Girl in a Box (32 page)

They were high up enough not to hear me, so it was time to run. I emerged from my hiding place and quietly went down the remaining flights of stairs. I was about to head into the lobby when I caught sight of a security guard standing at the door. He was looking out the door to the alley, as if he was watching for possible interlopers.

Now I worried about Brian. I didn't think enough time had elapsed for him to reach the store by subway from Hiroo, but I needed to get out fast, not only to warn him but to ascertain if Michael was even in the garage. And this I'd have to do without being noticed.

I remembered the dim yellow emergency exit sign. It was situated in the back of the first floor, in a hallway that stretched out beyond personnel. This would be my only chance, I thought as I crept down the hallway, praying that the guard wouldn't suddenly turn around and scan the inside of the building, just in case. But when I reached the door at the end of the hall, I found that it was chained shut. Maybe I could have opened it with my tools, but chances were that I'd make so much noise I'd be caught before getting out.

What was my plan B?

In my head, I heard Michael talking.
If you create a commotion in the building, the guard will notice and leave the door. Distract him. Then get out.

I had to create a distraction. I felt quietly through my backpack, my hands closing over the tool kit itself. If I threw the tool kit hard, in the hallway, perhaps he'd leave the door. But I'd need to hide myself somewhere outside the hallway, so I could make it out myself without being apprehended.

This time, there was nothing as helpful as the bulky custodial cart I'd found upstairs. The best hiding spot I could find was an unlocked door, which I moved to an angle where I could hide behind it. But as I did, it creaked—and instantly I understood that that the guard had heard it too, because I could hear him moving in the lobby.

I threw the bag as far as I could, down the hall, and held my breath from behind the doorway as the guard rounded the corner and spotted the kit lying at the end of the hall. He hurried by, and after he was twenty feet past me, I slipped out of my doorway and sped off, through the front of the building and the door.

I ran past the orange cones barricading the garage. Since it was after hours, I'd assumed that there would be just a few cars in the garage, but there were unfortunately more than I'd expected. The Mitsuyama Mercedes, with its fancy lettering on the door, was close to the exit; I didn't think it would be an obvious choice for carrying a body, but I thumped on the trunk anyway, calling Michael's name. Nothing. I ran along the first floor, which sloped up, shining around cars with the tiny flashlight and thumping trunks. There were nine floors to the garage, I realized as I glanced upward—too long a trek to do quickly on foot and check every car. And who knew how good a check I could do, anyway? If Michael was gagged, I'd probably be unable to find him.

I spotted an electric cart parked near an elevator. It would be quiet, and it might have the key inside the ignition. I slid onto the its seat and found out that the ignition went on with the turn of a switch, which was just as good. I started the vehicle, switched on the headlights, then turned them off. It was better not to reveal my presence to the people who'd be entering the garage at any minute. But I felt more powerful in the cart than I'd felt when I was on foot, and I steered straight up to the next level, where I found three more cars to check. All the cars, I was beginning to realize, had stickers on their windshields with a printed personal name, and the Mitsutan emblem.

It seemed that some employees were allowed to park overnight. Perhaps Michael was in an employee's car, the car of one of the people involved in the plot. I'd already checked out Mrs. Okuma's car on the first level, and the Mitsuyama sedan; I hadn't been looking for names on the other cars on the first level, so I could have passed the cars of others at the store without knowing it.

Who would want to run the risk of carrying a victim in a trunk? When I'd been kidnapped in Washington, there had been many traces of fibers from my clothing, and DNA from my body, left behind for police analysis, which fortunately had led to a quick conviction. I couldn't imagine the Mitsuyamas taking such a great personal risk with any of their family cars. Someone else would have to take the fall.

The fourth and fifth floors were devoid of cars; but on six there was a Toyota Windom parked close to the elevator. I put the cart in park and then hurried toward the car, which was parked nose forward, and read the name on the parking sticker: Fujiwara. Of course. Why not put a body in a dead man's car? The owner wasn't likely to notice.

As I drew closer I shone my flashlight around the edge of the trunk, and I saw, from the space in the wheel wells, how much lower the back of the car was sitting. Something was in the trunk. And as I laid my hand on the hood, I felt a slight warmth which told me that it had been recently driven.

I hurried around to the back of the car and pressed my mouth close to the car trunk. I called out Michael's name, and felt something knock hard, against the trunk, from inside.

I had no tools with me, because I'd stupidly thrown away my tool kit in the annex, but there was an easier, faster way to open a car trunk. From the electric cart, I grabbed a tire jack and used it to smash the window on the driver's side. This set off the alarm, but there was no time to fret.

I pulled the car's trunk-release button, and the trunk bobbed open. Inside I saw what looked like a package, a bulky shape wrapped in heavy brown paper. I tore at it with my hands, not caring about scratches or anything except getting to the inside, getting to the contents.

Dark brown hair matted with something sticky. Pale skin, and a blue eye looking up at me. It was Michael, still alive.

As I tore at the stocking that bound Michael's mouth, he said, “There's no time for that, just get me out—”

He was panicked, but he had a point. I started working on the ties that bound his legs.

“Can't walk—”

“Why? Tell me, what did those bastards do to you?”

Michael didn't seem to hear my question. “Roll me out and hide me somewhere, then get the hell out yourself. Call Brian—this was my stupid mistake, and you're not going down, too—”

I interrupted him. “I've got an electric cart.”

Michael's eye suddenly looked less anxious, and I pushed down all my worries that I might not be able to enact the grand escape plan. At the outset, I was finding that moving a 165-pound man was quite difficult. I drove the cart to the edge of the car, and after I'd put on the emergency brake, slowly tugged Michael up and over. He let out a howl when he landed.

“I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you,” I said, trying to wedge him into a sitting position.

“It's nothing compared to—”

Michael cut off his words as we both heard the sounds of shouting, a few floors below. They'd come over from the annex very quickly; the fact that I'd set off the Windom's car alarm had probably helped things along. Whether they were going to take the elevator up to seven or drive up from ground level remained to be seen.

“Let's go.” I put the cart in gear.

“You're going to run straight into them, unless they're taking the elevator—” Michael craned his neck around to look at the elevators as I pushed the cart to its top speed of forty kilometers an hour.

“We have to get out.” I started following the signs for the exit as we could hear the car below, purring its way up.

“Did they see you come in?”

“No, but I think they knew somebody was in the annex. I created a distraction.” I slowed my speed slightly, because on the last turn Michael had almost fallen out.

“So they probably think I've got a helper, and they'll assume we're driving the car they stashed me in, because the alarm blew. They're probably blocking the exit ramp, to stop us.”

“Then you think I should—” I was already turning the cart in a careful circle.

“Exactly. Turn around and go down the other direction.”

I did it, keeping not to the left, Japanese-style, but the right, so that I could glance down over the edge, to look out for the oncoming car. And Michael pointed out to me that the elevator was in service, meaning that a second person or group was traveling upward.

“There!” I shouted to Michael, pointing. I could see the lights of a car traveling fast about a floor beneath us. It was traveling up the regular entry path, observing Japanese habit, despite the craziness of the situation. I'd been right and Michael wrong, but there was no time for blame.

“Through there!” Michael jerked his head toward a narrow gap between the garage's support pillars. I could only hope the cart was narrow enough to make it, as I edged through—it was, though the mirror on the driver's side broke off. A sharp left, and I was heading down the exit-only path.

I floored the accelerator, rushing downward, taking the curves so fast that Michael was again in danger of falling out. My cell phone was ringing in my lap, and Michael grabbed it and was suddenly shouting something to Brian.

We were heading into the first floor, out toward the pay booth, where there was no attendant, but still the wooden arm stretched downward, barring our way out. And as I slowed the cart so I could turn it to go out the way I'd come in, I saw Miyo Han. She was standing right next to the wooden arm barring our path.

Now I knew that I'd been right about someone following me outside. Miyo must have seen me slip into the annex and waited for me to emerge—at which point she'd followed me to the garage.

“It's a trap,” Michael shouted at me. “You're supposed to slow down and stop and they'll get us.”

“I can't run her over—”

“She's blocking our way. You will do it, Rei, you must—”

“I can't!” But I was going forward, hating myself, just as I saw Miyo's long, impossibly elegant leg flare out and kick out the wooden arm barring our path.

I surged forward, thanking God for sparing my friend, who'd jumped back so the cart could make it through.

We were out of the garage, free. But as I scanned the scene, I saw the headlights of a car turning into the alley, a situation that filled me with a fresh surge of panic until I realized that Brian Jones was jumping out of the passenger side. Within seconds he'd hauled Michael into the backseat and I'd jumped in right after him, just as the Mitsuyama Mercedes swerved out of the garage.

“Miyo!” I called out to my friend, but in vain. She'd run the other way, out of the alley. Well, at least she'd gotten away.

“They know we're in this car; we're sunk,” I moaned as the car we were in took off.

“They're not going to follow us.” Brian sounded confident.

“Why not?” I craned my head backward and saw that Brian was right: the car had stopped at the mouth of the garage.

“You didn't see what this car looks like.”

I looked out the window and down at the side of the car. It was white and bore the emblem of the Tokyo police department.

I looked at Brian's smiling face, completely shocked by the situation. Michael had said that we weren't supposed to let anyone know what we were doing, and Brian had said himself that only the three of us were working on the project. And here we were, tucked into a Japanese police cruiser—

“For obvious reasons, this vehicle is seldom used in our fleet,” Brian said. “I only take it out of the New Sanno's garage for special situations. The problem is, I don't know all the highways and byways, not to mention that I have an issue about being noticed. I had to ask Daisuke-san to help out—which is why we arrived a few minutes later than planned.”

A Japanese man, wearing a very real-looking cap of the Tokyo metropolitan police, didn't turn around, but I could see in the rearview mirror that he looked concerned.

“Sir, would you prefer to visit a particular hospital?” Daisuke's voice was calm.

“It'll call too much—attention—and I'm not that badly off,” Michael croaked. “I think my arm's broken, but that can wait.”

A broken arm. Now I understood why he'd screamed with pain when I'd practically dropped him into the cart.

“But you can't walk, you said—”

“Your legs go to sleep, after a few hours of being shut up in a trunk,” Michael said. “It's not a big deal.”

“We can get you treated at Yokota Air Base,” Brian said. “Daisuke-san, do we have enough gas to get out to Hachioji without stopping?”

Daisuke nodded and turned on his siren.

A day later, I was biting my lip, looking for the right move. And then I saw it.

“Checkmate,” I said to Michael, moving my knight over his.

“How did you do that? Damn it,” Michael said. “You're good.”

“You're not so bad either,” I said. “You won the last game.”

We were playing chess in a hospital room, Michael in his bed, and me on a hard plastic chair drawn close. It was an American hospital, and the small library of games available for bored patients consisted of chess, checkers, and Candy Land.

Just as there wasn't much choice in playing materials, there had not been a private room available; Michael was sharing with a twenty-one-year-old airman who'd survived Iraq only to have suffered nine broken bones in a motorcycle accident at Yokota Air Base. During one of the times that this veteran was in the bathroom, being helped by a nurse, Michael had told me how lucky he felt. He'd had his arm broken by the chief of security, and he had multiple bruises on his face and body, but all of it would heal. He'd wanted to get out of bed and go for a fast-paced walk, since he couldn't run until the arm was healed—but the doctor in charge had given orders to rest until further notice.

“I should be out of here,” Michael said. “In the States, I would have been out in three hours.”

“You will get out. You're just being held for rest and relaxation. I know it's not the lap of luxury, but it's a lot better than the car trunk. That's what Len said, anyway.” I was now on a first-name basis with Michael's boss, the shadowy Len Novak. Len had called me on the phone many times, all night long, not only for updates on Michael but for all of the things I'd uncovered about the links between Winston Brothers bank and Kanazawa-kai, and Mitsutan and Nozumi-gun. I, in turn, had plenty of questions for him. Specifically, how could OCI, without revealing itself, ensure that the Japanese police would arrest Masahiro Mitsuyama for ordering the murders of Mr. Fujiwara and Tyler Farraday; for masterminding a money-laundering cover-up; and last but certainly not least, for kidnapping and attempting to murder Michael.

Len's response was short and simple. He told me that he thought the situation would naturally resolve itself. Of course we had our doubts.

“If Len wants to do something nice for us, he should have a car arranged to take us to the New Sanno. I know they have rooms; I called to check,” Michael said.

“But that doesn't make sense. We're flying on a military air transport out of Yokota.” I studied the chessboard, pondering what I'd do after Michael made his move.

“We certainly are, but after we debrief at the embassy. It makes sense for us to stay in the city.”

“Okay, I'll push for getting us into the Sanno, though I wish you'd let me suggest Hotel Okura. It's much closer to the embassy and really charming.”

“More expensive, and less secure,” Michael said shortly. “By the way, what's going on with your friend Miyo?”

“Well, we've talked about some things, and she decided not to go back to work there.”

“Did anyone see her help us in the garage?”

I shook my head. “She doesn't think so; remember, they were a few levels above us when she kicked out the gate.”

“Excellent,” Michael said. “But she shouldn't work there again. It's just not safe.”

I looked at Michael steadily. “I had to tell Miyo some things in order to explain why I had to rescue you.”

“You did?”

“I told her that you were my boyfriend.” I flushed slightly, because it really was my secret fantasy. “I said you worked for people concerned about potential financial mismanagement at the store. I explained that I'd started working there to try to help you, and what she uncovered on the computer about my expenditures was evidence of internal corruption. That got her really upset and she wound up writing to the union representative for store workers, telling him to look at the difference between their purchases and store records of what they'd spent. And now the other salespeople think Mitsutan is somehow trying to cheat them out of their employee discounts, which is not exactly true, but is understandably wreaking havoc.”

Michael smiled slowly, and said, “I'm all for labor agitation, but what about her future?”

“Well, she may be going to New York on a student visa.”

“How so?”

“Archie's going back to Wall Street because he's left Winston Brothers and is interviewing at a bunch of other banks. He invited Miyo to accompany him.”

Michael's eyes widened. “That's a fast operator.”

“Who do you mean, Miyo or Archie?” I asked.

“Both, I suppose.”

“Some people understand what they want and aren't afraid to go for it.”

“Really,” said Michael, not looking away as he moved his knight over mine.

 

The news on television in Tokyo was all about labor unrest at Mitsutan, but this was about all that was reported. It frustrated me, after what we'd gone through. There seemed to be no justice; I knew who'd ordered the murders of Tyler and Mr. Fujiwara, and I also knew the organization, at least, behind the murder of Ravi Shah. But there wasn't a thing Michael or I could do about it. And as far as our own government was concerned, our bosses at Langley had been pleased with the information we'd provided, and relieved that we were leaving Tokyo alive—but that was all.

“I bet that somebody in Washington advises Jimmy DeLone not to invest in Japanese retail,” Michael said in the waning hours of our last night in Japan, as we sat at our regular table in the back of the New Sanno's Embarcadero Lounge. He was drinking a Bud Lite, and I was nursing a cup of coffee that had grown cold during the hour we'd been there.

“Back in D.C., that's what I told you I thought the mission was originally about,” I reminded him.

“No, it was on the plane from California. You knew, even then. You always seem to know.” Michael's eyes remained on me so long that I felt uncomfortable.

“I guess this means that Supermart shoppers, and our stock market, will be untouched by the
yakuza
. I only wish it were the same situation for the Japanese.”

“They're entrenched, Rei.” Michael shook his head. “We just have to accept that this is part of the way Japan operates, just as others put their loathing aside and accept that in our country, almost anyone can buy a gun.”

My mind flashed back to Michael's suggestion that we had unfinished business to take care of in Tokyo. Maybe, in his mind, it had meant a drink in this place, when I'd thought we were going to do something to take care of what had been left undone.

I couldn't look at him another moment without breaking down, so I shifted my gaze upward, to the television screen over the bar. It had been fixed on the Pentagon channel, but now was flickering with the other channels that the Armed Forces Network beamed into the hotel. Apparently the bartender, a young Japanese woman, was looking for something to entertain herself, because there were no others in the bar except Michael and me, and we had been intent on each other, not the television.

A game show with Japanese dressed in silly costumes flashed by, as did a sign of a pirate holding a sword at someone's throat. Then I saw Warren Kravitz standing before a lectern, bowing his head, and then one of the Desperate Housewives locked with a hunky man in a kiss—

“Back to NHK news, please!” I shouted, jumping up and waving at the bartender, who looked displeased at my request, but switched back to channel eleven.

The television had no sound, but English subtitles ran across the bottom of the screen. Apparently Warren Kravitz, a vice president of Winston Brothers Tokyo branch, was cooperating with Japan's Financial Services Agency in an investigation of possible irregularities at the bank. Next, a photograph of Ravi's face flashed on the screen, followed by that of a Japanese government official holding a paper—a typed e-mail sent by Ravi from an Internet café in the early morning hours before his death. The letter categorized the irregularities at the bank, suggesting a possible involvement with the gangster organization Kanazawa-kai. It also mentioned the dates when Ravi had contacted Warren Kravitz with this information, and his boss's refusal to discuss the situation.

“Did you tell him anything about Warren?” Michael's eyes were fixed on the type going across the screen.

“Of course not! But I did mention Fincen, and tell him they were on the web. He must have done something the last night he was alive.”

Michael lowered his voice. “The police think he was pushed into his own apartment, from the outside, by an intruder. Maybe he was caught on his way back from the café. It all makes sense now.”

I shut my eyes to blink back the tears as the television ended its story and switched to breaking news about toothpaste. When I opened my eyes, I saw that Michael was watching me.

“I'm going upstairs, to turn on my own television, just in case there's more to the story later on.” I had to get away from him, because I didn't want him to think that all I did was cry.

“There will be more news—but probably not tonight. What Ravi did changes everything, Rei, don't you realize?”

“I suppose it might cause some trouble for Warren.”

“That's putting it mildly! The only way Warren will avoid being charged in your friend's murder, I bet, is if he can become an informant.” Michael leaned over the table, so close that I could feel the warmth of his breath. “I think he's going to wind up spilling everything about the dirty money the bank took in, and perhaps even the orders that the Kanazawa-kai bosses gave him to publicize the money-laundering operation run by their rivals at Mitsutan.”

“It could happen,” I agreed, still feeling cautious. “Warren Kravitz is an American citizen, and I bet he'd do anything to enable himself to be sent home to a nice white-collar prison rather than be imprisoned in a Japanese jail.”

“That's right,” Michael said. “And to take your hypothesis a step further, if the Kanazawa-kai people go on the stand, they'd prefer to be charged with money laundering, I think, than murder. My guess is they'll reveal that Masahiro Mitsuyama himself was the one who ordered Fujiwara's death.”

“I have the tape to prove it. What a shame I can't share it with anyone.”

“Maybe you can. The tape could certainly arrive by special courier on the desk of a certain police chief I trust. They could do what they want with it, I'd think.”

“I'd like that,” I said.

“Good. I think I'll put together a small package and leave it with Brian before we go to the airport tomorrow. There will be no mention of our names or agency or how we made the recording. Just the evidence, pure and simple.”

 

I tossed and turned in my bed that night, thinking about how I'd have to seem sharp for the debriefing at the American embassy the next morning, and immediately afterward head out to Yokota for what was bound to be a noisy, uncomfortable flight on a military plane back to the United States. And from that point, I'd have a few hours' rest before going with Michael to Langley to tell our story in more detail.

I wasn't even sure that I wanted to work at OCI anymore. Weeks earlier, I had been thrilled by the excitement and importance of spy work. But after what had happened in Mitsutan's annex and garage, I felt shaken. As much as I appreciated what OCI had given me—chiefly advanced language training and a steady paycheck—I couldn't see making a habit of close brushes with death.

Truthfully, what I'd loved most about my job at OCI was working with Michael. I stared at the ceiling, thinking about the many cozy mornings we'd read newspapers together in the office at Pentagon City, and the stolen lunch hour when we'd sat within touching distance of each other at the Kabuki-za, covertly passing information. I'd loved drinking with Michael, playing chess with him, having him zip me into a tricky evening dress.

No, I corrected myself. It wasn't that I loved working with Michael; I was starting to love him. But what could I do? If I quit OCI, I would probably never see Michael again. If I stayed on at the agency keeping my feelings hidden, life would also be unbearable.

The glow-in-the-dark alarm clock said it was one o'clock. I was never going to get to sleep, rolling around on my bed, alternately dreaming about Michael's mouth and punishing myself for my inappropriate thoughts.

He was the next room over, and probably still awake, because I heard a soft sound of music. It was the classic rock and roll soundtrack that accompanied the New Sanno's own television channel, which showed a continuous loop of video scenes at the hotel: footage of military guys in shorts and T-shirts running on the hotel's treadmill, checking in at the front desk with their families, and serving fruit from the Sunday brunch buffet to pretty Japanese friends. I knew the video by heart because the television had been on in my room when I'd been dressing for bed.

I wrapped a blue-and-white cotton
yukata
robe over my nightgown, something diaphanous and white that ended mid-thigh in a cascade of lace. It was not from Mitsutan but something I'd received at an engagement shower about a million years ago. I didn't know whether I was disloyal to be wearing this see-through gown for Michael, or if it meant I'd finally gotten over my painful past.

I slipped out of the room, being careful to place my key card in my pocket, in the event I'd be sent back in disgrace. But a moment after I'd knocked on Michael's door, he opened it.

Michael swept me in and locked and chained the door behind me. His voice was urgent. “What's happened?”

“Everything's okay,” I reassured him. He had clearly tumbled out of bed, because he was wearing just a pair of boxers and was bare-chested. My eyes zoomed to his chest, well-defined pectorals covered with springy salt-and-pepper hair.