John Rain 08: Graveyard of Memories (9 page)

“Yes, but—”

“But that’s only part of it. More important, this just isn’t the kind of job I want. I don’t know what’s next for me, but…it’s not going to be that.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t have to really be a ‘next.’ You could think of it as a one-time-only opportunity. With a generous cash bonus attached, of course.”

“Yes, it is generous, and perhaps if I were a little bolder, I’d be tempted. Have you considered trying to solve this problem…yourself?”

He nodded. “I have. But strangely enough, such self-reliance would be frowned upon. The powers-that-be wish to put distance between themselves and the outcome. They would be uncomfortable if the same person were to receive their instructions and carry out the act.”

I shrugged. “Don’t tell them it was you.”

And in that instant, an idea blossomed in my mind, as complete and profound as an archetypal Zen satori. Call it enlightenment. Call it insight into one’s own nature.

Call it an awakening.

“That notion has also tempted me. But I’m afraid the consequences of being caught in such a deception would be…very dire. I wish I were bolder. But I’m not.”

“I understand. I’m not, either. I’m really very sorry.”

Miyamoto nodded. He clearly had pushed as hard as he felt he could, and looked crestfallen that his efforts had come to nothing.

“There’s really no one else you can go to with this?” I asked.

He smiled wanly. “My superiors will have alternatives, I’m sure. To be honest, despite the risks, I was glad the opportunity came to me first. I know they were using me as a disposable intermediary—I’m accustomed to that. But if I could have made it happen, it might have impressed certain people. I’m…embarrassed to admit this could even be a consideration. I wouldn’t mention it, but you asked and it would be rude of me to be dishonest in response.”

“I understand.”

I sighed as though I was about to concede something and said, “What if I could put you in touch with someone who could help you? Would that be useful?”

He looked at me, his eyes bright with hope. “Could you?”

I shrugged. “I might know some people who I don’t think would object to this kind of work. And who have the kind of experience you would find relevant. If you’d like, I could make an inquiry or two. If there’s interest, I’d pass on your phone number. But beyond that, I wouldn’t be involved. I’m sorry.”

“No, please don’t apologize. This would be very helpful and I’d be most in your debt. I would even insist on paying you a finder’s fee for your important contribution.”

“That is very kind of you,” I said, my style again as formal as his, “but no, I would merely be offering an introduction of two people who I think might want to know each other better. It would be unthinkably rude for me to accept any kind of compensation for such a small favor as that.”

Miyamoto smiled, understanding now that when I said I didn’t want to be involved, I meant it. “Then I will accept this gracious favor as one generously bestowed by a valued friend. But only upon one condition.”

“Yes?”

“That my friend should know I will now be in his debt, and that I hope one day he will be kind enough to allow me to do him a kindness in return.”

chapter
nine

I
left Miyamoto at Hamarikyu and walked back to Shinbashi to pick up Thanatos. I wondered if I’d been crazy to offer to introduce him to someone who could help him with his “embarrassing situation.” But I sensed it was the right way to go about it. At least in general—the details still eluded me. I had to figure them out, and I knew I’d better get it right the first time. I doubted there would be any second chances.

I stopped at a payphone and checked with the answering service. McGraw had left a message: he wanted to meet at Zōshigaya Cemetery that afternoon. The message left me feeling equal parts relief and trepidation. I hoped there was no hidden message involved with his choice of venue. Maybe he was just being funny.

I ate a lunch of ramen near the station, then rode Thanatos northwest toward Zōshigaya. I knew the cemetery well—a serene stretch of green in Tōshima Ward, it had been a favorite of my mother’s, especially during cherry blossom season when, lovely as it was, it was less popular than some of the city’s other premier
hanami
locations, and therefore less crowded. She had taken me there many times when I was small, usually on the Arakawa-sen, which today is the city’s sole surviving public tram line. Even back then, the trams were dying out, being buried by train tracks as fast as the city’s wooden houses were being torn down and replaced by ferroconcrete.

I was still early for the meeting, so on a whim I parked Thanatos outside Waseda Station and boarded the Arakawa line, which would take me to Zōshigaya. A pastel-yellow train was already waiting at the terminal—a pretty fancy description for an open-air, street-level platform adjacent to the sidewalk—so I walked on, paid the fare, and moved past a dozen other passengers toward the back of the single-car carrier, really no larger than a bus. A young mother was holding her small son’s hand by one of the windows. The child was asking,
Why aren’t we going?
and the woman was smiling and explaining that of course we had to wait for the other passengers but that soon we would be off. I looked away, surprised by a feeling of overwhelming sadness. Some of my earliest memories were of my own mother taking me for a ride on the
chin-chin densha
, the ding-ding train, so named for the distinct double bell the driver sounds when pulling out of a station, and when the train started forward and the bell rang, I felt my eyes grow moist. My mother had succumbed to cancer just over a year earlier, while I was away at war. Her absence was still an acute ache in my life, and being back here on the train sharpened it. It wasn’t just the sound of the bell—everything around me suddenly reminded me of what now was lost. The serene and sedate neighborhoods rolling slowly by; the tracks half overgrown with grass; the gentle swaying of the train and the
chunk-chunk, chunk-chunk
of the wheels passing over the ties. The
chin-chin densha
was still here, steady and stalwart, and I was glad for that. But I was riding it alone now, a
rōnin
, a revenant returned from some faraway place, my past and everyone part of it sundered, irretrievable, accessible to me now only as painful and haunted memories, some still sharp, some increasingly indistinct.

The train continued along at its leisurely pace,
chunk-chunk, chunk-chunk
, settling into stations along the way, waiting for passengers to board and depart, easing forward again with its musical
chin-chin
. I was the only passenger to get off at Zōshigaya. I waited until the train had pulled away, then walked across the tracks. Across from me, on the other side of a sleepy, narrow street, was the cemetery. But for a profusion of markers sprouting up from the moss-covered earth, it might have been a small forest planted in the midst of the city around it.

I entered along the northwest path, then stopped. Insects buzzed around me and there was a slight rustling of tree leaves. Other than that, everything was completely still. And yet, something didn’t feel right. This was where McGraw had told me to meet him, but I realized there was no reason I had to approach from this angle, which is what he would have been expecting. I could as easily have approached through the cemetery from the opposite direction, or from any direction at all.

I shook off the feeling, thinking it must have been the sudden splash of green, the sound of unseen insects, that was triggering combat reflexes shaped in the jungle. McGraw had no reason to set me up. I was just being paranoid. Still, no downside to coming in along a less obvious route. I started to back up, but then saw McGraw, strolling along one of the east–west paths to my right, a map in one hand and a camera in the other. He looked like nothing more than a foreign tourist on an outing. Which I supposed was exactly the point. He nodded his head at me and walked over. Yeah, I was being paranoid. All right.

I had to admit, I was impressed by the choice of venue. I didn’t think many foreigners living in Tokyo even knew about Zōshigaya. It was about as off the beaten track as you could reasonably get inside the Yamanote.

“You know your way around Tokyo pretty well,” I said, as he approached.

He stopped in front of me and mopped his ruddy brow with a handkerchief. “Son, I’d have to be a piss-poor case officer not to know the local terrain well enough to exploit it.”

Christ, he was an ornery prick. “I just meant you’re not from around here. I don’t think many foreigners know Zōshigaya.”

He glanced at the bag I was carrying. “And you do?”

I thought of my mother. “I grew up here, remember?” I didn’t see the need to share any details beyond that.

“Yeah, I guess you did.”

I looked at the camera. “So if someone stops you, you’re, what, taking pictures?”

“Are you going to teach me about cover for action now, son? You think the map and the camera are all I’ve got? I’ve been using the camera, it’s not just a prop. So yes, if anyone asks, I’m making a pilgrimage to the graves of some of the famous people buried here. Lafcadio Hearn in particular. I’ve got the photos to back it up. From here and from some of the other cemeteries in Tokyo—Aoyama, Yanaka, you name it. The cemeteries of Tokyo are a hobby of mine, in fact, you get it? You want a cover to work, you have to live it.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t deny, he was good at what he did.

“You satisfied?” he said. “You want me to run the same kind of test on you? Let me guess, you just came out here for the fresh air, is that it? You better hope that’s enough on the day someone really probes your cover. Christ, I wish you’d shape up. I don’t think you know what tradecraft even is.”

I felt my anger kicking in. “Yeah? Why don’t you teach me?”

“What do you call what I just did?”

I stood there, stung and smoldering. He was right. What I would have called it was an insult, but it was also, undeniably, a lesson. It was up to me which part to focus on.

I shrugged it off. “Where’s the information?”

“Not here. I’m not giving it to you directly.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not going to get caught handing over classified U.S. government information that could be used to prove I conspired to commit a murder. Call it my ‘don’t spend your retirement in jail’ plan.”

“I guess that’s a good reason.”

“It is. I’m glad one of us knows what tradecraft is.”

I shrugged that one off, too. “Where do I retrieve it?”

“You know Shibuya Lion?”

“I know Shibuya, but I don’t know a lion.”

“It’s a coffee shop to the right of Dogenzaka as you walk up from the JR station. Been there for about twenty years. Longer, if you include the previous incarnation, which was destroyed during the war but rebuilt to the same design. You can find it in the yellow pages. Go to the second floor, and sit in the fourth booth from the front alongside the windows.”

“What if that booth is taken?”

“Then you’ll sit somewhere else and wait until it’s open. But it probably won’t be taken.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll find an envelope taped to the bottom of the seat. Do I need to tell you to read it, memorize it, and then fucking burn it?”

“I guess you just did.”

“I’ll say this for you, son. You may not be fast, but you’re not ineducable, either.”

“I’m glad to know there’s hope.”

He laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s see how things turn out with Ozawa.”

chapter
ten

I
made my way to Shibuya, and from there to the place McGraw had described. It was at the top of a hill snaking off Dogenzaka, the main artery leading from the station, an incongruous little building with arched doors and windows, a red and blue tiled roof, and a makeshift garden of potted plants lined up at its base. I parked Thanatos, scoped the area on foot, and, finding nothing out of place, went inside.

What I discovered surprised me: a space more akin to a cathedral than to a coffee shop. The ceiling was low in back but open to a soaring second floor at the opposite end; the walls were lined with red velvet booths that might have been pews; and at the front, elevated on a pulpit and rising all the way to the second floor, stood a pair of massive and ancient-looking wooden speakers from which issued an organ piece I recognized from the classical music my father had favored—Bach’s Tocatta and Fugue in D Minor. The sudden organ music would have been unsettling in its own right, but combined with the overall decor, it was downright spooky. I wondered for a moment if fate weren’t having some fun with me just then, first with the reminders of my parents, and then with the graveyards and churchlike buildings—all portents, perhaps, of a direction I was traveling that was less a thoroughfare and more a one-way street.

There were some flyers by the door—a local yakitori place; some sort of live theater; a guy named Terumasa Hino playing trumpet at a jazz club called Taro in Shinjuku. I guessed the various establishments in question paid Lion a fee for the privilege of advertising there, hoping coffee aficionados would also be attuned to yakitori and live theater and jazz.

I stepped inside and looked around. The light was low, mostly what was seeping through the opaque glass along one wall, but also provided by a few dim wall sconces and a glass chandelier up front. The air was redolent of decades of coffee and tobacco. Most strikingly of all, there was no conversation—the dozen or so customers, men and women of varying ages and attire, each sat silently, some reading, some sleeping, some swaying in slow rapture in time with the music. Other than the dramatic notes of Bach’s organ piece, the room was utterly silent. I had the impression that whatever dust had collected here on the curves of the dark wooden pillars and among the stacks of hundreds of albums had lain undisturbed for decades.

I made my way across the back and up a steep, creaky set of wooden stairs, pausing at the top to look around. The atmosphere and decor were much the same on high as they were below, with another half-dozen customers silently enjoying their respite and reverie. Most were occupying the center booths, perhaps because they favored the acoustics in the middle of the room. I realized McGraw must have been aware of this tendency among the clientele, and chosen for the dead drop a booth less likely to be occupied. I didn’t like him, but I had to acknowledge once again that he was a good case officer.