Girl in a Box (21 page)

“I thought—because you phoned me—you did this kind of thing all the time.” Even though he might think I was encouraging him, I had to know. Had he called me because he wanted a
furin
or because he wanted to figure out for sure that I wasn't a genuine employee?

His face flushed. “Not at all. Fujiwara-san, now, he was one who had plenty of girlfriends, but I've always been faithful to my wife. Not always happy, but always true.”

“That's impressive.” I studied him, not sure how much I could believe. “Literally thousands of girls walk through Young Fashion every day. Not to mention that you know many girls who work at the store.”

“I'm not on the sales floor. I'm in the annex most of the time, dealing with management issues.” He sighed. “I don't know why I invited you. I guess it was because I knew the others would.”

“The others? You mean Mr. Fujiwara?”

“Not just him. Yoshino, too. It was Mr. Mitsuyama's idea.”

“What was the idea?” I had a growing feeling of dread.

“To see who would get you first. Since you'd offered yourself, as he said.”

“Offered myself? I'm sorry, but I was in the bath first. Alone!”

“It's ridiculous,” Mr. Kitagawa admitted. “From the moments we've spent together, I can tell you're not exactly the mistress type.”

“Do the managers at Mitsutan do this kind of thing on a regular basis? I mean, make bets about taking on mistresses, or other kinds of games?” Total decadence, I thought to myself.

“Retreats bring out some silly behavior,” he said. “I apologize. I shouldn't have told you so much.”

“It's all right,” I said, putting down my half-finished beer, no longer fearing that it would be poisoned. “I'd rather be forewarned.”

“I felt bad about it, you being a target.” He sighed, then glanced at his watch. “Excuse me for being rude again, but I think I'd better go.”

“Not at all. And I thank you for being—so polite about things.” I stood up and bowed, relieved that the date had taken less than an hour and exacted no blood.

“Don't mention it.” Mr. Kitagawa put a 10,000-yen note down on the little tray the waitress had left containing the bill, and followed me out of the restaurant. There we parted; he went toward the subway station, and I went toward my street.

It wasn't until I was about to step inside that I thought about what had been so strange. Mr. Kitagawa hadn't gotten change for our drinks. But I knew from the menu board I'd studied before he arrived that our drinks couldn't have cost more than 5,000 yen.

And in Japan, only foreigners left restaurants without taking their change.

WR R U? H2O.

The text message flashed across my screen when I took my phone out to check it, killing time as I waited for the light to change. I thought for a few seconds before figuring out who H2O was. Brooks!

GNG HM. R U IN TOWN? I pressed the keypad awkwardly, then hit send. I was more used to talking on the phone than typing on it.

Michael flashed back a message to me. AT HOTL. NEED TO C U.

RNT U TIRED? I wrote.

NOPE. AT H STA, LOCATE TALL BLK SOLDR WITH DFL BAG. MAKE EYE CONTCT THEN FOLLOW. HE'LL BRING U2 ME.

Cloak and dagger, I thought, stifling a yawn as I replied in the affirmative and Michael finished the conversation with his usual signoff, OAO, which meant over and out.

Having me follow a soldier was quite an example of paranoia, I thought to myself as I turned around and went back to Hiroo Station. Michael should simply have given me the address; I'd attract less attention going by taxi or foot by myself than following in the wake of a tall African-American in uniform. Most Japanese didn't like the military, especially since the new war; and the armed forces' reputation for stealing Japanese women was a legend that was still going strong after sixty years. Right after arriving in Tokyo this time, I'd noticed some graffiti scrawled on Tengenjibashi Crossing near Hiroo Station: U.S. SOLDIER STAY AWAY FROM OUR WOMEN. I'd been disturbed not only by the message but by the fact that Tokyo's usually zealous cleaning squads had left the message untouched.

The soldier was standing outside the station exit by the bakery called Kobeya Kitchen. His eyes were on the crowd coming up the station stairs. He was a handsome guy, well over six feet tall and close to 200 pounds, but not tough-looking, I thought, as our eyes met briefly. I wasn't sure if he knew what I looked like; but he turned out to have been prepared, because after a minute he shouldered his bag and started walking, at a relaxed pace, down the street.

A hawker waved packages of promotional tissues at me, and I took two, nodding thanks and zipping them into my bag. You never knew when you'd find no toilet paper in the restroom.

I set off along the same path as the man. There were still a good number of people and bikers on the street, but the soldier was so tall that he was easy to keep track of as he passed the Hair and Meke beauty salon, a children's clothing boutique, an art gallery and an Italian restaurant. At Tengenjibashi Crossing, which still bore the graffiti warning, he made a sharp left turn. I did too, after making a quick check behind me to be sure that nobody who'd been walking behind me at the station was still there.

Two more blocks, past a few clothing boutiques and a patisserie and wine bar, and then a large slate-tiled building flying an American flag. Not the embassy; that was a couple of miles away. The building had a sheltered driveway and guideposts, which he disappeared into after several salutes were exchanged. I hesitated, and a Japanese guard walked a few steps toward me.

“Your name?” he asked in Japanese.

“Shimura Rei.”

He checked a paper, then looked back. “Photo identification?”

For security reasons the only form of ID I carried was my Mitsutan employee card, which worked as a photo ID, time-clock card, and credit card all in one. It wasn't as official as a Japanese driver's license, but at least the guard would be able to read it.

“Enter, please.”

I walked into a large lobby lit by chandeliers and gleaming with acres of new polished rosewood paneling. A reception desk staffed by Japanese men in navy blue suits was crowded with a throng of casually dressed Americans. They were not backpackers, but more the kind of crowd I was used to seeing in suburban Virginia—men with short hair wearing jeans and sneakers, and American-looking women in similarly simple, comfortable clothes. Could they all be military? I wondered, putting together the flag, the soldier, and the strict security.

“Over here.” The soldier appeared again and led me through the lobby and through a set of doors marked Embarcadero Lounge. It was a cocktail lounge, I realized, lit mostly by televisions showing a football game somewhere in the United States. Small groups of shorthaired men clustered at tables, talking; there were only a couple of women in the room, both of them middle-aged and drinking wine, with shopping bags around their feet—Mitsukoshi, I noticed, not Mitsutan.

My gaze went to the far corner of the room, where a white man with short black hair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses and a business suit, was shaking hands with another westerner, also dressed in a suit, who was leaving. As the older man left, the younger one raised a hand to me, and I was shocked to realize that this was Michael.

“You colored your hair!” I whispered after the soldier had saluted Michael and moved off to a table closer to the entrance. “And the glasses. You look like a freshly minted MBA. Harvard, Wharton, or Stanford?”

“It's a light disguise, no big deal. But you look like—” Michael shook his head. “I don't know. I just can't get used to that Japanese makeup. I like the turtleneck, though. It looks like some kind of Halloween costume.”

“It's fashion as architecture, Comme de Garçons,” I said brightly. “And with regard to the makeup, I'm pretty used to it by now. Only takes ten minutes to slap on the paint. But enough of that. How was your flight?”

“Perfect. Join me for a drink?”

If Michael was drinking on company time, it was obviously to maintain cover—that we were a man and a woman socializing. Well, I didn't mind this bit of subterfuge at all, I thought as I studied the menu, which was in U.S. dollars and outrageously cheap. “I'll have a glass of the house white. By the way, should I be speaking English in a Japanese accent here?”

Michael cocked his head at me. “Only if you can keep it up all night long, which would give me a headache. If anyone asks, you're my interpreter, okay?”

Michael placed the order with a Filipina waitress—a glass of California chardonnay for me, another Bud Lite for him, plus a platter of oily-looking nachos I would have warned him against, if I hadn't been trying to stay in cover as a polite Japanese interpreter.

When we were by ourselves again, I asked Michael about the setting. “I didn't see a hotel name outside,” I said. “And I never, ever heard of a hotel where you have to show your photo ID and be on a list before you get inside. It's something to do with the U.S. government, I guessed from the flag that's flying—is it an embassy outpost, or something?”

“This is the New Sanno Hotel,” Michael said. “It's an American military installation meant to shelter DOD personnel passing through and those on vacation from nearby bases. Believe me, this is a fantastic improvement on the old place in Akasaka where my family sometimes stayed in the seventies. You would not believe the bakery here; they make everything in house, napoleons and éclairs and—”

“Sugar on an empty stomach gives me the shakes,” I said.

“Okay, I won't give you a bag to take home. I'll just give you my room number and phone number here.” Michael scribbled on the back of a business card he took out of his wallet, that of Jonathan Lockwood, a security attaché at the American embassy in Japan. I imagined this might be the distinguished gray-haired man who'd left as I arrived.

“What would your girlfriend think about my having your room number?” I joked as I looked it over the information he'd written down.

“What girlfriend?” Michael looked away from me to sign the check the waitress had brought along with the drinks.

“The woman in the photograph. You know, the one you have in your office?” I'd decided to challenge him directly, while I still had Chardonnay courage.

There was a long pause, then Michael said, “That was my wife. Jennifer died ten years ago.”

“Oh, Michael. I didn't know. I'm really sorry.” I gulped, thinking that this was something I should have figured out myself. It had been inexplicably strange that Michael, so obviously straight and gorgeous, did not date. I longed to know why she'd died—disease, car accident, or something more sinister. She could have been an agent too, for all I knew.

“Thank you,” Michael said crisply. “And while we're on the subject of relationships, I want to ask whether you've been in touch with Hugh?”

“No,” I said, wishing I'd never brought up the topic of girlfriends at all.

“That doesn't sound very convincing,” Michael said.

“Well, you know, I Google him every now and then. It looks like he has been through Tokyo recently with a girlfriend or fiancée or something of the sort.”

“I'm sorry,” Michael said.

“Thank you,” I replied, consciously using the same words he'd said to me. “Now, then, those things are settled. Tell me more about what you're doing here. Is your cover just that you are a government wonk?”

Michael smiled, appearing relaxed again. “A State Department wonk on temporary duty over here, with orders attaching me to the embassy. It's the fully backstopped cover under which I originally met you.”

I nodded and tucked the business card into my backpack.

“You should burn the card after you've memorized the data about my lodgings. I believe there are matches and candles in the apartment bathroom, second vanity drawer.”

“You've been in my apartment?” I looked at him in alarm. I hadn't made the bed that morning and there was hand-washed laundry—mostly lingerie—draped all over the dining room furniture.

“No, but I have a key because I stayed there in the past. I know where things are.”

I nodded. “So when did we meet each other? You know, as the State Department wonk and his humble interpreter?”

“My last visit to Japan, which was five years ago.” He paused. “And don't bring that up unless it's absolutely necessary. People who see us together tonight will just assume the obvious. And in the future, if we need to transfer information to each other that can't be accommodated through our cell phones, we'll need a meeting place. Any ideas about a sheltered place near the store?”

I sipped the overly oaky chardonnay, and said, “How about the Kabuki Theater? It's about four blocks from the store, right on Ginza-dori. Because kabuki plays last a whole day, the theater has a walk-in policy. You pay a thousand yen and get access to this little gallery up on the fourth floor, where you can stay for a single act—though you can go in and out at any time. Foreigners and Japanese go there, though not large numbers of either. And everyone's focused on the play; they'd never see you or me sit down in the back row. We could transfer the information right under the seats.”

“Taped under a seat, because I'd come in a little bit later than you.” Michael sounded thoughtful. “That's a great idea. So that's our daytime MO. For night, we'll have to think of something different. But now, since you're here in the flesh and we don't have to censor our conversation, I'd like to hear exactly what's been going on.”

I told him about what had happened at work: the phone calls I'd received, and who knew about them. I spoke briefly about my date with Mr. Kitagawa, and what I'd learned about Mr. Fujiwara's lifestyle, and also about Mitsutan's possible ties with the
yakuza
. Michael listened carefully, taking notes as I told him about Warren Kravitz's wife Melanie coming in to shop: our floor-by-floor trip through the store, and my suspicion that she might be reporting things about the store to Warren.

“We'll know soon enough what she's up to,” I said cheerfully. “While she was trying on jeans, I slid a bug into her phone.”

Michael gaped. “You wiretapped her?”

“Sure. I figured she's worth listening to, as much as anybody. I've been thinking about what you said earlier—that we don't have solid evidence that Mr. Mitsuyama ordered Fujiwara killed. A death order could have come from Warren Kravitz, if he really wanted Mitsutan's stock to dive—which it did yesterday, according to gossip I overheard in the cafeteria. And come to think of it, Melanie Kravitz also told me her husband was away from home during the time that Fujiwara was killed.”

“You bugged an American citizen,” Michael repeated, as if all I'd said had been meaningless. “Don't you know that it's against the law for our agency to spy on American citizens?”

“Many people in our government would disagree. And if you're so idealistic, then why did you wiretap me last year?” I fired back.

“The phone in question was registered to a noncitizen. Besides, I needed to know I could trust you, before I hired you.” Michael put his head in his hands. “Oh, God. I cannot believe the situation you've put us in.”

“Opportunity knocked. She was in the dressing room, and I got the idea and there was no way I could call you. I'm very sorry. If I see her again I can find a way to remove the damn thing—”

“I'll reset the frequency of that part of the listening station. It's rather complicated, so I'll come over and do it myself sometime tomorrow.” Michael yawned outright, covering his mouth with his hand. “I'm beat.”

“Yes, drinking surely heightens the postflight effect.” I put down my empty glass, feeling no buzz, unless I counted the vibrating feeling of anxiety in my belly.

”The beer's going to help me sleep till six without waking. Or so I hope,” Michael added gloomily.

I nodded. “Everyone has a personal method of overcoming jet lag. If you're up early, give me a call. You can stop over and do what you need to with the listening station.”

“I don't want to be there when most of the tenants are there.” Michael yawned again. “Don't worry, I've still got a key. And I want to hear what's been taped over the last few days. Before we say good night, do you have anything else to mention?”

“Every time I'm home I've listened for a few hours,” I said. “There's plenty of chatter from the bugs I set up in the store, but nothing that seems like a highlight. I haven't yet caught anything about Mr. Fujiwara's death, but that's probably because it's improper for store employees to talk about things like that on the sales floor.”