“Harry, you must get on that plane tomorrow.”

“My thought, too.”

Alice was quiet for a moment. “Do you imagine if I thought anyone would heed our warning of an attack, that I would abandon my post? It’s too late for warnings, Harry. There are no brakes on the bus and no ears on the driver. This crash is going to happen.”

“We can try.”

“I’m not a spy, I’m just someone good at puzzles. If I suddenly had information, I’d have to name the source. Unfortunately, your reputation precedes you. No one will listen to you or me. It’s time for us to leave. Oddly enough, you’re becoming a better person. First Willie, now this.”

“As soon as we get to California, I’ll con some old lady out of her life savings, redress the balance.” Harry noticed that Beechum had moved out of sight.

“You’re going to do this, Harry? You will be on the plane?”

“Cross my heart.”

“You’ve said farewell to Butterfly?” Alice asked.

“Michiko? Not quite.”

“I can’t believe this. I am vying with a geisha for the affections of a gambler.”

Harry would have said that Michiko wasn’t a geisha, except now he was no longer sure. “First I have to find her.”

“You’ve lost her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I have no doubt. Harry, you don’t have to tell her. If she knows you, she’ll understand soon enough that you’ve skipped out. Don’t go back to the club. All you need to do is get to the plane. Isn’t that what you’ve been telling me, to just get on the plane?”

“That’s what I said. We catch the Clipper from Hong Kong, and from there the world’s our oyster. A bungalow at the Beverly Hills, breakfast under an avocado tree.”

“So you are choosing me? I am the lucky girl? I wish I could think of something that was sacred to you to swear by.”

“I’m choosing California and you, it’s a package deal.”

“I forgot, you’re not a romantic.”

“Are you?”

“No. Of course not. We’re just a pair of black sheep.”

He placed a kiss on her neck and opened his door. Before he slipped out, he said, “You know what white sheep have? No imagination.”

HARRY HAD LEFT the Datsun across the street. The more he thought about it, the more he knew that Alice was right. The last thing he should do was look for Michiko. The smartest thing would be to stay out of Asakusa. Just lie low.

As he slid behind the wheel, he smelled the sweet scent of bay rum.

Things were black for a moment, then Harry discovered himself lying on the street and looking up at Beechum, who straddled Harry and pressed the edge of a cricket bat across his neck. Tears dripped from Beechum’s face, gone a chalky red.

“Stay away from my wife,” Beechum was saying. “Hands off my wife.”

Bigger things at play than adultery, Harry would have said if he could. Diplomatic deafness. The emperor’s new maps.

“Or I’ll kill you,” Beechum sobbed.

What was it DeGeorge said? Harry thought. “Get in line.”

Which earned him another swing of the bat.

His next conscious moment, Harry was on the sidewalk, unable to do more than raise his head and scan for Beechum, who was gone. An unusual amount of car traffic rolled by on the other side of the car, in the direction of government ministries. Harry concentrated on throwing up. There were dues in adultery. This was one of them.

Harry next found himself on his feet, rocking like a rocking chair and throwing up on the rear fender of his car. He had a knob the size of a golf ball behind his right ear and a tendency to lurch to one side with every step. Two old women with street brooms giggled with embarrassment while he retrieved his hat and reshaped it.

“Too much to drink, maybe,” one of the ladies suggested.

“One too many. I apologize for worrying you.”

“You should walk,” the first lady said. “Drink less, walk more.”

WALK? The idea appalled Harry, but he drove only as far as Tokyo Station before the smell of Beechum’s bay rum made him start to retch again and he decided that a long nocturnal stroll was just what he needed to reset his inner ear and stop veering to the side. He had fourteen hours to go before the plane, and as Alice had suggested, the smart thing would be to avoid Asakusa altogether, not to mention Ishigami and the Thought Police. It would have been nice to find Michiko, but he had to consider his own neck first. So, what the doctor ordered was a long, therapeutic walk. For an insomniac, a piece of cake.

Cars were gathering at ministry offices, but this late, the plaza between the palace and Tokyo Station was quiet, the palace bridges patrolled by a few guards with white-socked rifles. It was wonderful how, on the eve of war, the emperor’s tranquility was maintained. Either the palace was a sinkhole in the middle of reality, or the rest of the world was the emperor’s dream. It almost made a man tiptoe as he went by.

Foreigners who walked the city alone at night were suspect, but under streetlamps, with his face shadowed by his hat, the gaijin in Harry disappeared. The cool air refreshed him. As he went by the station, he took on a shorter, busier stride. Mastered his direction, swung a cigarette vigorously with every step, and policemen automatically nodded as he went by. One of the necessaries of being a hustler was resilience. He’d piss a little pinker was all. Harry was tempted to pass the night playing cards, but he knew that he wasn’t quite up to a serious game. Also, the less he hit his regular haunts, the better, even if he could practically feel the cards being laid down in Asakusa, hear the snap of the pasteboard, see the tiers of smoke above the table. No one was playing at the ballroom, of course. Haruko had that table to herself.

The advantage of a great city was its labyrinth of streets and alleys. Especially at night, when drab housefronts turned to the fanciful silhouettes of Chinese eaves and ghostly shirts hung on rods to dry. The discreet murmur of geishas issued from a willow house, a flash like brilliant tropical birds in the dark. Even the meanest alley might have a shrine, candles and coins set before a pair of stone fox gods with eyes of green glass. Foxes could change into women, it was well known, so any encounter with a fox at night had an element of danger for a man.

East of the palace was a warren of bookstores and print shops. Harry remembered an evening as warm and humid as a bathhouse, the height of Tokyo’s unbearable summer, when Kato had dragged Oharu and Harry to a printer there to pick up a surprise edition of a book entitled Fifty Views of Fuji. It was just a sketchbook, with a print run of one. The pictures had been quickly but deftly done. In each, Mount Fuji’s white skirt hung in the distance, but in the foreground were Asakusa’s narrow alleys, temple festivals and music halls, with Harry either stealing an orange, picking a pocket or smoking at a backstage door, a complete catalog of juvenile delinquency and petty crime. Harry was speechless; if the emperor had awarded him the Order of the Golden Kite, he could not have been more overcome.

Better yet, as they left the printer, Oharu noticed a cart selling balls of shaved ice in paper cones. Three syrups were offered: strawberry, melon and lemon. “Hurry, before it all melts,” Oharu said, and it was true, a lake spread from the drain hole of the cart. Kato flavored his ice with brandy from a flask. Harry chose lemon. Oharu took both strawberry and melon.

The lemon ice was tart and fresh. The problem was that it melted so instantly and the cone soaked through so quickly that Harry had to finish his ice in a race. Oharu, with two cones of ice, wasn’t fast enough. Red stripes of strawberry ran down one forearm and orange melon down the other. She wiped her hands with a handkerchief, but that left her arms sticky, and she seemed in such distress that what Harry did seemed natural. He took her arm and licked the syrup off, first the sweet strawberry and then the subtler track of the melon, mixed with the salt of her skin.