Graveyard of Memories Read online

  ALSO BY BARRY EISLER

  NOVELS

  A Clean Kill in Tokyo (previously published as Rain Fall)

  A Lonely Resurrection (previously published as Hard Rain)

  Winner Take All (previously published as Rain Storm)

  Redemption Games (previously published as Killing Rain)

  Extremis (previously published as The Last Assassin)

  The Killer Ascendant (previously published as Requiem for an Assassin)

  Fault Line

  Inside Out

  The Detachment

  SHORT WORKS

  The Lost Coast

  Paris Is a Bitch

  The Khmer Kill

  London Twist

  ESSAYS

  The Ass Is a Poor Receptacle for the Head: Why Democrats Suck at Communication, and How They Could Improve

  Be the Monkey: A Conversation about the New World of Publishing (with J. A. Konrath)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 Barry Eisler

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477818169

  ISBN-10: 1477818162

  Cover design by Jeroen ten Berge

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917641

  For the memory of Michael Hastings, and in solidarity with Barrett Brown

  Contents

  Start Reading

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  chapter thirty-five

  chapter thirty-six

  chapter thirty-seven

  chapter thirty-eight

  chapter thirty-nine

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Life can only be understood backward; but it must be lived forward.

  —Kierkegaard

  chapter

  one

  If there’s one lesson I learned early on during the decades I’ve spent in this business, it’s that of all the qualities that distinguish a hard target from everyone else, among the most important is self-control. Yes, you have to be able to think like the opposition, which enables you to spot the ambush. And yes, you have to be able to take immediate, violent action in case—oops—your ability to spot the ambush fails. And yes, sentiment is a weakness. But fundamental to the rest is self-control. Because if you’re not in control of yourself, someone else is, most likely an enemy, and in my business, an enemy isn’t someone who wants the promotion you’re after, or who covets your corner office, or who wants to beat you on the tennis court or golf course or display a better car in his driveway. In my business, an enemy is someone determined to end your life, and probably with the means to bring it about.

  But there’s another lesson, too, one that took longer to learn and that, in the end, is even more important. You have to live with what you’ve done. Not the killing as such. If you couldn’t do that, you wouldn’t have gotten into the business in the first place. You wouldn’t have been able to. No, I’m talking about the consequences of killing—to your conscience, your relationships, your future, your life. If you knew at the outset what you understood at the end, would you make the same choices, take the same risks, accept the same sacrifices? No. No one would. You can’t appreciate the weight of that burden until after you’ve assumed it. You can’t comprehend what it really means.

  But in Tokyo in 1972, I didn’t know any of that. I was going on guts, instinct, and youthful reflexes. The real hard target skills came later. And acquiring them almost killed me.

  I was a CIA bagman at the time, part of a cash-for-contracts program that got exposed in 1975. Google “Lockheed bribery scandals” and you can find out all about it. Well, not all about it. A lot more would have come out if I hadn’t been on cleanup detail. You have to remember, the history the powers-that-be feed you always excludes what they managed to bury. Or whom.

  My case officer was a guy named Sean McGraw, a cantankerous Korean War vet and old Asia hand. Christians in Action had some Japanese politicians on the payroll, an army acquaintance had told me, handing me McGraw’s number, and they needed someone with an Asian face and local language skills to handle the cash. I had just returned to the States from Vietnam, having left the military under a cloud, the origins of which I was able to understand only years later. My mother, the American half of the marriage, had just died; I had no brothers or sisters; and America felt even less like a home than it had when my mother had taken me there at eight years old, after my father had been killed in the street riots that rocked Tokyo in the summer of 1960. Japan hardly felt like a home, either, but what other prospects did I have? Whether it was fate, or circumstance, or just bad luck, a lead to the secret world represented my path of least resistance.

  The mechanics of the job were simple enough. Once a week or so, I would pick up a cheap shoulder bag from McGraw. Sometimes the handoff would be on a train; sometimes at a tachigui—eating while standing—street stall; sometimes, the symbolism not lost even on my younger self, in a public urinal. I would then exchange the full bag I was carrying for an empty one carried by a flunky from the other side, a plump and incongruously garrulous middle-aged Japanese guy named Miyamoto, who fancied floral-patterned ties that were flamboyantly wide and loud even by the tragic sartorial standards of the day. Two cutouts, so a lot of protection for the principals. Initially, I wasn’t even sure who the principals were. I was mildly curious—I was barely twenty years old, after all, and didn’t yet understand that the corollary to the expression “knowledge is power” is “knowledge can be dangerous”—but I had no real way of finding out. I’d looked inside the bag enough times to know it always contained fifty thousand dollars in cash. But the choice of currency offered no clues to the money’s provenance, or to its destination. The yen was laughably weak; the euro had barely been conceived in Brussels, let alone born; and though Nixon had recently taken America off the gold standard, the greenback was still the world’s reserve currency, accepted with no questions asked from New York to Riyadh to Timbuktu.

  I was naïve, but I wasn’t stupid. I knew anyone with working arms and legs could be a bagman. So I understood I wasn’t being paid just to carry a bag. I was being paid t
o take a fall. If it came to that. The trick for me was to make sure it wouldn’t. And that’s where I screwed up.

  I had just completed the exchange with Miyamoto in Ueno Park, part of Shitamachi, old Tokyo, the stalwart remnants of the city that had survived both the Great Kantō quake of 1923 and the American firebombs of some twenty years later. Even back then, the city was immense—the population over eleven million at night, with another two million swelling the streets and trains and office buildings during the day; forests of blinking neon in the entertainment quarters of Ikebukuro and Shibuya and Shinjuku; soot-covered, multilevel elevated highways dissecting neighborhoods and darkening sidewalks; everywhere a cacophony of truck engines and commerce and construction work. The war, barely a generation distant, still clung to the country’s consciousness like a nightmare from which its people had only recently awakened, and the city’s energy was not yet so much about pursuing prosperity as it was about putting distance between the hope and progress of today and the horrors and loss of the recent past.

  I was wandering among the street stalls along Ameyoko, short for Ameya-Yokochō, Candy Alley, so named because the area’s earliest commercial establishments had been ameya, or candy stores. That the moniker continued to work as shorthand for America Alley after the war, when the street had become an important black market for American goods, was mere serendipity. Either way, its stalls, most of them squeezed between narrow buildings to one side and the monstrous bulk of the elevated JR train tracks to the other, offered everything from spices and dried food and fresh fish, to clothes and hardware and sporting goods, to all manner of electronics—most of it cheap, all of it attracting crowds from morning to night.

  It was a typical summer afternoon in Tokyo, which is to say oppressively hot, humid, and polluted, and the air was heavy with the smells of yakitori and takoyaki and the other street delicacies of Ameyoko. Hawkers held their hands to either side of their mouths and cried out, Hai, dozo! Hai, irasshai! this way and that over the sounds of nearby truck traffic and the occasional passing train, gesturing to shoppers being carried along by the slow-moving pedestrian river, entreating prospects, handing out samples, reeling in customers from the endless, shifting flow. I bought a cup of iced watermelon juice from a rheumy-eyed oyaji who looked like he’d been manning his fruit stall from the time the city had been called Edo. He took my ten yen with a wordless, toothless smile, and I moved off, sipping gratefully, sweat trickling down my back under the slight pressure of the empty shoulder bag I’d taken from Miyamoto, the late afternoon heat seemingly magnified rather than alleviated by the awnings draped haphazardly over either side of the alley.

  I had no particular purpose in being there that day; I had simply wandered over after the handoff to Miyamoto, and was killing time before heading to the Kodokan to train in judo. I was new to the sport, but I liked it. It built on the wrestling skills I had acquired in high school, adding throws to takedowns, and armlocks and strangles to pins. I trained for several hours every day, the demands of my job being light and the hours flexible, and in only three months I’d gotten as good as any new shodan in the training hall. They wouldn’t let me formally test for black belt until I’d been there for a year, though, and the restriction, which I found stupid and unfair, only spurred me to train harder so I could defeat more of my “superiors” and prove to them just how wrong they really were.

  It’s funny to consider how important things like that felt to me then. Proving people wrong. Fighting stupidity. Wanting formal recognition. It took me a long time to learn that proving people wrong is purposeless, fighting stupidity is futile, and formal recognition prevents people from underestimating you—and thereby from ceding to you surprise and other tactical advantages.

  I turned left under the elevated tracks just as a JR train went by overhead, its roar rattling shop windows and obliterating the din of the crowd. Seconds later, it was gone. The crowd was thinner here, pachinko parlors and ramen shops and other such indoor attractions more prevalent than stalls. I passed a cutlery shop and slowed to examine the offerings displayed in its window.

  Someone slammed into my shoulder hard enough to spill what was left of my watermelon juice. I looked up. A chinpira, low-level yakuza punk or wannabe, was glaring at me, the rolled-up sleeves of his black tee shirt showing off a weightlifter’s muscles. “Oi,” he growled, “koryaa, doko mite aruitonen, kono bokega!” Hey asshole, watch where you’re going!

  If the same thing were to happen today, I would apologize regardless of who was at fault, while taking a step back, blading my body slightly to offer a reduced target profile, and raising my hands palms-forward in a gesture ostensibly placating, but in fact tactically sound. I would convey with my tone, my posture, and my attitude that the aggressor was in fact fortunate I was being reasonable, while at the same time offering him no challenge, no insult, and no hostility, nothing but apparent respect and an opportunity to move on with no loss of face. I would do all this while simultaneously being intensely aware of what was happening at the periphery of the action, and never assuming the aggressor was alone. If he turned out to be too stupid to take the hint, I would act suddenly and decisively—no warnings, no posturing, no gradual escalation. And I would leave the scene the moment the threat was neutralized, keeping my head down and avoiding the eyes of potential witnesses.

  But that would be today. Back then, I was fresh from combat, poisoned by testosterone, and filled with inchoate resentment at the world. After what I’d seen and done and survived, I didn’t have to take shit from anyone, least of all some street punk who thought he could woof me into submission.

  So rather than doing anything sensible, I took a step toward him and said, “Urusei na, omae koso kiotsukero yo!” Loosely translated, Go fuck yourself, asshole!

  The chinpira’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. “Oi!” he bellowed. I thought he was yelling at me, but then I saw movement beyond him at the entrance to the pachinko parlor—two buddies, similarly attired, similarly bulky, and now looking at me with malevolent intent.

  Three against one, and each of them bigger than I was. The first guy raised his right arm and began to jab a finger in my chest. Apparently thinking this was going to be just a fight, or better yet, a simple beat-down. But I had already clicked into combat mode.

  My muscle memory was built on wrestling then, not yet judo. I parried the incoming right arm with my left, caught him under the triceps with my right hand, swept his arm through and past, and simultaneously scooted behind him—a circle drag, a setup I had favored on the mat in high school. He tried to spin, but I trapped his right arm against his side, my hands circling his waist, following his movement so that we were facing his buddies, who were now moving in from only a few meters away.

  What I did next was all stupid reflex. I dropped my hips, got my weight under him, and exploded up and arched back in a suplay, another wrestling move that had served me well in teenage competition. The chinpira’s body rocketed over me like the last car on an off-the-tracks roller coaster, one arm still secured to his side, the other flailing crazily. I saw the world sail past in my peripheral vision, the ground looming, and then there was a shock up my arms as the back of the chinpira’s head smashed into the pavement. I heard his skull split from the impact, followed an instant later by another crack—his knees hitting the ground as his legs continued to accelerate over and past his ruined cranium.

  I rolled to my side and scrambled to my feet just as the other two reached me. I might have been able to escape, but stun-and-run wasn’t yet part of my close-combat toolkit. My default was continuous offense. So I closed with the guy to my right, a tough-looking punk as ugly as a gargoyle, absorbing a punch to the cheek on the way in and going for his eyes. The other guy grabbed at me, got ahold of the shoulder bag, and hauled me back with it. I turned toward him, slipped an arm between the strap and my body, and bent forward. The bag came free and he stumbled away. The gargoyle jumped on my back. I tried to roll him but lost my bala
nce. We both went down, but I twisted en route and managed to plant an elbow in his side so he took most of the impact. I scrambled on top of him, not yet experienced enough to know the importance of getting clear when there are or could be multiple attackers, grabbed his head, and sank my thumbs into his eye sockets. He screamed and thrashed and I bellowed back, an engine of destruction, gripping tighter, trying to force my thumbs through his eyes and into his brain. Then his buddy was back, throwing punches—I was lucky he didn’t have a knife, or even a pipe—and I released the gargoyle and trained my attention on the more immediate problem. Whatever he saw in my expression, he decided he wanted no part of it. He turned and sprinted away. I almost went after him, the combat switch much easier to flick on than off, but somehow got hold of myself. I glanced around. A cluster of people had gathered in a circle around us, ominously quiet amid the background noise of Ueno. The first chinpira was lying still; the second was writhing on the ground, clutching his face and screaming. Shit. Instinctively I looked down and shouldered through the onlookers.

  I circled back to the crowds of Ameyoko, drifted along for a few minutes while discreetly checking my back, then made my way to Okachimachi Station, where I caught a JR train. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking and I felt like I must look guilty of something. But none of the afternoon train riders, mostly uniformed schoolchildren and a few pensioners sweating in their shirtsleeves, seemed to take any particular notice of me.

  I got off at Tokyo Station and made my way to the street. It didn’t even occur to me that someone might be trying to follow me and I was lucky no one was; I was just putting distance between myself and the incident. Once outside, I started to think.

  How badly had I screwed up? I wasn’t sure. I realized I hadn’t handled the whole thing well. I wasn’t a civilian; I couldn’t afford to take civilian risks or indulge civilian impulses. I’d already done the exchange when the whole thing happened, yes, but I was still part of something covert, and I had to accept the discipline that came with that. I couldn’t be discreet “when it counted.” I had to remember, I had to know, that it always counted.