With a quick, economical movement she raised her right hand and wiped the edge of one eye, then the other. “He told me about all the things he had been involved in, all the things he had done. He told me he wanted to do something to make it right, that he would have done something much sooner but he had been a coward, knowing he would be killed if he tried. He also said that he was afraid for me, that the people he was involved with wouldn’t hesitate to attack someone’s family to send a message. He was planning to do something now, something that would make things right, he told me, but if he did it I might be in danger.”
“What was he going to do?”
“I don’t know. But I told him I couldn’t accept being a hostage to a corrupt system, that if we were going to reconcile he would have to act without regard to me.”
I considered. “That was brave of you.”
She looked at me, in full control again. “Not really. Don’t forget, I’m a radical.”
“Well, we know he was talking to that reporter, Bulfinch, that he was supposed to deliver a disk. We need to figure out what was supposed to be on it.”
“How?”
“I think by contacting Bulfinch directly.”
“And telling him what?”
“I haven’t figured that part out yet.”
We were quiet for a minute, and I started to feel exhaustion setting in.
“Why don’t we get some sleep,” I said. “I’ll take the couch, all right? And we can talk more tomorrow. Things will seem clearer then.”
I knew they couldn’t become more murky.
12
I GOT UP early the next morning and went straight to Shibuya Station, telling Midori that I would call her later on her cell phone, after I picked up some things that I needed. I had a few items hidden in my place in Sengoku, among them an alias passport, which I’d want if I had to leave the country suddenly. I told her to go out only when she really had to, knowing that she would need to buy food and a change of clothes, and not to use plastic for any purchases. I also told her that, in case anyone had her cell phone number, we needed to keep our conversations brief, and that she should assume someone was listening to anything we said.
I took the Yamanote line to Ikebukuro, a crowded, anonymous commercial and entertainment center in the northwest of the city, then got off and flagged down a cab outside the station. I took the cab to Haku-san, a residential neighborhood about a ten-minute walk from my apartment, where I got out and dialed the voice-mail account that’s attached to the phone in my apartment.
The phone has a few special features. I can call in anytime from a remote location and silently activate the unit’s speakerphone, essentially turning it into a transmitter. The unit is also sound activated: if there’s a noise in the room, a human voice, for example, the unit’s speakerphone feature is silently activated and it dials a voice-mail account that I keep in the States, where telco competition keeps the price of such things reasonable. Before I go home, I always call the voice-mail number. If someone has been in my apartment in my absence, I’ll know.
The truth is, the phone is probably unnecessary. Not only has no one ever been in my apartment unannounced; no one even knows where I really live. I pay for a six-mat flat in Ochanomizu, but I never go there. The place in Sengoku is leased under a corporate name with no connection to me. If you’re in this line of work, you’d better have an additional identity or two.
I looked up and down the street, listening to the beeps as the call snaked its way under the Pacific. When the connection went through, I punched in my code.
Every time I’ve done this, except for when I periodically test the system, I’ve listened to a mechanical woman’s voice say, “You have no calls.” I was expecting the same today.
Instead the message was “You have one call.”
Son of a bitch. I was so startled I couldn’t remember what button to press to hear the message, but the mechanical voice prompted me. Barely breathing, I pressed the “one” key.
I heard a man’s voice, speaking Japanese. “Small place. Hard to catch him by surprise when he comes in.”
Another man’s voice, also in Japanese: “Wait here, on the side of the genkan. When he arrives, use the pepper spray.”
I knew that voice, but it took me a minute to place it — I was used to hearing it in English.
Benny.
“What if he doesn’t want to talk?”
“He’ll talk.”
I was gripping the phone hard. That piece of shit Benny. How did he track me down?
When did this message get recorded? What was that special-functions button . . . Goddamnit, I should have run through this a few more times for practice before it really mattered. I’d gotten complacent. I hit six. That speeded up the message. Shit. I tried five. The mechanical woman informed me that this message was made by an outside caller at 2:00 P.M. That was California time, which meant that they entered my apartment at about 7:00 this morning, maybe an hour ago.
Okay, change of plan. I saved the message, hung up, and called Midori on her cell phone. I told her I had found out something important and would tell her about it when I got back, that she should wait for me even if I was late. Then I backtracked to Sugamo, once notorious as the site of a SCAP prison for Japanese war criminals, now better known for its red-light district and accompanying love hotels.
I picked the hotel that was closest to Sengoku. The room they gave me was dank. I didn’t care. I just wanted a landline, so I wouldn’t have to worry about my cell phone battery dying, and a place to wait.
I dialed the phone in my apartment. It didn’t ring, but I could hear when the connection had gone through. I sat and waited, listening, but after a half hour there still wasn’t any sound and I started to wonder if they’d left. Then I heard a chair sliding against the wood floor, footsteps, and the unmistakable sound of a man urinating in the toilet. They were still there.
I sat like that all day, listening in on nothing. The only consolation was that they must have been as bored as I was. I hoped they were as hungry.
At around 6:30, while I was doing some judo stretches to keep limber, I heard a phone ring on the other end of the line. Sounded like a cellular. Benny answered, grunted a few times, then said, “I have something to attend to in Shibakoen — shouldn’t take more than a few hours.”
I heard his buddy answer, “Hai,” but I wasn’t really listening anymore. If Benny was going to Shibakoen, he’d take the Mita line subway south from Sengoku Station. He wouldn’t have driven; public transportation is lower profile, and there’s nowhere for nonresidents to park in Sengoku anyway. From my apartment to the station, he could choose more or less randomly from a half dozen parallel and perpendicular streets — one of the reasons I had originally chosen the place. The station was too crowded; I couldn’t intercept him there. Besides, I didn’t know what he looked like. I had to catch him leaving the apartment or I was going to lose him.
I bolted out of the room and flew down the stairs. When I hit the sidewalk I cut straight across Hakusan-dori, then made a left on the artery that would take me to my street. I was running as fast as I could while trying to hug the buildings I passed — if I timed this wrong and Benny emerged at the wrong moment, he was going to see me coming. He knew where I lived, and I couldn’t be certain any longer that he wouldn’t know my face.
When I was about fifteen meters from my street I slowed to a walk, staying close to the exterior wall of an enclosed house, controlling my breathing. At the corner I crouched low and eased my head out, looking to the right. No sign of Benny. No more than four minutes had passed since I’d hung up the phone. I was pretty sure I hadn’t missed him.