A Lonely Resurrection

generation of exercise equipment, to notify the public of yet another unnatural use for which the machine was not intended and of which the manufacturer would have to remain blameless. Over the years, my work has made me the anonymous recipient of at least two such legal encomia—one on a bridge traversing the polluted waters of the Sumida River, in which a certain politician drowned in 1982 (“Warning—Do Not Climb On These Bars”); another, a decade later, following the aquatic electrocution of an unusually diligent banker, on the packaging of hair dryers (“Warning—Do Not Use While Bathing”).
    The health club was also convenient because I wouldn’t have to worry about fingerprints. In Japan, where costumes are a national pastime, a weightlifter wouldn’t pump iron without wearing stylish padded gloves any more than a politician would take a bribe in his underwear. It was a warm early spring for Tokyo, portending, they said, a fine cherry blossom season, and where else but at a gym could a man in gloves have gone unnoticed?
    In my business, going unnoticed is half the game. People put out signals—body language, gait, clothes, facial expression, posture, attitude, speech, mannerisms—that can tell you where they’re from, what they do, who they are. Most importantly,
do they fit in.
Because if you don’t fit in, the target will spot you, and after that you won’t be able to get close enough to do it right. Or a cop will spot you, and you’ll have some explaining to do. Or a countersurveillance team will spot you, and then—congratulations!—the target will be you.
    But if you’re attentive, you begin to understand that the identifying signals are a science, not an art. You watch, you imitate, you acquire. Eventually, you can shadow different targets through different societal ecosystems, remaining anonymous in all of them.
    Anonymity wasn’t easy for me in Japan when my parentage was a matter of public record and schoolyard taunts. But today, you wouldn’t spot the Caucasian in my face unless someone tipped you off that it was there to be found. My American mother wouldn’t have minded that. She had always wanted me to fit in in Japan, and was glad that my father’s Japanese features had prevailed in that initial genetic struggle for dominance. And the plastic surgery I had undergone when I returned to Japan after my fling with U.S. Special Forces in Vietnam largely completed the job that chance and nature had begun.
    The story my signals would tell the yakuza was simple. He’d only begun seeing me at his gym recently, but I was already obviously in shape. So I wasn’t some middle-aged guy who’d decided to take up weightlifting to try and regain a lost college-era physique. The more likely explanation would be that I worked for a company that had transferred me to Tokyo, and, if they had sprung for digs near Roppongi, maybe in Minami-Aoyama or Azabu, I must be someone reasonably important and well compensated. That I was apparently into body building at all at this stage in my life probably meant affairs with young women, for whom a youthful physique might ameliorate the unavoidable emotional consequences of sleeping with an older man in what at root would be little more than an exchange of sex and the illusion of immortality for Ferragamo handbags and the other implicit currencies of such arrangements. All of which the yakuza would understand, and even respect.
    In fact, my recent appearance at the yakuza’s gym had nothing to do with a company transfer—it was more like a business trip. After all, I was in Tokyo just to do a job. When the job was finished, I would leave. I’d done some things to generate animosity when I’d been living here, and the relevant parties might still be looking for me, even after I’d been away for a year, so a short stay was all I could sensibly afford.
    Tatsu had given me a dossier on the yakuza a month earlier, when he’d found me and persuaded me to take the job. From the contents, I would have concluded the target was just mob muscle, but I knew he must be more than that if Tatsu wanted him eliminated. I hadn’t asked. I only wanted the particulars that would help me get close. The rest was irrelevant.
    The dossier had included the yakuza’s mobile number. I had fed it to Harry, who, compulsive hacker that he was, had long since penetrated the cellular network control centers of Japan’s three telco providers. Harry’s computers were