Hard Rain

He had pulled himself together pretty nicely. Maybe I hadn’t been giving him enough credit.

“So whoever’s calling the shots in the USG right now prefers the status quo,” I said.

“We like to refer to it as ‘stability,” ’ he said, putting some weight on his injured leg and wincing.

I sca

“That’s right. To put it crudely, America is addicted to a continuing influx of foreign capital to support its deficit spending, and it gets the balance of its fix from Japan. There are elements in the USG that don’t want that to change.”

I shook my head. “That’s not crude, it’s nicely put. America is addicted to cheap oil, and props up brutal regimes in the Middle East to feed its habit. If the USG is supporting corrupt elements in Japan because those elements guarantee continued access to Japanese capital, Uncle Sam is just being consistent.”

“I suppose that’s not unfair. But I don’t make policy. I just carry it out.”

“So this is why Crepuscular was shut down six months ago,” I said. “Some newly ascendant faction in the USG decided that it wasn’t in Uncle Sam’s interest to further reform in Japan after all.”

“The opposite,” he said. He started to put his hands in his trench coat pockets.

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” I said sharply.

He jumped. “Sorry, I’m just a little cold. How can you see anything, anyway? It’s pitch dark out here.”

“What do you mean, ‘the opposite’?”

“Crepuscular was never intended to further reform. It was conceived as a way of suborning reformers from the begi

“You would be one of the realists, then.”

He straightened slightly. “That’s right. Along with some of the institutions that make U.S. foreign policy. The ones without blinders or the pressure of political constituencies. Look, the politicians press Japan to reform because they don’t understand what’s really going on. And what’s really going on is that Japan is past reform. Maybe ten, even five years ago, it could have been done. But not anymore. Things have gone too far here. The politicians in America are always talking about ‘biting the bullet’ and ‘strong medicine,’ but they don’t understand that if you try to bite this bullet, it’ll go through your head. That the patient is so weak, an operation would kill him. We’re past hope of a cure, it’s time to move into more of a pain-management approach.”

“It’s a moving story, Dr. Kevorkian. But I’m ready to hear the end.”

“The end?”

“Yes. The part that goes, ‘Here’s the combination to my safe.” ’

“The combination… oh no. No, no, no,” he said, alarm creeping into his voice. “How did he talk you into this? What did he tell you-those reformers are heroes? For God’s sake, they’re just like all the other politicians in this damn country, they’re just as selfish and venal. Kanezaki doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

I shot the baton into his wounded leg again. He screamed and went down.

“Quiet,” I said. “Or I’ll do the same to your arms.”

He clenched his teeth and rocked on his back, one arm holding his leg, the other arm jerking left to right in front of his head in a vain attempt to ward off the next attack.

“I warned you about making me ask you something twice,” I said. “Now spit it out. Or they won’t even be able to use dental records to ID you.”

I saw his jaw working in the green glow. He groaned and clutched his leg. Finally he said, “Thirty-two twice left, four once right, twelve left.”

I took out the cell phone and speed-dialed Kanezaki. “Hello?” I heard him say.

I repeated the number.

“Hold on.” A few seconds passed. “I’m in,” I heard him say.

“You find what you were looking for?”

I heard papers rustling. “Big time,” he said.

I clicked off.

“There’s a marker about a meter to your right,” I told him. “You can use it to stand.”

He pulled himself in the right direction and got slowly to his feet, using the marker to support himself. He slumped against it, panting, his face slicked with sweat.

“You knew they were going to do Harry,” I said. “Didn’t you.”

I saw him shake his head. “No.”

“But you suspected.”

“I suspect everything. I’m paid to suspect. That’s not the same as knowing.”

“Why did you ask me to kill Kanezaki?”

“I think you know,” he said, his breathing getting a little more even. “If those receipts were used, someone would have to be blamed for it. It would be best if that person weren’t in a position to tell his side of the story.”

“Is he still in any danger?”

He chuckled ruefully. “Not if those receipts are no longer in play, no.”

“You don’t seem too upset.”

He shrugged. “I’m a professional. None of this is personal for me. I hope the same goes for you.”

“What happens to Crepuscular?”

He sighed and looked a little wistful. “Crepuscular? It’s gone. It was shut down six months ago.”

He was already reciting the official story. No wonder he’d recovered his serenity so quickly. He knew he wasn’t going to face any personal-meaning career-repercussions.

I looked at him for a long time. I thought of Harry, of Tatsu, most of all of Midori. Finally I said, “I’m going to let you leave here, Biddle. The smart thing would be to kill you, but I won’t. That means you owe me. If you repay that debt by trying to get back into my life, I’ll find you.”

“I believe you,” he said.

“When we walk out of here tonight, we walk away-agreed?”

“We still need you,” he said. “There’s still a place for you.”

I waited for a moment in the darkness. He realized that he hadn’t answered my question. I saw him flinch.

“Agreed,” he said, his voice low.

I turned and left. He could find his own way out.

I met Tatsu the next day, on a su

“Kanezaki recovered the receipts,” he told me. “And promptly destroyed them. It’s as though they never existed. After all, Crepuscular was discontinued six months ago.”

“That kid is naïve, but he’s got balls,” I said.

Tatsu nodded, his eyes momentarily melancholy. “He has a good heart.”

I smiled. It wouldn’t be like Tatsu to admit that someone might have a good head.

“I have a feeling you haven’t seen the last of him,” I said.

He shrugged. “I would hope not. Getting those receipts back was lucky. But I have much more to do.”

“You can only do so much, Tatsu. Remember that.”

“But still we must do something, ne? Don’t forget, modern Japan was born of samurai from the southern provinces seizing the imperial palace in Kyoto and declaring the restoration of the Meiji emperor. Perhaps something like that could happen again. Perhaps a rebirth of democracy.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

He turned to me. “What will you do, Rain-san?”

I looked out at the trees. “I’m thinking about that.”

“Work with me.”

“You’re a broken record, Tatsu.”

“You sound like my wife again.”

I laughed.

“How does it feel, to have been part of something larger than yourself?” he asked.

I held up my taped and plastered arm. “Like this,” I said.

He smiled his sad smile. “That only means you are alive.”

I shrugged. “I admit it beats the alternatives.”

“If you need anything, ever, call me,” he said.

I stood. He followed suit.

We bowed and shook hands. I walked away.

I walked for a long time. East, toward Tokyo station, toward the bullet train that would take me back to Osaka. Tatsu knew where to find me there, but I could live with that for the time being.