John Rain 08: Graveyard of Memories by Barry Eisler Page B

Tokyo even knew about Zōshigaya. It was about as off the beaten track as you could reasonably get inside the Yamanote.
    “You know your way around Tokyo pretty well,” I said, as he approached.
    He stopped in front of me and mopped his ruddy brow with a handkerchief. “Son, I’d have to be a piss-poor case officer not to know the local terrain well enough to exploit it.”
    Christ, he was an ornery prick. “I just meant you’re not from around here. I don’t think many foreigners know Zōshigaya.”
    He glanced at the bag I was carrying. “And you do?”
    I thought of my mother. “I grew up here, remember?” I didn’t see the need to share any details beyond that.
    “Yeah, I guess you did.”
    I looked at the camera. “So if someone stops you, you’re, what, taking pictures?”
    “Are you going to teach me about cover for action now, son? You think the map and the camera are all I’ve got? I’ve been using the camera, it’s not just a prop. So yes, if anyone asks, I’m making a pilgrimage to the graves of some of the famous people buried here. Lafcadio Hearn in particular. I’ve got the photos to back it up. From here and from some of the other cemeteries in Tokyo—Aoyama, Yanaka, you name it. The cemeteries of Tokyo are a hobby of mine, in fact, you get it? You want a cover to work, you have to live it.”
    I didn’t respond. I couldn’t deny, he was good at what he did.
    “You satisfied?” he said. “You want me to run the same kind of test on you? Let me guess, you just came out here for the fresh air, is that it? You better hope that’s enough on the day someone really probes your cover. Christ, I wish you’d shape up. I don’t think you know what tradecraft even is.”
    I felt my anger kicking in. “Yeah? Why don’t you teach me?”
    “What do you call what I just did?”
    I stood there, stung and smoldering. He was right. What I would have called it was an insult, but it was also, undeniably, a lesson. It was up to me which part to focus on.
    I shrugged it off. “Where’s the information?”
    “Not here. I’m not giving it to you directly.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because I’m not going to get caught handing over classified U.S. government information that could be used to prove I conspired to commit a murder. Call it my ‘don’t spend your retirement in jail’ plan.”
    “I guess that’s a good reason.”
    “It is. I’m glad one of us knows what tradecraft is.”
    I shrugged that one off, too. “Where do I retrieve it?”
    “You know Shibuya Lion?”
    “I know Shibuya, but I don’t know a lion.”
    “It’s a coffee shop to the right of Dogenzaka as you walk up from the JR station. Been there for about twenty years. Longer, if you include the previous incarnation, which was destroyed during the war but rebuilt to the same design. You can find it in the yellow pages. Go to the second floor, and sit in the fourth booth from the front alongside the windows.”
    “What if that booth is taken?”
    “Then you’ll sit somewhere else and wait until it’s open. But it probably won’t be taken.”
    “Okay.”
    “You’ll find an envelope taped to the bottom of the seat. Do I need to tell you to read it, memorize it, and then fucking burn it?”
    “I guess you just did.”
    “I’ll say this for you, son. You may not be fast, but you’re not ineducable, either.”
    “I’m glad to know there’s hope.”
    He laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s see how things turn out with Ozawa.”

chapter
ten
    I made my way to Shibuya, and from there to the place McGraw had described. It was at the top of a hill snaking off Dogenzaka, the main artery leading from the station, an incongruous little building with arched doors and windows, a red and blue tiled roof, and a makeshift garden of potted plants lined up at its base. I parked Thanatos, scoped the area on foot, and, finding nothing out of place, went inside.
    What I discovered surprised me: a space more akin to a