A Clean Kill in Tokyo

mild shock at what they had just seen.
    “Excuse me,” I began in Japanese, not knowing what else to say. “Do you have a bathroom?”
    They maintained their frozen postures, and I realized my question had discombobulated them further. Just as well. I saw I was only a few meters inside the tunnel and started walking out.
    I considered what had happened. Yamaoto’s men must have seen me go into the tunnel hanging on to the back of the train, but not seen me slip, and I was going too fast for them to expect I’d let go deliberately. So they were figuring that, in three minutes, I would be deposited at Mita Station, the end of the line. They must have bolted out of the station to Mita to try to intercept me.
    I had a wild idea.
    I reached into my pocket and pulled out the earpiece I had pocketed before Flatnose and his crew had caught me in the van, then slipped it into place. I felt in my pocket for the adhesive-backed transmitter. Still there. But was it still transmitting?
    “Harry? Can you hear me? Talk to me,” I said.
    There was a long pause, and just as I started to try again the earpiece came to life.
    “John! What the hell is going on? Where are you?”
    It felt great to hear the kid. “Relax, I’m okay. But I need your help.”
    “What’s going on? I’ve been listening to everything. Are you in a train station? Are you all right?”
    I hauled myself up onto the platform, which was mostly deserted now, presumably in reaction to the gunshots. Some people stared at me, but I ignored them, walking past as though it was perfectly natural that I had just emerged filthy and bruised from the depths of one of Tokyo’s subway tunnels. “I’ve been better, but we can talk about that later. Is the equipment still up and running?”
    “Yes, I’m still getting a feed on all the rooms in the building.”
    “Okay, that’s what I need to know. Who’s still in the building?”
    “Infrared says just one guy. Everyone else left right after you.”
    “Yamaoto, too?”
    “Yes.”
    “Where’s the guy who stayed behind?”
    “Very last room on the right as you face the building—where the three men took you. He’s been there since you got out.”
    That would be Flatnose or one of his boys—must not have been in condition to come after me. It felt good to know.
    “Okay, here’s the situation. They all think I’m on the back of a subway to Mita, and that’s where they’re going to converge in about four minutes. It’ll take them maybe another five to figure out I’m not there and they’ve lost me, and another five after that to get back to the
Conviction
building. So I’ve got fourteen minutes to get back in there and plant the bug.”
    “What? You don’t know where they are. What if they didn’t all go to Mita? They could come back while you’re still in there!”
    “I’m counting on you to let me know if that’s going to happen. You’re still getting a video feed from the van, right?”
    “Yeah, it’s still broadcasting.”
    “Look, I’m practically at the building now—still all clear?”
    “Still all clear, but this is crazy.”
    “I’m never going to get a better chance. They’re all out of the building, nothing’s going to be locked, and when they get back, we’ll be able to hear everything they say. I’m going in.”
    “Okay, I can see you now. Do it fast.”
    That advice I didn’t need. I went through the stairway doors and turned right, then jogged down the hallway to the entrance. As I expected, they had left in a hurry and the front door was wide open.
    Yamaoto’s office was three doors down to the right. I was going to be in and out in no time.
    The door was closed. I reached out for the knob, tried to turn it.
    “Oh, fuck,” I breathed.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s locked.”
    “Forget it—put the bug somewhere else.”
    “No use—this is where we need to listen.” I examined the lock and could see it was only a regular five-pin tumbler. Not a big deal. “Hang on a minute. I think I can get in.”
    “John, get out of there. They could come back anytime.”
    I didn’t answer. I slipped out my keys and detached one of my homemade picks and the dental mirror. The latter’s long, slim handle made for a nice field-expedient tension wrench. I slipped the handle into the lock and gently rotated it clockwise. When the slack in the cylinder was gone, I eased in the pick and started working the fifth tumbler.
    “Don’t try to pick the lock! You’re no good