Hard Rain

"There's still a place for you."
    I waited for a moment in the darkness. He realized that he hadn't
    answered my question. I saw him flinch.
    "Agreed," he said, his voice low.
    I turned and left. He could find his own way out.
    I met Tatsu the next day, on a sunny boulevard beneath a maple tree in
    Yoyogi Park. I briefed him on what I'd learned from Biddle.
    "Kanezaki recovered the receipts," he told me. "And promptly destroyed
    them. It's as though they never existed. After all, Crepuscular was
    discontinued six months ago."
    "That kid is naive, but he's got balls," I said.
    Tatsu nodded, his eyes momentarily melancholy. "He has a good
    heart."
    I smiled. It wouldn't be like Tatsu to admit that someone might have a
    good head.
    "I have a feeling you haven't seen the last of him," I said.
    He shrugged. "I would hope not. Getting those receipts back was
    lucky. But I have much more to do."
    "You can only do so much, Tatsu. Remember that."
    "But still we must do something, ne? Don't forget,
    modern Japan was born of samurai from the southern provinces seizing
    the imperial palace in Kyoto and declaring the restoration of the Meiji
    emperor. Perhaps something like that could happen again. Perhaps a
    rebirth of democracy."
    "Perhaps," I said.
    He turned to me. "What will you do, Rain-san?"
    I looked out at the trees. "I'm thinking about that."
    "Work with me."
    You're a broken record, Tatsu."
    You sound like my wife again."
    I laughed.
    "How does it feel, to have been part of something larger than
    yourself?" he asked.
    I held up my taped and plastered arm. "Like this," I said.
    He smiled his sad smile. "That only means you are alive."
    I shrugged. "I admit it beats the alternatives."
    "If you need anything, ever, call me," he said.
    I stood. He followed suit.
    We bowed and shook hands. I walked away.
    I walked for a long time. East, toward Tokyo station, toward the
    bullet train that would take me back to Osaka. Tatsu knew where to
    find me there, but I could live with that for the time being.
    I wondered what I would do when I got there. Yamada, my alter ego, was
    nearly ready to move. But I no longer knew where to send him.
    I needed to contact Naomi. I wanted to contact her. I just didn't
    know what I was going to say.
    Yamaoto was still out there. Tatsu had dealt him a few solid blows,
    but he was still standing. Probably still looking for me. And maybe
    the Agency with him.
    As I walked, the sky grew darker. A wind shook the branches of the
    city's pollution-inured trees.
    Tatsu had been upbeat. I wondered what deep wellspring fed his
    optimism. I wished I could share it. But I was too aware of Harry in
    the ground, of Midori gone for good, of Naomi waiting for an uncertain
    answer.
    Fat droplets of rain started splattering against the city's concrete
    skin, against the glass windows of its eyes. A few people with
    umbrellas opened them. The rest ran for cover.
    I walked on, through it all. I tried to think of it as a baptism, a
    new beginning.
    Maybe it was. But what a lonely resurrection.
    Author's Note
    Readers familiar with Roppongi and Akasaka-Mitsuke in Tokyo will note
    that while several hostess bars and 'gentlemen's clubs' resemble Damask
    Rose, none is an exact match. Otherwise, the Tokyo and Osaka locales
    that appear in this book are described as I have found them.
    Deepest Thanks
    To a remarkable transpacific team of agents and editors: my agents, Nat
    Sobel and Judith Weber of Sobel Weber Associates in New York and Ken
    Mori of Tuttle Mori in Tokyo; and my editors, David Highfill of Putnam
    in New York and Masaru Suzuki of Sony's Village Books in Tokyo, for all
    their continued enthusiasm, insight, and support.
    To my dear friend and sensei Koichiro Fukasawa of
    Wasabi-Communications, for continuing to shine a clear light on so much
    of Japan and the Japanese and for a great website, too.
    To Evan Rosen, M.D." Ph.D." and Peter Zimetbaum, M.D." both of the
    Harvard medical system, for consistently overcoming their queasiness at
    my questions about the medical implications of killing techniques, for
    accepting that the Hippocratic oath might not apply to fiction, and for
    assisting John Rain in all his endeavors with their considerable
    knowledge and imaginative faculties.
    To Lori Andreini, for her insights into what sophisticated, sexy women
    like Midori and Naomi wear and how they think, and for helpful comments
    on the manuscript.
    To Ernie Tibaldi, a thirty-one-year veteran agent of the FBI,