by Mark Dawson
It was possible.
He scurried across the room to his laptop and opened it. He had hacked the apartment’s CCTV cameras long ago. His first destination was the files that stored all the footage that had been backed up. It was over a terabyte, covering a week’s worth of comings and goings, and, undoubtedly, recording him. It would show him in the lobby, in the elevator, which floor he exited on and which apartment he went into. He triggered a subroutine that deleted it and then wrote over the memory so that it was gone for good.
Then, he navigated to the control panel and selected all of the cameras inside the lobby and on the street outside. It took him only three cameras before he found the view he was looking for: there was one on the corner of the building, looking down at an angle that took in the entrance and the street around it. There was a car on the opposite side of the road to the building. It was a Range Rover, big and bulky and with blacked-out windows.
It was the car that had delivered the Yakuza to the underground lot.
He focused on the car and zoomed the camera just as the passenger door opened and a man stepped outside. He was smoking a cigarette and Ziggy watched in fright as he glanced up at the camera, before catching himself, realising that he couldn’t know that he was being observed. The man dropped the butt and ground it underfoot. He went around the car and opened the rear door that faced the hotel and the camera. Ziggy got only a glimpse, but it was long enough for him to recognise the slim figure of the woman in the back seat. It was Shoko. There was no doubt about it. She had led them here.
Ziggy stared at the screen, his mind racing through possibilities. Shoko had followed him one time. That was obvious now. But she couldn’t know which apartment he was in. Ziggy had tried more than once to bring her back, but now he was grateful that he had failed. There were over a hundred apartments inside the building. He had rented this one under a false Japanese name. The concierge would have no way of knowing which one was his, and the footage that would provide the answer was wiped. How would they be able to find out which one was his? What would they do? Try every door?
He slid down to the floor, slumping back so that he was pressed against the cupboard door.
He didn’t know what to do.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE VOYAGE proceeded without incident. They had waited inside the metal box for twelve hours, sweltering as the sun beat down on it, before they had been craned onto the deck of the freighter. The ship was the MSC Maris, a large freighter with a deadweight of 63,500 tons and capacity for more than four thousand containers. It was owned and operated by a German company, and the crew member who had finally opened the container and let in the late afternoon sun was a big, tattooed Austrian. Milton and Matilda had stepped out and gulped in the air tangy with salt and followed the choppy wake to where the port was a fast-disappearing smudge on the horizon.
They had been given a suite on F Deck. It was generously proportioned, over thirty square metres with a double bedroom, a separate sitting room and a functional bathroom. Milton had insisted that Matilda take the bed, choosing the sofa for himself.
The crossing between Melbourne and Auckland was scheduled to take six days, but the sea was as flat as a millpond and they made good time, shaving off a day en route. It was a comfortable voyage, and Milton took the opportunity to decompress. There was a library in the crew quarters and, to his surprise, he found a battered copy of the Big Book. That wasn’t surprising, he concluded when he considered it. There were long periods of inaction to fill during a voyage, and it was no wonder that some crew members might choose to fill their downtime with drink. The previous owner of the book had marked up several passages that Milton also favoured; it was a poor substitute for a meeting, but he felt a connection with the man, whoever he was, the sense of fellowship that was the most powerful benefit of the program.
Milton was the most relaxed he had been for days. There was almost no prospect of threat while they were at sea. And Walter had been as good as his word. The money—plus the threat to his well-being that would have materialised with anything untoward—had served to provide them with safe passage. Milton’s anxiety had increased a touch as the skyline of Auckland hove into view, his worry focusing on the practicality of going ashore without arousing suspicion.
As it turned out, his concern had been misplaced. Their Austrian chaperone had led them back to the same container that had been used to smuggle them aboard. They waited inside it once again, listening to the crashing of metal as cranes hauled the surrounding containers off the deck, and then there came the stomach-churning moment as it was their turn. The container swung to and fro as it was hauled into the air. Milton and Matilda anchored themselves to one another and then braced themselves for the thud of impact as they were positioned onto the back of a tractor trailer. The locking mechanism thumped as the bolts secured the container to the trailer bed and then a big engine growled to life. They were jostled together again as the tractor pulled away; their journey lasted an hour before they heard the hiss of the brakes and felt the deceleration.
The doors were opened and the cool night air disturbed the stifling humidity that had left them both covered in sweat. The driver said nothing as they clambered down. They were on the edge of the city, the glow of the neon announcing it to the south. It was a truck stop, their disembarkation hidden among dozens of identical vehicles.
Their own truck drove away, headed south toward Wellington.
Milton and Matilda paused for an hour, refuelling with a quick meal, before beginning the long walk back to the city.
* * *
THE LIGHTS of Tokyo glowed beneath them as the jet descended to Narita airport. Milton knew how big the city was, but it was especially evident from above. It sprawled in all directions, nearly fourteen million people going about their business, a billion busy points of light that glittered and glowed. The perspective was narrowed as the plane closed on the runway and then, as the wheels thudded down, it was reduced to a fast-accelerating parallax as the hangars and buildings and then the terminal rushed by the windows.
The eleven-hour flight from Auckland had been uneventful. Milton had even been able to sleep, which was unusual for him. He awoke to Matilda nudging him with her elbow. They were on their final approach.
The jet taxied to the gate; they disembarked and made their way through the terminal. There was a small queue for the immigration desks, but, with typically understated efficiency, additional staff appeared and the queue dissipated quickly. Milton thought about the fake documents and trusted that they would hold up to inspection. They had stood up to scrutiny as they had passed through security at Changi airport in Singapore. Matilda went up first and her papers were given a brief inspection.
Milton used the pause to consider the message from Ziggy that he had received on board the freighter. The ship’s library had two PCs that were connected to the Internet. The message had been left in a forum that they had used to exchange information before. Milton had left the first message and then, with surprising haste, Ziggy had responded. He had explained that he had found himself in a spot of bother, and Milton would need to assist if at all possible. He was brief on the detail, suggesting that he had run into trouble with local toughs and that he was unable to leave his apartment.
Milton had rolled his eyes with mild exasperation. Ziggy was a bona fide genius, but he lacked common sense. That had nearly got him killed in New Orleans on the night before Katrina, and Milton had hoped—vainly, as it soon turned out—that the experience might have taught him to temper his more foolish ideas. Ziggy didn’t explain what had happened to him this time, but Milton didn’t really need to know. It could wait. And, in the meantime, he would proceed with caution when they got there. Forewarned was forearmed, after all.
The border guard waved Matilda through and tapped on the window.
Milton looked up at him, smiled, and walked forward. The guard said nothing, checked his passport, and handed it back.
�
�Welcome to Japan.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
THERE WAS a taxi rank outside the terminal building. Milton nodded to the nearest driver, opened the rear door and waited for Matilda to get inside. He followed. Milton told the man to take them to Yoyogi Park. The driver grunted his assent and pulled into the slow-moving snake of traffic that led away from the airport and onto the main road into the city. Milton glanced through the window and took it all in. The vastness of the city, the dazzling Rainbow Bridge in Odaiba, the vaulting skyline and, standing tall in the Roppongi Hills, the stunningly lit ziggurat of the Tokyo Tower.
“This guy,” Matilda said as they passed to the north, Tokyo Bay to the right of the cab. “Anything I need to know?”
“He’s an acquired taste,” Milton said after a moment of deliberation.
“Meaning?”
“He’s a bit strange. I can’t really describe him.”
She looked at him dubiously. “Strange?”
“A mad genius,” he concluded.
“And he’s worth coming here to see?”
“He is. But you can make up your own mind.”
Ziggy’s apartment block was near to the park. Milton and Matilda walked down the sidewalk toward it. They were on the opposite side of the street and Milton was paying close attention to his surroundings, just as he always did. There was a gentle flow of traffic in both directions, expensive cars that denoted the money that resided in the neighbourhood. They passed a few pedestrians, salarymen coming back home from work and glossy women walking miniature dogs.
There was a line of cars parked on their side of the street, but only one of them, a big Range Rover, was occupied. They walked toward it.
“Hold my hand,” Milton said, reaching down and taking Matilda’s hand in his.
There were two men in the car. Milton quickly glanced in at them as they went by: black hair, medium build, one wearing a pair of sunglasses. The man in the passenger seat, adjacent to them, had his arm hanging loose out of the open window. His skin was coloured by a lurid sleeve of tattoos. He wore a gold Rolex that looked somehow even more obscene against the green and red ink.
Milton led the way across the street and, without looking back, headed into the lobby of the building. It was finished in polished marble, with a leather banquette fitted into one corner. A man was seated there, wearing a tracksuit top with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His forearms were tattooed. The man had been dozing, but, as the door sighed closed behind them, he looked up. Milton smiled innocently at him and then looked away, towards the concierge, who sat behind a marble desk. He was reading a newspaper and he looked up quizzically. Milton knew that they couldn’t afford to be stopped. If the man realised that they were not residents, he would ask them who they were here to see. He couldn’t very well give him Ziggy’s name.
Milton put his arm around Matilda’s shoulders and drew her closer to him, giving the concierge a confident nod and, without breaking stride, walked on into the elevator lobby.
He summoned the lift.
“The guy back there?” Matilda said as the doors slid closed behind them.
“Not someone we want to stop and chat to.”
* * *
MILTON HAD arranged with Ziggy that it would be Matilda who knocked on his door. He waited in the elevator lobby and kept watch as she made her way down the corridor. It was hushed, with just the faintest sound of activity from the nearest apartments. He heard a muffled television, an animated conversation between a man and a woman, the sound of a toilet flushing. He held his breath as he saw one of the elevators ascending from the ground floor, but, as he stood ready for the doors to open, ready to ascertain whether the occupant was a threat or not, the numbers kept ticking up and the lift continued.
He looked back down the corridor. Matilda was outside the door for apartment number 1911. He gave her a nod and, returning the gesture, she rapped her knuckles against it.
The door opened. Milton heard Ziggy’s voice and then, cautiously, his head appeared. His face was painted with anxiety.
Milton walked briskly down the corridor, walked on a few paces to check that they were unobserved from both ends, and then returned and stepped inside.
The apartment was almost unbearably hot. As far as Milton could make out, there were two reasons for the warmth. First, and most importantly, was the source: a large number of computers and monitors that must have been pumping out an enormous amount of heat. A quick glance revealed ten different screens of varying sizes, and Milton guessed that there were others around the corner of the room, out of view. The heat needed to be ventilated, but the windows were obscured by thick drapes whose stillness suggested that the windows behind them were closed.
“Ziggy,” Milton said, “it’s like an oven in here. Open a window.” He started for the nearest curtain, but Ziggy intercepted him.
“No,” he said. “You have to leave them shut. There’s another block opposite us. What if they have someone there, looking into the windows over here? They’ll see me. They’ll know where I am.”
“Jesus, man,” Milton said. “How long have you been cooped up in here?”
“I don’t know. I’ve almost lost track. A week.”
Milton was about to suggest that Ziggy was paranoid, but he had seen the men downstairs. “You need to relax,” he said instead and, gently moving him aside, he pulled the curtain back and opened the French door to the balcony beyond. He glanced across the street to the building opposite; it was possible that they might have a watcher over there, but the room needed ventilation and he was prepared to take the risk. Seeing that Ziggy was about to make an objection, however, he drew the curtains almost all the way together again.
Milton turned back into the room and looked at Ziggy more carefully. He was unshaven and his clothes looked as if he had been wearing them for several days. His eyes were frightened, and, at the sound of a door slamming in the corridor outside, he gave a visible jump.
“Take it easy.”
“It’s the Yakuza, Milton. The fucking Yakuza.”
“The Yakuza?” Matilda said.
“Gangsters.”
“I know who they are. You didn’t say anything about gangsters.”
“I didn’t know,” Milton said.
“So you got me abducted in Australia and now you bring me to the apartment of a man who says he’s being chased by gangsters?”
“Abducted—?” Ziggy began.
“It’s been an interesting week,” Milton interrupted them both.
He went around to the kitchen and rinsed out two dirty glasses. He filled them with water and gave one to Matilda.
“You better tell me what’s been going on.”
“I got involved in something I shouldn’t have been involved in.”
“Which was what?”
“I stole a car. Well, a few cars, actually. The last one belonged to a Yakuza. That guy.”
He pointed to an open laptop on the table. Milton went over and looked at the webpage on the screen. It was an entry from a database used by the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department. It looked like a rap sheet. There was a man’s photograph and a long list beneath it in Japanese. The man was glaring into the camera, a bored and lazy enmity in his eyes. He was certainly a formidable-looking man.
“His name is Tadamasa Sawanda.”
“Never heard of him.”
“He’s senior. Likes his cars. I stole one belonging to him. And then I wrote it off.”
“Not very sensible.”
Ziggy shrugged miserably.
“This might be a stupid question,” Milton said, “but why did you steal it?”
“I was an idiot. There was a girl. I was trying to impress her and… things got out of hand.”
Milton didn’t say anything, although his expression was eloquent. He crossed the room and pushed the balcony curtains aside again. He stepped out into the muggy heat and looked down into the street. The Range Rover was still parked on the opposite s
ide of the road.
He went back inside the apartment. “There’s a car outside. I saw it when we came in.”
“I know. There’s been a car outside every day since it happened. A Range Rover or a Lexus. They take it in turns.”
“It’s a Range Rover today. And there’s a man in the lobby downstairs.”
Ziggy picked up a tablet from the floor and tossed it to Milton. It was showing the feed from a security camera, with the man that they had passed talking into a cell phone and smoking a cigarette. It was a three-man team, Milton thought. More than enough to keep Ziggy cooped up until he had to make a run for it. Not enough to stop him, though, especially when they didn’t know who he was.
“You’ve been here a week?” Matilda repeated.
“More or less.”
“What about food?” Matilda asked.
“Noodles. It is becoming a problem, though. I’ll run out tonight.”
“Why haven’t they asked the concierge?”
“I keep myself to myself,” he explained. “I rent under a fake name, and I’ve always made sure that no one knows which apartment is mine. There are a hundred apartments here. What are they going to do, break down the door to every one?” He shook his head. “They know I’m in the building. They’ll just wait for me to come out.”
“CCTV?”
“I’ve wiped it. And I’m piggybacking their feeds now. At least I know where they are.”
“Is there another way out?”
“You think I would’ve been stuck here if there was?”
“No trade entrance?”
“I’ve checked the plans. It opens out onto the street. They’d see me.”
Milton went back to the window and looked down onto the street for a second time.
“Get whatever you need packed up. We’re leaving. You need to be ready when we come back.”