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TWENTY-TWO
I SLEPT like a dead man on the trip to Seoul. There was a five-hour layover, then a short flight to Tokyo.
I wondered where I should stay. When I was living in the city, I maintained a relationship with several hotels that held a suitcase for me while I was “out of town,” just in case. But those arrangements were out of date now, and I couldn’t be sure the hotels in question would still have my gear. And even if they did, it was possible the relationship had been exposed in the interim. I decided it would be safer to do something new.
I arrived at Narita airport at a little after noon. I took the JR Express train to Tokyo station, then walked unburdened by anything other than my attaché to the Four Seasons in Marunouchi. I asked if they had any rooms available. Only a suite, they told me. I told them a suite would be fine.
For an excessive price in the lobby concession store, I bought a pair of khaki pants and a navy merino wool sweater. In the room, I showered and shaved with the razor and other amenities the hotel had thought to provide. I called housekeeping and told them I would like to avail myself of their one-hour pressing services. My suit looked like I’d been living in it.
I walked into Ginza to buy clean underwear, a fresh shirt, and a few other such necessities for the fugitive on the move. The weather was cold and crisp-my favorite in Tokyo-and the wind had a clean winter bite to it. Being back felt good. It even felt oddly right.
I looked around as I walked, more in appreciation of my surroundings than to check my back. The topography had changed a bit since my last visit. Some of the stores were different, and a number of new buildings had gone up, and Starbucks had continued its kudzu-like infiltration of lobbies and storefronts. But the feel of the city was all the same: the way you could transition from the Stygian gloom of a Hibiya train underpass to the glittering shops of Ginza in just a few dozen paces; the air of money to be made and spent, of dreams realized and broken; the beautiful people in the shops and the sharp-elbowed old women in the train stations; the sense that everyone you pass in the pricey restaurant windows and on the smart sidewalks and in the solemn silences of the city’s small shrines wants to be here, here in Tokyo, here and nowhere else.
I thought of Yamaoto, and wondered when, if ever, it might be safe for me to move back here. Fond as I was of Rio, it didn’t really feel like home, and as I walked through Tokyo I suspected it never would.
I bought what I needed and went back to the hotel. My suit, pressed to perfection, was already hanging in the suite’s ample closet. I changed, left the hotel, and made my way to a cell phone shop, where I bought a prepaid unit. I used it to call Kanezaki.
“Hai,” he answered.
I gave him my usual “hey” in response.
There was a pause. He said, “You’re in Tokyo.”
Ah, the relentless march of caller ID and other such complicating technologies. “Yes,” I told him. “I wanted to update you on what I’ve found out about Manila. And I think you owe me a bit of an update, too.”
“I haven’t been able to learn that much…”
“Don’t bullshit me. You know that makes me angry.”
There was another pause. “Where are you?”
“I’m watching you right now.”
“You’re watching… what do you mean?”
I smiled, imagining him looking suddenly over his shoulder or through his office window. “Just kidding. I’m at Tokyo station. Marunouchi South exit.”
“I’m near the embassy. I can meet you in ten minutes, how’s that?”
“That’s fine. Call me when you get here.”
I clicked off.
I didn’t think he’d have any inclination to bring company. And I certainly hadn’t given him time. Still, I crossed the street and watched the entrance from afar. Old habits die hard.
He showed up by taxi ten minutes later, alone. He got out and waited, knowing I would want to see him before I showed myself.
I circled around, using taxis and pedestrians for cover, then moved in from his blind spot. But he turned before I could get close enough to say ta-da. Good for him.
“Hey,” he said, and smiled. He held out his hand and we shook.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “I doubt the Japanese government wastes a lot of time trying to shadow you CIA types, but just in case.”
We spent a half hour making sure we were alone, then ducked into Tsuta, a coffee shop I used to frequent in Minami Aoyama. I was glad to find Tsuta weathering the Starbucks storm. The last time I’d been here, I had been with Midori. That had been a good afternoon, strange under the circumstances but full of weird and foolish promise. And it was so long ago.
We sat down across from each other at one of the two tables and ordered espressos. I looked him over. It had been a year since I’d last seen him, and he seemed older now, more mature. There was a confidence that he’d lacked before, a new substance, a kind of weight. Kanezaki, I realized, wasn’t a kid anymore. He was managing some serious matters, and those matters were in turn molding him. As Dox’s favorite philosopher said, when you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.
We made small talk for a while. The table next to us was occupied by two elderly Japanese women. I doubted they could speak English, which Kanezaki and I were using-hell, I doubted they could hear much at all-but we kept our voices low all the same.
After the espressos arrived, I said, “I think it’s time for you to level with me.”
He took a sip from his demitasse, nodded appreciatively, and said, “I don’t know what you mean.”
I knew he would tell me eventually. I also knew he would make me struggle for it, so that I would feel I had won something, that the information I extracted had worth. I wished we could skip the intermediate dance steps, but this was the way Kanezaki always played it.
Well, maybe there was a way we could accelerate things. “It’s probably just a coincidence,” I said, “but every time we talked or otherwise corresponded over the last few days, things I told you wound up in the Washington Post right afterward.”
He didn’t say anything, but I detected the trace of a satisfied smile.
“So,” I said, “if you want me to tell you what happened in Manila, and what just happened in Hong Kong, you’re going to have to go first.”
I picked up my demitasse and leaned back in my chair. I let the aroma play around my face for a moment, then took a small sip. Ah, it was good. Strong but not overwhelming; bitter, but not over-extracted; light, but with density in the play of flavors. I’ve drunk coffee in Paris, Rome, and Rio. Hell, I’ve even drunk it in Seattle, where the bean is a local religion. But in my mind nothing beats Tsuta.
Kanezaki waited a long time, the better to convince me that he was talking only under duress. I was halfway through my espresso when he said, “How do you know about Hong Kong?”
I knew he would crack, and I couldn’t help smiling a little. I said, “Because I just came from there.”
He looked at me and said, “Holy shit.”
“So? This time you go first.”
He sighed. “All right. Hilger was ru
“What do you mean, ‘private’?”
“Let me amend that. I should have said ‘semiprivate.’ Like the post office: private, but government-subsidized.”
He took a sip from his demitasse. “What is intelligence, to the policymakers? It’s just a product. Hell, in the community we even call it a product. We call the policymakers ‘consumers.’ And what do all consumers want?”
“Low prices?” I offered.
He chuckled. “If the consumer is rich enough so that price doesn’t matter.”
“Then choice,” I said.
He nodded. “Exactly. And if you don’t like what one store is trying to sell you, you’ll spend your money somewhere else. Look at what the White House did in the run-up to Iraq. They didn’t like what the CIA was telling them, so they set up a Pentagon unit and did their shopping there, instead.”