He hung up and turned to me. “One of my men is on his way to pick us up now. He will take us to Tanaka’s residence, which is in Shirokanedai.”
Shirokanedai is arguably Tokyo’s poshest neighborhood. Apart from the main artery of Meguro-dori, which runs through it, its narrow streets of elegant single-family homes and apartments are astonishingly hushed and peaceful, as though the neighborhood’s money has managed to buy off the tumult of the surrounding city and send it somewhere else. There’s a sort of relaxed class about the place. Its women, known locally as shiroganeze, look at home in their furs as they promenade their toy poodles and Pomeranians between visits to tea shops and boutiques and salons; its men, secure behind the wheels of the Beemers and Benzes that carry them to their high-powered jobs; its children, relaxed, carefree, not yet even aware that their neighborhood is the exception to life in Tokyo and elsewhere, not the rule.
Tatsu’s man picked us up as promised and drove us the ten minutes to Shirokanedai.
Tanaka lived in an oversized, two-story detached house in Shirokanedai 4-chome, across from the Sri Lankan embassy. Its most distinguishing characteristics, aside from its size, were the cars parked in its driveway: a white Porsche 911 GT with a massive spoiler, and a bright red Ferrari Modena. Each was spotless and gleaming and I wondered whether Tanaka actually drove them or merely exhibited them as trophies.
The property was gated and sat on an elevated plot of land that gave it the feel of a castle looking out upon the lesser dwellings around it. Tatsu and I got out and went through the gate, which was unlocked. He pressed a button next to the double wooden doors and I heard a long series of baritone chimes from within.
A moment later a young woman answered the door. She was pretty and looked Southeast Asian, maybe Filipina, and was dressed in a classic black-and-white maid’s uniform, complete with some sort of white lace cap atop her upturned coiffure. The getup was just this side of what a medium-class pervert might ask for in one of Tokyo’s “image clubs,” where customers can be serviced by girls dressed as students, nurses, or any other profession whose uniform might provoke a fetish, and I wondered what the full range of this woman’s household duties might actually be.
“May I help you?” she asked, looking first at Tatsu, then at me.
“I am Keisatsucho Department Head Ishikura Tatsuhiko,” Tatsu said, producing his ID, “here to speak with Tanaka-san. Would you get him for me?”
“Is Tanaka expecting you?” she asked.
“I don’t believe so,” Tatsu said, “but I am certain he will be happy to see me.”
“Just a moment, please.” She closed the door and we waited.
A minute later the door opened again, this time by a man. I recognized him instantly: the guy I had noticed at Damask Rose, with the chemically and surgically maintained superficially youthful appearance.
“I am Tanaka,” the man said. “How may I be of assistance?”
Tatsu displayed his ID again. “I would like to ask you a few questions. For the moment, my interest in you is peripheral and unofficial. Your cooperation, or lack of it, will determine whether my interest changes.”
Tanaka’s expression was impassive, but the tension in his body and angle of his head told me that Tatsu had his full attention. Despite all the lawyers I had no doubt were in his employ, despite likely entourages of sycophants and underlings, this was a man who was afraid of real trouble, the kind of real trouble he would have just seen when he looked in Tatsu’s eyes.
“Yes, please, come in,” he told us. We took off our shoes and followed him through a circular entranceway with a floor of checkerboard black-and-white marble tiles. At the rear was a winding stairwell; to the sides were reproductions of some sort of Greek statues. We entered a mahogany-paneled room with four sides of floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Like the cars out front, the books looked as though they were frequently dusted and never read.
Tatsu and I sat on a burgundy pincushion leather couch. Tanaka sat across from us in a matching armchair. He asked us if he could offer us something to eat or drink. We declined.
“I didn’t get your associate’s name,” Tanaka said, looking at me.
“His presence here, like mine, is unofficial for now,” Tatsu said. “I hope we can keep it that way.”
“Of course,” Tanaka said, in his nervous eagerness overlooking the fact that Tatsu had ignored his question. “Of course. Now, please tell me whatever it is you need.”
“Someone is attempting to implicate you in a U.S. program that directs funds to certain Japanese politicians,” Tatsu said. “Although I believe you are involved in this program, I don’t believe you are responsible for it. But I need you to convince me that I am correct in this belief.”
The color drained from behind Tanaka’s tan. “I think… it would be best for me to consult with my legal counsel.”
I looked at him, imagining how I would kill him so he could see it in my eyes. “That would be uncooperative,” I said.
Tanaka looked at me, then at Tatsu. “The money isn’t even mine. It doesn’t come from me.”
Tatsu said, “Good. Tell me more.”
Tanaka licked his lips. “This conversation will remain unofficial?” he asked. “If someone finds out, it would be very bad for me.”
“As long as you cooperate,” Tatsu said, “you have nothing to fear.”
Tanaka looked at me for confirmation. I gave him a smile that said I was secretly hoping he would be uncooperative, so I could go to work on him.
Tanaka swallowed. “All right. Six months ago I was told to contact someone who works in the U.S. Embassy. A man named Biddle. I was told that Biddle represented certain parties who hoped to secure a source of campaign funding for reformist politicians.”
“Who told you to do this?” Tatsu asked.
Tamaka glanced at Tatsu, then down. “The same person who provides the money for this thing.”
Tatsu looked at him. “Please be more specific.”
“Yamaoto,” Tanaka whispered. Then: “Please, I’m cooperating. This conversation must remain unofficial.”
Tatsu nodded. “Keep going,” he said.
“I met with Biddle and told him, as I was instructed, that I believed Japan needed radical political reform and that I wanted to help in any way I could. Since that time, I have provided Biddle with some one hundred million yen for distribution to politicians.”
“These people are being set up,” Tatsu said. “I want to know how.”
Tanaka looked at him. “I was only following instructions,” he said. “I’m not really involved.”
“I understand,” Tatsu said. “You’re doing fine. Now tell me.”
“For three months, I gave Biddle cash without asking for anything in return. Then I pretended to be concerned about whether I was being conned. ‘Who is this money really going to?’ I asked him. ‘Tell me, or I’ll cut you off!’ At first he resisted. Then he told me I would know these people, could probably figure out who they would be just from reading the paper. Then he gave me names. I pretended to be satisfied, and gave him more money.
“Then I acted paranoid again. I said, ‘You’re just making this up. Prove to me that you really are giving my money to the people who need it and not keeping it for yourself!’ Again, he argued at first. But eventually he agreed to tell me when and where a meeting would occur. And then another.”
Jesus Christ, I thought.
“How many meetings did Biddle inform you of?” Tatsu asked.
“Four.”
“And what did you do with that information?”
“I passed it along to… to the person who provides the funding, as I was instructed to do.”
Tatsu nodded. “Give me the names of the participants in those four meetings, and the dates.”