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
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