He held the phone against his chest and said, “NSA software cryptography specialist, declared to the Japanese government. And the CIA director of East Asian Affairs. Both arriving from Washington tonight at Narita. I don’t believe this is a coincidence. Holtzer must have had them moving as soon as he got the disk.”
“Where are they going? The embassy?”
“Hold on.” He put the phone back to his ear. “Find out whether they’ve requested a diplomatic escort, and if so where they’re going. I’ll wait.”
He put the phone back to his chest. “The Keisatsucho receives many requests for escorts of U.S. government personnel,” he said. “The government people don’t have the budget to pay for sedan service, so they use us on the pretext of diplomatic security. This may be the first time I won’t find this habit annoying.”
He put the phone back to his ear, and we waited. After a few minutes he said, “Good. Good. Wait.” The phone went back to his chest. “Yokosuka U.S. Naval Base. Thursday morning, straight from the Narita Airport Hilton.”
“We’ve got him, then.”
His expression was grim. “How, exactly?”
“Hell, stop Holtzer’s car, take the disk, declare him
“On what evidence, exactly? The prosecutors would want to know.”
“Hell, I don’t know. Tell them it was an anonymous source.”
“You’re missing the point. What you’ve told me is not evidence. It’s hearsay.”
“Christ, Tatsu,” I said, exasperated, “when did you turn into such a damn bureaucrat?”
“It isn’t a matter of bureaucracy,” he said sharply, and I wished I hadn’t let my temper flare. “It’s a question of using the proper tools to get the job done. What you are suggesting would be useless.”
I reddened. Somehow, Tatsu could always make me feel like a lumbering, thickheaded
“I can get the disk and protect Midori. But you will need to be involved.”
“What do you propose?”
“I will arrange to have Holtzer’s car stopped outside the naval facility, perhaps on the pretext of needing to examine its undercarriage for explosive devices.” He looked at me dryly. “Perhaps an anonymous call could warn us of such an attempt.”
“Really,” I said.
He shrugged and intoned a phone number, which I wrote down on my hand, reversing the last four numbers and subtracting two from each of them. When I was done, he said, “An officer will of course have to ask the driver to lower his window to explain.”
I nodded, seeing where he was going. “Here’s my pager number,” I said, and gave it to him. “Use it to contact me when you’ve acquired the information on Holtzer’s movements. Input a phone number, then five-five-five, so I’ll know it’s you. I’m going to need some equipment, too — a flashbang.” Flashbang grenades are just what they sound like: no shrapnel, just a big noise and a flash of light, so they temporarily disorient, rather than kill and maim. Antiterrorist units use them to stun the occupants of a room before kicking down the door and shooting the bad guys.
I didn’t have to tell him what the flashbang was for. “How can I get it to you?” he asked.
“The fountain at Hibiya Park,” I answered, improvising. “Drop it in on the side facing Hibiya-dori. Right up at the edge, like this.” I drew a diagram on my hand to ensure that he understood. “Page me when you emplace it so it doesn’t stay insecure for too long.”
“All right.”
“One more thing,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Warn your people. I don’t want anyone shooting at me by mistake.”
“I will do my best.”
“Do better than your best. It’s my ass that’s going to get shot at.”
“It’s both our asses,” he said, his voice level. “If you are unsuccessful, I can assure you that there will be an inquiry into who ordered that the car be stopped, and under what pretext. If I am lucky, under such circumstances, I will merely have to take early retirement. If I am less than lucky, I will go to prison.”
He had a point, although I didn’t think he would have accepted an offer to trade my risk for his. Not that it was worth arguing over.
“You just stop the car,” I told him. “I’ll take care of the rest.”
He nodded, then bowed with unsettling formality.
“Good luck, Rain-san,” he said, and walked off into the gathering darkness.
22
I LOVE TOKYO at night. It’s the lights, I think: more than the architecture, more, even, than its sounds and scents, the lights are what animate the city’s nocturnal spirit. There is brightness: streets alight with neon, with the urgent blinking of constellations of pachinko parlors, streets where the store windows and the headlights of a thousand passing cars illuminate the pavement as brightly as the halogen lamps of a night baseball game. And there is gloom: alleys lit by nothing more than the fluorescent glow of a lonely vending machine, left leaning against the worn brick like an old man who’s given up on everything and wants only to catch his breath, streets lit only by the yellowish pall of lamplights spaced so widely that a passing figure and his shadow seem to evaporate in the dim spaces between.
