A Lonely Resurrection

if I’m wrong, and they don’t know who I am, Murakami said he wanted to talk to me at the
dojo.
Sooner or later he’ll show up there. And when he shows up, I’ll call you. You come with picked men, arrest him, and take him into custody.”
    “He might attempt to resist arrest,” he said dryly.
    “Oh, yeah. A guy like that might resist fiercely. I’m sure lethal force would be justified in subduing him.”
    “Indeed.”
    “In fact, it’s even possible that, after you have him handcuffed, someone who might be described afterward as ‘one of his cohorts who got away’ might appear and break his fucking neck.”
    He nodded. “I can see where something like that could occur.”
    “I’ll go for two hours at a time,” I said. “During those two-hour periods you have men mobile and nearby, ready to pounce on my signal.”
    He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I hesitate to suggest it, but it’s possible Murakami will not show. He may simply subcontract the work to someone else. In which case you would be walking into extreme danger for nothing.”
    “He’ll show,” I said. “I know this guy. If he knows who I am, he’s going to want a piece of me. And I’m going to give it to him.”

CHAPTER 16
    T hat night I stayed at a small business hotel in Nishi-Nippori. It was spare enough to make me miss the New Otani and the Imperial, but it was a quiet place in a lonely part of the city and I felt reasonably safe there for the night.
    The next morning, I worked out at Murakami’s
dojo
in Asakusa. When I arrived, the men who were already training paused and gave me a low collective bow—a sign of their respect for the way I had dispatched Adonis. After that, I was treated in a dozen subtle ways with deference that bordered on awe. Even Washio, older than I and with a much longer and deeper association with the
dojo,
was using different verb forms to indicate that he now considered me his superior. My sense was that, whatever Yamaoto and Murakami might have discovered about me, the knowledge had not been shared with the lower echelon.
    Tatsu had given me a Glock 26, the shortest-barreled pistol in Glock’s excellent 9-millimeter line. Definitely not standard Keisatsucho issue. I didn’t know how Tatsu had acquired it in tightly gun-controlled Japan, and I didn’t ask. Despite its relatively low profile, I couldn’t keep it concealed on my person while I was working out. Instead I left it in my gym bag, which I kept close while I worked out.
    Tatsu had also given me a mobile phone with which I would alert him when Murakami showed. I had created a speed dial entry so that all I had to do was hit one of the keys, let the call go through, and hang up. When Tatsu saw that a call had come from my number, he’d scramble his nearby men to the
dojo.
    But Murakami didn’t show. Not that day, not the next.
    I was getting antsy. Too much living out of hotels, a different one every night. Too much worrying about security cameras. Too much thinking about Harry, about the useless way he’d died, about how hard I’d been on him that very night.
    And too much thinking about Midori, wondering whether she’d get in touch again, and what she would want if she did.
    I went to the
dojo
for a third day. I was doing long workouts, trying to give Murakami the widest possible window in which to appear, but there was still no sign of him. I was starting to think he just wasn’t going to show.
    But he did. I was on the floor, stretching, when I heard the door buzzer. I looked up to see Murakami, wearing a black leather jacket and head-hugging shades, and his two bodyguards, similarly dressed, enter the room. As usual, the atmosphere in the
dojo
changed when he entered, his presence aggravating everyone’s vestigial fight-or-flight radar like a mild electric current.
    “Oi, Arai-san, yo,”
he said, walking over. “Let’s talk.”
    I stood. “Okay.”
    One of the bodyguards approached. I started toward my bag, but he got there ahead of me. He picked it up and slid it over his shoulder. “I’ll take this,” he said.
    I gave no sign that this was a problem for me. The mobile phone, at least, was in my pocket. I shrugged and said, “Thanks.”
    Murakami motioned toward the door with a tilt of his head. “Outside.”
    My heart rate had doubled but my voice was cool. “Sure,” I called to him. “Just going to take a leak first.”
    I walked to the back of the room and into the bathroom. I was already so juiced