RainStorm

soon
    after the last time. The thought of doing it all again felt like nothing
    but dread.
    Which made the conclusion that followed suspect, a possible rationalization.
    The conclusion went like this: It would be better to
    know what they want, anyway. To take the initiative, rather than passively
    waiting for whatever they have in mind.
    All right then. I left the beach, and called Kanezaki from a pay
    phone. There was a decent chance they would track the call to Rio,
    but they obviously already knew I was here.
    The phone rang twice. "Yeah," I heard him say. He sounded
    groggy.
    It was early afternoon in Rio, and Tokyo was twelve hours
    ahead. "Hope I didn't wake you," I said.
    "Don't worry about it," he said, recognizing my voice. "I had to
    get up to answer the phone, anyway."
    I was surprised to hear myself chuckle. "Tell me what you
    want."
    "Can we meet?"
    "I'm in Rio for a few more days," I told him. "After that I won't
    be reachable."
    "All right, I'll meet you in Rio."
    "Glad I was able to provide you with the excuse."
    There was a pause. "Where and when?"
    "Have you got a GSM phone, something you use when you
    travel?" Unlike Japanese cell phones, a GSM unit would work in
    Brazil and most of the rest of the world.
    "I do."
    "All right. Give me the number."
    He did. I wrote it down, then said, "I'll call you on the GSM
    number the day after tomorrow, when you're in town."
    "All right."
    I hung up.
    Two days later, I called him. He was staying at the Arpoador Inn
    on the Rua Francisco Otaviano in Ipanema, an inexpensive hotel
    located right on Ipanema's famous beach.
    "How are we going to do this?" he asked.
    "Have a cab take you to Cristo Redentor, Christ the Redeemer,"
    I told him. "From there, head southwest on foot along the road
    through the Parque Nacional da Tijuca, the national park. I'll find
    you in there. Start out from the statue in one hour."
    "All right."
    An hour later I had made myself comfortable on a trail overlooking
    the road through the national park, about a kilometer from
    the statue. Kanezaki appeared on time. I watched him pass my position,
    waited to ensure that he was alone, then cut down to the
    road and caught up with him from behind.
    "Kanezaki," I said.
    He spun, startled to hear my voice so close. "Shit," he said, perhaps
    a little embarrassed.
    I smiled. He looked a little older than he had the last time I had
    seen him, leaner, more seasoned. The wire-rimmed glasses no
    longer made him look bookish. Instead, they gave his face . . .
    focus, somehow. Precision.
    The bug detector was silent. I patted him down, took his cell
    phone for safekeeping, and nodded my head toward the trail from
    which I had just descended. "This way," I said.
    I led him back to a secondary road in the park, where we
    walked until we found a cab. A few deft counter surveillance maneuvers
    later, we were comfortably ensconced in the Confeitaria
    Colombo, a coffee shop founded in 1894 that, but for the tropical
    atmosphere and the surrounding sounds of animated Portuguese,
    can convey the illusion of an afternoon in Vienna. I used English to
    order a basic espresso, not wanting Kanezaki to see any more of my
    familiarity with the local terrain, and he followed suit.
    "We want your help again," he told me, as soon as the espressos
    had arrived and the waitress had moved off. Right to the point. Like
    Tatsu. I knew there was a relationship there, each believing the other
    to be a source, with Tatsu's view being the more accurate. I wondered
    if Kanezaki was emulating the older, more experienced man.
    "Like you wanted it last time?" I asked, my eyebrows arched
    slightly in mild disdain.
    He shrugged. "You know I was in the dark about all that as
    much as you were. This time it's straightforward. And sanctioned."
    "Sanctioned by whom?"
    He looked at me. "By the proper authorities."
    "All right," I said, taking a sip from the porcelain demitasse.
    "Tell me."
    He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "After
    Nine-Eleven, Congress took the shackles off the Agency. There's a
    new spirit in the place. We're pushing the envelope again, going after
    the bad guys--"
    "The few, the proud ..." I interjected.
    He frowned. "Look, we're really making a difference now--"
    "Be All You Can Be ..." I started to sing.
    His jaw clenched. "Do you just enjoy pissing me off?" he asked.
    "A little bit, yes."
    "It's petty."
    I took another sip of espresso. "What's your point?"
    "I wish you'd just listen."
    "So far I've