As I turned onto Thayer Lane again, exactly ninety-seven minutes after I’d left it, I started thinking in Japanese, like my good friend Yamada, who this time was being transferred to New York and would live on Long Island. Like many Japanese, I was an ardent golfer, and relished the chance to become a member of a top club for less than the million dollars entry cost in Japan. I was hoping to take a look at the Village Club because it sounded so good on the Internet… Would that be all right?

I pulled up to the guard post and rolled down the window. The guy inside, about seventy with ruddy cheeks and fading blue eyes, leaned toward me, away from a portable space heater. Something about him felt like retired law enforcement, but I took in the impression only in the most fleeting mental shorthand. I was too deeply in character to consciously consider anything operational, although of course I was still aware of and responsive to it.

He looked me over, and again in some compartmented part of my consciousness I realized he wasn’t used to seeing Asians pull in here. “May I help you, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” I said, in the thickest Japanese accent I could muster, with an accompanying helpless, timid expression. “I move soon Long Island. Want club member become. Can pick up…brochure here?”

The guard smiled. Amazing the generosity of spirit a little helplessness can bring out in some people. “Certainly, sir,” he said. “The main facility is directly in front of you. Just park anywhere you can find a spot and they’ll help you inside.”

“Thank you very much,” I said, nodding. The gate went up and I drove forward, my heart starting to beat hard.

The parking lot was on my right. I pulled in, driving slowly through. Damn, it was full. The place was popular.

Black Mercedeses weren’t exactly in short supply in the parking lot, and I had a couple of false starts before seeing each time that the license plate of the car I was looking at was wrong. But the third time proved to be the charm. There was Accinelli’s car, in one of the lot’s center spaces, next to a deep green Aston Martin Vanquish S. Perfect.

I kept going until I found an open spot, at the farthest edge of the lot. I parked and took the unit out of the glove box. The battery pack and accessories went into my front pockets. The GPS and cellular modem housing I tucked into the back of my pants, under the jacket. I took two quick breaths and got out of the car.

I walked slowly, my breath fogging in the cold, swiveling my head as though taking in the view of the lovely golf course and grounds surrounding the lot. In fact, I was checking for people. The cold was on my side at the moment-it wasn’t the sort of day anyone sane would linger in a parking lot. And if there were people waiting in one of the cars for some reason, they’d certainly have the engine running, with a billow of exhaust rising up from the tailpipe.

No, the lot was empty. It was lunchtime; that was also on my side. I reached Accinelli’s car, scanned it and the surrounding vehicles to ensure I hadn’t missed anyone, then took a step in next to the Vanquish, easing the GPS unit from my waistband as I moved. I doubted I was the first person to pause for a closer look at that gorgeous emerald of a race car. It was built to be ogled as much as to be driven.

I leaned closer, my hands on my thighs, then dropped into a squat. I pivoted, and in less than fifteen seconds, had emplaced the main unit and battery pack on the Mercedes’ undercarriage, the GPS antenna to the underside of the rear bumper, and the miniature cellular antenna underneath the side skirting. I glanced around from the squat and saw no one, then stood and, for the benefit of anyone who might just possibly have seen me disappear for a moment, shook my head at the Vanquish one last time in envious admiration.

For form’s sake, I continued on toward the main building. Continue all the way through with the charade, or pull out now? There were risks and benefits both ways. The more time I spent here and the more people I engaged, the greater the chance I would be remembered. On the other hand, if that former cop of a guard asked anyone inside about a Japanese visitor looking for a brochure, it would look odd if no one remembered me.

I decided there was less risk in just killing five minutes walking along the golf course, then waving my thanks to the guard as I left. I had parked so far down that I was out of his view in any event.

I strolled along the access road, my hands in my pockets, shoes crunching the frozen gravel, breath fogging, ears numb. A group of four well-insulated diehards was leaving the course in my direction, golf bags slung over their backs. I kept my head down, and from the cadences of their conversation as they passed I sensed they had paid me no mind.

I stopped at the edge of the access road and admired the green for three minutes, freezing my ass off. Then I turned around and headed back to the BMW. I waved to the guard as I drove past, but he seemed not even to notice. His attention was directed at cars coming in, not ones that were leaving.

There were a few things I still needed, things I could probably find in the suburbs, but I wanted to do the bulk of my shopping in the more anonymous city. So I drove back, stopping first at a military-surplus store I knew-Galaxy, on Sixth Avenue between 30th and 31st. I went inside, and emerged fifteen minutes later wearing polypropylene long underwear under a new pair of jeans and a wool turtleneck sweater; wool socks and work boots; a black wool watch cap and a navy peacoat; and a pair of ski gloves. Thank God. I also had on a pair of sports shades, the swept-back style bikers and marathoners use, which would cut the winter glare and, not coincidentally, obscure my appearance. In my pocket was a Victorinox Swiss Army knife with a four-inch blade. Not exactly a fighting knife, but the kind of tool I preferred was hard to find in New York and this was better than nothing. The clothes I’d been wearing I carried in a store bag, along with a few extra pairs of socks and underwear.

Next, I stopped at a Citibank ATM for a cash infusion. Then a low-end men’s clothing store for a shirt, jacket, and tie, and another pair of sunglasses, this time with large, round lenses that would hide my eyes and change the contours of my face. Finally, the Apple store on Fifth Avenue, where I used one of the store’s computers to check the Kanezaki bulletin board. Nothing. I wondered whether he really was coming up empty, or whether he was holding back from me, the way I was from him. No way to know. And nothing to do about it. But it was still irritating as hell.

Now that I was properly outfitted and had a little time, I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten since the plane. I walked two blocks west to the Carnegie Deli and, over a tureen of chicken soup and a roast beef sandwich that could have faced down Godzilla, I configured the iPhone to work with the GPS transmitter. By the time I was washing down a gigantic slice of apple pie with a second cup of coffee, I had everything up and running, and checked Accinelli’s position. I had expected to find him still at the club, or perhaps back home. Instead, I was surprised to see that he, or his car, anyway, was right here in Manhattan. I zoomed in on the location-downtown, corner of Bowery and Prince. I watched for three minutes, but the car didn’t move. Okay, a fair bet he wasn’t at a light or stuck in traffic. The car was parked.

I paid the check and went back to the garage where I’d left the BMW. I headed down Broadway, the iPhone plugged into the cigarette lighter, faceup on the passenger seat en route. The Mercedes didn’t move.

I made a left on Spring, then another left on Bowery. I drifted north a block, and there, on the east side of Bowery just north of Prince, a parking lot. I didn’t see Accinelli’s car as I drove past, but according to the transmitter it was there.