“It always seemed like you had something to prove over there,” I said.
He smiled. “Well yeah, I did. You know, I had a lot of personal kills in ’Stan-three of them at over a thousand yards. Not bad for someone ‘temperamentally unsuited,’ I’d say. Carlos Hathcock would have been proud.”
Carlos Hathcock was the most successful sniper ever, with ninety-three confirmed kills in Vietnam, one of them a twenty-five-hundred-yard shot with a.50-caliber rifle, and maybe three times that many unconfirmed.
“You know, I met Hathcock once,” I said, thinking of what Dox had just said about my sniper’s stillness. “In Vietnam. Before anyone knew who he was.”
“No! You met the man?”
I nodded.
“Well, what did he say to you?”
I shrugged. “Not much. He was sitting by himself at a table in a bar in Saigon. The only empty seat was at the table, so I took it. We just introduced ourselves, really, that was all. I had a beer and left. I don’t think we exchanged more than a couple dozen words.”
“No? He didn’t say anything to you?”
I was quiet for a moment, remembering. “When I left, he told me I should be a sniper.”
“Damn, man, he saw your soul. That’s like being blessed by the Pope.”
I didn’t say anything. My army fitness reports; the darkly humorous observations of my blood brother, Crazy Jake; that parting comment from Hathcock; now Dox’s thoughts, too. I wished I could just accept their collective judgment, accept what I am. Accept it, hell. I wished I could fucking embrace it. Other people seemed able to.
We were quiet for a few moments. I asked, “Why do you suppose Crawley has gotten it into his head to try and take me out?”
“That I don’t know. All I could get out of Mr. Crawley was that bullshit about how you’d gone rogue and the details could only be distributed on a ‘need to know’ basis.”
“And you don’t need to know.”
He sighed in mock dejection. “Even though I am a ‘patriot’ and all. Kind of hurts my feelings, when I think about it. Well, there is that twenty-five grand to perk me back up if I get overly blue.”
“How did Crawley know how to contact you? Or even who you are?”
He nodded as though considering. “Well, I’m reasonably confident that our Mr. Crawley is in fact in the service of our current employer, in some capacity or other. If that’s the case, he might have access to my particulars.”
“You think Kanezaki is involved?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Can’t help thinking that, can you? He sure is in the middle of a lot of the shit, for a young guy.”
“He’s a quick study.”
“Yeah, I’ve got the same feeling. But I’ll tell you, I don’t think he’s behind this. It’s my sentimental side showing, I know, but I think that boy’s got an okay heart.”
“How long will he be able to keep it that way, working with who he works with?”
“Well, that’s a question now, I’ll admit it.”
We were quiet for a few moments. “I can reach you at the number I’ve got?” I asked.
“Anytime you want,” he said. “What are you going to do?”
“Make a few calls,” I told him. “Figure out what makes sense.”
He flashed me the grin. “You always were the cautious type.”
“It’s part of the reason I’ve lasted so long.”
“I know that. Hell, I meant it as a compliment.”
I stood and put some bills on the table. Then I held out my hand. “You’re a good man, Dox.”
He stood and smiled back, a lower wattage but more genuine version of the grin. We shook. “Watch your back now, you hear?” he said.
I nodded and left.
After making sure I was clean, I took the Peak Tramway to Victoria Peak, then walked Lugard Road through its forests of bamboo and fern. I found a quiet place and sat, listening to the cicadas.
The first thing I thought, as always, was set up.
Someone, maybe Crawley, maybe someone he works with, is after you. They get Dox to lay out a line of bullshit, knowing that I’ll come after Crawley as a result. Straight into an ambush.
No. Too uncertain. No one could count on Dox to be convincing, not to that degree.
Then they gave Dox the job for real. Plan A was he takes the job and kills me. Plan B is he spills everything to me, in which case I go after Crawley. Back to an ambush.
No. Too uncertain. When would I come at Crawley? Where? How? Besides, Crawley would have to be awfully comfortable with risk to invite retaliation from me.
Dox, or someone else, has his own reasons for wanting Crawley taken out, and he’s trying to goad you into doing it.
That one was worth chewing over, but in the end I judged it unlikely. Dox was a pretty direct guy in his way. If he wanted Crawley to go to sleep, he’d sing the lullaby himself. I would keep the possibility in mind, but it seemed in this case that the most likely explanation was also the simplest: Dox was telling me the truth.
Now what to do about it. The most direct approach would be to brace Crawley. Ask him a few questions. Use my charm.
But not yet. First, I needed to see how all of this tied in with Belghazi. A half-Arab target, an Arab assassination team, a CIA officer trying to take out a contract on me? Even for a guy like me, who’s made a few enemies along the way, it was hard to think that the timing was all just a coincidence. I wanted more information before acting, and I thought Kanezaki might be able to provide some of that.
8
I CALLED TATSU from a pay phone.
“Nanda?” I heard him say, in typically curt greeting. What is it?
“Hisashiburi,” I said, letting him hear my voice. It’s been a long time.
There was a pause. He said in Japanese, “I’ve been thinking of you.”
Coming from Tatsu this was practically sentimental. “You’re not getting mushy on me, are you?” I asked.
He laughed. “My daughters say I am.”
“Well, they would know.”
“I’m afraid they would. And you? Are you well?”
“Well enough. I need a favor.”
“Yes?”
“I’ll send you a message,” I said, referring to our electronic bulletin board.
There was a pause, then he said, “Will I be seeing you?”
“I hope so.”
Another pause. “Jaa,” he said. Well, then.
“Take care, old friend.”
“Otagai ni na,” he said. And you.
I uploaded the message at an Internet café. Then I made my way to Hong Kong International Airport. I caught a flight to Seoul, and from there to Narita International in Tokyo. And so, that very evening, I was mildly surprised at being back in Japan.
From Narita, I took a Narita Express train to Tokyo station, where I emerged to find my former city hunched up against characteristically rainy and cold late autumn weather. I stood under the portico roof at the station’s Marunouchi entrance and took in the scene. Waves of black umbrellas bobbed before me. Wet leaves were plastered to the pavement, ground in by the tires of oblivious cars and the soles of insensate pedestrians, by the weight of the entire, indifferent metropolis.
I watched for a long time. Then I turned and disappeared back into the station, borne down by a feeling of invisibility that was nothing like the one I had assiduously cultivated while living here.
I bought a cheap umbrella for an extortionate thousand yen and caught a Yamanote line train to Nishi-Nippori, where I checked into an undistinguished business hotel, one of dozens in this part of shitamachi, the scarred yet stalwart low city of old Edo. With the lights off, I could have been anywhere. And yet I was keenly aware that I was in Japan, I was in Tokyo.