RainStorm

station in thirty minutes. Take the
    Mita line from Uchisaiwaicho."
    "I know how to get there."
    I smiled. "Walk up the west side of Hakusan-dori, toward Sugamo.
    When you get to Sugamo station, turn around and walk back.
    Repeat as necessary."
    "All right."
    "Come alone. Don't break the rules." There was no need to
    mention penalties.
    I waited on Hakusan-dori northeast of Sengoku station, the
    umbrella held low to obscure my features, ready to bolt into the
    hive of alleys and streets behind me if something went wrong and
    Kanezaki violated the rules I had established.
    Twenty-five minutes later, he emerged onto the sidewalk and
    began walking toward me. He seemed to be alone. When he had
    pulled even with me, I called out to him. He looked over. I motioned
    that he should cross the street, and watched that no one performed
    the identical move behind him.
    For the next half hour, I kept us moving on foot, by subway,
    and by taxi. Harry's bug detector was silent. I ended the run at a
    place called Ben's Cafe in Takadanobaba, in the relatively quiet
    northeast of the city.
    We walked past the ivy-covered trellis and modest signage outside.
    Kanezaki took a deep breath as we walked through the door.
    "Damn, it smells good in here," he said.
    I nodded. I find few smells as -welcoming as the accumulated
    aroma of years of reverential coffee preparation.
    "You know, if anyone ever catches on to your coffee shop and
    cafe habit," he said, as we settled down at one of the small wooden
    tables, "they could probably track you."
    "Probably. Assuming they had the manpower to cover the thousand
    or so that I like in Tokyo."
    Actually, Ben's had been one of my favorites, and I was glad to be
    back. The place has the feel of a college town coffeehouse, which in
    some ways it is, given the proximity of Waseda University and some
    smaller schools in the area. It's got that laid-back air, the murmur of
    laughter and conversation always accompanying the house music at
    just the right, relaxing pitch; the eclectic regulars, in this case Japanese
    and foreign, neighborhood residents as well as sojourners from
    more distant corners of the city; the overflowing community bulletin
    board advertising support groups and theater and poetry readings.
    Cozy but not cramped; cool but not self-important; welcoming
    but not overly familiar, Ben's would surely qualify as a Living Metropolitan Haven, if the government ever decided to grant such designations
    to Tokyo's periodic sensory overload shelters.
    We each ordered the house blend, a mixture of Brazilian and
    Guatemalan beans, roasted fresh that morning. We didn't spend any
    more time on pleasantries.
    "What have you got for me?" I asked him.
    "This time, a lot."
    "Good."
    "To start with, the woman. Check this out. Twice before, a
    player we would describe as part of the terrorist infrastructure--
    finance and logistics, not a foot soldier--has been spotted with a
    striking blonde. Each time, within two months of the spotting, the
    guy in question is found shot to death."
    I looked at him. "Why didn't you tell me this the first time?"
    "This information isn't indexed. I can't just search the files for
    'hot blonde and dead terrorist infrastructure,' okay? I came across
    these commonalities the old-fashioned way, by reading a lot of
    thick files. Which takes time."
    That was fair. "All right."
    "We don't have anything else on this woman. No name, nothing.
    No one has ever made the connection before, and I probably
    'wouldn't have, either, if you hadn't gotten me looking in the right
    direction."
    My face betrayed nothing, but I thought, This is what Delilah was
    afraid of.
    "And?" I asked.
    He shrugged. "Well, I don't think this woman's presence in the
    lives of two, and now maybe three, soon-to-be-departed infrastructure
    types is a coincidence. My guess is, she's working for
    someone, setting these guys up."
    "One of Charlie's Angels?"
    He chuckled. "More like the Angel of Death."
    "Seems a little thin."
    He looked at me, and I realized I might have protested just a bit
    too much. "Maybe," he said. "But both of the guys she was seen
    with were killed while traveling, not at choke points like their
    homes or in the company of known associates. One while passing
    through Vienna, the other vacationing in Belize. Meaning someone
    was tracking them, tracking their movements. Tracking closely."
    I shrugged. "Could be the woman, but there are other ways to
    triangulate on a moving target. You