Hard Rain

said.
    "I'd love to," I said. "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. I saw 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 that 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 on to 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 on to me, of course, the risk and reward
    ratio of a concealed weapon had changed somewhat.
    I wondered whether Tatsu would get anything useful out of the guy whose
    knee I had broken. I doubted it. Murakami would know that 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 Secret Service-style ASP tactical
    baton, a nasty piece of black steel that collapsed to nine inches and
    telescoped to twenty-six with a snap of the wrist.
    Next stop was a sporting good store, where I bought a roll of
    thirty-pound test high-impact monofilament fishing line, white sports
    tape, gloves, a wool hat, long underwear, and a canvas bag. Third
    stop, a drugstore for some cheap cologne, a hand towel, and a pack of
    cigarettes and matches. Next, a local Gap for an unobtrusive change of
    clothes. Then a novelty shop for a fright wig and a set of rotted
    false teeth. Finally, a packaging supply house, for a
    twenty-five-meter roll of translucent packing tape. Shinjuku, I
    thought, like an advertising jingle. For All Your Shopping Needs.
    I holed up in another business hotel, this time in Ueno. I set my
    watch alarm for midnight and went to sleep.
    When the alarm woke me, I slipped the long underwear on under my
    clothes and secured the baton to my wrist with two lengths of the
    sports tape. I wet the towel and wrung it out, put it and the other
    gear I had bought into the canvas bag, and walked out to the station,
    where I found a pay phone. I still had the card I had taken on my
    first night at Damask Rose. I called the phone number on it.
    A man answered the phone. It might have been Mr. Ruddy, but I wasn't
    sure.
    (Hai, Damask