Read Online Hard Rain by Barry Eisler - Free Book Online

entities, and it can all be blown in a heartbeat if
    your Aunt Keiko visits you at your home, notes your address, and
    decides to send you, say, flowers to thank you. The flower shop puts
    your name and address into its database, which it then sells to
    marketing outfits, which in turn sell the information to everyone else,
    and your true residence is now available to anyone with even
    rudimentary hacking or social engineering skills. The only way to
    regain your privacy is to move again and repeat the exercise.
    If what was sent to you was just an ordinary letter, of course, the
    only person who might make the connection is the postman. It's up to
    the individual to decide whether that would be an acceptable risk. For
    me, it wouldn't be. Probably not for Harry, either. But if only his
    first name had appeared on the envelope, he would be all right.
    "Where was the letter from?" I asked him.
    "New York. She's living there, I guess."
    New York. Where Tatsu had sent her, after telling her I was dead, to
    protect her from suspicion that she might still have the computer disk
    her father had stolen from Yamaoto, a disk containing enough evidence
    of Japan's vast network of corruption to bring down the government. The
    move made sense for her, I supposed. Her career in America was taking
    off. I knew because I was watching.
    He reached into a back pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of
    paper. "Here," he said, handing it to me.
    I took it and paused for a moment before unfolding it, not caring what
    he would make of my hesitation. When I looked, I saw that it was
    written in confident, graceful longhand Japanese, an echo, perhaps, of
    girlhood calligraphy lessons, and a reflection of the personality
    behind the pen.
    Haruyoshi-san,
    It is still cold in New York, and I am counting the days to Spring. I
    imagine that soon enough, the cherry blossoms will be blooming in Tokyo
    and I am sure they will be beautiful.
    I trust that you, too, have heard the sad news that our mutual friend
    Fujiwara-san has passed away. I have been given to understand that
    Fujiwara-san's body had been returned to the
    United States for burial. I have hoped to visit the gravesite to
    present an offering for his spirit, but, regrettably, I have been
    unable to discover where he has been laid to rest. If you have any
    information that would be helpful to me in this matter, I would
    sincerely appreciate your assistance. You can reach me at the above
    address.
    I humbly pray for your health and well-being. Thank you for your
    solicitude.
    Yours, Kawamura Midori
    I read it again, slowly, then a third time. Then I folded it back up
    and extended it to Harry.
    "No, no," he said, his hands raised, palms forward. "You keep it."
    I didn't want him to see that I wanted it. But I nodded and slipped it
    into an inside pocket of the blazer I was wearing.
    I signaled the bartender that it was time for another Lagavulin. "Did
    you answer this?" I asked.
    "I did. I wrote back, and told her that I had heard exactly what she
    had, that I didn't have any other information."
    "Did you hear from her after that?"
    "Just a thank-you. She asked me to let her know if I heard anything,
    and told me she would do the same."
    "That's all?"
    "Yeah."
    I wondered if she had bought the story. If she hadn't thanked Harry
    for his response, I would have known she hadn't bought it, because she
    was classy and it wouldn't have been like her not to respond. But the
    thank-you might have been automatic, sent even in the presence of
    continued suspicions. It could even have been duplicitous, intended to
    lull Harry into thinking she was satisfied when in fact the opposite
    was true.
    That's bullshit, some part of me spoke up. She's not like that.
    Then a bitter smile: Not like you, you mean.
    There was nothing duplicitous about Midori, and knowing it opened up a
    lit tie ache. The environment I've inhabited for so long has
    conditioned me to assume the worst. At least I still