Zero Sum (A John Rain Novel)

by Barry Eisler

  He frowned. “You don’t really think—”

  “Pretend for a moment he was killed. Just . . . humor me. They oust him with a vote of no confidence, but the guy doesn’t do the expected thing and resign. Instead, he surprises them by campaigning. Did he have popular support?”

  He frowned again. “In fact, he did.”

  “You see how this would look from the standpoint of the people who thought they’d be getting rid of him just with some cheap and easy parliamentary maneuver?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Well, indulge me a little further. Why would someone want Ōhira dead? Who would benefit?”

  His frown deepened—not because he was resisting anymore, I sensed, but because he was dramatically reconsidering his previous assumptions about the naturalness of Ōhira’s death.

  “Well, he was replaced by his deputy, Masayoshi Itō, but that was for all of a month.”

  “Okay. Who succeeded Itō?”

  “The current prime minister, Zenkō Suzuki.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  “You don’t even know who the prime minister is?”

  “I know the name and I know he’s LDP. That’s about it.”

  “You really ought to read the newspaper.”

  “I’ll put it on my to-do list, right after psychiatry.”

  He sighed. “In fairness, there’s not much more to say about Suzuki than there is about Itō. He was elected in a landslide on a wave of popular sympathy for the LDP following Ōhira’s death. He’s been not much more than a caretaker, really. In fact, early on, he announced his desire not to stand in the current election.”

  I felt like we were getting close to something, and tried to control my excitement. “Well, who’s going to succeed him?”

  “Insiders seem to believe it will be Yasuhiro Nakasone.”

  I thought back to my conversation with Miyamoto at the Nakajima Teahouse. “Right,” I said. “I heard the same thing from a source inside the LDP.”

  “The one who introduced you to Victor?”

  Tatsu couldn’t stop being a cop. But that didn’t mean I needed to answer him.

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not, if you’re satisfied with the quality of the source’s information.”

  “Well, my information seems to track with yours. Who’s your source?”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment of how I’d turned the tables. “No source. Just talk. But from knowledgeable people.”

  “Well, my guy says Nakasone will get the nod because he wants a tighter military alliance with America.”

  “Yes, Nakasone is a rightist. He wants to abolish Article Nine of the constitution, which limits Japan’s military.”

  “I know what Article Nine is.”

  “I thought you knew little of politics.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was a friend needling me, or a cop reflexively probing what seemed an inconsistency. Maybe both.

  “Little. Not nothing.”

  He grunted—his most enigmatic sound. “When Nakasone was head of the Defense Agency in 1970, he wanted to triple military spending from the traditional cap of one percent of GDP. He was also in favor of Japan having nuclear weapons.”

  I thought of Miyamoto, and his confidence that, no matter what, money always wins.

  “So if Nakasone becomes prime minister,” I said, “a lot of money’s going to be made because of increased military spending, is that it?”

  “Yes, but not only that. There are geopolitical implications, as well. Nakasone has said he wants Japan to be America’s unsinkable aircraft carrier. An aircraft carrier permanently positioned alongside the eastern coast of the Soviet Union, China, and North Korea.”

  “Well, would Sugihara be able to stand in the way of that or something?”

  He looked at me, and I could tell he was finally beginning to think I might really be onto something. “I don’t know. I’m no expert on the inner workings of the LDP. What about your source?”

  “I’ll ask him. Anyone else? Any other deaths? Even by heart attack. Or not even a politician. Something’s going on here, and we’re not seeing it. And if we’re not seeing it, it’s because we’re not looking in the right places.”

  He dipped his head and glanced away, his fingers drumming the table. Then he looked at me. “A journalist,” he said. “Kazumi Yukimura. A year ago, he was stabbed to death by a rightist. Who then—”

  “Hanged himself in police custody?”

  He furrowed his brow. “Cut his own throat with a hidden razor, as it happens.”

  I looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

  “Yukimura had written several articles critical of the Imperial household, and had received numerous death threats as a result. His killer was associated with various fringe rightist groups in Japan, and, other than the suicide, it was an open-and-shut case. But now . . .”

  I waited while he processed it, knowing he was looking at everything he knew based on an entirely new theory.

  “Yukimura had a significant following on the left,” he said after a moment. “He eschewed government press pools, preferring to scrutinize official documents and find discrepancies. Many of the revelations in the Lockheed bribery scandal were his work. And—”

  “Don’t tell me. He was a pacifist. Treated Article Nine and the one-percent military-spending limit as sacrosanct.”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you know more of politics than you acknowledge,” he said dryly.

  “Not really. But now that we’re putting our heads together and widening the aperture, I’m starting to see certain shapes. Aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “It’s not inconceivable that the factions seeking to profit from increased military spending would have found Yukimura’s continued muckraking . . . inconvenient.”

  “So they got some known rightist worked up, told him where and when he could find Yukimura, and then had some complicit cops cut his throat when they had him in custody.”

  He nodded slowly. “There’s no proof, of course. This is just speculation. But . . . it fits.”

  “What about Wilson? The CIA? What’s the connection with Victor?”

  “You already know what it is. You said so the last time we talked.”

  “A cutout.”

  “Indeed. If you were the head of the CIA, or perhaps someone even higher in the US government, and you killed a Japanese prime minister to pave the way for someone more amenable to buying American armaments and offering the use of Japan as an unsinkable aircraft carrier, you would need more than deniability. You would need multiple circuit breakers. So no one could ever see the connection, much less prove it.”

  I thought about that for a moment. It explained why Victor was willing to have an LDP bureaucrat like Miyamoto’s former boss beaten to death, while being so circumspect afterward. A Diet member like Sugihara, especially after the dead bureaucrat and a heart-attacked prime minister, would have created a possible pattern. Which had to be avoided at all costs.

  I thought about Victor, how difficult he would be to control. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to have killed Miyamoto’s boss so ostentatiously. Maybe he just couldn’t help doing things in a way calculated to make people afraid of him. Maybe afterward, Wilson had stepped in to try to impose some discipline and discretion. Maybe that’s what was going on right now—cross-purposes, as Tatsu had said.

  “So you agree with me about Prime Minister Ōhira’s ‘heart attack’?” I said.

  He nodded. “It’s a long game they’ve been playing, but not so long as to be unbelievable. The parliamentary maneuver fails. Somehow, they get to Ōhira in the hospital, and either cause a heart attack, if that’s possible, or create the appearance of one—”

  “And then Wilson gets activated, maybe by his former OSS buddy William Casey himself, and then works his global contacts until he identifies a half-Japanese, half-Russian former Spetsnaz soldier and current gangster, who speaks Japanese, knows his way around, and e
ven carries a psychological grudge for the way he was treated as a child.”

  “Indeed. Who then returns to Japan and takes on the yakuza, using Wilson’s intelligence.”

  “Just like the rightist they sent after the journalist. To the cops or anyone else who’s looking, it all seems like it has a perfectly obvious explanation. Which obscures what’s really going on.”

  He grimaced. “I should have seen this myself.”

  “No. You didn’t have enough pieces to see the shape. And neither did I. Now we do.”

  I downed the rest of my beer. “I’ll check in with my contact to find out how Sugihara might fit into all this. But I think we have most of it.”

  He polished off his beer as well, then wiped his mouth with the back of a hand. “You realize that anyone who knows that we know, or even just that we have most of it, will be exceptionally unhappy as a result.”

  “Well, you know how I hate to make people unhappy.”

  “I told you, I get concerned when you joke.”

  “Who’s joking? In fact, if I’ve made Victor and Wilson unhappy, the least I can do is put them out of their misery.”

  chapter eighteen

  That night, Thursday, I took a room at the Imperial Hotel, one of Tokyo’s finest. Maria had said she might be free the following evening. So if I stayed for two nights, and if things went more or less as I planned at the museum, she’d get the nicer hotel she wanted. And indeed, the room was far larger and more opulent than anything I was remotely accustomed to. For a while, I wandered around, picturing all the places we could make love—the sumptuous bed, the overstuffed couch, the plush carpeted floor, the enormous bath, up against the paneled walls—and the thought that she might be there in less than twenty-four hours was producing a constant adrenaline trickle.

  I knew it was dumb to divert so much of my focus to pleasure when I still hadn’t taken care of business. But I also knew if I didn’t finish Victor at the museum the following evening, it wouldn’t be just me who’d be dead. It might be Maria, too. Focusing on what it would be like with her in the hotel room was a way of denying all that.

  I slept poorly. The next morning, after showering and fueling up with breakfast, I checked with the answering service. Miyamoto had left a message. I called him back right away.

  “It’s me,” I said.

  There was a pause, and I knew instantly I’d been right about his boss. I could just feel it—no need for a code.

  Still, a moment later, he said, “I have some information for you. It would be useful for us to meet.”

  His delivery felt a little stiff to me. If Yokoyama was right there, and I assumed he was, I hoped he wouldn’t pick up on it.

  “Sure. When did you have in mind?”

  “Well, if you want an outdoor venue like last time, it would be good to do it soon, before the rain starts up again. Perhaps tonight.”

  There it was. And there was indeed more rain in the forecast, so the reference was congruent enough. Still, I wondered how sharp his boss’s antennae were. No way to know for sure. I’d just have to account for the possibility in my tactics.

  But shit, tonight was Victor. And Maria. I almost said no, we needed another night.

  And then I realized. I knew Victor was trying to set me up at the museum—so why was Yokoyama trying to set me up separately?

  Because they’re not coordinating. Tatsu was right. Miyamoto’s boss reports to Wilson. So does Victor. But they’re not directly in touch with each other. And now they’re at cross-purposes.

  Without hesitating any further, I said, “That’s a good point. All right, I can do tonight, but it would have to be late. Can you be there after midnight? In fact, let’s say two in the morning. Okay?”

  “Yes, that would be fine. And where would be convenient for you?”

  I’d already decided the place. “You know Zenkō-ji Temple in Omotesando?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll see you there. And be careful—you don’t want anyone following you.”

  “Of course.”

  I hung up, nodding in satisfaction. Maybe it was a little weird that I’d chosen the place where Maria and I had first been intimate—where Wilson’s men probably could have killed me, if they hadn’t had reasons for leaving her out of it. But having been there twice recently, I was freshly acquainted with the terrain. Along with how to use it. Best of all, at two in the morning, Zenkō-ji would be utterly deserted. No civilians for an ambusher to hide among, meaning anyone I saw who looked the least bit suspicious would be fair game. A Tokyo free-fire zone.

  I walked to nearby Hibiya Park. The ground was soft and damp from the recent rain, and I strolled among the park benches, some occupied by pensioners in shirtsleeves, others by younger people in even more casual garb, probably part-time convenience-store workers and other members of a growing tribe of underemployed that a few years later would be recognized as furiitaa—a portmanteau consisting of the English word free or freelance, and the German word arbeiter, or laborer—by a society bemused and disturbed at the willingness of young people to subsist on marginal, low-paying jobs, rather than sacrifice themselves to the corporate needs of the wider society.

  I cleared my mind and started thinking about how to get to Victor. Which is to say, I started thinking about how Victor would try to get to me.

  He was experienced. And he knew I was experienced. He wouldn’t do anything obvious, nor would he expect me to.

  The focal point was the museum. There was only one visitor entrance to the main building. So wherever he set up, it would have to be a place that had a clear view of that choke point.

  Which meant he didn’t have a lot of options. There was the fountain on the plaza, with two stands of trees to either side of it, but that would be too far off to ensure a clear view and quick access. There were additional wings to the left and right of the main building, each with some decorative trees in front, but not enough to provide decent concealment.

  I wasn’t seeing it. I started to get frustrated.

  Back up. You’re too focused.

  Yes, that felt right. But on what?

  Concealment. Concealment is a tool. It’s not an end in itself.

  Yeah, but he still has to conceal himself. If he doesn’t, I’ll see him.

  Are you sure?

  I thought about how I’d gotten close to the bodyguard outside Super Doll—not by concealing my appearance, but by changing it.

  I felt my heart kick harder as I realized the way he would play it. Of course. What had Tatsu said about how Victor and his men had gotten inside the palace in Kabul and killed the Afghan president and his entire guard? By dressing as Afghan soldiers. They’d camouflaged themselves as something the enemy wouldn’t notice because the enemy would have previously classified it as harmless. Harmless because it was common, routine, an everyday sight.

  Victor probably knew I’d been to the museum, or at least suspected. And even if he didn’t, he’d know I was familiar with Ueno Park.

  Right. And what are you accustomed to seeing in the park and around the museum?

  I closed my eyes for a moment and imagined what I’d encountered on the way to the museum that day to see Maria. Schoolkids, of course, but I didn’t see Victor squeezing into a school uniform anytime soon. Mothers with strollers, likewise not terribly likely.

  There were a lot of homeless people in the park. But none on the museum grounds.

  Then what did you see on the grounds?

  The gardeners.

  Holy shit, that was it. It felt exactly right. The baggy monpe pants and hanten coats to conceal the build. And with a hat pulled low across his face, and his head down to attend to his leaf sweeping or grass clipping or whatever, he’d rightly expect me to completely overlook him. If any of the other gardeners questioned him, he’d probably mumble a few words about having just been hired, and go on with whatever he was doing. As Maria had said, no one was expecting a heist; if a strange man wanted to do a bit of
the gardening, how likely was it anyone would be suspicious enough to do anything about it?

  And besides, he wouldn’t need to be there long. He’d told me Sugihara would arrive at eight. But he also knew that I knew that he was going to be there, waiting for me. Meaning I’d get there early. Meaning Victor would be earlier still.

  I didn’t like the dynamic, with each of us trying to out-think and out-anticipate the other. What I needed was an out-of-the-box approach. The kind of thing he wouldn’t anticipate.

  And the right weapon. Not a knife—they all had knives. Something better.

  I went to a medical-supply store and bought a long black leg brace—the kind with huge Velcro straps from ankle to thigh that people wear after knee surgery or other trauma. It came in a black canvas case, which would be perfect. I also picked out a cane, which would complete the picture. And at a surplus store, I found a leather sheath suitable for the late Oleg’s knife.

  I’d dumped the outfit I wore the night I killed Oleg because it had gotten sprayed with the bodyguard’s blood and brains, so my next stop was a men’s store, where I bought a new suit, along with a shirt, tie, belt, and shoes. It was pretty ordinary stuff—good for blending, but not, I realized, nearly as fine as what Employee Ito had helped me select in Ginza. I had to admit I liked the Ginza clothes better. I was glad I was increasingly able to spot a distinction I’d once been blind to, but I could also see where good clothes could become an expensive habit, one I couldn’t afford right now, and didn’t need anyway.

  Back at the Imperial, I changed into the new outfit and fitted the brace onto my right leg, adjusting the angle until it was not quite straight. Using the cane, I hobbled around the room for a few minutes. This time, there was nothing to practice or imitate—my leg was immobilized exactly like that of someone who’d just had knee surgery, and I had no choice but to move awkwardly and with a pronounced limp.

  Next, I taped Oleg’s sheathed knife to the inside of my left forearm, where I could quickly access it with my right hand. I didn’t expect to encounter Victor until that night—he might be expecting me early, but not this early—but if I was wrong, I wanted a weapon I could instantly access. Satisfied, I slipped on the jacket, pocketed the lock-picking tools I’d learned to use ten years earlier from a slightly illicit old Korean handyman in Shin-Ōkubo, checked myself in the full-length mirror, and, seeing nothing out of place, headed out.