A Lonely Resurrection

said. “I got held up.”
    He looked at me as though he understood exactly what had caused the delay, then turned to Kanezaki and said, “I took two men to observe the area around your ostensible meeting. We discovered someone who was there attempting to photograph the proceedings.”
    Kanezaki’s eyes bulged. “Photograph?”
    Tatsu nodded.
    “What did you do?” he asked.
    “We took the individual into custody.”
    “Oh, man,” Kanezaki said, probably imagining the headlines in tomorrow’s papers. “Official custody?”
    Tatsu shook his head. “Unofficial.”
    “Who is he?” Kanezaki asked.
    “His name is Edmund Gretz,” Tatsu said. “He came to Tokyo three years ago, hoping to make a living as a freelance photographer, with visions of models on runways. Instead he found himself giving English lessons at various Japanese corporations. But eventually he did manage to find someone interested in his talents as a photographer.”
    “The Agency?” Kanezaki asked, his complexion pale.
    “Yes. He is a contractor. Six months ago he was given training in surveillance and countersurveillance and various other clandestine arts. Since then, the Agency has contacted him three times. On each occasion, he was given a time and place where a meeting was to occur, and instructed to photograph the meeting as it progressed.”
    “How did he know who he was shooting?”
    “He was given a photograph of an ethnic Japanese who would always be a participant.”
    “Me.”
    “Yes.”
    I shook my head in wonder and thought,
You ought to just have “fall guy” printed on your business cards.
    “And Gretz’s handler. . .” Kanezaki said.
    “The Station Chief,” Tatsu answered. “James Biddle.”
    “The same guy who wanted the receipts,” I said.
    Tatsu nodded. “Yes.”
    “I imagine the contractor wasn’t able to shed any light on why,” I said.
    Tatsu shook his head. “Gretz is only a flunky, with some skill behind the lens. He doesn’t know anything. His biggest concern was that no one should find out we had picked him up, lest he lose his lucrative sidework or face deportation.”
    “You couldn’t get anything more out of him?” Kanezaki asked.
    Tatsu shrugged. “My men did not ask nicely. I don’t believe there was anything more to be gotten.”
    “What does he do with the photos after he’s taken them?” Kanezaki asked.
    “He delivers the prints to Biddle,” Tatsu said.
    Kanezaki was drumming his fingers on the table. “What’s he going to do with those photos? Why would he do this to me?”
    “I may have a way of finding out,” Tatsu said.
    “What’s that?”
    Tatsu shook his head. “Not yet. Let me make some discreet inquiries. I will contact you soon.”
    Kanezaki’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Why would you help me?” he asked.
    Tatsu looked at him. “I have my own reasons for wishing to avoid a scandal,” he said. “Among them, my desire that the reformers you have been trying to aid not be harmed by all this.”
    Kanezaki’s expression loosened. He was scared. He wanted to believe he had a friend. “Okay,” he said.
    Kanezaki stood to go. He reached into his jacket pocket, took out a card, and handed it to Tatsu. “Please, contact me as soon as you know more,” he said.
    Tatsu stood, too. He gave him a card in return. “I will.”
    Kanezaki said, “Thank you.”
    Tatsu bowed low and said,
“Kochira koso.”
The same here.
    Kanezaki nodded to me and walked away.
    I waited a minute to allow Kanezaki to get clear, then said, “Let’s go.”
    Tatsu understood. When I was a teenager, I once won a fight at a party. The guy I’d beaten left, while I enjoyed the feeling of being a hero. Trouble was, the guy returned a half hour later, only this time with two friends. The three of them beat the crap out of me. The lesson was worth it. It taught me that when the meeting is done, you leave, unless you want to take a chance on someone backing up on you.
    We walked toward Inokashira-dori, the still darkness of Yoyogi Park to our right.
    “How did it go today?” I asked as we walked. “With your man’s wife. His widow.”
    Several seconds went by before he answered. “Fujimori-san,” he said, and I wasn’t sure whether he was talking about his fallen comrade or the wife. “I am fortunate to have had only three such conversations in my time with the Keisatsucho.”
    We continued to walk in silence. Then I asked, “Any luck tracking Murakami today?”
    He shook his