I spoke Japanese, I was assigned to help him learn his way around.
Tatsu was a short man with the kind of stout build that rounds out with age, and a gentle face that masked an intensity beneath — an intensity that was revealed by a habit of jutting his torso and head forward in a way that made it look as though he was being restrained by an invisible leash. He was frustrated in postwar, neutered Japan, and admired the warrior’s path I had taken. For my part, I was intrigued by a secret sorrow I saw in his eyes, a sorrow that, strangely, became more pronounced when he smiled and especially when he laughed. He spoke little of his family, of two young daughters in Japan, but when he did his pride was evident. Years later I learned from a mutual acquaintance that there had also been a son, the youngest, who had died in circumstances of which Tatsu would never speak, and I understood from whence that sorrowful countenance had come.
When I came back to Japan we spent some time together, but I had distanced myself since getting involved with Miyamoto and then Benny. I hadn’t seen Tatsu since changing my appearance and moving underground.
Which was fortunate, because I knew from the reports I hacked that Tatsu had a pet theory: the LDP had an assassin on the payroll. In the late eighties Tatsu came to believe that too many key witnesses in corruption cases, too many financial reformers, too many young crusaders against the political status quo were dying of “natural causes.” In his assessment there was a pattern here, and he profiled the shadowy shape at the center of it as having skills very much like mine.
Tatsu’s colleagues thought the shape he saw was a ghost in his imagination, and his dogged insistence on investigating a conspiracy that others claimed was a mirage had done nothing to advance his career. On the other hand, that doggedness did afford him some protection from the powers he hoped to threaten, because no one wanted to lend credence to his theories by having him die suddenly of natural causes. On the contrary: I imagined that many of Tatsu’s enemies hoped he would live a long and uneventful life. I also knew this attitude would change instantly if Tatsu ever got too close to the truth.
So far he hadn’t. But I knew Tatsu. In Vietnam he had understood the fundamentals of counterintelligence at a time when even Agency higher-ups couldn’t put together a simple wiring diagram of a typical V.C. unit. He had developed operational leads despite his “listen-and-learn-only” purview. He had refused the usual attache’s cushy life of writing reports from a villa, insisting instead on operating in the field.
His superiors had been horrified at his effectiveness, he had once told me bitterly over substantial quantities of sake, and they had studiously ignored the intelligence he had produced. In the end his persistence and courage had been wasted. I wish he could have learned from the experience.
But I supposed that was impossible. Tatsu was true samurai, and would continue serving the same master no matter how many times that master ignored or even abused him. Devoted service was the highest end he knew.
It was unusual for the Keisatsucho to be investigating a simple break-in. Something about Kawamura’s death, and what he was doing before it, must have attracted Tatsu’s attention. It wouldn’t be the first time I had felt my old comrade in arms watching me as though through a one-way mirror, seeing a shape behind the glass but not knowing whose, and I was glad that I’d decided to drop off his radar so many years earlier.
“You don’t have to tell me whether you knew about this,” Harry said, interrupting my musings. “I know the rules.”
I considered how much I should reveal. If I wanted to learn more, his skills would be helpful. On the other hand, I didn’t like the idea of his getting any closer to the true nature of my work. He was getting uncomfortably close already. Tatsu’s name on that report, for example. I had to assume that Harry would follow it like a link on the Internet, that he would tap into Tatsu’s conspiracy theories, that he would sense a connection with me. Hardly proof beyond a reasonable doubt, of course, but between them Harry and Tatsu would have a significant number of puzzle pieces.
Sitting there in Las Chicas, sipping my chai latte, I had to admit that Harry could become a problem. The realization depressed me.
Maybe it was time to get out of this shit. Maybe this time it really was.
“I didn’t know about it,” I said after a moment. “This is an unusual case.” I saw no harm in telling him about the stranger on the train, and did so.
“If we were in New York, I’d tell you it was a pickpocket,” he said when I was done.
“I thought the same thing when I first saw it. But pickpocket would be a piss-poor career choice for a white boy in Tokyo. You have to blend.”
“Target of opportunity?”
I shook my head. “Not too many people are that shameless and cold-blooded. I doubt one of them just happened to be standing next to Kawamura that morning. I think the guy was a Kawamura contact, there for some kind of exchange.”
“Why do you suppose the Keisatsucho is investigating a simple break-in in a Tokyo apartment?” he asked.
“That I don’t know,” I said, although Tatsu’s involvement made me wonder. “Maybe Kawamura’s position in the government, the recency of his death, something like that. That’s the theory I’d go on.”
He looked at me. “Are you asking me to dig?”
I should have let it go. But I’ve been used before. The feeling that it had happened again would keep me awake at night. Had Benny put a B-team on Kawamura? I figured I might as well let Harry provide some clues.
“You will anyway, right?” I asked.
He blinked. “Can’t help myself, I guess.”
“Dig away, then. Let me know what else you find. And watch your back, hotshot. Don’t get sloppy.”
The warning was for both of us.
3
TELLING HARRY TO watch his back made me think of Jimmy Calhoun, my best friend in high school, of who Jimmy was before he became Crazy Jake.
Jimmy and I joined the Army together when we were barely seventeen years old. I remember the recruiter telling us we would need parental permission to join. “See that woman outside?” he had asked us. “Give her this twenty, ask her if she’ll sign as your mother.” She did. Later, I realized this woman was making her living this
