Rainfall

department store. Across the street, bizarrely pink amidst the gray rain and sky, was the battleship bulk of the Akasaka Tokyu Hotel. I paused to open the black umbrella I was carrying, then turned right onto Sotobori-dori. After a right turn into an alley by the local Citibank, I emerged onto the red crenellated brick of the Esplanade Akasaka- dori.

I was over an hour early and decided to grab a quick lunch at the Tenkaichi ramen restaurant on the Esplanade. Tenkaichi, “First Under Heaven,” is a chain, but the one on the Esplanade has character. The proprietors accept foreign currency, and the notes and coins of dozens of countries are taped to the establishment’s brown wooden walls. They also play a continuous stream of jazz compilations, occasionally interspersed by some soft American pop. And the cushioned stools, some discreetly set off in corners, offer a good view of the street in front of the restaurant.

I ordered the chukadon — Chinese vegetables over rice — and ate while I watched the street through the window. Two sarariman, taking a late lunch break, also supped alone and in silence.

I had told Bulfinch that, at 2:00, he should start circling the block counterclockwise at 19-3 Akasaka Mitsuke san-chome. There were more than a dozen alleys accessing that particular block, each with multiple tributaries, so he wouldn’t know where I’d be waiting until I made my presence known. It didn’t matter if he came early. He’d just have to keep circling the block in the rain. He didn’t know where I’d be.

I finished at 1:50, paid the check, and left. Keeping the canopy of the umbrella low over my head, I crossed the Esplanade to Misuji-dori, then cut into an alley opposite the Buon Appetito restaurant on the 19-3 block and waited under the overhang of some rusting corrugated roofing. Because of the hour and the weather, the area was quiet. I waited and watched sad drops of water falling in a slow rhythm from the rusted roof onto the tops of dilapidated plastic refuse containers beneath.

After about ten minutes I heard footsteps on the wet brick behind me, and a moment later Bulfinch appeared. He was wearing an olive trench coat and hunkering down under a large black umbrella. From where I was standing he couldn’t see me, and I waited until he had passed before speaking.

“Bulfinch. Over here,” I said quietly.

“Shit!” he said, turning to face me. “Don’t do that. You scared me.”

“You’re alone?”

“Of course. You brought the disk?”

I stepped out from under the roofing and observed the alley in both directions. All clear. “It’s nearby. Tell me what you plan to do with it.”

“You know what I plan to do. I’m a reporter. I’m going to write a series of stories with whatever’s on there as corroboration.”

“How long will that take?”

“How long? Hell, the stories are already written. All I need is the proof.”

I considered. “Let me tell you a few things about the disk,” I said, and explained about the encryption.

“Not a problem,” he said when I was done. “Forbes has a relationship with Lawrence Livermore. They’ll help us. As soon as it’s cracked, we publish.”

“You know that every day that goes by without that publication, Midori’s life is in danger.”

“Is that why you’re giving it to me? The people who want it would have paid you for it. Quite a lot, you know.”

“I want you to understand something,” I said. “If you were to fail to publish what’s on that disk, your failure might cost Midori her life. If that were to happen, I would find you, and I would kill you.”

“I believe you.”

I looked at him a moment longer, then reached into my breast pocket and took out the disk. I handed it to him and walked back to the station.

I ran an SDR to Shinbashi, thinking about Tatsu on the way. Until the contents of the disk were published, it wasn’t just Midori who was in danger, I knew; it was also Tatsu. And while Tatsu was no soft target, he wasn’t bulletproof, either. It had been a lot of years since I had seen him, but we had covered each other’s backs once. I owed him a heads-up at least.

I called the Keisatsucho from a pay phone at Shinbashi Station. “Do you know who this is?” I asked in English after they had put me through to him.

There was a long pause. “Ei, hisashiburi desu ne.” Yes, it’s been a long time. Then he switched to English — a good sign, because it meant he didn’t want the people around him to understand. “Do you know that the Keisatsucho found two bodies in Sengoku? One of them had been carrying a cane. Your fingerprints were on it. I’ve wondered from time to time whether you were still in Tokyo.”

Damn, I thought, must have grabbed the cane at some point without even realizing it. My fingerprints were on file from the time I returned to Japan after the war — I was technically a foreigner, and all foreigners in Japan get fingerprinted.

“We tried to locate you,” he went on, “but you seemed to have vanished. So I think I understand why you’re calling, but there is nothing I can do for you. The best thing you can do now is to come to the Keisatsucho. If you do, you know I will do everything I can do to help you. You make yourself look guilty by running.”

“That’s why I’m calling, Tatsu. I’ve got information about this matter that I want to give to you.”

“In exchange for what?”

“For you doing something about it. Listen to what I’m saying, Tatsu. This isn’t about me. If you act on the information I’ve got, I’ll turn myself in afterwards. I’ll have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Where and when?” he asked.

“Are we alone on this line?” I asked.