“No, it isn’t,” I said. I was getting angry.

“Yes, it is,” Graham said. “Because that’s how influence works. It’s deniable. You say it isn’t there. You tell yourself it isn’t there—but it is. The only way you can be clean is to be clean, man. If you got no stake in it, if you got no income from it, then you can talk. Otherwise, man, they pay you and I say, they own you.”

“Just a fucking minute—“

“So don’t you talk to me about hating, man. This country is in a war and some people understand it, and some other people are siding with the enemy. Just like in World War II, some people were paid by Germany to promote Nazi propaganda. New York newspapers published editorials right out of the mouth of Adolf Hitler. Sometimes the people didn’t even know it. But they did it. That’s how it is in a war, man. And you are a fucking collaborator.”

I was grateful when, at that moment, Connor came back to where we were standing. Graham and I were about to square off when Connor said calmly, “Now, just so I understand, Tom. According to your scenario, after the girl was murdered, what happened to the tapes?”

“Oh, hell, those tapes are gone,” Graham said. “You’re never going to see those tapes again.”

“Well, it’s interesting. Because that call was the division headquarters. It seems Mr. Ishiguro is there. And he’s brought a box of videotapes with him, for me to look at.”

Connor and I drove over. Graham took his own car. I said, “Why did you say the Japanese would never touch Graham?”

“Graham’s uncle,” Connor said. “He was a prisoner of war during World War II. He was taken to Tokyo, where he disappeared. Graham’s father went over after the war to find out what happened to him. There were unpleasant questions about what happened. You probably know that some American servicemen were killed in terminal medical experiments in Japan. There were stories about the Japanese feeding their livers to subordinates as a joke, things like that.”

“No, I didn’t know,” I said.

“I think everybody would prefer to forget that time,” Connor said, “and move on. And probably correctly. It’s a different country now. What was Graham going on about?”

“My stipend as a liaison officer.”

Connor said, “You told me it was fifty a week.”

“It’s a little more than that.”

“How much more?”

“About a hundred dollars a week. Fifty-five hundred a year. But that’s to cover classes, and books, and commuting expenses, baby-sitters, everything.”

“So you get five grand,” Connor said. “So what?”

“Graham was saying I was influenced by it. That the Japanese had bought me.”

Connor said, “Well, they certainly try to do that. And they’re extremely subtle.”

“They tried it with you?”

“Oh, sure.” He paused. “And often I accepted. Giving gifts to ensure that you will be seen favorably is something the Japanese do by instinct. And it’s not so different from what we do, when we invite the boss over for dinner. Goodwill is goodwill. But we don’t invite the boss over for dinner when we’re up for a promotion. The proper thing to do is to invite the boss early in the relationship, when nothing is at stake. Then it’s just goodwill. The same with the Japanese. They believe you should give the gift early, because then it is not a bribe. It is a gift. A way of making a relationship with you before there is any pressure on the relationship.”

“And you think that’s okay?”

“I think it’s the way the world works.”

“Do you think it’s corrupting?”

Connor looked at me and said, “Do you?”

I took a long time to answer. “Yes. I think maybe so.”

He started to laugh. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said. “Because otherwise, the Japanese would have wasted all their money on you.”

“What’s so funny?”

“Your confusion, kōhai.”

“Graham thinks it’s a war.”

Connor said, “Well, that’s true. We are definitely at war with Japan. But let’s see what surprises Mr. Ishiguro has for us in the latest skirmish.”

18

As usual, the fifth-floor anteroom of the downtown detective division was busy, even at two o’clock in the morning. Detectives moved among the beat-up prostitutes and twitching druggies brought in for questioning; in the corner a man in a checked sport coat was shouting, “I said, shut the fuck up!” over and over to a female officer with a clipboard.

In all the swirl and noise, Masao Ishiguro looked distinctly out of place. Wearing his blue pinstripe suit, he sat in the corner with his head bowed and his knees pressed together. He had a cardboard box balanced on his knees.

When he saw us, he jumped to his feet. He bowed deeply, placing his hands flat on his thighs, a sign of additional respect. He held the bow for several seconds. Then he immediately bowed again, and this time he waited, bent over, staring at the floor, until Connor spoke to him in Japanese. Ishiguro’s reply, also in Japanese, was quiet and deferential. He kept looking at the floor.

Tom Graham pulled me over by the water cooler. “Holy Christ,” he said. “It looks like we got a fucking confession happening here.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said. I wasn’t convinced. I’d seen Ishiguro change his demeanor before.

I watched Connor as he talked to Ishiguro. The Japanese man remained hangdog. He kept looking at the floor.

“I never would have figured him,” Graham said. “Not in a million years. Never him.”

“How is that?”

“Are you kidding? To kill the girl, and then to stay in the room, and order us around. What fucking nerves of steel. But look at him now: Christ, he’s almost crying.”

It was true: tears seemed to be welling up in Ishiguro’s eyes. Connor took the box and turned away, crossing the room to us. He gave me the box. “Deal with this. I’m going to take a statement from Ishiguro.”

“So,” Graham said. “Did he confess?”

“To what?”

“The murder.”

“Hell, no,” Connor said. “What makes you think that?”

“Well, he’s over there bowing and scraping—“

“That’s just sumimasen,” Connor said. “I wouldn’t take it too seriously.”

“He’s practically crying,” Graham said.

“Only because he thinks it’ll help him.”

“He didn’t confess?”

“No. But he discovered that the tapes had been removed, after all. That means he made a serious mistake, with his public blustering in front of the mayor. Now he could be accused of concealing evidence. He could be disbarred. His corporation could be disgraced. Ishiguro is in big trouble, and he knows it.”

I said, “And that’s why he’s so humble?”

“Yes. In Japan, if you screw up, the best thing is to go to the authorities and make a big show of how sorry you are, and how bad you feel, and how you will never do it again. It’s pro forma, but the authorities will be impressed by how you’ve learned your lesson. That’s sumimasen: apology without end. It’s the Japanese version of throwing yourself on the mercy of the court. It’s understood to be the best way to get leniency. And that’s all Ishiguro is doing.”

“You mean it’s an act,” Graham said, his eyes hardening.

“Yes and no. It’s difficult to explain. Look. Review the tapes. Ishiguro says he brought one of the VCRs, because the tapes are recorded in an unusual format, and he was afraid we wouldn’t be able to play them. Okay?”

I opened the cardboard box. I saw twenty small eight-millimeter cartridges, like audio cassette cartridges. And I saw a small box, the size of a Walkman, which was the VCR. It had cables to hook to a TV.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a look.”

The first of the tapes that showed the forty-sixth floor was a view from the atrium camera, high up, looking down. The tape showed people working on the floor, in what looked like an ordinary office day. We fast-forwarded through that. Shadows of sunlight coming through the windows swung in hot arcs across the floor, and then disappeared. Gradually, the light on the floor softened and dimmed, as daylight came to an end. One by one, desk lights came on. The workers moved more slowly now. Eventually they began to depart, leaving their desks one by one. As the population thinned, we noticed something else. Now the camera moved occasionally, panning one or another of the workers as they passed beneath. Yet at other times, the camera would not pan. Eventually we realized the camera must be equipped for automatic focusing and tracking. If there was a lot of movement in the frame—several people going in different directions—then the camera did not move. But if the frame was mostly empty, the camera would fix on a single person walking through, and track him.