The Last Assassin

17

The drive to Wajima the next morning lasted about five hours. Japanese highways, burdened as they are by frequent and excessive tolls, tend also to be mercifully free of traffic. I used cash for the tolls, having declined the rental car company's offer to set me up with the latest in electronic collection technology. Electronic payment is too easy to track.

Along the way, we stopped at an abandoned building site to check out all the equipment. Dox had never used a C0₂ rifle before, and the reason I had wanted more darts was so he could train with it. With only five darts in our arsenal, though, I felt we could spare only one for practice.

'Make it count,' I told him, as he took a prone position eighty meters away from an aluminum can I'd propped up at the top of a fence.

There was the soft crack of suddenly discharging compressed gas, and an instant later an answering ping eighty meters downfield. I looked through the binoculars and the can was gone. I started to tell Dox, but he already knew. He looked up at me and smiled. 'Shit, eighty meters,' he said. 'I could hit 'em with a rock from this close.'

Before getting back in the van, I used a toothbrush to comb some white liquid shoe polish into my hair. The polish gave a nice salt-and-pepper effect, far more pronounced than what had lately been creeping in naturally at my temples and over my ears, and would add ten years to a witness's description. A pair of hopelessly unstylish thick-framed nonprescription eyeglasses that I had picked up before leaving Tokyo completed the effect.

We arrived at Wajima at a little after noon, and I called the inn to see if I could check in. As expected, they asked if I could come at two. That was fine. It suggested that Yamaoto's men weren't there yet, either.

Dox and I spent the next hour and a half driving around, familiarizing ourselves with Wajima. The area was still pretty in places, I thought, but like much of Japan it was under siege from development. The native deciduous trees, orange and red in the chill air, were everywhere being cut down and replaced with monoculture cedar by the region's logging interests. What remained looked like a patchwork of native flesh half covered with green bandages that did nothing to stanch the wounds beneath. Everything was paved — riverbeds, hillsides, even the coast. It seemed that only the sea itself was free from the metastasizing onslaught of development, but as we drove along the coast I saw that some council or interest group or bureaucracy was in the midst of partially enclosing Wajima harbor with a giant wall of concrete. I thought of what Dox had said, about Americans professing to love peace but always waging war. Japanese maintain a traditional reverence for nature, but here they were entombing all traces of it in a concrete sarcophagus. At what point would this culture have to look in the mirror and admit that its traditional love of nature had become a living lie?

When we had seen as much as was useful from the van, we parked so I could have a look around on foot. Dox wanted to get out, too, but accepted that in sleepy Wajima, his white face and outsized frame would eclipse his ordinarily strong cloaking skills. He lay down in back while I set out underneath a cold sky darkening with rain clouds.

The town felt tired to me. I saw much gray hair and no children, although I imagined the latter must exist somewhere. The local economy seemed to be on a subsistence diet of foresting, fishing, and farming, supplemented by a trickle of tourists taking the waters and returning home with gifts of locally made lacquerware.

I walked down to the harbor, my shoulders hunched against a bitter sea breeze. The road in was hemmed on both sides with detritus from the fishing industry — torn nets, broken ballast, rusted-out crab traps. Much of it was covered in blue tarpaulins that blanketed the shapes beneath like trembling shrouds. Everywhere there were gulls, cooing and cawing. Beyond the debris, scores of small fishing boats rose and fell, creaking against their moorings, their tangled rigging skeletal against the scudded horizon. A crushed coffee cup skidded past my feet, impelled by the wind, and a cold mist started down from the sky and in from the water.

They might have been planning to meet here, but I doubted it. The layout was too confusing, for one thing; people might be around, for another. I headed east along the coast. Giant concrete tetrapods lay at the water's edge like unexploded ordinance from a long forgotten war. The mist was getting heavier and the clouds darker, and I sensed we were in for a storm.

Past the tetrapods, I came to some sort of park that was being used as a staging ground for further construction. Trucks were parked here and there and I saw piles of cement and girders and similar materials. A wide grassy field gave way to dirt, and dirt gave way to open water. Here, I thought, they're going to do it right here. It's perfect. And perfect sniping ground, too. I used the camera we'd bought in New York to take pictures from various angles, then went back to the van so I could walk Dox through the terrain.

We finished going through the pictures just before two o'clock, and I drove us to the inn. It was a small, three-story structure separated from the sea by the narrow coastal road and a short embankment of grass. I parked in the lot behind the building. 'You going to be all right?' I asked Dox. 'I don't know when Yamaoto's people are going to arrive. It might be a while.'

'Partner, I once waited three days in the mud before my quarry came into view. Nailed him, too, from eight hundred yards out. The inside of a van feels like paradise by comparison. Got my sleeping bag, foam mattress, food, water, a plastic jug for number one and a bucket and plastic bags for number two. Plus reading material, including some high-quality Japanese pornography. Life couldn't be better.'

'Well, I'll be sure to knock before I come inside,' I told him, and he laughed.

I looked through the driver's and passenger's side windows. There were three other cars in the lot, possibly belonging to inn employees, possibly to guests who had checked in yesterday or earlier. They were all small, older model Toyotas and the like, and none had Tokyo plates. I had a feeling Yamaoto's men weren't here yet. Still, I would remember the cars so I could compare later.

'You might see them before I do,' I said. 'I expect they'll be parking back here, just like us.'

'Yeah, I'll sneak a look whenever I hear a car pull in. If I see anything promising, I'll call you on the cell phone.'

I got out and walked around to the front entrance. I stepped inside and was immediately transported by the warm smell of incense and tatami mats. A middle-aged woman in a blue kimono welcomed me with a bow. I took off my shoes and followed her in. She had me sit at a low table in the lobby while I — or I should say Mr Watanabe — filled out some check-in paperwork.

The procedure had an air of ritual about it, and I realized Yamaoto's men would probably have to pause here, too. I looked around for a good vantage point and was pleased to see a second-story sitting area open to the lobby below. It offered stellar views of the sea and, more important from my perspective, of where Yamaoto's men would enter as I had.

The woman returned with a cup of barley tea. 'You're traveling alone, Watanabe-san?' she asked, no doubt hoping for an answer to her implicit question of 'Why?'

'Yes,' I told her. 'My wife passed away recently, and because we honeymooned in this area I wanted to return to it.'

'I'm saddened to hear of your loss,' she said, bowing her head. As I expected in the face of Watanabe's sad story, she asked no further questions, and I needed tell her no further lies. But I was confident that word would now circulate among the staff, and that consequently no one would find it at all remarkable that sad Watanabe-san might sit brooding for long hours alone on that second-floor balcony.

I dropped off my bag in my room on the third floor, a twelve-mat square with an alcove and a view of the sea that was impressive in spite of the tangle of high-tension wire in front of it. Then I went down to the lobby restaurant, sat so I had a view of the entrance, and ate a long, leisurely lunch of oysters from Anamizu Bay, sweet shrimp from the deep waters of the Sea of Japan, and locally caught winter yellowtail with sliced radish and red pepper. During my repast a few elderly couples checked in, but they obviously weren't the people Dox and I were waiting for.

Afterward, I repaired to the second-story balcony, where I waited as though absorbed in my memories. It was just getting dark outside when my cell phone buzzed. I glanced at the caller ID readout — Dox.

I pressed the receive button. 'Yeah.'

'Looks like our company has finally arrived,' Dox said.

'You sure?'

'Let's just say I've got a strong feeling. They're coming in now.'

'What do they look like?'

'Oh, don't worry, you're not going to miss them.'

'What do you mean?'

'Just watch, you'll see.'

I looked down into the lobby. I heard the front door open and close. The blue-kimonoed woman who had greeted me called out 'Irasshaimase' — welcome — and hurried out from behind the check-in counter. A moment later, two gigantic men, obviously sumo wrestlers, appeared below me. I sat well back to conceal myself and from the angle I couldn't be sure, but I estimated each of them at north of a hundred and fifty kilos. It was like looking down on the heads and shoulders of a pair of bison.

'Holy shit,' I whispered.

'Guess you've seen 'em,' Dox said.

'Christ, we've only got four darts.'

'Yeah, as I think Roy Scheider put it in Jaws, "We're gonna need a bigger boat."'

They said something to the woman, but I couldn't quite make out what. She escorted them inside.

It wasn't just their bulk that advertised their background. They had that slow sumo swagger, that air of royalty — almost of divinity — born of size and celebrity. They were used to being looked at, to being the objects of attention and awe, and they moved as though bearing the adoration as of right, with no obligation to repay it with anything more than impassive acceptance.

I moved farther back, out of their view. 'Did you see what they're driving?' I asked.

"Course I did. Big burgundy Cadillac, with the steering wheel on the left side.'

Sounded like a yakuza ride. It had to be them.

'You get the license plate?'

'Yeah.' He gave it to me, and I wrote it down.

'Hang on,' I said. 'I'll call you back.'

'Roger that.'

I called Tatsu. The phone rang a few times, then his weak voice said, 'Hai'

'How are you holding up?' I asked.

'I'm still here.'

I had the sudden sick knowledge that one day soon I would call him and he wouldn't answer, he wouldn't still be here at all.

I pushed that aside and said, 'I think our guys have arrived, but I need to be sure. Kito and Sanada… are they sumo wrestlers?'

'I don't know. But I can find out.'

'All right. Here's the license number of the car they're driving. Tokyo plate.'

I read it out to him. He told me he would call me back.

I stole another peek down at the lobby. The men had finished signing in, and the woman in blue was walking them to the elevator, presumably to show them their rooms.

Fifteen minutes later, Tatsu called back. 'It's them,' he said. 'Both former sumo wrestlers, their careers cut short by injuries. The car is registered to Kito.'

'Okay. Let me get back to business. I'll call you again soon.'

'Good.'

I hung up and called Dox.

'You were right,' I told him. 'They're the ones we've been waiting for. Former sumo wrestlers.'

'"Former?" They look pretty current to me.'

'I know what you mean.'

'Were they any good?'

'How the hell should I know?'

'Just wondering if we could handle 'em if we had to.'

'"Handle" them? There must be seven or eight hundred pounds between the two of them. We're going to handle them with long-range weapons, that's how we're going to handle them. And only because we can't call in an air strike.'

'All right, just trying to contingency plan, that's all.'

'If we have to tangle with these guys up close, I advise prayer.'

'You stick with the prayer. I prefer to rely on something sharp if it comes to that.'

'I hope it's a harpoon. I doubt anything else could reach a vital organ.'

'Well, how about if…'

'Look, it's not that I don't want to sit around figuring out how to kill a sumo,' I said, 'but if it's clear now, maybe you could duck out and put the transmitter in place on their car. I'll stay here and warn you if anyone's coming.'

'Roger that.'

Two minutes later he called me back. 'It's done. Anywhere they go, we can tail 'em from a distance and we'll know where they stop. And if they walk, we can just follow the sounds of the earth shaking beneath their feet.'

'Right,' I said. I pictured the four darts we had. Kanezaki had said they were good for anything up to a rhino. I hoped he meant it literally. Otherwise, we were going to be in trouble.