Or try.
He wouldn't be an easy target.
Outside the terminal, there were more people than cabs at the taxi line. Most of them were Westerners who had too much luggage or not enough self-confidence to use the city's bus system. Canning walked to the back of the line, stepped off the curb, and put down his suitcases. He held up three fingers and waved them prominently at the taxis that were just turning into the approach lane: this was a sign that told the drivers he would pay three times the meter price, and it was often the only way to get a cab in Tokyo, where the drivers worked as much as sixteen hours a day for quite modest wages. He got a taxi at once, much to the consternation of the people who had been waiting there some time before he arrived.
“Konnichiwa,” the driver said, smiling at him as he climbed into the taxi.
“Konnichiwa,” Canning said, smiling back at him. The automatic cab door closed and locked behind him. He asked the driver to take him to the Imperial Hotel.
The Committee agent also knew the three-fingered trick. His taxi followed immediately behind Canning's cab.
The driver spoke no English, and Canning spoke only a few words of Japanese; therefore, the ride into the city was silent, and he had nothing to do but take in the scenery — what there was of it. On both sides of the road there were shabby houses, unpainted warehouses, gray factories, gasoline stations, and power lines. There were no cherry trees, landscaped gardens, or flower-encircled temples as seen in all popular illustrations of the Orient.
The tourist guidebooks did not lie; there was great beauty in Tokyo, but it existed in pockets, like oases in the desert of urban sprawl. This was possibly the only city in the world where great mansions could flourish with shacks on both sides of them. The imperturbable Japanese, so quick to smile and so eager to help strangers, had somehow managed to transform the planet's most crowded and polluted metropolis into one of the most pleasant capitals in the world. The Tokyo Tower came into view, a monstrous blot on the skyline, taller than the Eiffel Tower which had inspired it, yet just incongruous enough to be charming. Then they entered the narrow, unbelievably congested streets of the central city area that made the busy avenues of midtown Manhattan seem like quiet country lanes. As usual, the pollution index was high: the gray-yellow sky hung so low that it looked like a roof spanning the boxlike high-rise buildings. At first Canning had a vague but quite discomforting feeling of suffocation; however, that soon turned into a not unpleasant sense of hivelike protection. Then they breezed along Hibiya Park, weaved wildly from lane to lane, and stopped with a squeal of brakes directly in front of the magnificent Imperial Hotel.
The taxi driver said “Domo, domo” when he was paid; and the hotel doorman welcomed Canning with a smile and nearly perfect English. He picked up Canning's two suitcases, and Canning followed him inside.
The Committee agent entered close behind them. He didn't trail Canning all the way across the huge lobby to the front desk. Instead, he sat on one of the comfortable divans where tourists of all nationalities were consulting maps and guidebooks, and he remained there while Canning checked in. In fact, he stayed there, his legs crossed, his hands folded on his lap, when Canning boarded the elevator with the bellhop a few minutes later.
Canning waved at him as if telling him to hurry before the lift doors slid shut.
The agent merely stared at him, blank-faced, humorless as an alligator.
He thinks he doesn't have to follow me any farther because I'm trapped now, Canning thought.
And maybe he's right.
Five minutes later Canning tipped the bellhop and was alone in his room. It was a fairly large room, well furnished, with a nice big Japanese-style bathroom. There was a walk-in closet, a linen closet, and a locked door with a brass key in it. He used the key and found another door beyond; this one locked from the far side and apparently connecting to the adjoining room. He closed the door on his side, locked it again, and used the desk chair to form a wedge between the floor and the knob. At the main door he slipped the chain latch into place and made certain that the night lock was properly engaged. Switching on the lights as he went, he crossed the room and drew the heavy maroon-and-white brocade drapes over the windows that faced out on Hibiya Park.
He looked at his watch: three o'clock.
He went into the bathroom and used the toilet.
He washed his face in cold water.
He looked at his watch: five minutes past three.
He combed his hair.
He came back out into the main room, went to the windows, parted the drapes, and watched the people walking and cycling through Hibiya Park.
He sat down on the edge of the bed.
He listened to the hotel sounds.
He looked at his watch: three-twelve.
Where in the hell was Tanaka?
General Lin Shen-yang, chief of the Internal Security Force for the People's Republic of China, leaned back in the large oval-shaped copper washtub and sighed as more hot water was poured into his bath. He closed his eyes and breathed in the steam. When the woman began to scrub his chest with a soft-bristled brush and rose-petal soap, he opened his eyes and smiled at her. He touched her cheek and said, “You are a perfect jewel of great value.”
She blushed with happiness and said, “I am pleased that my Tai-Pan is so happy with me.”
“Delirious.”
The scent of rose petals was so rich that he felt almost drunk with it.
“But I am praised too much. I am no jewel. I am just an old, faithful cow.” Her lovely face was set in a scowl, as if she were castigating herself for not being the precious jewel that he thought she was.
“If you are an old cow, then what am I?” he asked as her small hands dropped the brush and began to scoop up water with which to rinse his chest.
“You are Tai-Pan of this house,” she said. “Master of this house and my master too.”
“An old dinosaur,” he said.
“Not at all old,” she said, dismayed.
Teasing her, he said, “But if you are old, then so must I be.”
She frowned more fiercely than ever. “Well, I am young, then. I change my mind. I am a young, faithful cow.” She finished rinsing his chest. “Because you are not old.”
He was, in fact, sixty-four years old. He had been a young lieutenant at Mao's side when Chiang had been driven from the mainland many years ago, and he had been in a position of power within the People's Republic ever since. He was a squat, powerfully built man, with a closely shaven head, deep-set black eyes, a wide nose, lips broad and flat like strips of hammered metal, and a round, blunt chin. He did not look sixty-four years old or even fifty-four. And he felt like a young man — especially when he was with her.