A Lonely Resurrection

before; or glancing over at a group of elegantly dressed women seated in one of the bar’s quietly lit alcoves, their faces glowing, not yet lined, their faith that havens like this one exist as if by right reflected in the innocent timbre of their laughter and the carefree cadences of their conversation, and remembering without bitterness what it felt like to think that maybe you, too, could be part of such a world.
    It took me less than ten minutes to walk the short distance to the bar. I paused before the exterior stairs leading to the second floor, imagining, as I always do before entering a building, where I might wait if I hoped to ambush someone coming out. The area around Teize offered two promising positions, one of which, the entryway of an adjacent building, I especially liked because it was set back from the bar’s entrance in such a way that you wouldn’t see someone lurking there until after you’d reached the bottom of the stairs, when it might be too late to do anything about it. Unless, of course, before descending, you took the trouble to lean over the bar’s front balcony in appreciation of the quiet street scene below, as I had now reminded myself to do.
    Satisfied with the security layout outside, I took the stairs to the second floor and walked in. I hadn’t been there in a long time, but the proprietors hadn’t seen fit to change anything, thank God. The lighting was still soft—mostly sconces, floor lamps, and candles. A wooden table that had begun its life as a door before being elevated to its current, considerably higher, purpose. Muted Persian rugs and dark, heavy drapes. The white marble bar, confident but not dominating at the center of the main room, shining quietly beneath an overhead set of track lights. Everywhere there were books: mostly works on design, architecture, and art, but also seemingly whimsical selections such as
The Adventures of Two Dutch Dolls
and
Uncle Santa.
    “Nanmeisama?”
the bartender asked me. How many? I held up two fingers. He looked around the room, confirming what I had already noticed, that no tables were available.
    “That’s fine,” I told him in Japanese. “I think we’ll just sit at the bar.” Which, in addition to its other advantages, offered a tactical view of the entranceway.
    Harry arrived an hour later, as I was beginning my second single malt of the evening, a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin. He saw me as he came in and smiled.
    “John-san, hisashiburi,”
he said. It’s been a long time. Then he switched to English, which would afford us marginally better privacy in these surroundings. “It’s good to see you.”
    I stood and we shook hands. Despite the lack of formality of the occasion, I also offered him a slight bow. I’ve always liked the respect of a bow and the warmth of a handshake, and Harry merited both.
    “Have a seat,” I said, motioning to the bar stool to my left. “I hope you’ll forgive me for starting without you.”
    “If you’ll forgive me for avoiding what you’re having and ordering some food instead.”
    “Suit yourself,” I said. “Anyway, Scotch is a grownup’s drink.”
    He smiled, knowing I was ribbing him, and ordered an herb salad with tofu and mozzarella and a plain orange juice. Harry’s never been a drinker.
    “You do a good SDR?” I asked him while we waited for the food to arrive. An SDR, or surveillance detection run, is a route designed to flush a follower or team of followers out into the open. I’d taught the subject to Harry and he’d proven himself an able student.
    “You ask me that every time,” he replied in a slightly exasperated tone, like a teenager remonstrating with a parent. “And every time I give you the same answer.”
    “So you did one.”
    He rolled his eyes. “Of course.”
    “And you were clean?”
    He looked at me. “I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t. You know that.”
    I patted him on the back. “Can’t help asking. Thanks again for the nice work with that yakuza’s mobile phone.”
    He smiled. “Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he said.
    “Yeah?”
    He nodded and reached into a jacket pocket. He fished around for a second, then pulled out a metal object about the dimensions of a half-dozen stacked credit cards. “Check this out,” he said.
    I took it. It was heavy for something of its size. There must have been a lot of circuitry packed in it. “Just what I’ve always wanted,” I said. “A faux silver paperweight.”
    He moved as