by Barry Eisler
The waitress returned in less than three minutes, carefully arranged before me a small white cup of exceptionally dark coffee, an even smaller bowl of sugar, and cream in a silver cup the size of a thimble. The bill went next to it all, for whenever I was ready, and then the waitress was gone, once again without a word. Her reticence didn’t feel unfriendly, though; it was more like there was an understanding here, a mutual comprehension, alongside which words would be superfluous and perhaps even rude.
I reached under the seat and touched paper taped exactly where McGraw had said it would be. But I felt no particular hurry about retrieving and opening it. Instead, I closed my eyes, listened to the music, and began sipping the coffee. It was ungodly strong but also delicious, and I realized someone had employed a lot of care to impart that much richness without bitterness or anything else creeping in to overpower the flavor. I had been expecting just a routine cup of coffee, and was struck by the notion that even in an everyday thing like coffee preparation, there was a way of doing things right, with care and maybe even devotion. Maybe this was part of what Miyamoto had been trying to describe as we had taken our tea at Nakajima. I wasn’t unfamiliar with what it meant to be ruthlessly squared away—ask any combat veteran about the care that goes into planning, training, weapons maintenance, and everything else on which your life might hang in the balance in the field—but this was different. Lion spoke of devotion brought to bear on small things, everyday things, things that otherwise might have seemed inconsequential or have been overlooked entirely, and like the confidence that characterized the place, I sensed this kind of everyday devotion was also something to which a person might want to aspire.
I pulled loose the envelope, opened it, and removed a file. There was a lot of good information: home and work addresses; known cronies and habits; a half-dozen photos; a brief bio. Married, two grown children. No known vices. He’d been a captain in the Imperial Army. Received a commendation for valor, and a leg wound in Manchuria. But that had been a while back. The man I saw in the photos was now sixty-something, thin and sallow-faced, probably from a lifetime of tobacco. His warrior days were behind him. Along with, soon enough, everything else.
I immediately understood the value of the extra photos McGraw had enclosed. A single shot can be misleading. Seeing the subject from multiple angles, on the other hand, at various times, in different clothes, and in varied surroundings, made a positive ID in person much easier and more certain. You really wouldn’t want to drop some clueless civilian because of an accidental likeness to a single low-resolution surveillance photo.
Looking at the photos was weird. Not because it made me feel queasy. Rather, because it didn’t. I was examining the face of a man I was going to kill, and I was as emotionally involved as if I were doing a crossword puzzle. I wondered about that. Was it because after all that time in the jungle, I had become inured to killing? Was it because no one knew me anymore, no one was watching, I had no one to account to?
What about God?
I laughed at that. My mother had tried to raise me as a Catholic, but war had deracinated whatever meager plantings her efforts had achieved. No God ever would have stood silent spectator to what I saw in Vietnam. To what I did there. Either there was no God, or there was and he didn’t give a damn.
And besides, was the absence of feeling really so strange? Ozawa was part of a corrupt system. You take part in a system like that, you have to realize grievances aren’t going to get aired in court, or worked out in group therapy, or solved with mediation. This guy knew the risks, and he took them. It wasn’t my fault the risk/reward ratio wasn’t going to offer the outcome he’d been hoping for.
It was a rationalization, of course. Even back then, I knew that. Maybe I needed the rationalization, like a shot of booze to get up my courage. The strange thing was, even knowing it was a rationalization didn’t make it less effective.
People talk about morality. Sometimes I think there’s just what you can do, and what you can’t.
Well, I could. And I was going to.
chapter
eleven
Before leaving Lion, I memorized the Ozawa file, then walked outside and burned it as McGraw had instructed. I briefly considered saving it as leverage in case anything went wrong, but decided there was no point. There was nothing on any of the pages to tie them to McGraw, or to anyone else. I’d come to appreciate how careful McGraw was, and imagined he would have handled everything so as to ensure he left no fingerprints, literal or figurative. The person the file could connect to Ozawa, though, was me. Better to just get rid of it.
I took a long and aimless ride on Thanatos, setting Ozawa aside temporarily and thinking about how to communicate with Miyamoto, instead—mapping out the logistics, creating a coherent cover story, pressure-checking all of it. When I had a plan in place, I parked the bike in Shibuya and rode the Ginza line. It didn’t take me long to find what I wanted—Gaienmae Station would work well enough. I walked up and down the platform, decided how I wanted to handle things, then got back on the train.
When I reemerged in Shibuya, it was late afternoon. There was still time to start my recon on Ozawa. The path to solving my yakuza problem went through him, and I wanted to get started.
According to McGraw’s file, Ozawa lived in Kita-Senju, a neighborhood way out in the northeast on the other side of the Sumida River. I’d actually never been there, never having had a reason to go. Well, I did now. I stopped at a gas stand to fill up Thanatos, then headed over, not sure what I would find, hoping it would be something I could use. Killing a guy was one thing. Making it look natural…I didn’t know how the hell I was going to pull off something like that.
Kita-Senju turned out to be a quiet, unpretentious neighborhood consisting primarily of modest single-family houses interspersed with mom-and-pop shops, doubtless run by couples living over the store. Off the main thoroughfares, the streets were barely wide enough for Thanatos, their narrowness accentuated by the tendency of residents to line the few inches of curb in front of their houses with a variety of potted plants, and to park bicycles in front of those. The houses were of wood or ferroconcrete, some even of corrugated iron, most of them small and clustered closely together, but all well maintained. I liked the neighborhood. There was nothing fancy about it, certainly, but it felt real.
I found Ozawa’s street and turned onto it, slowing as I came to his house. Unlike the other houses I’d seen, it was built partly of brick—unpretentious, but denoting a certain level of importance and success. Two stories, with just a little bit of land in front and to either side; surrounded by a short metal fence; a concrete parking space behind a sliding gate to one side. The parking space was currently occupied by a shiny Toyota sedan. McGraw’s file claimed the household possessed only one car, and that Ozawa himself was provided a driver by virtue of his position as LDP sōmukaicho. I took this to mean the wife was home. Ozawa probably was not—a guy like that would rarely be home before dinner, and in fact probably not until well after, when his business socializing was done.
I drove on, feeling discouraged. The house itself seemed to offer few possibilities. I imagined I could get inside while the wife was out, but what then? And what if I was mistaken and the wife was home, or there was a parent or in-law around for that matter? These days, it’s less common for Japanese extended families to all live under the same roof, but back then it was the norm. I pictured myself intercepting Ozawa as he got in or out of his chauffeured car. Sure, I could do it, but it would be about the least natural-looking outcome imaginable.
I circled the block and came to a large building with an elaborate, authentic Japanese roof, several dozen bicycles lined up before it at the curb. A Buddhist temple? I wondered how long it had been there—from the style and grandeur of those graceful, tiled curves, probably since at least the turn of the century. The word for “roof” in Japanese is yane—literally “house root,” implying the importance of the roof as the basis for everything else. Whoeve
r had designed this structure had taken that philosophy seriously, and I felt an odd sense of respect for and even connection with the architect, unknown to me and probably long since gone.
I came closer. A blue noren curtain with the name Daikoku-yu was stretched across the entrance, the three kanji meaning Great Black Hot Waters, and there were several dozen shoes placed in cubbies inside a small vestibule. Interesting. Whatever purpose it might have served originally, the place was obviously now a sentō—a public bath. Though they’ve been gradually disappearing since the war, back then the sentō—literally, “hot water for a penny”—served a vital function, fostering both a sense of community and good hygiene, and Tokyo still had several thousand, ranging from tiny no-frills neighborhood places to grand ones like this.
I thought about Ozawa’s house again. It was impressive, but it looked fifty years old at least. Newer places were being built with their own baths, but there was a decent chance the Ozawa residence wouldn’t have one. If that were the case, I imagined Ozawa would visit the neighborhood sentō regularly, perhaps every night. Or even if the home had its own bath, it would be a shame to live so close to a sentō as spectacular as this one and not make use of it. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that of course Ozawa would be a frequent visitor. Japanese politicians always mixed with their constituents. They had to show their humble origins, demonstrate they were of the shomin, the common folk. And though Ozawa’s house was better than average, a guy in his position easily could have afforded more. That he chose to scale back was another reason to expect I might find him at the sentō. After all, it wouldn’t do to be living aloof in that better-than-average home and to never engage in a little old-school hadaka-no-tsukiai—naked bonding—with the hoi polloi. My gut told me the sentō was the opportunity I needed, either the place itself or somewhere between it and his house. I just had to find the right way.
I parked Thanatos and wandered the neighborhood on foot. There were two routes Ozawa might use—one along the neighborhood’s little shōtengai, or shopping street; the other something of a shortcut along several much narrower roads. No way to know which he’d prefer, or whether he would consistently use one or the other. And even if I could know, neither potential route offered a way I could loiter inconspicuously. I decided to try the sentō itself.
I walked inside, placing my shoes in one of the cubbies at the entrance. The interior was old but well kept: sturdy-looking pillars ascending to a lovely, carved wooden ceiling; leather couches for anyone who wanted to relax before or after a bath; good lighting and immaculate lacquered floors. I walked over to the mama-san, who was seated behind a desk between the women’s entrance to one side and the men’s to the other, and along with the entrance fee paid for soap, shampoo, a towel, and a washcloth. No question the place would be popular in the neighborhood, but the fact that they were selling toiletries and renting towels suggested they also attracted visitors from farther away—maybe because of the grand old structure itself; maybe because in addition to the sentō, they offered an onsen or rotenburo, natural spring or outdoor bath. Certainly the mama-san evinced no surprise at the sight of an unfamiliar face—another good sign.
I walked into the men’s changing area, undressed, and put my clothes and bag in a locker secured with a charmingly inadequate lock. Then I went through the sliding-glass doors and into the men’s bathing area. Instantly I was enveloped by steam and heat and the floral smell of soap. High on one wall was the requisite mural of Mount Fuji, practically a national law. There was a lot of light—not just from fixtures, but from a pair of large windows along the high ceiling and a skylight overhead. About twenty men of all ages were seated on short stools before the spigots lining the walls, some shaving, some scrubbing, some dowsing themselves with hot water from wooden buckets. One man was helping a little boy into the tub, and for a moment I was struck by a memory of my own father, introducing me to the neighborhood sentō when I was no longer young enough to be bathed in the kitchen sink. I remembered that day clearly, the steam and the soap and the sight of all those unselfconsciously naked people. It had felt like a rite of passage, and my parents had been sure to mark it as such, with my mother fussing afterward about how grown-up I was now, and even my ordinarily distant father, perhaps pressed by some memories of his own, smiling with uncharacteristic sentiment, and for the second time that day I sagged under the paradoxical weight of memories of people and things that no longer were.
I shook off the feeling and walked to the back, where the tubs were located. There were four of them, forming an L along two walls: the main tub, with a cold plunge pool next to it, comprising the long end of the L; and two mineral baths, with signs advertising their benefits for muscle aches and a variety of skin conditions, forming the short end. The main bath was at the base of the L, between the cold pool and the mineral tubs, and was easily twice the size of the other three combined.
I went through another sliding door and found myself in an enclosed outdoor garden with another tub at the center, this one done in natural stone in keeping with the setting. A ronteburo, unusual for a sentō, and, as I’d suspected, probably part of the appeal for people from outside the neighborhood. For the moment, the ronteburo was empty, but overall, the place was pretty crowded. So while a steady flow of strangers would allow me to spend some time here to reconnoiter, the same crowds would pose a significant challenge when it came time to act. But one thing at a time.
I went back inside. Japanese bathing etiquette always involves extensive, even elaborate soaping and scrubbing and rinsing before entering the tub, but I went at it even beyond the already strict requirements, wanting to extend my stay as long as I could without becoming conspicuous. While I painstakingly went over every inch of my body with the soapy washcloth, I considered. I thought there was at least a decent chance I could acquire Ozawa here. If so, it wouldn’t be hard to head out shortly before he did, and come up from behind as he headed home. But how was I going to make something like that look natural? I considered a judo strangle, but immediately rejected it. My strangles were pretty good, but I knew I had nowhere near the finesse to put in a fatal one and leave no visible damage to the throat.
I scrubbed a second time, then sluiced the water off myself with a bucket, refilling the bucket with increasingly scalding water each time. My father had taught me the trick to easing into the molten waters of the sentō that very first time he’d taken me, and I’d never forgotten. You can’t wash with tepid water and then get right into the bath, he’d explained—the trick is to increase the temperature of the wash water until you can barely stand it. At that point, your body is acclimated, and you can get right into the bath. I did as he had taught me, and when I was done, my skin sunburn-red, I stood, walked over, and eased into the steaming waters of the large hot bath.
Within minutes, my muscles had been reduced to jelly by the pulverizing heat. As the tension flowed out of my body, I felt the anxiety about how to handle Ozawa dissipating from my mind. I’ve always loved the sentō, and this one was beautiful. I forgot about Ozawa for the moment and let myself be mindful, as Miyamoto had advised with regard to the drinking of tea. This was an old and noble building, used for a ritual that went back millennia, and I was here and I was connected to all of it, and that was good. That was enough.
A wrinkled oyaji walked slowly over, gripped the railing with fingers gnarled from arthritis, and eased himself into one of the mineral baths. I figured the minerals must help with the arthritis. I thought if I were lucky, I might get that old someday. But I didn’t really expect it. I watched as a few clusters of people arrived and departed. No Ozawa.
When I had soaked for as long as I could stand and was about to hit the plunge pool to cool down, a man came in. I squinted through the steam. Ozawa? He’d been clothed in all the file photos, obviously, and it was throwing me to try to make the match with him naked. But there—the limp from that war injury. He came closer, pulled up a stool, and sat in front of one
of the spigots. His back was to me but I could see him clearly in the mirror he was facing. It was him.
I hit the plunge pool, the shock of cold finishing off what the sight of Ozawa had already done to my reverie. Then I sat on the side for a few moments, cooling down, watching unobtrusively. A few people greeted Ozawa, and he exchanged brief pleasantries here and there, but this area was for serious bathing. Most real conversation would take place on the couches in the waiting area outside.
When he was done washing, Ozawa stood with some effort and headed over to the baths. The limp was quite pronounced. I watched as, eschewing the main bath, he eased himself into the available mineral tub. I supposed that, like the arthritic oyaji, Ozawa found the superheated mineral water eased the discomfort of his wartime injury.
I paused, that phrase mineral water repeating itself in my mind for no good reason. Unlike the other two baths, the mineral baths were one-person affairs, each not much more than a large tub. They were enclosed. They were small. And of course, they were filled with minerals. Salt, mostly. So salt water.
Salt water, which is especially conductive of electricity.
I was suddenly excited, and had to concentrate on maintaining my casual posture. Could I do this? Would it work?
The oyaji pulled himself up and went to rinse off. I got back into the hot bath. This time, I barely felt it. I waited and watched unobtrusively. After about ten minutes, Ozawa leaned forward, gripped the faucet of the tub, and pulled himself out.
The way he’d gripped that faucet…was that a habit? Things were more primitive in those days, ergonomics not yet a science, and the baths at Daikoku-yu were devoid of railings and handholds and steps. For anyone physically challenged—like the oyaji, like Ozawa—the most natural handhold to use when it was time to leave the bath was the faucet.
