A Clean Kill in Tokyo

me down. He was looking for a weapon and didn’t notice the small transmitter in my pocket.
    When he was done, Flatnose took a step back and suddenly kneed me in the balls. I doubled over and he kicked me in the stomach, then kneed me in the ribs. I dropped to my knees, sucking wind, pain shooting through my torso. I was trying to get my arms up in anticipation of another blow when one of them stepped between Flatnose and me, telling him that was enough. I wondered distantly if I was in for a game of good cop, bad cop.
    We stayed like that for a few minutes, Flatnose’s friend restraining him while I tried to catch my breath. When I was able, I stood, and they took me down a short hallway with closed doors on both sides. We stopped outside the last door on the right. Flatnose knocked. A voice answered,
“Dozo.”
Come in.
    They brought me into a room that was spacious by Japanese standards, furnished in the traditional minimalist fashion. Lots of light-hued wood, expensive-looking ceramics. The walls were decorated with
hanga
—wood-block prints. Probably originals. A small leather couch and armchairs in one corner of the room, arranged around a spotless glass coffee table. The overall appearance was clean and prosperous, which I guessed was the impression these people wanted to project. Maybe they hid Flatnose and his pals when they had guests.
    There was a wooden desk on the far side of the room. It took me a second to recognize the guy sitting behind it. I hadn’t seen him in a suit before.
    It was the
judoka
from the Kodokan. The one I’d fought in
randori.
    “Hello, John Rain,” he said in English, with a small smile.
    I returned his gaze. “Hello, Yamaoto.”
    He stood and circled to the front of the desk with the strong, graceful movements I had first noticed at the Kodokan. “Thank you for coming today,” he said. “I was expecting you.”
    That much was clear. “Sorry I didn’t call first,” I told him.
    “No, no, not at all. That I would never expect. But I did anticipate that you would find a way to take the initiative—after all, as a
judoka
you are more comfortable on the offensive, using defense merely as a feint.”
    He nodded to his men, told them in Japanese to wait outside. I watched them file out quietly, Flatnose eyeing me as he closed the door behind them.
    “Did I do something to offend the ugly one?” I asked, rubbing my ribs. “I get the feeling he doesn’t like me.”
    “Was he rough with you? I told him not to be, but he has trouble controlling his temper. Ishikawa, the man you killed outside your apartment, was a friend of his.”
    “Sorry to hear that.”
    He shook his head as though it was all a misunderstanding. “Please, sit. Would you like something to drink?”
    “No, thank you. I’m not thirsty. And I’m more comfortable standing.”
    He nodded. “I know what you’re thinking, Rain-san. Don’t forget, I’ve seen how fast you are. That’s why there are three armed men outside the door—in case you manage to get past me.” He smiled, a supremely confident smile, and remembering how things went at the Kodokan, I knew his confidence was justified. “That would be an interesting contest, but perhaps one for another time. Please, why don’t you make yourself comfortable, and we can think of a way to solve our mutual problem.”
    “Mutual problem?”
    “Yes, the problem is mutual. You have something I want, or you know where it is. Once I have it, you will no longer be a liability, and we can ‘live and let live.’ But if I don’t have it, the situation becomes more difficult.”
    I was silent, waiting to see if he would say more. After a moment he said, “I really would like to talk with you.
Dozo, kakete kudasai.”
Please, sit.
    I bowed my head and walked over to one of the chairs facing the couch, putting my hands in my pockets as I did so, effecting an air of resignation. I switched on the transmitter. Regardless of how this turned out, Harry would at least hear everything. I sat and waited.
    “Thank you,” he said, sitting opposite me on the couch. “Now tell me, how did you find me?”
    I shrugged. “Your man Ishikawa broke into my apartment and tried to kill me. I got his mobile phone and used it to find out he’s connected to you. The rest was just taking the initiative, as you say.”
    “Ishikawa wasn’t at your apartment to kill you. He was there to question you.”
    “If that was Ishikawa’s idea of ‘questioning,’ you should