The Last Assassin

Tatsu, but how are you able to…?”
    “During the day, I have a steady stream of visitors. The doctors hate it, but when they complain I say, ‘So? A little work won’t kill me.’”
    We laughed, then were quiet again.
    “It has to look as though Yamaoto’s men killed the Chinese and stole the drugs,” he said. There was an odd fervor in his eyes. “This will put a great deal of pressure on Yamaoto. A great deal.”
    Most men, lying on their presumable deathbeds, would be focused on other matters. But not Tatsu. Fighting corruption was his life’s work, and he would devote every last breath to it.
    I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’ll take care of it.”
    He nodded and seemed to settle in his bed. “Good,” he said, patting my hand.
    Without thinking, I turned my hand around and took his in mine.
    He gritted his teeth for a moment and groaned, then whatever pain had caused the groan passed. He said, “You have to hurry, Rain-san. Soon I won’t be able to help you.”
    I nodded.
    He smiled. “Why do you look so sad?”
    I shook my head. “You’re an asshole.”
    I thought he would laugh at that, but he didn’t. Instead he squeezed my hand for a moment and then said, “I’ve thought a lot about what you said, you know. About being a manipulative bastard. I don’t have a lot I can do besides lie here and think.”
    “You come to any conclusions?”
    “That you’re right. That I knew exactly what I was doing when I showed you those photographs. That the situation has turned out exactly as I had hoped. Except for one thing.”
    “I forgot the whiskey?”
    He squeezed again. This time he didn’t let go. “That I might have put your family in danger. If something were to happen to your son…”
    Tatsu had lost his only son in an accident when the child was an infant. He had spoken of it to me only twice: first, when I had asked him years earlier, and again, on the night he told me that I, too, had become a father. The boy had died over three decades earlier, but the pain still showed in Tatsu’s eyes. It always had, and I knew now there was only one thing that could deliver him from it. And that thing was coming far too soon.
    “Nothing’s going to happen to him,” I said. “We’re going to take care of this.”
    He closed his eyes and mumbled something. It took me a moment to pick up what it was. Onegai shimasu. Please.
    We sat like that for a few minutes more. His eyes remained closed and I realized he was sleeping.
    I got up and moved to the door. I nodded to the bodyguard, then checked the corridor. All clear.
    I used the stairs and a back exit, then ran a route to make sure I wasn’t being followed. It was good to have something operational to focus on. It helped me to not think.
    When I was satisfied I was alone, I called Dox. He had already checked into his hotel, the large and anonymous Shinagawa Prince. We agreed to meet at a Starbucks in Shinagawa Station in two hours, after I’d checked into the equally unremarkable Shinjuku Hilton.
    I clicked off and headed toward the Yamanote. Tatsu’s words echoed in my mind: Soon I won’t be able to help you.

14
    W HEN I ARRIVED in Shinagawa, I was initially bewildered. The area, once a seedy backwater reeking of meat processing, had been gentrified. South of the station, everything was brand-new: glass high-rises, sparkling esplanades, expensive-looking restaurants. Christ, there was even a Dean & DeLuca at the station entrance.
    I found the Starbucks Dox had described, on a terrace inside the station, overlooking a passenger walkway. Dox was already up there, sitting by the railing, looking down at the crowds, doubtless enjoying the feeling of holding the high ground with an unobstructed field of fire. He spotted me and nodded once to let me know it was safe to approach.
    I went to the counter and ordered an herbal tea. I was tired from the trip and the time change, but wanted to maximize my chances of a decent night’s sleep.
    I took the tea and joined Dox at the table. “Figured you’d get here early,” he said. “So to save time, I came early, too.”
    Over the last year or so, he’d learned my habits, of course, and this was an opportunity to tweak me. I was getting used to it. “That was thoughtful of you,” I said.
    “I’m a thoughtful guy. In fact, I brought you a present. And, at the risk of disappointing you, I’ll tell you now it ain’t a kimono or dainty silk undergarments.”
    He put a paper bag on the