A Lonely Resurrection

going several times with a Yukiko Nohara. She works at a club in Nogizaka called Damask Rose.”
    I considered. My gut told me he was being straight. But I had no way of knowing for certain. Besides, for the little he’d given me, I wasn’t going to take the kind of chances running countersurveillance for him could entail.
    Tatsu might be interested, though. And he might be better able to use Kanezaki’s meager information than I could.
    “I’ve got a meeting in a few hours with someone who can help you with your problem,” I said. “Someone who can do more than I can.”
    “Does that mean you believe me?”
    I looked at him. “I haven’t decided yet.”
    There was a pause, then he said, “My wallet.”
    I raised my eyebrows.
    “Where is it?” he asked.
    I chuckled. “It’s gone.”
    “There were fifty thousand yen in it.”
    I nodded. “Just enough for a gustation menu and an ‘85 Rousseau Chambertin at a restaurant I like. Though I did have to go out of pocket on the ‘70 Vega Sicilia Unico I had with dessert, so next time you get it in your head to surveil me, bring along a few more yen, okay?”
    He glowered. “You robbed me.”
    “You’re lucky you didn’t pay a much higher price than that for trying to follow me. Now let’s see if the guy I’m going to see is willing to give you the assistance you want.”
    I took him to Christie Tea & Cake, the
kissaten
that Tatsu had proposed earlier. We walked the short distance from JR Harajuku Station. The proprietor, perhaps remembering me and my seating preferences from my Tokyo days, led us to one of the tables at the back of the long, L-shaped room, where we could sit hidden from the window in front.
    Kanezaki ordered an Assam tea set. I asked for jasmine, both for myself and for our yet-to-arrive third party. After the day we’d just had, I figured Tatsu and I could use something low caffeine.
    We made small talk while we waited for Tatsu. Kanezaki was surprisingly garrulous, perhaps out of nervousness at his circumstances. “How did you get into this business?” I asked him.
    “I’m third-generation American Japanese,” he told me.
“Sansei.
My parents speak Japanese, but they used English at home with me so I only learned what I picked up from my grandparents. In college I did a homestay program in Japan, in Nagano-ken, and I loved it. Kind of put me in touch with my heritage, you know? After that, I took all the Japanese courses I could and did another homestay. During my senior year, I met a CIA recruiter on campus. He told me the Agency was looking for people with hard language skills—Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Arabic. I figured what the hell. I took the tests, passed a background check, and here I am.”
    “Has the job met your expectations?” I asked, with a small smile.
    “Not exactly. But I can roll with the punches. I might be tougher than you think, you know.”
    I thought of his surprising lack of fear during our initial encounter, the way he’d collected himself after watching me take out his partner, and wasn’t inclined to disagree.
    “Anyway,” he went on, “the main thing is that the job puts me in a position to serve the interests of both countries. That’s what really attracted me to it in the first place.”
    “How do you mean?”
    “America wants Japan to reform. And Japan needs to reform, but lacks the internal resources to do it. So
gaiatsu
from the U.S. is in both countries’ interests.”
    Gaiatsu
means “foreign pressure.” I wondered briefly whether there was a country outside Japan that had a dedicated word for the concept.
    “Sounds idealistic,” I said, probably failing to hide my dubiousness.
    He shrugged. “Maybe. But we’re one world now. If Japan’s economy sinks, it’ll drag America down with it. So U.S. ideals and U.S. pragmatism on the one hand, and Japanese needs on the other, are all aligned. I feel lucky to be in a position to work for the countries’ mutual welfare.”
    I had a brief image of this kid ten years from now, running for office. “You given any thought to what you’ll do if you ever have to choose?” I asked him.
    He looked at me. “I’m American.”
    I nodded. “Then as long as America lives up to her ideals, you ought to be fine.”
    The waiter brought our tea. A moment later Tatsu appeared. If he was surprised to see me with Kanezaki, he didn’t show it. Tatsu has a great poker face.
    Kanezaki looked at me, then at Tatsu. “Ishikura-san,” he said,