Zero Sum (A John Rain Novel)

by Barry Eisler

  “That’s pretty cynical,” I said, deliberately not denying it.

  “Am I right, though?”

  “Well, not wrong, exactly. I’ve been away for a few years and just got back. I guess you could say I’m figuring out my next move.” To change the subject, I added, “Anything else you noticed?”

  “Well, I haven’t seen you talking to anyone else the whole evening. For most people at a party, this would be unendurable. They would find some way to make small talk even with strangers, to prevent the embarrassment of being seen alone.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “So . . . you’ve been watching me for a while.”

  She laughed. “Long enough. You don’t mind being alone?”

  In fact, I preferred it, but not if it was going to draw attention when I was supposed to be operational. Although attention like hers was something I sensed I could probably live with.

  “Not usually, no. But this is a nice change of pace. Was I doing anything else wrong?”

  She smiled. “Not that I noticed.”

  “Well, that’s good. Since you seem to notice a lot.”

  “Only when I’m interested.”

  Okay, she had to be flirting with me. Though I was aware I should discount the conclusion because I wanted a lot to believe it.

  I took a sip of champagne from my properly held flute. “What else interests you?”

  “Ah, so many things.” She turned and gazed out at the room. “Have you noticed the lamps?”

  I followed her gaze and took in the scores of long vertical lamps hanging from the ceiling across the great room. “Not particularly, no.”

  “Well, then, you are missing something important. Each lamp is a hexahedron. The shape is inspired by gems discovered in burial mounds from the Kofun period, when they were used in necklaces. Do you see how each is only slightly lit, diffusing light through the paper screens?”

  I was intrigued that she would know something like this, and notice it, though I wasn’t sure I agreed it was important. It also seemed noteworthy that she had so smoothly used a word like “hexahedron.” Several times earlier in the conversation, she had paused for one of those delightful mmm moments while recalling an unfamiliar word. She must have known this subject quite well.

  “Now that you mention it,” I said, “I do.”

  “When you go through the lobby later, be sure to look at the walls. The light-brown stone is called Tako Ishi. It’s found only in Gunma Prefecture, and the designers of the hotel chose it not just for its unusual color, but also because the afternoon sun creates delicate shadows on its uneven surfaces. The shadows are said to resemble the dark brushstrokes of old Chinese landscape paintings.”

  I was beginning to feel slightly in awe of her. “Who are you?”

  “Just a person who tries to appreciate her surroundings.”

  “I’d say you’re doing more than trying.”

  She smiled and took a sip of champagne. “Well, life isn’t only about the present. Everything in our present also is connected to the past, and hints at the future.”

  I was aware I was feeling quite buzzed, whether from the champagne, or her, or both. “How do you know all this?”

  “I make it a point to know it.”

  “Yes, but you’re a foreigner.”

  “Ah, but the things we’re born to are often the very things we most take for granted. Sometimes it takes a foreigner to appreciate what locals can’t see. Isn’t this why it took a Frenchman to write Democracy in America? No American could have had such perspective on his own culture.”

  “I’m sure that’s true, but even so, I think you must be . . . exceptional. Do you study these things?”

  “Of course.”

  One of the hotel’s discreet waiters, seeing that we were nearly done with our champagne, appeared like a magic trick, refreshed our glasses, and moved off. As he did so, I glanced around and saw Miyamoto watching from a distance. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought he looked displeased. Did he think I was more interested in this woman than I was in spotting Sugihara? If so, he wasn’t completely wrong. I needed to extricate myself. But I didn’t want to.

  “But why?” I said, sipping the champagne. “Are you a professor or something?”

  She laughed. “I think you’re trying to flatter me, John.”

  “I’m glad if I did, but I wasn’t trying to.”

  She shook her head as though dismissing a silly notion. “I’m not a professor. I just do a little work for one of the local museums.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Oh, are you interested in museum work?”

  “Not usually, but I think it’s growing on me.”

  She laughed.

  “Why did you come over to me?” I asked. “Why really.”

  She sipped the champagne. “Maybe I was bored. Is that a crime?”

  “No. But I’ll keep it a secret.”

  “Oh, are you good at keeping secrets?”

  Suddenly, the tuxedo wasn’t the only thing feeling stiff. I wanted to volley back, but had no idea how.

  A man’s voice just behind me said in Japanese, “Ah, there you are.”

  I turned, and saw a distinguished-looking Japanese man, his black hair steel gray at the temples, walk up and touch Maria’s arm. “I was looking for you.”

  “Ah, I’m sorry,” Maria said in Japanese. “I met a fellow aficionado of Japanese crafts. We were talking about the hotel. This is John. And John, this is my husband, Sugihara Koji.”

  I automatically bowed low—in recognition of his rank, and to hide the surprise and confusion I was afraid might show in my expression. I hadn’t recognized him at all—the photo had been too old, and not a great likeness in any event, and even beyond all that, he looked different in the tuxedo.

  And, I had to admit, I’d been too distracted by his wife.

  “It’s good to meet you, sir,” I said, straightening and nearly stammering. “Are you enjoying the reception?”

  “Indeed, a lovely affair,” he said.

  From his tone, he might have been describing a bout of hay fever rather than a party. I assumed that, as a top LDP politician, he would be capable of better artifice, so he must have judged me not worthy of the effort.

  I struggled to think of a way to kick-start a conversation, and lead to something operational. But so many conflicting currents were crisscrossing my mind—his sudden appearance; the fact that he was this woman’s husband; my attraction to her, now that I had just learned she was his wife; my fear that he might have noticed said attraction making its presence known beneath my ill-fitting tuxedo pants—that I couldn’t come up with anything.

  He turned to Maria. “The ambassador is here. It’s best if we meet him together, so . . .”

  She nodded. “Of course.” Then she turned to me and extended her hand. “It was a pleasure chatting with you,” she said in English. “I’d like to put you in touch with the museum director. Find me before you leave, all right?”

  “Of course,” I said, not knowing what the hell to make of that and totally on autopilot. “Thank you.”

  Sugihara gave me a slight bow of apology and took his wife’s arm. I watched as they strolled away, unable not to notice that she looked every bit as fantastic from behind as she did from the front.

  I wanted to gulp the rest of the champagne, but I needed to clear my head. I hit the restroom, then walked out to the pool deck, which was mercifully empty. Reflections of ambient light from the surrounding city rippled on the water, and the loudest sound was the hum of the filtration motor.

  His wife? She was Sugihara’s wife? It was so awful it was almost funny.

  Why had she approached me? And why that bit at the end about a museum director? She must have wanted to see me again. But why? Was she interested? In what, an affair? I was half-horrified at the thought, half-hopeful.

  And what about Sugihara? I’d been disinclined to kill him from the start, but I’d at least known I could if I had to. Sugihara ha
d been an abstraction for me, an equation, a cost/benefit. And that was good. Killing is built on dehumanizing the target—look, I did it right there, referring to a “target,” like something inanimate. It’s why the military refers to engaging the enemy, not murdering your fellow humans. It’s why UN peacekeepers typically don’t wear helmets—the sight of a human face is itself a powerful deterrent to killing.

  But now I’d met his wife. Talked to her. Flirted with her—or at least that’s what it felt like.

  I considered. I didn’t care about Sugihara. Our meeting had been brief, and to the extent I knew him at all, he struck me as something of an aloof prick. I imagined it, and realized I could kill him if I had to. That hadn’t changed.

  So what’s the problem? Stick to the plan. Play for time. Look for the opening to take Victor out. If you run out of time, you drop Sugihara. You just said you could.

  But that was just it. I could drop Sugihara. But I didn’t want to drop this woman’s husband.

  What are you going to do, then, just stand down? If that psycho decides Miyamoto is an “unreliable guy,” Miyamoto’s death will be on you.

  Damn it. Miyamoto had been good to me. Kept my secrets. Warned me about a plot to kill me. He was one of the few people I called friend. Protecting him had to be the priority.

  Exploit her, then. She could be an intel gold mine. Is there anyone who could help you fix Sugihara in time and place better than his wife?

  Logically, there was no arguing with any of that. But the thought made me feel worse. Now I wasn’t just considering killing Sugihara, but also making his wife—Maria—an unwitting accomplice in his death. Turning her into the instrument of her own tragedy.

  How do you know it would be a tragedy for her? He’s older. Cold where she’s warm, aloof where she’s charming. A politician. Gone half the time, visiting his home district, wining and dining cronies at night, an absentee husband. Why are you so sure she’s even attached to him? Maybe she wouldn’t care. Maybe it would free her. Hell, for all you know, she might even want him dead.

  It was a rationalization, I knew.

  It’s not a rationalization. It’s rationality.

  Bullshit.

  It’s not bullshit, either. It’s just math. She’s pretty and you liked her. But get your feelings out of the way and add up the numbers. There’s only one right answer. You just don’t want to see it.

  I heard the pool gate squeak and looked up. It was Miyamoto, silhouetted against the hotel.

  “Rain-san,” he whispered loudly. “Is that you?”

  I looked around, concerned by his breach of the operational security we had agreed on.

  “Yeah,” I whispered back. “What are you doing? How’d you know I was here?”

  He walked over and whispered more quietly, “I imagined where I might go if I wanted a moment alone.”

  Despite the mild breach, I was pleased. “It sounds like you’ve been practicing the countersurveillance mentality I taught you.”

  “I have indeed. Most useful. Now, what in heaven’s name were you doing with Sugihara’s wife?”

  Of course. I should have realized—he hadn’t been looking at me disapprovingly because I was chatting up a woman. It was because I was chatting up Sugihara’s wife.

  “I didn’t know who she was. She just started talking to me.”

  “But is that wise?”

  “I don’t know if it was wise or not. It just happened.”

  “But won’t this create difficulties?”

  I wasn’t sure if he was referring to logistical difficulties, or emotional ones, or both.

  “I’m not sure. Probably. Yes. I need to think it through. That’s why I came out here. Hey, Victor said Sugihara had beefed up his security, but I didn’t see any bodyguards or anything like that. Did you?”

  “He has a man outside the reception. A dozen guests brought bodyguards tonight, but none to the party itself.”

  I nodded, thinking Sugihara’s security wasn’t very secure. He was lucky Kobayashi was dead, and that someone a bit more reluctant, if not quite so incompetent, had been sent to kill him instead.

  Miyamoto glanced around nervously. “What are you going to do?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m pestering you. And we shouldn’t be talking anyway. I was just . . . concerned.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll handle it.”

  He gave me a slight bow and went back through the gate. A moment later, the area was quiet again.

  I knew I had sounded reassuringly confident when I’d told Miyamoto I would handle it. But the truth was, I had no idea how.

  I imagined setting up a meeting with Victor. I could tell him I’d made some progress—established contact at the wedding. I’d leave Sugihara’s wife out of it, of course. Completely out of it. But the wedding itself would be a morsel to toss the psychopath. And maybe while he was chewing on that morsel, I’d see an opening and take him out.

  That settled me a little. I sat in the shadows on one of the lounge chairs for a while, just thinking, enjoying being away from the party. What I’d told Maria was true: I didn’t mind being alone. I’d been alone before Sayaka, and, a few pretty Filipinas aside, I’d been alone after. The things I did in the war had felt like a wall after I’d come back, and now, after another decade of war in Mindanao, it was as though that wall was even higher and thicker. I knew it would always be there, between the world and me. It didn’t feel wrong, or tragic, or even unfair. It felt appropriate, like some moral version of Newton’s third law, a force cutting me off from the living in reaction to the lives I myself had cut short.

  And yet there I was, sitting in the dark and thinking about this woman.

  That’s okay. She’s a lead. An asset. You should be thinking about her.

  The problem was, I wasn’t thinking about her . . . that way.

  I told myself I was being stupid. She was too old for me, too worldly, too married.

  And too close to the mess I was in. Look what had almost happened to Sayaka, from no more than being near me. The wall wasn’t simply punishment for the man on this side of it. It was protection for the people on the other. I needed to remember that.

  Then knock it off about how you feel about her. She’s an asset. A piece on the board. Stop mooning and play the fucking game.

  Right.

  I headed back inside and spotted her almost immediately. She was alongside her husband, smiling like the perfect politician’s wife as he held forth to a group clustered before them. I looked around, and confirmed that the bride and groom were far off. It wouldn’t do to have Maria ask me to introduce her.

  I maneuvered through the crowd so she could see me pass, then stopped by a buffet tray along the wall and began filling a plate with multicolored mochi desserts. In my peripheral vision, I saw her excuse herself.

  “Ah, John,” she said, walking over. “I didn’t see you for a while. Did you leave the party?”

  Had she been looking for me? “I . . . you were right. I guess I’m more comfortable by myself than at parties.”

  “But did you meet the person you were looking for? I could probably help, you know.”

  I didn’t know how to answer that. So I just said, “I’m glad I met you.”

  She looked at me closely, then smiled. “You’re sweet.”

  “I’m not, actually.” I hadn’t meant to say it. I wondered if I was trying to warn her or something.

  “Well, we’re all complicated people. Maybe you’re sweeter than you know.” She reached into the tiny black purse she was carrying and removed a business card. “Here’s that information I mentioned,” she said, handing it to me. “I hope you’ll follow up.”

  I glanced at the card. It was for Maria Sugihara of the Tokyo National Museum in Ueno. I glanced at the back and saw the words Monday. 2:00 p.m. The Honkan entrance.

  I knew the museum. It was Tokyo’s largest, and had been my mother’s favorite. She had take
n me there any number of times when I was small. The Honkan was the main building, with dozens of exhibition rooms.

  I slipped the card into my pocket and nodded. Was this about the museum director? Or something else? “Thank you. I’ll . . . make sure to follow up.”

  She held out her hand and smiled. “Prego.”

  We shook, and she turned and walked back to the group, her posture businesslike, someone who had performed a promised kindness for a stranger and was now done with him.

  But she wasn’t done. That much was clear. What wasn’t clear was what she was doing with me.

  Though no less clear than what I was doing with her.

  chapter five

  I spent the next day reconnoitering Sugihara’s home and workplace per Victor’s dossier. Neither venue was at all promising. Sugihara lived in a condominium in Minami Azabu with a gated garage. The neighborhood was entirely residential, and there was no good place to set up outside the building. I could envision several ways of accessing the garage and waiting for him there. None was low-risk, and the chance that I might be spotted by Maria enhanced the difficulty.

  Work was even worse—a gated facility in Kasumigaseki with high walls and a guard post. Again, not impossible, but difficult and high-risk.

  The good news, I supposed, was that I could use the dossier’s shortcomings as an excuse for why the job was taking a long time. Excuse, hell, it was an actual reason.

  You can do better than that. Tell the psycho if he really wants you to drop Sugihara, he should get you a gun.

  I considered. Guns were rare in Japan, but if anyone could get me one, I figured it would be Victor. Though if his instincts were as good as I sensed, he wasn’t going to let me anywhere near him armed.

  There was one other possibility. My friend Tatsuhiko Ishikura. Tatsu. We’d known each other in Vietnam, and ten years earlier he’d helped me solve my yakuza problem, and then disappear. But Tatsu was with the Keisatsuchō, Japan’s National Police Force, and while he had always prioritized the imperatives of justice over the niceties of law, I thought asking him for a gun so I could drop a Russian gangster might be a bridge too far.