Remote Control

by Kotaro Isaka

  He switched on the TV again.

  An innocent-lookiiig, slightly younger Aoyagi was facing a microphone, though apparently with considerable reluctance. Unable to stand more than a moment of this, he was just going to turn the thing off when a line of text at the bottom of the screen caught his eye. "Do you have any information for us?" it read, followed by phone and fax numbers and an email address.

  Miura had warned him not to count on the TV stations, but he was unwilling to give up on them just yet. He had always believed he could trust the police, or, barring them, the media if he was in trouble—and his current situation certainly qualified as trouble.

  He pulled out the phone Miura had given him and dialed the number on the screen, using the block on caller-ID as a precaution. The line was busy, but after hitting "redial" for ten minutes or so, he finally got through.

  Aoyagi managed a weak "hello," but the woman on the other end was apparently used to hesitant callers. "Do you have any information about the Kaneda assassination?" she said, her tone businesslike but friendly.

  "Actually," he muttered, "I'm Masaharu Aoyagi." He'd imagined the woman giving a gasp of shock, her voice rising to a shriek of excitement at the prospect of an enormous scoop. . . . But the reality was somewhat different—completely different, in fact.

  "Is that right?" said the woman, sounding almost bored.

  THE INCIDENT

  "The Masaharu Aovagi, live . . . right now."

  "Could 1 get your address and contact information?"

  As he sat with the phone pressed to his ear, mouth open, it slowly dawned on him: Masaharu Aoyagis must be a dime a dozen by now. Men calling the station and insisting—as a joke or under some delusion—that they were him. And this woman, whose job it was to field these tip-offs, had no way of knowing whether one of them was the real thing or not.

  He wanted to hang up at this point, but he knew he had to try again. He repeated that he was the Masaharu Aoyagi, that he didn't have any "contact information" since he was on the run from the police, that he was not guilty of murdering the prime minister or anyone else, and that he wanted the TV station to help him communicate that fact to its viewers. By the time he had finished explaining all this, he realized the call had gone on too long, but he thought he could hear the woman he'd been talking to speaking to someone else. The conversation was too muffled to catch, but it was clear that she was reporting the situation to a manager of some sort who must have been near her position in the phone bank. A moment later a man's voice came on the line.

  "Yajima here. Tm a producer. You say you're Masaharu Aoyagi?"

  "That's right."

  "1 have to tell you, sir, that we've had a large number of calls from people claiming to be Masaharu Aoyagi, almost all of them wanting to take credit for the crime. But you're saying that you're being fnifiieh for it?"

  "Yes, Tm innocent."

  "But can you prove you are who you say you are?"

  Aoyagi said nothing for a moment. How did you prove you were you? "If 1 can," he said at last, "can you protect me?"

  "Protect you?"

  "T he police are after me."

  "Then why don't you just tell them you're innocent?"

  Aoyagi could teel his exasj)eration returning. He wantetl to tell the iiKjn it wasn't as simple as that, that it was too late to "just tell" the police anything. Images ol men in suits running alter him and ol Kobalozawii with his gun flashed through his head. "1 want to stay at your studio until I can make them understand," he said.

  T here was no res|)onse, and Aoyagi lelt a j)ang ol disappoinlmenl, realizing

  REMOTE CONTROL

  lie had been hoping for this concession above all else. Finally, Yajima spoke up again. 'That would be difficult," he said. "First, we would have to verify your story. It would be irresponsible to simply pass it along to our viewers without doing this."

  "And you think you're being responsible passing along the lies they're telling about me without verifying those?" He knew sarcasm would do him no good, but he couldn't stop himself.

  There was another silence. "Tm afraid we're required to report any information you give us to the police," Yajima said eventually. "We received orders to that effect last night. So if you did come to the studio, we would try to protect you as far as we legally could, but we would have to let the police know that you're here." At least he had the decency to tell the truth.

  So the story might go like this: he makes his way to the studio; he finds himself in front of a bank of cameras; but the cameramen turn out to be police officers who draw their guns and shoot him down. The employees of the TV station are horrified, but Ichitaro Sasaki appears from somewhere and calmly informs them that Aoyagi was armed and dangerous so they'd had no choice. The explanation seems suspicious and conspiracy theories are tossed around, but it's impossible to determine the truth. At any rate, Masaharu Oswald is dead, and the story ends inconclusively.

  "Did you hear me?" Yajima said.

  "I'll think it over and call again," Aoyagi said. What else could he say?

  Yajima seemed to hesitate for a moment and then gave him a cell phone number—presumably his own—and asked him to call if something happened. Aoyagi grabbed a pen from the desk in Miura's hideout and wrote the number on his wrist.

  Then he pressed a button to end the call and another to turn off the TV. "Run," Morita had said. And Miura had convinced him he wouldn't solve anything by hiding here. The call to Yajima had made that even clearer.

  He fished in his pack for the knit cap, but then remembered that he'd been wearing it when Sasaki had caught him. They were probably looking for someone in a cap by now. They might even have a picture of him wearing it from one of the pods and would be showing it on TV. He threw it into the corner. Hat or no hat, plan or no plan, it was only a matter of time before they caught him.

  THE INCIDENT

  He was headed north, keeping his head down as he walked. His destination was a building to the northeast of Sendai Station—a long way on foot, but he could think of no other safe way to travel. He would feel too exposed on a bus, and it was almost certain they had shown his picture to the taxi drivers. Yesterday, he had been relatively relaxed, but now just being outdoors made him nervous. He imagined someone grabbing his arm or running off to call the police.

  As he waited for the crossing signal at a wide avenue, he thought the couple next to him glanced once too often in his direction. He headed toward the pedestrian bridge down the block instead, but then felt he might have attracted attention by suddenly changing course . . . which made him attract even more attention by dashing up the steps to the top of the bridge. From there, he caught sight of a Security Pod standing guard in the bushes below. He wanted to crouch down and scurry off the bridge but forced himself to cross as calmly as he could. An ambulance passed on the street and his eyes followed the flashing light until it vanished in the distance. He felt like giving up.

  The traffic seemed to be moving more smoothly than it had yesterday. 'I'hey were probably still searching cars leaving the city, but perhaps less thoroughly. A large delivery truck was parked on the side of the road; the driver was retrieving a package from the back.

  When he reached the building, he ignored the elevator, opting instead for the dark staircase. The cafe on the third floor was closed and shuttered— apparently it still opened only when the owner was in the mood.

  Aoyagi hid in the tiny bathroom. Since no one used it except the customers of the phantom cafe, it was unlikely anyone would Find him here. Still, the narrow sjiace in the stall made him feel trapped, so he decided to wait by the sink. A hard turn of the knob failed to stoj) the plinking drops which echoed in his head.

  Shortly after nine, the elevator in the building groaned to life, and a moment later he could hear someone in the passage outside. "Shit. Who orders a jiickuj) from a shop that's always closed.''" A list |)()unded on a door.

  Very slowly, Aoyagi stepped out ol the bathroom into the jiassage. "Iw
a-saki?" he said.

  kijiro "Rock" Iwasaki, hair slicked back as usu.il, timu'd to look and his

  REMOTE CONTROL

  mouth fell open. "Aoyagi?" he murmured, and then froze, propping himself against his hand truck. ''What are you doing here? 1 came to make a pickup."

  "I know. I'm sorry—I'm the one who ordered it."

  His eyes riarrowed. "You? Why?"

  "1 went online yesterday and filled out the form. 1 could tell from the route charts that this was your territory."

  "I don't follow. What are you talking about?" He had a habit of smiling when he was upset or confused, and he was smiling now. To his relief, Aoyagi could see that he was neither scared nor angry. "But what am / talking about? You, my friend, are in deep shit."

  "You've been watching TV."

  "This morning. 1 was about to leave when my wife told me to come see. And there you were, the national bad guy. Things were crazy at the company, too. Phones ringing, people running around."

  "I'm sorry," Aoyagi said again, bowing his head. Of course they would be swarming around his old workplace. "Must make it hard to get anything done."

  "Not to worry." He seemed to be gradually regaining his composure. "So, I assume you didn't do it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, 1 can't imagine you'd ever be involved in anything like that." Aoyagi studied the lined face for a moment, reminded of the times he'd seen it in profile during the days when Iwasaki had trained him on the job. Listening to music on the truck stereo, he used to comment on each song— "What's up with this? It doesn't rock or roll." But his face now looked tired. Aoyagi clenched his teeth and looked down, but Iwasaki must have noticed. "Now don't get all weepy on me," he said. "You heard me? Tm not even asking."

  "I'm sorry," Aoyagi stammered, pressing his palms into his eyes. "It's just that 1 didn't expect you to believe me right away." As he wiped his cheeks, he realized how long it had been since he'd washed his face.

  "You know what 1 think of those bands on TV that haven't got a clue? Same with the books that get popular these days—it's all a load of crap."

  "1 think I've heard you say something to that effect," he said, managing a smile.

  THE INCIDENT

  "'And that's pretty much wliat I think about everything I see on TV." Ao-yagi felt a real sense of relief and gratitude—someone understood him, his situation, and more than that, his friend was still his friend, was still the same Iwasaki. "So," Iwasaki said again, "what do you need delivered?" He glanced down at the hand truck, draped with a pale, company-blue cloth cover.

  "Actually," Aoyagi said, "it's me. 1 want you to ship me out of Sendai."

  He blinked. Not wanting to give him time to think, Aoyagi launched into his idea. He'd been sure that Iwasaki would come with the covered hand truck in response to a request for a big pickup. He would hide under the cover while Iwasaki took him to his truck, and then they could drive out of the city.

  "Still, beats me how you knew I'd be the one to show up here," he said. Aoyagi explained that he had accessed the homepage and the drivers' schedules.

  "And 1 knew you would at least hear me out," he told him. Iwasaki rubbed his nose and cracked his neck. "Tm sorry to ask you to do this," Aoyagi added, not daring to meet his eyes, "but there was no one else. 1 know it doesn't rock at all—any of it."

  "You're wrong," he chuckled. "It totally rocks. Let's get you packed. Is this going to be COD?"

  Masaharu Aoyagi

  He had never been on a hand truck before. After he climbed on, Iwasaki put a [)ox over him like a lid. Underneath, he clutched liis head to his knees and kej)t quiet. T he cart swayed unsteadily and he could feel every bump in his back. "1 {)arked a tew blocks away," Iwasaki murmured.

  He cfjLild tell when they rolled into the elevator. There Wiis the sound ot a bell and they sank slowly toward the giountl level. But they stop|)ed almost immediately and the door rattled open again. Ik* heard a m.m's voice speak just above him.

  REMOTE CONTROL

  "Ah, Iwasaki!" It was tlie owner of the building, the same man who ran the cafe. "Did you have a delivery?"

  Iwasaki laughed, ignoring the question. "Do you usually take the elevator when you're only going down one floor? You'll get too fat to open that cafe of yours, which you practically never do anyway as far as I can see." The elevator stopped again and the door opened. The other man apparently got off before the cart began moving forward, though too slowly to avoid the closing door, which struck the side of it, sending a jolt through Aoyagi's body.

  "Must be crazy at your place," the man observed. "Can't believe it's Aoyagi. I bet your boss is shitting bricks."

  "Did you know Aoyagi?" Iwasaki asked.

  "Sure. He was through here a good bit. Seemed like a smart guy, reliable. Hard to miss him after all that stuff on TV about him and that girl Rinka."

  "He didn't impress me that much," Iwasaki said, perhaps a bit louder than was strictly necessary.

  "Just goes to show you can never tell about people. Who'd have thought he'd do something like that. Anyway, must be murder for you guys."

  "Not really, at least not for the drivers. I don't know if he did it or not, and he quit the company a while back anyway."

  "But killing the prime minister. It's not like it's a parking ticket."

  "You're right there," he said. Aoyagi held his breath and tried not to move. The cafe owner's loud voice had always bothered him when he'd made deliveries here, but now it provided welcome cover. "Why are you so sure he did it?" Iwasaki asked.

  "They've got all those pictures of him, and they say there's lots of other evidence. It's him all right. What we don't know is what made him do it." Iwasaki didn't answer right away, and the cart started to roll. Then Aoyagi could hear the other man's voice behind them. "But you never told me what you were doing here. A delivery?"

  'Hie cart stopped. "A pickup," Iwasaki said. "They told me to come and I came."

  "But there's no one else in the building right now. All my tenants moved out."

  Again Iwasaki hesitated. "But soitieotie ordered a pickup," he said at last, adding a spooky note to "someone." "Maybe your building's haunted." The

  THE INCIDENT

  cart began to move again. Aoyagi admired the attempt to dodge the question, but he was afraid it might have made the man suspicious anyway.

  "Not my building!" he laughed from somewhere in the distance now. "No tenants, and no ghosts!"

  The cart shook even more violently once they were out on the street. Every bump rattled the wheels and knocked Aoyagi's back against the frame. At least it drove any other thoughts away. They stopped again and a heavy door opened somewhere nearby. He raised his head a bit.

  "When 1 get this off, you jump in as, quick as you can." Iwasaki's voice drifted from above, and then light flooded the cart as the box covering him was pulled away. He felt like a convict hit by a searchlight in the prison yard. He scrambled up into the back of the truck, banging his pack on the door as he went. "Further back," Iwasaki said as he climbed up himself. "I don't have a big load today, so there should be plenty of room. But not much to hide under, Tm afraid. Pile some stuff around you in the corner." Aoyagi looked at the stack of boxes. Iwasaki was right: the truck was on the empty side. Still, he should be able to cover up.

  "Thanks to all the ruckus yesterday, hardly anything came in today, so there's not much to do. Lucky, 1 guess."

  "How so?" Aoyagi asked.

  "My schedule's open—1 can take you wherever you want to go." He rubbed his hands over his face and back through his neatly combed hair. "At least till noon—I've got a pickup here in town," he added, looking down at his manifest.

  As they talked, Aoyagi became increasingly nervous about the oj)en door of the truck. He edged toward the wall where the boxes were piled higher. "Okay," he said, "then could y(ju droj) me somewhere out of town before you head back here?"

  "lake youi j)ick," Iwasaki said, folding his arms in front of his chest. "Nort
h or south?"

  "Any suggestions?"

  "Well, 1 heard from a guy wIhj came in from another prefetture that the security isn't so tight going north on Route q Irom l/umi to l ujitiini."

  "1 hen north it is."

  Iwasaki chuckled again. "You're going to have to learn to be a little less

  REMOTE CONTROL

  trusting/' he said. "You don't have to agree with everything I say. What if I was lying—or that driver was? But okay, let's head north for the time being. And you get in one of those empty boxes. Even if they stop us and ask me to open the back, they're not going to search every box in a delivery truck."

  "Sorry to put you through all this," Aoyagi said.

  "Not much we can do about it now," he replied, scratching the tip of his nose.

  "1 guess not."

  "But you know, 1 did a fair bit of bragging about you the last few years, after you got famous. Told people Td trained you, made a big deal about it."

  "To your wife?" Aoyagi had met her once.

  "And the girls at the club," he said, looking for a moment like a high school kid. "They were impressed when 1 talked about you, paid more attention to me. Lots more, if you know what 1 mean."

  "I think I do."

  "What I mean is—I owe you one. So, sit back and relax." But instead of closing the door, he started a typical driver's discussion about the best route for the run. He was against using the bigger roads, proposing instead to skirt the university hospital and take the tunnel under Rinnoji Temple to connect to the beltway, and eventually to Route 4.

  "Whatever you decide is okay with me," Aoyagi told him. Since when did a package in the back have a say about the delivery route?

  "Fine, then, just leave it to me." But as he was closing the door, he stopped again. "Aoyagi," he said.

  "What?" He swallowed, imagining any number of questions that might be coming. Iwasaki seemed uncharacteristically hesitant. "What?" he repeated.

  "I've been wanting to ask you. . . ." He stopped again for a moment, then seemed to force himself to go on. "Did you do it with that Rinka?"