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.
I must have been too obvious in my inspection, because Michael made a move toward an undershirt lying folded on the room’s bureau.
“Don’t get dressed on account of me,” I said quickly.
Michael frowned and put on the undershirt anyway, plus a bathrobe, for good measure. Then he sat down on the edge of his bed, and motioned for me to take the room’s only chair.
He was sending me obvious signals to stay away, so I asked something slightly different from what I’d intended. “Michael, I was wondering why you chose the nickname Sis for me?”
“Did you come to me at this hour to talk about code names?” Now he sounded exasperated.
“Well, it’s bothered me. You clearly understand why I call you Brooks, but I don’t know if you’re calling me Sis because you think I’m a narcissist or a coward or some kind of sibling—”
“Definitely not the first two reasons,” Michael said. “I suppose I fixed on Sis because I was trying to think of you as a sister.”
“Trying?” I asked, seizing on a small word that might mean everything in the world, if Michael would only admit it.
Michael smiled wryly. “I’m not successful every minute of the day, but yes, I do try.”
Taking a deep breath, I let the robe slip off my shoulders, so I stood before him in just the nightgown that was so transparent that it was almost like wearing nothing at all. I said, “Michael, I don’t feel like you’re my brother. Or my boss.”
Michael looked at the nightgown, then back into my eyes. “Rei, why is sex so damned important to you?”
“Because—because it’s the life force! It’s healthy. It’s something…I’ve been thinking about lately! You may not be aware of it, but a woman’s peak is in her thirties—”
“I’ve heard that, though unfortunately I haven’t any experience to vouch for it,” Michael said quietly.
Perhaps that was true; Jennifer had died in her twenties. That had been seven years ago, though. Michael had sealed himself off into a private, lonely hell. He deserved the love and companionship of a living, breathing person—just as I did. Rather shakily, I continued. “Michael, at night I dream about you. I feel so much for you, whether or not we ever do anything.”
Michael moved farther onto the bed, so he was sitting against the headboard. He said, “Your timing is really terrible.”
“You mean—because it’s so late at night? Or because your arm is broken?”
Michael shook his head. “I mean that it’s too early for you to be getting involved with someone—and at the same time, it’s too late for me.”
“I can see your point about my seeming to be on the rebound, but Michael—nobody has ever listened to me, or valued my ideas, the way you have. You’re the kindest, most intelligent, most trustworthy man I’ve ever known. Maybe at twenty-seven I couldn’t have handled you, but now I know that you’re exactly what I need.”
Michael’s voice was subdued. “Those are wonderful things to hear from you, Rei, but I’m sorry. What are people going to think if I sleep with a woman I’ve hired? And can you imagine what it’s going to be like, as you rise through OCI, to be labeled my mistress?”
“What if I were to leave OCI?”
“But—don’t!” Michael looked alarmed. “You’re at the start of a very promising career. You can’t give up intel. You’re a natural.”
“Well, the truth is, I sort of miss life in the antiques world.”
“Really,” Michael said. His expression had grown downcast. “So, you’re going to leave?”
“I’m not sure.” I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly feeling naked. “Anyway, I sincerely apologize for embarrassing you with my—emotions. I will rein myself in, for the future, whether or not we continue to work together.”
Michael studied me, and then said, “May I explain something to you?”
I nodded.
“When you came to work in my office—it was incredible. Not only did I have this brilliant and beautiful woman to work with, I had a real—friend. Of course I’m crazy about you. How could you doubt that?”
I didn’t answer, because it was becoming clear to me that Michael was someone who was torn up by a combination of duty and memory—forces that I couldn’t compete with.
“You’ve made me so happy,” Michael continued. “Happier than I ever thought I could be, after Jenny’s death. Not to mention safer. I will never forget the way that you risked your life to save mine.”
Will never forget. It sounded like a brush-off. I nodded and went to the side of the bed, reaching for a tissue. Michael caught my arm on the way back.
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Well, I actually think I’m going back to my room to have a good cry. Then I suppose I’ll fall asleep.”
“Please stay.”
“I don’t think I heard you correctly,” I said.
Michael looked down at the sheets for a moment, then back at me. “I can’t stand to be alone the rest of the night. We could sleep together. I mean, just rest.”
I looked at him, considering whether I could afford to put myself through this kind of nonsense. It would be painful, but being in such intimate contact, even just once, would be something I could always treasure.
Michael spoke again. “I’ve had a lot of insomnia during this trip. It’s more than jet lag, it’s anxiety: a lot of stuff I just can’t tell you about yet. I was only able to sleep through two nights this trip: the first one at the hotel and then at the hospital. Both of these were times you were in the same room.”
“That’s nice of you to tell me,” I said cautiously. “But I’m not sure things would go well between us in a room with just one bed—”
“If you stayed with me, I feel like it would—fix things. Please, Rei.” There was a catch in his voice.
“All right,” I said, because I didn’t want to leave him, either. I slid between the sheets and lay with my arms around him, and my face against his back, feeling it gently relax into the rhythm of sleep.
I must have drifted off as well, because I had a strange dream. I was waiting for an elevator at Mitsutan; finally, it arrived and the doors opened. Inside, instead of the usual crowd of customers, there were just two men: young men, wearing beautiful hand-tailored suits, with their collars open. They were so deep in conversation that they didn’t notice me as they stepped out of the elevator. But as they ambled past, the shorter, darker guy looked directly at me and smiled. It was Ravi, and I realized, a beat later, that his companion was Tyler Farraday.
I woke up and found tears in the corners of my eyes. I was weeping despite the fact that the two men had seemed serene, as if they were headed for someplace they didn’t mind going.
It was all so poignant, I thought, as I reached out for Michael, and discovered that he was not there. I sat up and looked at the clock.
It was nine in the morning and Michael was gone—not just the man but his luggage, and every other personal item I’d seen in the room eight hours earlier. Trying not to become too depressed, I climbed out of bed and went into the tiny bathroom. I planned to splash wa
ter on my face to help me wake up to the fact that I was nothing more than a temporary security blanket. I’d served my purpose, and that was the end of it.
But as I reached for the taps, I noticed a note on the bathroom sink, clearly left for me to read. It was a spy joke just like the ones he used to send when we were on opposite coasts.
How many spies does it take to fall in love?
This was all that he’d written. I turned the paper over in my hand, looking for a clever answer, but nothing was there. Clearly, I was supposed to come up with it myself.
But as I folded the note to keep forever, I realized that I didn’t know any words, Japanese or English, that could express how joyful I felt.
Acknowledgments
My heartfelt gratitude rests with the many people around the world who answered all my odd questions about Japanese fashion, espionage, banking, and international financial crimes.
In Japan, I am grateful to: John Adair Jr., Hidetomo Hirayama, Koichi Hyogo, Akiko Kashiwagi, Kenichi Masuda, Satoshi Mizushima, Rei Mori, Akemi Narita, Atsuko Noda, the staff of Osawa Onsen, Ken Tashiro, Yosuke Umano, and Miko Yamanouchi.
Friends outside Japan who helped greatly with the manuscript include John Antweiler, Richard Dellheim, Ann Gunter, Rob Kresge, Ryohei Omori, Ayumi Sawa, Rob Serjeant, and my Sisters in Crime writing group: Karen Diegmueller, John Mann, Janice McLane and Marcia Talley. I remain indebted to my longtime publisher, HarperCollins, especially my brilliant editor, Carolyn Marino; her crackerjack assistant Jennifer Civiletto; and Clare McMahon, a creative and hardworking publicist.
And to my family—thank you for your continued love, and also for your tolerance of the many times when I disappear from our world, figuratively and literally.
About the Author
SUJATA MASSEY is the author of eight previous novels. She was a former reporter for the Baltimore Evening Sun,, and spent several years in Japan teaching English and studying Japanese. She lives in Minneapolis.
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Girl in a Box Page 34