excuse."
There was a pause. "Where and when?"
"Have you got a GSM phone, something you use when you
travel?" Unlike Japanese cell phones, a GSM unit would work in
Brazil and most of the rest of the world.
"I do."
"All right. Give me the number."
He did. I wrote it down, then said, "I'll call you on the GSM
number the day after tomorrow, when you're in town."
"All right."
I hung up.
Two days later, I called him. He was staying at the Arpoador Inn
on the Rua Francisco Otaviano in Ipanema, an inexpensive hotel
located right on Ipanema's famous beach.
"How are we going to do this?" he asked.
"Have a cab take you to Cristo Redentor, Christ the Redeemer,"
I told him. "From there, head southwest on foot along the road
through the Parque Nacional da Tijuca, the national park. I'll find
you in there. Start out from the statue in one hour."
"All right."
An hour later I had made myself comfortable on a trail overlooking
the road through the national park, about a kilometer from
the statue. Kanezaki appeared on time. I watched him pass my position,
waited to ensure that he was alone, then cut down to the
road and caught up with him from behind.
"Kanezaki," I said.
He spun, startled to hear my voice so close. "Shit," he said, perhaps
a little embarrassed.
I smiled. He looked a little older than he had the last time I had
seen him, leaner, more seasoned. The wire-rimmed glasses no
longer made him look bookish. Instead, they gave his face . . .
focus, somehow. Precision.
The bug detector was silent. I patted him down, took his cell
phone for safekeeping, and nodded my head toward the trail from
which I had just descended. "This way," I said.
I led him back to a secondary road in the park, where we
walked until we found a cab. A few deft counter surveillance maneuvers
later, we were comfortably ensconced in the Confeitaria
Colombo, a coffee shop founded in 1894 that, but for the tropical
atmosphere and the surrounding sounds of animated Portuguese,
can convey the illusion of an afternoon in Vienna. I used English to
order a basic espresso, not wanting Kanezaki to see any more of my
familiarity with the local terrain, and he followed suit.
"We want your help again," he told me, as soon as the espressos
had arrived and the waitress had moved off. Right to the point. Like
Tatsu. I knew there was a relationship there, each believing the other
to be a source, with Tatsu's view being the more accurate. I wondered
if Kanezaki was emulating the older, more experienced man.
"Like you wanted it last time?" I asked, my eyebrows arched
slightly in mild disdain.
He shrugged. "You know I was in the dark about all that as
much as you were. This time it's straightforward. And sanctioned."
"Sanctioned by whom?"
He looked at me. "By the proper authorities."
"All right," I said, taking a sip from the porcelain demitasse.
"Tell me."
He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "After
Nine-Eleven, Congress took the shackles off the Agency. There's a
new spirit in the place. We're pushing the envelope again, going after
the bad guys--"
"The few, the proud ..." I interjected.
He frowned. "Look, we're really making a difference now--"
"Be All You Can Be ..." I started to sing.
His jaw clenched. "Do you just enjoy pissing me off?" he asked.
"A little bit, yes."
"It's petty."
I took another sip of espresso. "What's your point?"
"I wish you'd just listen."
"So far I've listened to five cliches, including something about
shackled envelopes. I'm waiting for you to actually say something."
He flushed, but then nodded and even managed a chuckle. I
smiled at his composure. He had matured since I had last seen him.
"Okay," he said. "Remember that Predator drone that took out
Abu Ali and five other Qaeda members with a Hellfire missile in
Yemen in November 2002? That was one of ours."
"That's what was in the papers," I said.
"Well, what's not in the papers is the full extent of this kind
There was a pause. "Where and when?"
"Have you got a GSM phone, something you use when you
travel?" Unlike Japanese cell phones, a GSM unit would work in
Brazil and most of the rest of the world.
"I do."
"All right. Give me the number."
He did. I wrote it down, then said, "I'll call you on the GSM
number the day after tomorrow, when you're in town."
"All right."
I hung up.
Two days later, I called him. He was staying at the Arpoador Inn
on the Rua Francisco Otaviano in Ipanema, an inexpensive hotel
located right on Ipanema's famous beach.
"How are we going to do this?" he asked.
"Have a cab take you to Cristo Redentor, Christ the Redeemer,"
I told him. "From there, head southwest on foot along the road
through the Parque Nacional da Tijuca, the national park. I'll find
you in there. Start out from the statue in one hour."
"All right."
An hour later I had made myself comfortable on a trail overlooking
the road through the national park, about a kilometer from
the statue. Kanezaki appeared on time. I watched him pass my position,
waited to ensure that he was alone, then cut down to the
road and caught up with him from behind.
"Kanezaki," I said.
He spun, startled to hear my voice so close. "Shit," he said, perhaps
a little embarrassed.
I smiled. He looked a little older than he had the last time I had
seen him, leaner, more seasoned. The wire-rimmed glasses no
longer made him look bookish. Instead, they gave his face . . .
focus, somehow. Precision.
The bug detector was silent. I patted him down, took his cell
phone for safekeeping, and nodded my head toward the trail from
which I had just descended. "This way," I said.
I led him back to a secondary road in the park, where we
walked until we found a cab. A few deft counter surveillance maneuvers
later, we were comfortably ensconced in the Confeitaria
Colombo, a coffee shop founded in 1894 that, but for the tropical
atmosphere and the surrounding sounds of animated Portuguese,
can convey the illusion of an afternoon in Vienna. I used English to
order a basic espresso, not wanting Kanezaki to see any more of my
familiarity with the local terrain, and he followed suit.
"We want your help again," he told me, as soon as the espressos
had arrived and the waitress had moved off. Right to the point. Like
Tatsu. I knew there was a relationship there, each believing the other
to be a source, with Tatsu's view being the more accurate. I wondered
if Kanezaki was emulating the older, more experienced man.
"Like you wanted it last time?" I asked, my eyebrows arched
slightly in mild disdain.
He shrugged. "You know I was in the dark about all that as
much as you were. This time it's straightforward. And sanctioned."
"Sanctioned by whom?"
He looked at me. "By the proper authorities."
"All right," I said, taking a sip from the porcelain demitasse.
"Tell me."
He leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "After
Nine-Eleven, Congress took the shackles off the Agency. There's a
new spirit in the place. We're pushing the envelope again, going after
the bad guys--"
"The few, the proud ..." I interjected.
He frowned. "Look, we're really making a difference now--"
"Be All You Can Be ..." I started to sing.
His jaw clenched. "Do you just enjoy pissing me off?" he asked.
"A little bit, yes."
"It's petty."
I took another sip of espresso. "What's your point?"
"I wish you'd just listen."
"So far I've listened to five cliches, including something about
shackled envelopes. I'm waiting for you to actually say something."
He flushed, but then nodded and even managed a chuckle. I
smiled at his composure. He had matured since I had last seen him.
"Okay," he said. "Remember that Predator drone that took out
Abu Ali and five other Qaeda members with a Hellfire missile in
Yemen in November 2002? That was one of ours."
"That's what was in the papers," I said.
"Well, what's not in the papers is the full extent of this kind
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