Girl in a Box (28 page)

I'd been thinking on too large a scale, and not about the immediate business at hand. I tried again. “I didn't know you had the responsibility to sell directly to Japanese clients—do you speak to them in Japanese?”

“No, we have Japanese employees who do that—some of them are inside that room. They handle the Japanese clients, and also other Asians—guys from Korea, China, and even India. A lot of them buy using cash.” Ravi looked disapproving.

“Well, isn't that normal, to some extent? Doesn't financing a bond purchase require a credit line? And it's really hard for people to get credit in Japan, especially foreigners.”

“Yes, but to buy things like bonds, it's supposed to be done with a bank transfer from a normal, recognized financial institution. Or, if it's not a wire transfer, there should be a personal check drawing from the account of a known bank. But I see messengers coming in with these big envelopes full of old bills. And they don't even bother to wait for a receipt from anyone, just drop it off.”

I nodded, remembering the envelope I'd seen in Melanie Kravitz's bag. “What do they look like—the envelopes?”

“They're big, I don't know, the standard kind of envelopes used for business. And they're always sealed with wax. No name on the envelope, just that wax seal.”

“I don't suppose it looks like this?” From an old beaded Judith Lieber evening purse that once belonged to my mother, I withdrew the two halves of the red seal that had been on the envelope Melanie had broken. I'd transferred the seal from my Mitsutan uniform pocket to the makeup case inside my Coach backpack earlier in the day for safekeeping, and the makeup case had naturally been packed in my evening bag for quick touch-ups.

Ravi looked at me suspiciously and said, “Yes, this might be the same. How did you get it?”

“Melanie dropped it when she was opening an envelope in the store.” I paused, letting the significance sink in. “Now, the question I have is what the emblem on the wax means.”

“I don't know,” Ravi said, his forehead furrowed in concentration. We examined the seal together; it looked like a tree, with some strong lines emanating from it. Suddenly I remembered all the
yakuza
reference books in my apartment; one of them had a section on gang symbols. I would look at it later on.

“I know that to accept an envelope like this, without any kind of deposit slip, let alone identification, is wrong. I've reminded the Japanese guys I work with of our policy, and they just keep smiling and saying yes, yes, yes! The deliveries, I think, are now coming whenever I take my lunch; I'm not supposed to know it's still going on.”

“So you want to talk to Warren Kravitz about this?”

“Yes! As I told you, I sent him an e-mail to which he never responded, though I know he at least opened the message. We have a way of checking that—”

“I see. Did you try again?”

He shrugged. “I called him on the phone. My computer crashed last week, and the idiots from the tech department are taking their time fixing it. I'm pretty powerless without that computer. That's part of the reason I was out with Archie last night; I had nothing to do.”

I studied Ravi for a minute and asked, “Does your bank have anything to do with Mitsutan?”

“You mean, are they our client? No. They have their own bank and credit division, I understand.”

“So there's no relationship whatsoever?” I paused. “I heard that a guy who was modeling at Mitsutan wanted a job with your bank.”

“You knew Tyler Farraday?” Ravi's voice was low and urgent.

“No, I just heard some scuttlebutt. What happened at the bank?”

“Well, from what I heard, he used to take some of the bankers' wives around—which didn't make a whole lot of sense, given the age gap.”

I smiled, thinking how very traditional Ravi was when it came to certain things.

“Some of the guys were, like, trying to impress him, so they shot some salary talk around. I gather after that he showed up at personnel with a résumé, but it never went anywhere, and then, a few weeks later, he died. I feel pretty bad about it,” Ravi said.

“It wasn't your fault. Sounded like he had a lot of drugs in his system, and he drowned.”

“I could have stepped in, not let the others make him so crazy with jealousy over money. Maybe he had a sense of failure, and that's why he died.”

“Maybe,” I said, wishing I could reassure Ravi, but that would be saying too much. “Getting back to your own work problem, I wonder if perhaps you should stop trying to talk to Warren Kravitz. What you know could be a matter for that new Japanese government agency that is trying to wipe out money laundering.”

“So you think it sounds like money laundering, too.” Ravi's voice had sunk to a whisper. “Surely the proper thing is to tell my boss first. Don't you think?”

The sealed dirty-money envelope had Warren's name on it. I shook my head vehemently at Ravi. I said, “No! You should be careful. Why do you suppose your computer's still out of order?”

“I have no idea, because the guys from tech support don't speak much English at all.”

“Maybe someone wanted to make all the evidence of your outgoing e-mail disappear. And there could be an interest in other messages you've sent and received, too.”

Ravi blinked. “You mean—someone's spying on me?”

“I don't know.” I paused. “Did you keep a printout of that e-mail?”

Ravi shook his head. “Too much clutter. And I knew it was on the computer, so I could always pull it up again.”

“Ravi, after your computer's working again, don't send any important messages to anybody.”

“Archie said the same thing. He recommends that I should just lie low and let the company business go on as usual.”

“If you want to tell someone, like I said, there's a Japanese agency that handles these matters. You can find them on the Internet, and the website's in English as well as Japanese.” I thought some more. “Since it's an American bank, and you're a little—unfamiliar—with Japanese ways, you could, as an alternative, contact someone in the American government. What would you think of that?”

“I wouldn't know where to begin,” Ravi said.

“Well, there's a specific group called Fincen that investigates banks that break laws,” I said. “You can even find them on the web.”

“Really.” Ravi looked at me speculatively. “Who are you really, Rei Shimura, that you know these people?”

“Think of me like the big sister you never had.” I patted his shoulder. “Let's go back to the others, and don't worry anymore.”

The party broke up around one—early by my usual standards, but late for me tonight. I said good-bye to Miyo, who was riding in a taxi with the guys over to Roppongi Hills, where, presumably, she'd continue her evening with Archie. I warned her not to do anything too fast; coming from me, this advice was actually quite ironic.

In the taxi, I watched the meter tick upward, feeling relieved that I had the money to pay for it. Earlier that day, I'd gone to my bank's ATM and discovered I had funds galore—not just the expense account advance, but my latest biweekly pay check from the Department of Defense.

The whole mishap with the credit card, I'd figured out, was the result of a fourteen-hour time difference between Langley and Tokyo. My paycheck was deposited in the Citibank account every other Friday morning. During the time that Mitsutan's credit card company had attempted to withdraw money, it was actually still Thursday in the United States, so my paycheck hadn't been deposited.

I was glad the funds were there, because I could quickly pay back the credit division in cash on Monday, and—I hoped—avert any further negative attention. Bad credit was the kind of complication that could lead to an investigation of who I really was—surely not a banker's daughter, after all.

My taxi had stopped outside the apartment building in Hiroo. I asked for a receipt and reached into my bag for money to pay the driver. I glanced through the window at the building, where all the lights were out, save the one in the vestibule. Then I hesitated.

The vestibule light shone over a car parked in front of the building, in the no-parking zone. This wouldn't be remarkable except that four people were inside, waiting, judging from four faint pinpoints of light from the interior: cigarettes.

“I'm sorry, but this isn't the spot. Can you drive on?” I asked the driver.

“Heh?”

“I just realized I don't have my key, I'm so sorry.”

“Can't your parents let you in?”

“No, I want to do something different. Can you make a U-turn and head back toward Hiroo Station?”

“Of course.” He made a quick three-point turn and we went sailing out of the alley. I turned around and saw that the other car had sprung to life and was backing up in the alley.

This was exactly what I hoped wouldn't happen. My options were so limited. I couldn't go to the Japanese police; nor could I lead whoever was tailing me to the embassy. It was hard to think of where I could disappear safely.

“How about Roppongi Hills?” I said to the driver. I scrambled in my purse for Miyo's cell phone number. She'd be able to tell me the exact address of Archie's apartment, and if she and Archie were otherwise engaged, maybe they could give me Ravi's address.

“Roppongi Hills is a large area. Do you know where you want to go?” The cabbie sounded wary.

“Isn't the mall open?”

“Not at this hour. Please be more specific.”

“Um, I'm sorry to say, but I don't like the look of the car following this vehicle. Do you think you might be able to lose it on the way?”

“How? I don't understand.”

“Drive fast, take some turns, go backward—you know!”

“This isn't a movie,” he said stiffly. “I'm not a stunt driver. If there's a problem, you should go to the police box.”

The man was hopeless. Abandoning my plan not to call Michael, I rang his cell phone, which he answered with a yawn.

I began, “I'm sorry to wake you, but there's a problem.”

“What is it, Sis?” He sounded more alert.

“I saw a car outside the building, and I had my taxi drive me away from it, but they're following us.”

“Have the taxi shake him.”

“The driver can't do it. He's very timid!”

“Where are you?”

“Well, we're heading toward Roppongi Hills. My hope is that he could get up on the Shuto Expressway and, at a higher speed, escape the tail, but this is kind of guy who clearly does not want to break the law.”

“There's a chance he's working in cooperation with the tail. Rei, this could be really bad.”

Michael was clearly upset—so upset that he'd forgotten not to say my name aloud. I was scared, but Michael's being scared for me was even worse. I tried to reassure us both. “It can't be. He was a regular driver I saw outside the American Club dropping off a couple going in. I only take taxis under those circumstances, just like you taught me. And he's nervous himself; he even suggested going to a police box.”

“Of course you told him no—”

“Of course!”

“You'd better come to the New Sanno.”

“But that's—American government territory! That'll blow the cover—”

“Not exactly. I want you to pass by, and I'll create a distraction with a vehicle or something so that you can get away. But right now, get him to drive around a while longer in brightly lit, busy parts of town. I'll need at least fifteen minutes to get into position. And right now, I need a full description of the car behind you and the taxi itself.”

I did that as best I could. The sedan was dark—it was hard to tell the color at night—and there was no license plate on the front. About my own vehicle, I could at least give the license number, which was displayed on interior paperwork along with the driver's picture, and I mentioned that there was an advertisement on top of the taxi for DoCoMo telephone.

“Excellent. Now, I want you to phone my cell as you're approaching Tengenjibashi Crossing. Okay?”

“I will.” I clicked off, feeling even more nervous than when I'd first picked up the phone.

Fifteen minutes felt more like fifty as we drove on. I'd spent over 10,000 yen on the cab ride so far. The driver was distracted by now; I could see him glancing in his rearview mirror continually, at the car behind us.

“What did you do, to make these people follow you?”

“Long story,” I said, glancing at my watch. “If we took a turn back toward Tengenjibashi Crossing now, how long do you think it would take us to reach there?”

“If we go a back way, five minutes; the long way, ten—”

“Go the long way, please! I mean, whatever way is well lit and has lots of people.”

“Hai, hai
. I'll do that. Though I still think we should visit the police box—”

“No! We'll be fine,” I barked, too distracted to focus on anything else beyond getting to Tengenjibashi Crossing and praying that whatever plan Michael had in place would work.

Finally, the pedestrian bridge with its anti-American graffiti message loomed up ahead. I punched redial and got Michael on the line.

“We're approaching the crossing, about to turn left toward the hotel—”

“Get his speed down to thirty kilometers an hour, and pass the tractor-trailer sticking out in the road. We're waiting for you.” He shouted at the end, presumably to someone other than myself.

My heart felt about to jump out of the tight dress as my driver made the left turn and decreased his speed. He drove up the divided street where the New Sanno lay ahead.

The heavy gates leading to the delivery area were open, and I saw a tractor-trailer halfway out of the driveway, its cab edged into the first lane. A group of men—one of them Michael, I realized; the others part of the hotel's security force—stood in the shadows of the gate.

“Keep going, the tractor-trailer's waiting, it won't hit us!” I urged the cabdriver to pass the idling vehicle, and in the split second after he'd passed the driveway, the tractor-trailer charged into the street, across all three lanes, so that the car behind us was cut off.

“Go, go, go!” I shouted at my driver. “Up on the Shuto Expressway, please.”

“North or south?”

“Doesn't matter! Just go. Please!” There was no need to panic, I knew, but all the adrenaline surged so fast I couldn't help raising my voice. And the driver, to his credit, finally was driving fast.

I picked up the phone and said, “Thank you.”

Michael laughed into the receiver. “You know, I actually wanted to be the one driving the truck, but union regulations precluded that.”

“I'm glad you were the one watching out.” I felt my pulse slowing. “What happened to the guys who were following me?”

“Well, they reversed the car all the way back to Tengenjibashi Crossing. Don't know where they're heading now, but I suggest you forget about going back to the apartment. I'll get over there tonight with armed backup, and we'll pack everything out that we need to.”

Michael didn't carry a gun, ever; nobody was supposed to do that, in OCI. It was one of the things that had reassured me about working for the agency. But now I felt secretly relieved that he did have people to help him, who could protect him in what had to be a very dangerous situation.

“Any idea where you think I should go?”

“I've already decided on the Grand Hyatt. We have a corporate account there, and you liked that place last time you were here.”

“Yes, but isn't that a bit—extravagant?”

“After we finish this call, I'll make a reservation. The room's going to be under the name Michael Flynn. And don't go directly there; have Robert DeNiro leave you at one of the Roppongi Hills restaurants and make your way to the hotel after he's gone.”

The new task had me panicked. “How can I check in under an American man's name? And I don't have my charge card with me—”

“I'll book it using my credit card over the phone. I'll lead them to think you're my wife, and that I'll be joining you there shortly.”

“But you're not really going to do that,” I said, feeling the way I often did around him: a sickening mixture of anticipation, nerves, and despair.

“I'll be there, but I have to handle some business first. Just go to bed. I'll be a while.”

 

Even though the Grand Hyatt was a very popular hotel, its reception area always seemed deserted, an illusion created by the height of the ceiling and the sparse furniture in the granite-floored space. It looked even deader than usual when I arrived at two. As always, there was a small, alert team of employees waiting at the desk. The same woman who'd courteously welcomed me when I'd last stayed there, in the fall, didn't seem to recognize me this time. Maybe I looked very different, or she was being the soul of discretion. In any case, she greeted me courteously as Mrs. Flynn, and after ascertaining the obvious—that I had no luggage, save for a small purse—had a bellman escort me upstairs, down a long, golden corridor to the room Michael had booked.

It was much bigger than the room I'd had before: a suite, which was as minimally chic as every other space in the hotel. The bed was king-size, not queen-size, and there was a large bathroom and a modern, armless sofa that could serve as a bed in the living room. The bellman pointed out the illuminated Tokyo Tower, which could be seen from the sitting-room and bedroom windows; but the minute he left, I closed the shades electronically.

I was glad that Michael had given me the go-ahead to sleep, because I was thoroughly drained, and the thought of heading off to work at Mitsutan in a little over seven hours was making me even more exhausted. As I unbound my tight dress and slid between luxuriously thick cotton sheets, something Ravi had said niggled at the edge of my mind. What was it? I knew it was important…but it was just out of my range.