short-sleeved T-shirt, he’ll never see me. Okay?” I wanted to make it as hard as possible for Holtzer to conceal a readily accessible weapon, if that’s what he was planning to do.

  “I understand.”

  “Exactly twenty minutes,” I said, and hung up.

  There were two possibilities. One, Holtzer might have something legitimate to say, the chances of which were remote. Two, this was just an attempt to reacquire me to finish the job they had botched outside my apartment. But either way, it was a chance for me to learn more. Not that I would count on Holtzer to be straight with me one way or the other, but I could read between the lines of his lies.

  I had to assume there would be cameras. I’d keep him moving, but the risk would still be there. But what the hell, I thought. They know where you live, bastards have probably got a damn photo album by now. You don’t have a whole lot of anonymity to protect anymore.

  I crossed back to Shinjuku-dori and walked to the front of the Studio Alta building, where several cabs were waiting for fares. I strolled over to one of the drivers, a younger guy who looked like he might be willing to overlook a strange situation if the price were right, and told him I wanted him to pick up a passenger who would be coming out the east exit in about fifteen or twenty minutes, a gaijin wearing a T-shirt.

  “Ask if he’s the Chief,” I explained in Japanese, handing him a ten-thousand-yen note. “If he answers yes, I want you to drive him down Shinjuku-dori, then make a left on Meiji-dori, then go left again on Yasukuni-dori. Wait for me on the north side of Yasukuni-dori in front of the Daiwa Bank. I’ll get there right after you do.” I pulled out another ten-thousand-yen note and tore it in two pieces. I gave half to him, told him he would get the other half when he picked me up. He bowed in agreement.

  “Do you have a card?” I asked him.

  “Hai,” he answered, and instantly produced a business card from his shirt pocket.

  I took the card and thanked him, then walked around to the back of the Studio Alta building, where I took the stairs to the fifth floor. From there I had a good view of the east exit. I checked my watch: fourteen minutes to go. I wrote down an address in Ikebukuro on the back of the card and slipped it into my breast pocket.

  Holtzer showed up one minute early. I watched him emerge from the east exit, then walk slowly toward the Studio Alta sign. Even from a distance I could recognize the fleshy lips, the prominent nose. For a brief, satisfying moment, I remembered breaking it. He still had all his hair, though now it was more light gray than the dirty blond I had known. I could tell from his carriage and build he was keeping in shape. He looked cold in the short-sleeved shirt. Too bad.

  I saw the cab driver approach him and say something. Holtzer nodded, then followed him to the cab, glancing left and right as they walked. He looked the cab over suspiciously before getting in, and then they drove off down Shinjuku-dori.

  I hadn’t given Holtzer’s people time to set up a car or other mobile surveillance in the area, so anyone who was trying to keep up with him was going to have to scramble, most likely by hurrying to get a cab. I watched the area for four minutes, but there was no unusual activity. So far, so good.

  I turned and headed back to the stairs, taking them three at a time until I got to the first floor. Then I cut across Yasukuni-dori to the Daiwa Bank, getting there just as the cab pulled up. I walked over to the passenger side, watching Holtzer’s hands as I approached. The automatic door opened, and Holtzer leaned toward me.

  “John,” he started to say, in his reassuring voice.

  “Hands, Holtzer,” I said, cutting him off. “Let me see your hands. Palms forward, up in the air.” I didn’t really think he was going to try to just shoot me, but I wasn’t going to give him the chance, either.

  I noticed time had done nothing to diminish the tough South Boston accent. “I should ask the same of you.”

  “Just do it.” He hesitated, then leaned back and raised his hands. “Now lace your fingers and put your hands on the back of your neck. Then turn around and look out the driver-side window.”

  “Oh, come on, Rain…” he started to say.

  “Do it. Or I’m gone.” He glared at me for a second and then complied.

  I slid in next to him and gave the driver the business card with the Ikebukuro address, telling him to drive us to the place on the card. It didn’t matter where he took us. I just didn’t want to say anything out loud. Then I squeezed Holtzer’s laced fingers together with my left hand while I patted him down with my right. After a minute I moved away from him, satisfied he wasn’t carrying a weapon. But that was only half my worry.

  “I hope you’re happy now,” he said. “Do you mind telling me where we’re going?”

  I thought he might ask. “You wearing a wire, Holtzer?” I said, watching his eyes. He didn’t answer. Where would it be? I thought. I hadn’t felt anything under his shirt.

  “Take off your belt,” I told him.

  “Like hell, Rain. This is going too far.”

  “Take it off, Holtzer. I’m not playing games with you. I’m about halfway to deciding the way to solve all my problems is just to break your neck right here.”

  “Go ahead and try.”

  “Sayonara, asshole.” I leaned toward the driver. “Tomatte kudasai.” Stop here.

  “Okay, okay, you win,” he said, raising his hands as if in surrender. “There’s a transmitter in the belt. It’s just a precaution. After Benny’s unfortunate accident.”

  Was he telling me not to worry, that Benny didn’t even matter? “Iya, sumimasen,” I said to the driver. “Itte kudasai.” Sorry. Keep going.

  “Good to see you’ve still got the same high regard for your people,” I said to Holtzer. “Give me the belt.”

  “Benny wasn’t my people,” he said, shaking his head at my obvious obtuseness. “He was fucking us just like he tried to fuck you.” He slipped off the belt and handed it to me. I held it up. Sure enough, there was a tiny microphone under the buckle.

  “Where’s the battery?” I asked.

  “The buckle is the battery. Nickel hydride.”

  I nodded, impressed. “You guys do nice work.” I rolled down the window and pitched the belt out.

  He lunged for it, a second late. “Goddamn it, Rain, you didn’t have to do that. You could have just disabled it.”

  “Let me see your shoes.”

  “Not if you’re planning on throwing them out the window.”

  “I will if they’re wired. Take them off.” He handed them over. They were black loafers—soft leather and rubber soles. No place for a microphone. The insides were warm and damp from perspiration, which indicated he’d been wearing them for a while, and there were indentations from his toes. Obviously not something the lab boys put together for a special occasion. I gave them back.

  “All right?” he asked.

  “Say what you’ve got to say,” I told him. “I don’t have much
time.”

  He sighed. “The incident outside your apartment was a mistake. It never should have happened, and I want to personally apologize.”

  It was disgusting, how sincere he could sound. “I’m listening.”

  “I’m going out on a limb here, Rain,” he said in a low voice. “What I’m about to tell you is classified…”

  “It better be classified. If all you’ve got to tell me is what I can read in the paper, then you’re wasting my time.”

  He scowled. “For the last five years, we’ve been developing an asset in the Japanese government. An insider, someone with access to everything. Someone who knows where all the bodies are buried—and I’m not just being figurative here.”

  If he was hoping for a reaction, he didn’t get one, and he went on. “We’ve gotten more and more from this guy over time, but never anything that went beyond deep background. Never anything we could use as leverage. You following me?”

  I nodded. Leverage in the business meant blackmail.

  “It’s like a Catholic schoolgirl, you know? She keeps saying no, you’ve just got to find another way, because hey, in the end, you know she wants it.” He grinned, the fleshy lips lurid. “Well, we kept at him, getting in deeper an inch at a time. Finally, six months ago, the nature of his refusals started to change. Instead of, ‘No, I won’t do that,’ we started hearing ‘No, that’s too dangerous, I’d be at risk.’ You know, practical objections.”

  I did know. Good salesmen, good negotiators, and good intelligence officers all relish practical objections. They signal a shift from whether to how, from principle to price.

  “It took us five more months to close him. We were going to give him a one-time cash payment big enough so he’d never have to worry again, plus an annual stipend. False papers, settlement in a tropical locale where he’d blend in—the Agency equivalent of the witness protection program, but deluxe. In exchange, he was going to give us the goods on the Liberal Democratic Party—the payoffs, the bribery, the yakuza ties, the killings of whistle-blowers. And this is hard evidence we’re talking about: phone taps, photographs, tape recorded conversations, the kind of stuff that would stand up in court.”