Rising Sun

In the conference room, the aide went to still a fourth man, whom I recognized as Yoshida, the head of Akai Ceramics. Yoshida also slipped out of the room, going into the atrium.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“They’re distancing themselves,” Co

I looked back at the terrace, and saw the two Japanese men outside moving casually along the length of the terrace, toward a door at the far end.

I said, “What are we waiting for?”

“Patience, kōhai.”

The young aide departed. The meeting in the conference room proceeded. But in the atrium, Yoshida pulled the young aide over and whispered something.

The aide returned to the conference room.

“Hmmm,” Co

This time the aide went to the American side of the table, and whispered something to Richmond. I couldn’t see Richmond’s face, because his back was to us, but his body jerked. He twisted and leaned back to whisper something to the aide. The aide nodded and left.

Richmond remained seated at the table, shaking his head slowly. He bent over his notes.

And then he passed a slip of paper across the table to Ishiguro.

“That’s our cue,” Co

A young American in a pinstripe suit was standing in front of the table and saying, “Now, if you will direct your attention to Rider C, the summary statement of assets and—“

Co

Ishiguro looked up, showing no surprise. “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” His face was a mask.

Richmond said smoothly, “Gentlemen, if this can wait, we’re in the middle of something rather complicated here—“

Co

Ishiguro remained seated. “This is an absurdity.”

“Mr. Ishiguro,” Co

Richmond said softly, “I hope you guys know what you are doing.”

Ishiguro said, “I know my rights, gentlemen.”

Co

Ishiguro did not move. The smoke from his cigarette curled up in front of him.

There was a long silence.

Then Co

One wall of the conference room consisted of video equipment. I found a playback machine like the one I had used, and plugged the tape in. But no image came up on the big central monitor. I tried pushing various buttons, but couldn’t get a picture.

From a rear corner, a Japanese secretary who had been taking notes hurried up to help me. Bowing apologetically, she pushed the proper buttons, bowed again, and returned to her place.

“Thank you,” I said.

On the screen, the image came up. Even in the bright sunlight, it was clear. It was right at the moment we had seen in Theresa’s room. The moment where Ishiguro approaches the girl and holds the struggling body down.

Richmond said, “What is this?”

“It’s a fake,” Ishiguro said. “It’s a fraud.”

Co

Ishiguro said, “It’s not legal. It’s a fraud.”

But nobody was listening. Everybody was looking at the monitor. Richmond’s mouth was open. “Jesus,” he said.

On the tape, it seemed to take a long time for the girl to die.

Ishiguro was glaring at Co

“Jesus Christ,” Richmond said, staring at the screen.

Ishiguro said, “It has no legal basis. It is not admissible. It will never stand up. This is just a disruption—“

He broke off. For the first time, he had looked down to the other end of the table. And he saw that Iwabuchi’s chair was empty.

He looked the other way. His eyes darted around the room.

Moriyama’s chair was empty.

Shirai’s chair.

Yoshida’s chair.

Ishiguro’s eyes twitched. He looked at Co

He walked up to Co

I started to follow him out, but Co

I could see Ishiguro outside, standing at the railing. He smoked his cigarette and turned his face to the sun. Then he glanced back at us and shook his head pityingly. He leaned against the railing, and put his foot on it.

In the conference room, the tape continued. One of the American lawyers, a woman, stood up, snapped her briefcase shut, and walked out of the room. Nobody else moved.

And finally, the tape ended.

I popped it out of the machine.

There was silence in the room. A slight wind ruffled the papers of the people at the long table.

I looked out at the terrace.

It was empty.

By the time we got out to the railing, we could hear the sirens faintly, on the street below.

Down on ground level, the air was dusty and we heard the deafening sound of jackhammers. Nakamoto was building an a

Ishiguro had landed in a wet concrete pouring. His body lay sideways, just the head and one arm sticking above the soft concrete surface. Blood ran in spreading fingers across the gray surface. Workmen in blue hardhats were trying to fish him out, using bamboo poles and ropes. They weren’t having much success. Finally a workman in thigh-high rubber boots waded in to pull the body out. But it proved more difficult than he expected. He had to call for help.

Our people were already there, Fred Perry and Bob Wolfe. Wolfe saw me and walked up the hill. He had his notebook out. He shouted over the din of the jackhammers. “You know anything about this, Pete?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Got a name?”

“Masao Ishiguro.”

Wolfe squinted. “Spell that?”

I started to try to spell it, talking over the sound of the construction. Finally I just reached in my pocket and fished out his card. I gave it to Wolfe.

“This is him?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Long story,” I said. “But he’s wanted for murder.”

Wolfe nodded. “Let me get the body out and we’ll talk.”

“Fine.”

Eventually, they used the construction crane to pull him out. Ishiguro’s body, sagging and heavy with concrete, was lifted into the air, and swung past me, over my head.

Bits of cement dripped down on me, and spattered on the sign at my feet. The sign was for the Nakamoto Construction Company, and it said in bold letters:

And underneath: