A Lonely Resurrection

bureaucracy rather than through elected politicians. All this led to an accrual of additional prestige, additional power.”
    “I’ve always said Japan’s rule by bureaucracy is a kind of totalitarianism.”
    “It is. But it is distinguished in that there is no Big Brother figure. Rather, the structure itself functions as Big Brother.”
    “That’s my point. What can you gain by protecting a handful of elected politicians?”
    “For the moment, perhaps not much. Today, the politicians act mainly as mediators between the bureaucrats and the voters. Their job is to secure for their constituents the biggest slice possible from the pie the bureaucrats control.”
    “Like lobbyists in the U.S.”
    “Yes. But the politicians are elected. The bureaucrats are not. This means the voters do exercise theoretical control. If they elected politicians with a mandate to rein in the bureaucracy, the bureaucrats would bend, because their power is a function of their prestige, and to oppose a clear political consensus would be to risk that prestige.”
    I didn’t say anything. I understood his point, though I suspected his planning was so long-term as to be ultimately futile.
    We walked for a few moments in silence. Then he stopped and turned to me.
    “I would like you to have a chat with Station Chief Biddle,” he said.
    “I’d love to. Kanezaki seems to think Biddle was surprised to hear about Harry’s death, but I’d like to make sure. The problem is how to get to him.”
    “The CIA Chief of Station is declared to the Japanese government. Many of his movements are no mystery to the Keisatsucho.” He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a photo. A mid-forties Caucasian with a narrow face and nose, and close-cropped, sandy-colored thinning hair, the eyes blue behind tortoiseshell glasses.
    “Mr. Biddle takes afternoon tea weekdays at Jardin de Luseine, in Harajuku. Building Two,” he said. “On Brahms-no-komichi.”
    “A man of habit?”
    “Apparently, Mr. Biddle believes a faithful routine is good for the mind.”
    “It might be,” I said, considering. “But it can be hell on the body.”
    He nodded. “Why don’t you join him tomorrow?”
    I looked at him. “I might do that,” I said.
    • • •
    I walked for a long time after leaving Tatsu. I thought about Murakami. I tried to find the nexus points, the intersections between his fluid existence and the more concrete world around him. There wasn’t much: the
dojo,
Damask Rose, maybe Yukiko. But I knew he’d be staying away from all of those for a while, possibly a long while, just as I would. I also knew he’d be running the same game against me. I was glad that, from his perspective, the good nexus points would seem to be in short supply.
    Still, I wished I could have held onto Tatsu’s Glock. Ordinarily, I don’t like to carry an unambiguous weapon. Guns are noisy and ballistics tests can connect the bullet you left behind to the weapon that’s still in your possession. Besides, getting caught with a firearm in Japan is a guaranteed ticket to jail. Knives aren’t much better. A knife makes a mess that can get all over you. And any cop worth a damn in any country will treat someone caught with a concealed knife—even a small one—as dangerous and warranting additional scrutiny. With Murakami out there and onto me, of course, the risk and reward ratio of a concealed weapon had changed fairly dramatically.
    I wondered whether Tatsu would get anything useful out of the guy whose knee I had broken. I doubted it. Murakami would know Tatsu was working that angle, and adjust his patterns to account for anything his captured man might reveal under pressure.
    Yukiko might have some useful information. Murakami would have anticipated that route, too, but it was still worth exploring. Especially because, after what they had done to Harry, my interest in Yukiko had become independent of my interest in her boss.
    I pictured her, the long hair, the aloof confidence. She might be taking precautions, after Harry. Murakami might even have warned her to be careful. But she was no hard target. I could get to her. And I thought I knew how.
    I went to a spy paraphernalia shop in Shinjuku to buy a few things I would need. What the store offered to the public was almost scary: pinhole cameras and phone taps. Taser guns and tear gas. Diamond-bit drills and lock picks. All available “for academic purposes only,” of course. I contented myself with a