“Rei, put that thing away,” Richard interrupted. “You don’t want the cops to take you in.”
It was true that I didn’t want any face time with the police. I let my group carry me along, but not before I’d made certain that the bouncer had called an ambulance.
The sight of the collapsed girl haunted me as I lay on Richard’s mildewed guest futon, trying to get to sleep. I’d been to the bathroom, looking for a sleeping aid but finding nothing on the bathroom shelf except Richard’s amphetamine tablets. I flushed the tablets down the toilet, and left a tiny note inside the foil where they’d been wrapped: Sorry. But it’s because I love you.
In the dim glow of his clock radio, I stared at the Marky Mark poster on the wall across from me, the famous Bruce Weber shot of him in Calvin Klein underwear, leaning against a pillar, shading his eyes. It was almost as if he didn’t want to be identified, though of course he did; the picture had made his career.
Nobody had known who the girl on the sidewalk was. Nobody had cared. I would have been the same, dead, without a passport to even identify me, if I hadn’t gotten away from the man near my relatives’ house. I really had no safe haven. I had to leave.
The band had a car and driver, so one of the last things I’d asked for, before we parted, was that the driver pick me up at Richard’s address at ten minutes to eight. He was too early to be of use to the boys, but he would be able to offer me a safe passage to the embassy, and then on to Tokyo Station.
The boys had been so giddy the previous night that I wasn’t sure if my request would really make it to the driver, but sure enough, just before eight the next morning the same Lincoln Continental was waiting for me with the same man who’d ferried Chika and the boys off after Café Almond. I told the driver where I wanted to go, and he sped me there quietly. We didn’t break our silence till we reached the huge, boxy gold building that was the U.S. Embassy. When I’d tried to get the cab to wait for me alongside the chancery’s long black fence, a Japanese police guard had come up and refused to let him even stop. It was because of security, they said. As a compromise, I told the driver I’d look for him at Hotel Okura across the street.
Michael had told me to be there at eight-thirty, but a line of about 100 people—Japanese and others—were already waiting for admission. Feeling depressed, I joined the end of the line. When a blond woman backpacker walked straight to the guard post at the front of the line and was instantly waved through, I turned to the Brazilian-Japanese man waiting behind me.
“Did you see how she went ahead of everyone?”
“Americans can go ahead. Even if they don’t have their passports.”
Feeling guilty, I thanked the man for the information and went straight to the front. There, things didn’t go as smoothly as I hoped. For one, because I didn’t have my passport, I had to convince the guard that I was actually American, not Japanese. Of all the times to fit into Japanese society, this was not the time I wanted. I persisted and remembered something Michael had said about a so-called duty officer knowing my name. At last, the guard gave me a long look, then went into his booth and made a phone call. I heard him speaking into it, saying that my English was almost perfect, but my name was Japanese, so he didn’t know. He listened for a minute, then hung up and nodded at me.
“Miss Shimura, you may step through the metal detector.”
I did that and practically sprinted along the short path to the next security checkpoint, which was yet another metal detector at the embassy door. Once I passed through it, my gaze turned from a room packed with visa applicants to a small, intense Caucasian man with his shirtsleeves rolled up, who held out his right hand to me.
“Miss Shimura. I’ve been expecting you. I’m Jim Renseleer, the vice consul. I’m going to walk you through the passport replacement process, and then I’ll bring you on to your next meeting.”
Shaking his hand, I said, “I don’t actually need a new passport. I’m really here about—money.”
“But you didn’t have your passport at the gate.”
“I couldn’t bring it with me this morning.” I wished I could say more, pour out my nightmarish last twenty-four hours to this concerned-looking man, but I knew that I should not.
“All right, then. There’s an army officer here on temporary duty who wants to see you. I believe she’ll be handling whatever transaction the State Department has decided is appropriate.”
He was suspicious of me, I thought, as he led me down a gray-carpeted hallway. I knew that I was a contradiction in terms: the American citizen who looked Japanese, the person without a passport who didn’t want a new one but simply wanted money.
“Here you go. Good luck.” He opened the door to a conference room crowded with desks and computers. I stopped at the threshold and gaped at the officer who was sitting at the conference table.
The woman at the table had tawny skin, hazel eyes, and a commanding manner. This time, she was out of uniform and in a plain blue suit, but I would have known Brenda Martin anywhere.
The colonel inclined her head at me. “Good morning, Ms. Shimura. I see our receptionist hasn’t gotten you coffee yet. How do you like it?”
I remembered our first meeting, when I’d arrived dressed well enough, but wrecked from my night at Club Paradise—I’d sensed she could tell. Today I’d again had a hard night, and I was wearing wretched, filthy clothing. Did I need coffee? Incredibly. But I was not about to admit I was collapsing.
“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t need any coffee.”
“Here, sit down.” She motioned to a chair pulled up on the other side of her desk. “You look exhausted. Michael said you’ve been through a lot in the last few days.”
I wanted to change the subject. “Do you work in Tokyo now, Colonel Martin?”
“Not exactly.” She sipped from her own cup of coffee. “I’m in Army intelligence, though, so I travel quite a bit. I arrived a few days ago, after I’d reviewed the evidence you sent. I’m still getting adjusted to the time—which is why I was glad you wanted to come in first thing this morning.”
“I see.” I shifted uneasily in my chair, knowing I should feel reassured, but feeling only more nervous.
“I have the money for you right here. Do you wish to check the amount before you go? I need you to sign a receipt for me.” She slid an envelope across the polished desk, along with a thin paper slip and a pen.
“Intelligence,” I said, thinking it over. “I had thought this was just—State Department stuff. Does that mean Michael’s in Army intelligence, too?”
“Michael is ex-Navy, remember? And I’d rather have him discuss the specifics of his organization. But he’s a good man to work with, I’ll tell you that much.” She smiled at me.
“Really.” A chill settled over my skin, despite the warm, even heat of the building. If she wouldn’t tell me, that probably meant Michael was part of the CIA. Now I thought about all the things—the monitoring that had been done for me, the ease with which an official passport had been issued, Michael’s insistence on code names, the spontaneity with which he offered me a bonus.
“I love my work.” Brenda looked at me intently. “I’ve been able to combine an interest in foreign relations with justice. And believe it or not—I got where I am starting out in a capacity similar to what you’re doing now, though it was less dangerous.”
“That’s right. My job wasn’t supposed to be dangerous at all.”
Brenda lowered her voice. “I understand there has been a casualty. Michael offered you the option to go home, but said you wouldn’t. We can still get you a ticket, any time you say the word.”
A casualty. She made Emi’s death sound like a small event in a big war. But I wasn’t giving up on that war. Resolutely, I said, “I’m not going until I’ve accomplished what I promised.”
“What if it’s not here, after all? The interviews you’ve done so far have added to the case that the brothers are selling fraudulent merchandise, but not the original we were wo
rried about.”
“Yes, they are selling some new pieces that they’re pretending are old, but why would they sell copies of stolen artworks? That would be utter insanity for their business. It would draw the police straight to them—”
“That’s why our plan is to pass on what you’ve found out to organizations that can better investigate the complexities of suspected art theft. And as I just mentioned, you could return to the United States as early as this afternoon.”
“But what about Emi’s father?” I didn’t mean to interrupt, but I couldn’t help myself. “What did he do during his time in Turkey that got him bounced back here? And how did he get the funds for the world-class art collection in his house?”
“Even if some of his art was obtained through shady connections, it seems clear that he didn’t steal any. Remember the original mission, Rei: it was to locate a stolen work of art that was taken out of Iraq. The mission was not to embarrass the Japanese government, our longtime friends who actually agreed to give you, a persona non grata, a chance to resume life on Japanese soil.”
I listened to Brenda Martin’s words, and I had to admit that she had a valid argument about not wanting to cause unnecessary trouble with the Japanese. But the fact remained that a Japanese man had been lying in wait for me the previous evening. I told the colonel what had happened, and my suspicions about who was behind it.
“I think I know why that incident happened,” she said when I’d finished.
“Why?” I sat up straighter in my chair.
“Your experience last night came about because you blew your cover.” Brenda Martin’s voice was suddenly cold. “You flew to Japan in the guise of a museum consultant, but instead you turned yourself into a one-woman, legal task force asking people too many questions about drugs and their sex lives. Obviously, you teed someone off, and that individual sent an enforcer to find out who you’re working for.”
“I’ve told no one,” I said.
“Good,” Brenda answered. “Now, in accordance with Michael’s wishes, I’m not going to try to force you to leave the country. I do think it’s a good thing that you’re at least going away from Tokyo for a while.”
We looked at each other. I’d won the skirmish, but barely.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Absolutely. That’s why I’m here. Now, I understand that you have a new cellular phone?”
“I do.” I patted my pocket. “One of the few things I didn’t lose yesterday.”
“You’re lucky you got into the building; it’s against the regs,” she said crisply. “Let me give you a few phone numbers where you can reach me, although you should feel free to continue to call Michael. How long do you expect to be away?”
“Just a day or two.” Long enough to see the potter, and have the questions answered that had been at the back of my mind.
“And during this time, may I have your word that you won’t try to speak with anyone in the Japanese government, whether it’s someone as lowly as a cop or as high up as a government minister?”
I nodded glumly and signed the receipt. I wanted to get out of there.
“This is the best number to call, if you want to discuss something personally with me.” A long, French-manicured fingernail tapped the first number on the card. “The other ones will allow you to leave a message with a human being.”
“Okay. Well, I’m actually hoping to be out of town within the next few hours—that is, if I can get a ticket—so I’d better go.”
“Gambatte, Rei.” She held out the envelope, which was still lying on the desk. “And don’t forget to take the money.”
It wasn’t until I was in the limousine ten minutes later that I opened it and saw how much there was. A million yen—the equivalent of $10,000. And an unsigned note inside: Michael said for you to keep the change.
34
I’d been planning to travel to Kyushu on the bullet train, taking the whole day, but I was now rich enough to take an hour-and-a-half flight direct from Haneda Airport to Fukuoka. First, thought, I’d need my passport, and that would involve retrieving it from Yokohama. I weighed the risks of taking the train to my aunt’s station and then walking to her house, but I decided that would be foolhardy.
I asked the driver to give me the name of a trusted colleague, and by the time we’d reached Angus’s hotel, I’d booked my own car and driver and reserved a seat on the one o’clock flight to Fukuoka. Feeling supremely organized, I used the house phone and called from the lobby to Angus Glendinning’s room.
“Hi, I’m calling up from downstairs. I just wanted to say I’m done with borrowing your driver. He’s in the hotel drive, awaiting your next command.”
“Command? What the hell time is it?” Angus croaked, sounding exactly like his brother first thing in the morning.
“Nine-thirty. Too early, huh?”
“Christ, I’m exhausted. Your cousin’s a madwoman. Kept me up all night.”
“Really?” I’d thought Chika was interested in Sridhar. Had she leapfrogged to Angus?
“Yeah.” Angus laughed richly. “She just, like, wanted to give us all Japanese lessons all night to make a good impression on TV today.”
“That’s right, your chauffeur said that you need to be at TBS at eleven for an interview,” I said, vastly relieved that all he was talking about were language lessons.
“There’s still time. Come up for a coffee or something. Chika made it already.”
My second offer of coffee this morning—and this one was worth taking up, I decided. I hadn’t had any time to catch up with Angus, and now he was fully available and sober. I thanked him for the invitation and rode the elevator up to the tenth floor. Outside Angus’s room, the Japan Times, the Asahi Shimbun, and a Japanese tabloid popular with male readers, Tokyo Supootsu, lay waiting. I picked them up to bring in before I knocked.
Angus answered, half-dressed in a hotel towel and with wet red hair standing on end.
“You must have just gotten out of the shower,” I said, feeling shy in the presence of all that Glendinning skin. “I’m sorry to have come this early. Shall I leave and give you time to dress?”
“Why so formal?” Angus said, imitating Hugh’s upper-crust Edinburgh drawl. “Come in, darling. You look like you could use wee kip on the sofa.”
I put the paper down on the coffee table in front of a cheerful striped sofa. The Roppongi Lily was a decent hotel, not as luxurious as the Grand Hyatt, but with Western amenities like the sofa, a desk with cables for a laptop, and a double bed. I looked for evidence that two pillows had been used by two people, but there was no way to tell. All the pillows were on the floor.
I looked around for Chika. “Where’s my cousin?”
Angus yawned. “Off to work, Sridhar said. But she was good enough to spirit herself around and make everyone’s coffee.”
As I poured cream in my own cup of coffee, I pondered the meaning of Angus’s statement, which seemed to suggest that Chika had slept in Sridhar’s room. Well, I liked the prospect of Chika with Sridhar more than the thought of her with Angus.
“I’ll take another cup, Rei. Make mine black as your beautiful hair,” Angus called. He’d slipped on his jeans while I’d been fixing my cup, and he was now lounging on the sofa, leafing through the newspaper.
I took him the black coffee, figuring it was the least I could do after borrowing his car. And I wanted to use his bathroom, too. “Do you mind if I spend a few minutes freshening up?”
In the bathroom mirror, I evaluated myself. Not pretty at all, even after I’d washed my face. I was still wearing the same bedraggled clothes as the day before—and my hair was so awful. I was an ugly, easy mark for the cop who’d stalked me. And where was the policeman from hell today—still looking for me?
I scrutinized Angus’s many grooming aids tossed across the vanity table. There was a surprising amount of makeup to play with, and a bottle of temporary hair coloring. The shade was flame red.
I stuck my hea
d out of the door and called, “Angus, do you mind if I try out your hair color?”
Angus was on the phone, talking with someone. “Yeah, yeah, tonight’s great,” he said, not noticing me.
I waved and held up the bottle questioningly. Angus smiled. I decided to take this as a yes. Besides, it was an economy-size bottle; there’d be plenty left over for him.
I read the instructions quickly. The redness achieved would vary, depending on one’s original hair color and the amount of time the dye was left on. Black hair, I figured, would fall at the longer end of the waiting time. I washed my hair in the sink with Angus’s Aveda shampoo, and then applied the color, using the provided plastic comb to distribute it evenly. Then, I donned a little shower cap—it amused me to imagine the macho Angus wearing this item—and waved a blow-dryer around my head. This wasn’t part of the instructions, but I remembered my mother sitting under a giant bubble dryer when she had her blonding treatments. Heat could only help speed the process or intensify the color.
I thought about asking Angus—after all, he was the expert at this—so I turned off the dryer, adjusted the towel I was wearing around my shoulders to protect my sweater, and went back into the bedroom.
Sridhar, dressed in drawstring pants and a striped turtleneck, had joined Angus and had his own copy of Tokyo Supootsu in hand. When he saw me peep out, his eyes widened.
“Excuse the shower cap, I’m just working on restyling my look.” I winked at him.
“Is it—because of the picture?”
“What picture?” Angus asked from his lazy perch on the couch.
“Chika saw it while she was riding the train. She called to warn us,” Sridhar told Angus in a low, angry voice.
“So someone snapped a picture of us behaving badly last night?” Angus laughed lazily. “Well done. The timing’s great, with the TV bit about to happen—”
“That’s right,” I chimed in. “People say that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. How much trouble did you boys get into, after we parted last night?”
The Typhoon Lover Page 25