Zero Sum (A John Rain Novel)

by Barry Eisler

  “Prostitution?”

  “A farm girl in wartime Tokyo? It’s hard to imagine what other options she would have.”

  “Still. It’s a lot of speculation.”

  “As I said. Some I’ve been able to support. But yes, much of it happened sufficiently long ago, and in such turbulent times, that it can’t be corroborated.”

  “Well, what else have you corroborated?”

  “The note the child was holding when the orphanage found him said his name was Hikaru Yamada. There are archived immigration records of a person of that name leaving Japan for Russia at eighteen. No evidence of a return trip. I believe Victor traveled there looking for his father, the Soviet general. A foolish fantasy, but one burned deeply into his traumatized psyche. I doubt he would have had much to go on. I doubt his actual father even survived the war.”

  “And then?”

  “He joined the Soviet Army, of course.”

  “Following in his father’s footsteps.”

  “And perhaps fantasizing, consciously or unconsciously, that his father would learn of his exploits and claim him. Of course, this never happened. But Victor did distinguish himself, it seems, probably in covert conflicts in Africa and Southeast Asia. I suppose it’s not impossible we crossed paths with him in Vietnam.”

  “Small world.”

  “Indeed. Whatever his exploits, they were sufficient for Victor to be one of the men picked to spearhead the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan in 1979. And two years later, he arrived here.”

  “You’re really concerned about this guy.”

  “Aren’t you? After what you saw him do to Kobayashi?”

  “Yes. But it’s more than that, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “As you noted, his intel is superb. That’s a problem because it’s made him so effective, of course. But it also tells me he has powerful allies, likely within the government. And I’ve been unable to discover who, or how, or why.”

  “You want my help with that.”

  “Of course.”

  “Honestly, Tatsu, I’m more interested in eliminating this guy than in interrogating him.”

  “I understand that. But the one might lead to the other.”

  That was true. And he could have been pressing a lot harder. It wouldn’t have been right not to give a little ground of my own.

  “All right,” I said. “I might have a lead or two. I’ll try to learn more. Can you help me with Oleg?”

  There was a pause, presumably while he weighed what I was asking him to enable.

  “I can help,” he said. “But you have to act only with great care, do you understand? This is about removing a cancer. Without harming any surrounding tissue.”

  I finished my beer and set down the mug. “You just tell me where to find the tumor,” I said. “And I’ll cut it out.”

  chapter nine

  I checked in with Oleg the next morning. Again, no leads on Sugihara. Again, I was relieved at the news. Because now the lead I was really waiting for was about Oleg himself.

  I left the Ikebukuro hotel and found another one in Shibuya. I wasn’t unduly concerned about Victor tracking me, but it’s generally better to stay mobile than to present a fixed target. And it wasn’t as though changing hotels was terribly difficult. I didn’t have much luggage. Just a single bag, in fact.

  I imagined meeting Maria that evening at Miyamoto’s biishiki bar. And I thought about her teasing me about my rented tuxedo, and Kurosawa’s obvious concerns about my attire as he looked me up and down in his office. Maybe a drink at a fancy bar would be a good occasion to do better. I decided to do some clothes shopping.

  I took the subway to Mitsukoshi in Ginza, Tokyo’s oldest and most prestigious department store. The interior was intimidating. Everything on display looked a lot finer than anything I’d ever considered buying before, and the customers browsing the expensive-looking merchandise were wearing similarly fine clothes—certainly finer than mine. I felt people glancing at me as I walked by them, judging my wrinkled shirt and faded jeans and scuffed boots, and for a moment, I felt like leaving. But then I saw a sign for the Men’s Department on the sixth floor, thought The hell with it, and headed up the escalator.

  The sixth floor was cavernous, and mercifully empty compared to the ground level. I started looking around, feeling weirdly stupid and helpless.

  A guy in a pin-striped suit with a small badge identifying him as Employee Ito must have sensed my distress, because he came over and asked with great politeness, “Honored customer, perhaps I can be of service in some way?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Thank you.” But I didn’t know what to add after that.

  “Are you . . . looking for something in particular?”

  “Well,” I said, scratching my head. What the hell was I looking for? “I’m meeting someone tonight. A woman. In a nice bar. And I thought . . .”

  “Something appropriate for the occasion?”

  It sounded so straightforward when he said it. “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Do you have in mind something formal? Or more casual?”

  Formal didn’t mean a tuxedo, did it? Because the wedding had been formal, and everyone there was in a tuxedo. But in this context, the term must have just meant a suit and tie. Would that be too much? Probably. But what were the rules on casual? Was it something equally straightforward?

  Again, he must have sensed I was struggling because he offered a translation. “A suit and tie? Or are you instead envisioning, for example, slacks and a nice shirt?”

  “Right. Of course. I think probably . . . slacks. And a nice shirt.” And in a burst of inspiration, I added, “She’s Italian. I think she likes Italian fashion.”

  He laughed at that, not unkindly. “Everyone likes Italian fashion. Italian would certainly present a good choice.”

  An hour later, I left the store wearing a pair of charcoal gabardine trousers, a light-gray silk-and-cashmere V-neck sweater, a brown suede belt, and a pair of brown split-toe suede shoes, with moderate welting that was the right balance for the trousers and sweater. The terminology was courtesy of Employee Ito; the clothes, of Brunello Cucinelli, a new Italian designer Ito assured me was the toast of Milan and would soon be taking over the world. Thinking it was best to get used to the new look, I’d asked Employee Ito to put my regular clothes in a store bag, which I carried as I headed out to the street. I noticed people looking at me in a way they hadn’t when I came in, and it made me uncomfortable. Did I look good? Or like a fake?

  I decided I probably just looked good. The average person wouldn’t be able to sense that I was faking it, even if I was, right? The new clothes would be a worthwhile experiment, if nothing else. In the jungle, we had used different camo patterns and different camouflage face paint, depending on the background we were trying to blend into. If you couldn’t blend in the jungle, you might as well have just painted yourself with a big orange target. But wasn’t the city the same? I’d gone to that wedding thinking all I’d needed for cover was a tuxedo, and Maria had seen right through it. Next time, it might be someone less friendly. That meant I had a lot to learn.

  So for the next few hours, I went in and out of jewelry stores and antique dealers and art boutiques. I played a game—pretending I had grown up rich and spoiled in Shirokanedai, a wealthy enclave in central Tokyo, the only son of parents descended from samurai and heir to a fortune made in the kimono trade. I led a life of leisure, and today was out shopping for baubles. I tried not just to imagine it, but to really feel it, the way McGraw had taught me.

  And damn if it didn’t work. People who never would have taken me seriously were suddenly fawning as though they really believed I was going to cart off a million-yen brooch or an antique lacquered chest. I believed it, and it made them believe it, too. Of course, the Brunello Cucinelli didn’t hurt. The key, it seemed, was to both look and feel the part. And to recognize that look and feel weren’t entirely separate categories. Rather, they seemed to reinforce each other.
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  By the time I got back to the hotel, the sun was low in the sky, and I was feeling more confident about my new look. I showered, changed back into the new clothes, and walked to Minami Aoyama. The evening was cool and breezy, and the thought of meeting Maria at a bar was causing my heart to kick surprisingly hard.

  Halfway there, I realized I hadn’t checked in with Oleg. All right, no problem, it wasn’t much past five. I found a payphone and called him.

  “You’re late,” he said by way of greeting.

  “You have anything for me?”

  “Did you go to hardware store?”

  “Don’t worry about what stores I’ve been to. That’s my end. Information is yours.”

  “I have information, asshole. So I hope for your sake, you went to store.”

  Shit. “What information?”

  “Man meets with people tonight. Fancy hostess club in Ginza. You have pencil?”

  Shit, I thought again. “I don’t need one. Where? When? What are the particulars?”

  “Club is called Moonglow Ginza. Perfect place. Fifth floor. Many hostesses. Different rooms. Man goes there with many important people. You go, you chat with pretty hostess, you wait, man goes for piss, you come up behind, finish, leave by stairs. Easy job. Can’t miss.”

  “When will he be there?”

  “Seven o’clock.”

  Of course. When I would be at the bar with Maria.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to get there quite at seven, but—”

  “Don’t be stupid guy. You can’t do in front of pretty hostess. You do in bathroom. And who knows when man goes to bathroom? You need to be in club for that.”

  I was really beginning to develop an antipathy to this guy.

  “I understand that. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “What in fuck are you doing? You have date or something?”

  For a second, I froze. Then I realized he was just probing.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a hot date and that’s why I’m taking the night off. Are you serious?”

  “This is lead you wanted. You said you needed. Don’t fuck up, stupid guy. By end of night, man better be taken care of. Or someone takes care of you.”

  He hung up.

  I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell to do.

  Maria would have already left the museum. I had no way to reach her. So, what, just forget her on the chance I might be able to drop her husband at this hostess bar? What if I went to Moonglow, but there was no opportunity? I would have blown the better long-term play—developing Maria as a source. The chance to tease out more about her husband. His schedule. Where he stayed when he visited constituents in Yamanashi.

  But shit, that was all just rationalization. The real problem was the thought of her sitting in a bar while I was out stalking, and maybe killing, her husband. I imagined her waiting an hour, finally giving up, going home, wondering where he was . . . and then a couple of police knocking on her door past midnight to deliver the grim news.

  I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to do it. And I wasn’t going to.

  But what was I going to do?

  You’re being stupid. Don’t get emotionally involved. You think you’ve never killed anyone with a wife before? This is no different. Just shut that shit down, go to Moonglow, and take care of business.

  I struggled with that, without success. It seemed I couldn’t shut that shit down.

  You have to. You can’t do this work and also indulge feelings.

  Yeah, well. Maybe that was the point.

  The hell with it. I’d go to the damn bar and enjoy my evening with her. That shouldn’t be hard. And I’d call in tomorrow morning and tell Oleg it just didn’t work out. That I went to Moonglow, but Sugihara had security with him, even in the bathroom. I didn’t have an opening. What could he say to that?

  They have someone who saw you at the wedding. What if the same guy is at Moonglow, and says you never showed?

  So what? Maybe I was disguised. Maybe their guy didn’t see me. You can’t prove a negative.

  He’s going to say Victor wants to see you. That you need to come in.

  Yeah, that was possible. But it wasn’t going to happen. The next time I saw any of them, I’d be moving in from behind.

  What about Miyamoto?

  Shit, that was a good point. I wasn’t just taking risks with myself. I was putting him in jeopardy, too.

  But the best way to protect Miyamoto wasn’t to propitiate Victor. It was to eliminate him. And quickly.

  I called Tatsu and managed to reach him at the office.

  “Nothing firm yet,” he told me. “But . . . some potentially useful details. I have good people working to confirm. With luck, I’ll have something for you tomorrow.”

  “I could really use whatever you’ve got. I’m feeling a little pressure at the moment.”

  “Understood. And you? Have any of those leads worked out?”

  “I’m following up on one right now. I should know more tomorrow. I’ll check in with you then.” I hung up.

  I walked to Zenkō-ji Temple in Omotesando, a sliver of old Japan holding its own against the encroaching morass of modernity. A waxing gibbous moon was just cresting the curved roof, the cold light glinting off the tiles. I stood before the censer and closed my eyes for a moment, the lingering notes of incense calming me a little.

  I thought of my mother, who had tried to raise me Catholic and who had succeeded only in implanting a vestigial sense of guilt I probably would have been better off without. What would she have made of me now? She had wanted me to be a diplomat, or a senator, and was able to make her peace with my decision to join the army only by convincing herself it would be a stepping stone to something better. And yet I’d never gotten past what I’d started with. I never went on to anything else. I left the army, but kept on killing.

  It’s all right. It’s normal to be drawn to the things you’re good at. To enjoy them. You’re no different from anyone else.

  I didn’t believe that. But neither did I know what to do about it.

  Crazy Jake loved war. Loved killing. And he had no trouble accepting there was no coming back from it. I remembered him telling me, There’s no home for us, John-John. Not after what we’ve done.

  He was probably right. Maybe my problem wasn’t that I was a killer. It was that I refused to accept the consequences of it. That I wanted to have it both ways, one foot in the shadows, the other in the light.

  What happened with Sayaka should have proven to me how impossible that straddle really was. And yet here I was, about to meet a woman I liked, a woman I was attracted to, when if my mind were right I would probably be heading to Ginza right that moment to take out her husband.

  But maybe that’s why I was going to see her. Because I knew if I did, it would make killing Sugihara even harder.

  That was it. That’s what was messing me up. The thought of repaying her kindness and mild flirtation by greasing her husband, the father of her dead child, and shattering what was left of her family, her peace of mind, her whole world, felt impossibly wrong. My own father had been murdered when I was eight. I wasn’t going to be the agent of some equivalent tragedy for her. I wouldn’t do it.

  I wasn’t going to kill Sugihara. I was going to kill Oleg, and then Victor. Miyamoto would pay me for doing it. After that, I’d figure things out. Tonight, I was just going to meet a woman I was interested in. And see if I could get a better idea of the nature of her interest in me.

  She’s married, you know.

  That made me laugh. Maybe the one advantage of having wrestled with killing her husband was that the notion of an affair seemed morally pure by comparison.

  You’re being stupid. You can’t not see that.

  I decided I didn’t care. Which is of course both a symptom and a cause of stupidity itself.

  I walked back out to Aoyama-dori and cut across to the other side, to Minami Aoyama. After a few minutes searching, I found the bl
ock I was looking for—a dim, mostly residential street. Fifty yards down on the left was an old, narrow house, its portico supported by two rough-hewn wooden pillars and illuminated by a pair of glowing sconces. A small sign on the latticed glass of the door discreetly announced “Radio.” It was just past six o’clock, and I wondered if Maria might already be there. The thought gave my heart a little giddy-up. I adjusted the sweater and went inside.

  The first thing that struck me was how quiet it was. Not silent, exactly—more hushed, as though the quiet was more a presence than an absence. Blending with the hush, and accentuating it, was some piano jazz I didn’t recognize drifting from unseen speakers.

  Before me and to my left was a long, quietly gleaming wooden bar. Behind it stood a trim man about my age in a tuxedo shirt, striped tie, and navy vest. “Irasshaimase,” he said with a bow.

  I looked around. The place was gorgeous. Immaculate. Behind the man was a wall of polished wooden shelves, filled with bottles and decanters and elegant glasses. The walls and ceiling were painted indigo, and interspersed with wooden beams. The lighting, I noticed, was all indirect—a series of small lamps in the shelving and on the bar itself. The effect was to produce a feeling of privacy, even sanctuary.

  “Konban wa,” I said, returning the man’s bow. “Is it all right if I sit?” It must have been strange to ask, I realized, but the place was so beautiful it felt wrong not to.

  The man smiled. “Wherever you like. I opened only a few minutes ago, so you’re the first one here.”

  There were several tables, but it felt strangely rude to walk off to one of them. So I took a seat at the far end of the bar. “I . . . have a friend coming,” I said.

  “Of course. Can I offer you something in the meantime?”

  I looked around again. Without really meaning to, I said, “It’s beautiful.”

  It would have been a trifle rude for him to thank me, as doing so would have implied too much agreement, perhaps the equivalent of saying, “Yes, I know” in response to a compliment in America. Instead, he simply bowed.