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 do
n’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.
37
Michael was kissing me, but this time, not my mouth. He was going along every inch of my body, as if he were memorizing it for an exam, while all I wanted to do was throw away the book. I ran my fingers through his short, razor-cut hair, whispering to him how he’d changed my life forever, and for the better. Then a siren started to blare. The police were coming, all because I’d dragged him into breaking OCI rules…
I blinked my eyes open and saw that the alarm clock on the table next to me was buzzing. I shut off the clock and rolled over on my stomach, pressing my legs together. I was still hot from the dream, but now I felt overwhelmingly guilty. I was in rebound mode, that was all it was. I knew that at some point and time I would find someone to take Hugh’s place, but I was vastly upset with my subconscious for suggesting that the man could be Michael.
I raised myself on my elbows and peered into the suite’s living room, where the object of my lust was sprawled across the couch, a blanket half fallen revealing a flash of checked cotton boxer shorts. Michael did not want to make love to me. What had happened that strange night in the apartment had been a case of method acting gone wild. I would never again allow myself to forget that Michael was the consummate spy, who would do anything needed to keep our covers intact.
I sat up, wrapping the bedsheet close around me, and surveyed the suite through the soft light filtering through the window shade. The bedroom and living room had been pristine when I’d come in, but now I saw my carry-on bag, as well as a hodgepodge of boxes and electronic equipment that had come from the apartment. I couldn’t remember hearing Michael come in. Then I had a second, horrifying thought: that I might have talked in my sleep. And how many dreams might I have had over the night? It wasn’t the first time I’d dreamed about Michael. I’d dreamed about him back in Washington, too, but tried to forget it because I was still in love with Hugh.
Not anymore. My feelings for Hugh might never completely disappear, but they felt blurred, the way objects in the hotel suite had appeared when I’d first opened my eyes.
I wore the sheet around me like a toga as I picked some clothes out of the carry-on, embarrassed that Michael had handled my dirty laundry as well as the clean clothes, and went into the bathroom for a hot shower. I shampooed, shaved my legs, and moisturized, all with the hotel’s fancy organic toiletries. After I’d blown my hair dry and put on my standard Japanese makeup, half an hour had passed. I stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed, and heard the sounds of NHK news. I peeked into the living room and saw that Michael was awake, wearing a T-shirt and shorts and watching the news on a large flat-screen TV.
“I think you finally slept through the night,” I said. “Congratulations.”
“Not really.” Michael yawned. “I only got in at three, after Brian and I packed out the apartment completely and moved everything over. I see you found your clothes?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m sorry I wasn’t up when you came in. I wanted to ask you—did it look as if anyone had gotten inside the apartment?”
“Yes. But the listening station didn’t appear to be detected. We took it out, as a precaution, in case anyone comes back.” Michael yawned again. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Ten after seven. I have a bit of time before I go to work, if you want to have coffee and talk some more.” I’d spied the coffeemaker and was already filling the carafe with water in the bathroom.
“You’re not going to work.”
“What do you mean? I have a cover to maintain—”
“You are in hiding,” Michael said, stepping into the bathroom behind me. “And if by now you don’t understand the reason, you’ll never survive as an agent.”
“But if I don’t show up at the K Team, I’ll be in trouble. And that will bring attention to me.”
“Mrs. Taki has orders to telephone Personnel when it opens. She’ll pose as your mother calling in for you because you’re too ill to speak. Miyo will believe it, given that you partied the night before.”
I shook my head. “All I drank was club soda, and I left the party early. She’ll know something’s wrong.”
“Who cares? I’m more concerned about whether this hotel is secure enough or if I should move you to the New Sanno until you can fly out, but I don’t think they’d do a good job with your hair.”
“What do you mean about my hair?” I touched it. Had my blow-dry been that bad?
“I can’t risk you leaving the hotel to buy a wig somewhere. Inside the hotel spa, you’ll be able to get a cut and color change. Back in the States, you can reverse it to whatever you want.”
So he really didn’t want me to be recognized. And I was really going home. I said, “I wonder if you would treat a male agent this protectively.”
“The order came from Len Novak, back at Langley,” Michael said. “If you go against my boss’s order, you’ll probably get us both fired. Is that what you want?”
“Of course not.” If I were to lose my career at OCI because I’d blown my cover on this job, I’d regret it heartily—and if I screwed things up for Michael, I would feel just as bad. He was a spy, pure and simple; it wasn’t as if he could fall back on selling antiques the way that I could.
“Now, let’s move on to the rest of the discussion.” He pointed an accusatory finger at my carry-on. “That bag contains most of your recent purchases. You can take it all back to the States to wear there if you like, but not in this town. The clothing you’re wearing now—it’s new, isn’t it?”
“The Comme des Garçons pants are new.” I gestured toward the strap-and-buckle pants; I was wearing them with a peach ruffle-edged chiffon blouse from Rachel’s Diary that I’d bought at Matsuya a few years back. Underneath it all was one of the infamous Tsumori Chisato bras, which I supposed I should count as well because the blouse was semitransparent.
“The forty-thousand-yen Comme des Garçons purchase, I remember that well.”
“Hold on. Those pants were twenty-five-five with my discount,” I said.
“Thirty-eight thousand plus five percent
tax was the total I saw on a printout that I packed up in your room. Do you know what that means? Almost four hundred dollars for a pair of cotton canvas work pants that I could have bought for you at a military uniform shop for thirty dollars!”
“Show me the data.” I folded my arms and stared him down, because I knew what I’d paid. I’d given Michael the Mitsutan sales receipts a few days earlier, along with the filled-out governmental expense account form.
This conversation was ridiculous. I’d never, ever gotten flack from anyone before. My former lovers had been spendthrifts, in fact, and never would have suggested my buying clothes at a military supply store. But then again, Michael was an aristocratic Yankee, which meant cheap.
“Here!” Michael crowed, holding aloft two sheets of paper he’d removed from a box. “My proof. And once we settle this, let’s get back to the business you’re evading.”
He handed me the printout Miyo had ripped off the computer just before we’d gone out to Roppongi Hills on Friday night. I hadn’t looked at it before, because that would take too much time: it was neatly typed in katakana, not English.
“You read this?” I looked at Michael in shock.
“Did you think I can’t read Japanese? Come on, I’m director of OCI’s Japan division.”
“I know, but you always asked me for translated transcripts. And I’ve hardly heard you speak.”
“Speaking Japanese doesn’t come easily to me, and I wouldn’t trust myself to handle translations. But I can read the hiragana and katakana alphabets; I learned in elementary school, when my dad was stationed at Yokosuka.”
I returned to the paperwork. Unbelievably, it said that the pants were almost 40,000 yen. My bras were also several thousand yen more expensive than I’d thought—apiece. My Issey Miyake crinkle-cotton jacket was 29,200, not 22,250, as I’d recalled seeing on my sales receipt at the time of purchase. And the Coach backpack I thought I’d paid 34,000 for was actually 46,000.
“I don’t understand it,” I said slowly. “It’s more than the price tags said at the time—I’m almost certain.”
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