“Yes.” Suganama nodded thoughtfully. “I thought that might be the case.”
“Oh?” Eichiro looked surprised at that. “Why would you think that, Suganama-san?”
The old man’s eyes were steady, meeting and holding Eichiro’s gaze. “You are aware of the system that tracks the movements of those wearing corporate security badges?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“The records from this system are stored in a highly secure directory on the central computer system,” Suganama went on. “Certain departments and individuals — such as Security Chief Yamato and his immediate subordinates — are authorized to scan those records. For obvious reasons, no-one is permitted to modify them. If anyone had sufficient authority — we call them ‘rights’ — to change them, then the integrity of the entire system would be compromised.”
“Of course,” Eichiro agreed. “That is just how it should be.”
“Then you may find it interesting that my staff detected an attempt, several hours ago, to break into that portion of the system,” Suganama said coolly. “Specifically, it was an attempt to modify those records tracking the movements of Miss Carlson’s badge — in other words, apparently an attempt to make it seem that she was where she was not.” He paused. “That attempt was made by a programmer on the personal staff of Security Chief Yamato. The attempt was a failure,” he added lightly.
Eichiro was glaring at Yamato in undisguised anger. The security chief’s face was sallow, seemingly bloodless. His gaze seemed fixed on the toes of his highly-polished shoes, unable to meet Eichiro’s eyes.
Suganama seemed totally unaffected by the high level of emotions in the room. He smiled mildly at Eichiro. “What portion of Miss Carlson’s nightly movements did the Security Chief bring into question?”
Eichiro glanced over at Yamato, and at the security guard. Nikki noticed the young man’s eyes were fixed on a spot several million miles beyond Eichiro’s window, and that he was trying his best to pretend that he simply wasn’t there. “Several minutes around 12:45, I believe,” Eichiro said. “But I don’t believe it’s necessary for us to review the records.”
“I respectfully insist,” Suganama said firmly. “I feel it’s important to set all doubts to rest.” He walked around to Eichiro’s side of the desk and gestured at the computer terminal. “I can display the records here.”
As the old man bent over the terminal and rattled away on the keyboard, Nikki slumped back in her chair. The tight fist of tension in her belly had relaxed, leaving nausea in its wake. She looked back over her shoulder at Toshikazu.
Her friend was still standing by the door, hands by his side, eyes cast down — the perfect portrait of the respectful junior employee in the presence of his betters. But the subtle wink and the quick smile he shot her ruined the image. She sighed with relief.
Suganama and Eichiro had finished with the terminal. “I agree, Suganama-saw,” the division manager was saying, “there’s little doubt Miss Carlson was with Kasigi on the tenth floor. Tada must have seen somebody else in the alley” — he glanced sharply at the young security guard — “if he saw anyone at all.”
Eichiro turned to Nikki. “Miss Carlson,” he began. Hastily, Nikki got to her feet. “Miss Carlson,” he repeated, “I offer you heartfelt apologies for this unpleasantness, and for any dishonor you may have
suffered. That was not the intention here.”
Nikki nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Eichiro sounded sincerely concerned, but the anger and the shame she’d felt were still close to the surface. It wouldn’t do to snarl at her boss, particularly when he was apologizing.
“This must have been stressful,” Eichiro continued. “Please take the rest of the day off.” He looked up at Suganama. “I wish to thank you, Suganama-san,” he said respectfully, “for preventing a travesty of justice. I am in your debt.” He sighed, suddenly looking weary. This was hard on him, too, Nikki realized. “Now, if you will forgive me, I wish to speak to Yamato
and Tada in private …”
*
Nikki and Toshikazu were alone in the elevator. As soon as they’d left Eichiro’s office, Suganama had patted her reassuringly on the arm.
“Domo arrigato gozazmas,Suganama-san,” she’d said quietly. “I am truly in your debt.” He had bowed politely in response to her thanks, then he’d headed off for his office.
Now she turned to Toshikazu, her head buzzing with questions she wanted to ask. But first, “Thank you, too,” she said, gently touching his arm. “I think you saved my bacon. If …” If you hadn’t arrived, I don’t know what would have happened, is what she’d started to say, but it sounded so cliche. True, but still painfully trite. She settled for squeezing his arm. “I’m in your debt, too, my friend.”
Her thanks seemed to make Toshikazu uncomfortable. He blushed slightly, and dropped his eyes. To spare his feelings, she changed the subject slightly. She asked, “What happened? How did Suganama get into the act?”
Toshikazu shrugged. “As I told you, I have a slight connection with Suganama-san,” he answered. “When he left the cafeteria, I followed, and I told him about the file planted in your directory. He already knew about the attempt to alter the security records, and he just put two and two together.” He smiled. “And then he just took over. He stormed up to Eichiro’s office and just kind of dragged me along.” He shuddered in mock fear. “So I got dragged into the lion’s den. Scared the hell out of me.”
Nikki’s return smile was half-hearted. There was something that still worried her. “What was all that about in the cafeteria?” she asked. “Why did he ignore me?”
Again, Toshikazu looked embarrassed. “Look at it from his point of view,” her friend said quietly. “The grape vine was buzzing with the fact that you were connected with the wreckers. Yamato and Nagara Security were seriously interested in you — they’d put a lock on your personal directory, remember? And it was an open secret in the management ranks that Eichiro had scheduled an inquest. You were obviously under serious suspicion, and there was always the possibility you were guilty. So you understand he couldn’t be seen to be connected to you in any way. Friendship or no, he had no choice.”
Nikki’s head was swimming. The elevator door opened on the sub-basement level, and they stepped out. “But why?” she asked again, as they walked slowly back toward the lab.
Toshikazu clicked his tongue in feigned disapproval. “Gaijin,” he sighed, “they never understand the intricacies of corporate life. Here’s the situation. Suganama is in tight with the Board of Directors. That’s why he’s still running his little independent empire, okay? But there are a lot of people who’d like to see him gone. His two deputies, they want his job. A couple of the division managers, because then maybe they can replace him with their own puppets.” Toshikazu chuckled. “Suganama-son is just too independent for most people’s liking.
“Anyway,” he went on, sobering, “it doesn’t take much to destabilize somebody’s position in a corporation. Even a little whiff of scandal can do it, particularly if there are people ready to take advantage of it. If word gets around that Suganama-san is buddy-buddy with a wrecker … Well, you get the picture.”
Nikki shook her head again. “That’s just too Machiavellian,” she said.
“That’s Japan,” Toshikazu said with a bark of grim laughter.
Nikki had to agree. It was becoming ever more obvious that the political infighting and machinations at Nagara made the political manoeuvering of medieval Italy look straightforward and honest by comparison.
That thought reminded her of something else. She leaned closer to Toshikazu and said quietly, “I think my apartment’s bugged.”
Her friend blinked. “Truly? How do you know?”
Briefly, she told him about how Yamato knew her habit of listening to the Voice of America.
Toshikazu listened in silence, his brow furrowed. “That is interesting,” he mused. “I don’t know whether they’ve actually bugg
ed your apartment, though.” He tapped her security badge with a fingernail. “Where do you hang your coat when you get home?” he asked.
“On a chair in the bedroom,” she answered, then paused. “You think that’s where the bug is? In the badge?”
“It’s a possibility,” he confirmed, frowning down at ; the badge on his own lapel. “A rather disturbing one that I’ll have to keep in mind.” Then his frown vanished to be replaced by a half-smile. “There’s certainly enough space in the badge for some interesting circuitry, nehl”
“Thank God,” Nikki breathed.
*
The corporate grapevine at Nagara was certainly efficient, Nikki had to admit. When she returned to work the next day, the manner of the other members of Group Five had changed drastically. As she walked into the lab, they actually looked up from their work and smiled at her, said “Konichi-zva,” politely. One of them — Bojo, usually the most taciturn — even inquired about her health. As she walked into her cubicle, she couldn’t help smiling. Her colleagues were even more friendly than they’d been before the raid. Almost like they feel bad for mistrusting me, she thought. But of course they can’t just apologize. They’d rather have a root canal. She noticed Toshikazu watching her from across the room, gave him a broad smile.
It’s probably Toshikazu ivho spread the word I’m innocent, she thought as she settled down at her desk and prepared for work. That’s just the kind of thing he’d do. But he’d never admit it. She felt a comfortable warmth in her chest — Gratitude, it has to be, she told herself. She should find some way of thanking him, she realized. Something that wouldn’t embarrass him too much.
She felt a presence behind her, turned—unsurprised to see it was Toshikazu. “Good morning,” she said.
He returned her smile. “How was your half-day off?” he asked.
“Perfect,” she told him. “I went home and just slept.” She decided not to mention the nightmares — flashes of explosions and gunfire, mixed with courtroom-like scenes where everyone she knew in Japan took turns accusing her of some heinous crime. “I feel almost human today,” she concluded. “And you?”
“I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground,” he answered tangentially. “Never let it be said that Nagara moves slowly. You know that Yamato’s gone?”
Nikki blinked. “Gone?”
“Dismissed, laid off, fired, requested to tender his resignation, call it whatever you like. Or maybe he quit on his own, I don’t really know.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No joke,” he confirmed. “Nobody’s saying anything officially, but it’s an open secret that Yamato was escorted from the premises yesterday evening, and one of his deputies is busy moving into his office.”
“So why did he get the boot?” she asked, lowering her voice. “Because he tried to frame me, or because he blew it?” Toshikazu looked surprised. “Remember, ‘Paranoia is a tool.’”
The young man chuckled. “‘Toshikazu’s First Law of Corporate Behavior’ comes back to haunt me.” Then his expression sobered. “Here’s how I read it,” he said slowly. “Eichiro’s in trouble; like I said before, he’s got his balls in a vice. Now, there’s somebody somewhere else in the hierarchy who’s got Eichiro’s patronage, somebody who’s ‘hitched his wagon to Eichiro’s star,’ to use one of your absurd Western expressions.” His quick smile robbed the words of any offense.
“So this somebody knows that if Eichiro falls, then he falls,” Toshikazu continued. “How can he bolster his patron’s position? By proving the ‘wreckers’ had inside help, that Eichiro’s security arrangements weren’t inadequate. And that’s where you come in. If he’s going to frame somebody, why not frame the gaijin? You’re not quite human, so it’s going to be easier to convince people that you’re a traitor.”
Nikki nodded slowly. “That makes sense so far,” she allowed. “But how does Yamato and Corporate Security get into the act?”
Toshikazu shrugged. “Maybe it was Yamato who came up with the whole thing,” he suggested. “He owed Eichiro a big one. It was Eichiro who got him the job of security chief, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” Nikki admitted.
“It’s true.” Toshikazu paused for a moment’s thought. “Or maybe it was somebody else in security, who fed information to Yamato.” Another pause. “Or here’s another possibility: maybe it was somebody feeding Yamato false information just so he’d get the chop …”
Nikki raised her hands in mock surrender. “That’s enough,” she chuckled. “This is too weird for me.”
“Not weird, Carrson-san,” Toshikazu told her in mock disapproval. “This is how civilized people handle things.”
*
The Shinjuku district of Tokyo always had an exciting, frenetic feel to it, Nikki thought. During the day, the roads were solid streams of cars, the sidewalks and raised walkways seas of pedestrians — shoppers and business-suited sararimen. By night, the wide streets were still packed — now mainly by people, often drunk, seeking out the buzzing night-life the district boasted. The massive billboards, and the vast neon signs that covered many of the buildings, filled the night with light, and the glowing dots of windows high in the tallest of the office towers replaced the stars that were blocked from view by the mist.
Near the center of the district was Shinjuku station — a massive, blocky building several stories tall, that sprawled over an area of numerous city blocks. Throughout the day and evening, and late into the night, it was surrounded by an almost unbroken throng of people, coming and going on the many underground and surface train lines that met at the station. Outside one of the station’s main entrances was a large square surrounded by stores — pricey jewelry stores, right the way down to cut-rate electronics emporia. Mounted on one of the buildings facing the entrance was the massive television screen known as “Alta” — once the largest in the world, but long since outstripped by a factor of three by a new Kanawa product. Day and night, Alta ran an eclectic mix of rock videos and strange, stylish ads.
Shinjuku by night was a district of high-tech and lights. But it was also a district with areas that were more traditional. In the shadow of the station itself, and of the elevated railway lines, was a tiny neighborhood of narrow, winding streets — alleys, more like — wending their way between small one-and two-story buildings. Little sake shops, yakitori bars… Walking the badly-paved alleys, Nikki could almost imagine that she’d travelled to another time and place. All she’d have to do was blot from her mind the hubbub of traffic on the main roads, and the occasional rattle and rumble of a train passing overhead. Then she could just about convince herself that she was in an older version of Tokyo, dating from before the ever-increasing pace of economic and technological change had forged the city into the sprawling megalopolis it was today.
Nikki had come to this part of Shinjuku only once before, in the early days of her stay in Japan. That had been during the day. The alleyways and the small shops and restaurants had looked dirty, sordid — dangerous. By night, though, the feel was drastically different—almost magical, she thought. There were no street lights. The only illumination came from the doors and windows of the restaurants, warm pools of yellow light washing out into the alleys. Nikki knew the dirt was still there, and she was sure that rats watched her carefully from the darker shadows, but by night she couldn’t see anything to disturb her. The air was filled with the aroma of cooking food — mainly yakitori, little Japanese shish kebabs, grilling over charcoal fires — and with the laughter of alcohol-fuelled good fellowship from the sake shops.
Coming here had been Toshikazu’s idea. They’d decided to leave work early — for them — at around six o’clock. Nikki couldn’t remember who had first suggested having dinner together; maybe it was one of (hose times when two minds share a single thought without having to voice it. Regardless of how it happened, it seemed to be a foregone conclusion.
Nikki’s experience with restaurants was limited. I )uring her first weeks in To
kyo, to save money she’d concentrated on cheap coffee shops — not the kind of place she’d be comfortable going with a friend for dinner. And then, when she’d started work with Nagara, she’d come to eat most of her meals in the employee cafeteria, or in the establishments nearest her apartment — again, generally cheap coffee shops. So when Toshikazu had suggested he take her to his favorite restaurant, she’d willingly agreed.
The place was called the Kirin, named — Toshikazu said —after a mythical creature that looked something like a winged unicorn. (Nikki had heard the name before, but only as a brand of Japanese beer.) The Kirin was a tiny little yakitori bar, maybe a hundred meters or so from the Shinjuku Station, buried in the heart of the winding alleyways. It was obviously a family affair, run by a middle-aged man and woman who knew Toshikazu, and greeted him like a prodigal son come home at last.
The family’s name was Hoho—Nikki had to struggle not to laugh when Toshikazu first introduced them. They were friendly and open, unfailingly polite but obviously fascinated that a gaijin would deign to enter their restaurant. Initially, they’d spoken to her slowly, in a kind of pidgin Japanese, with many broad, often comical gestures. It had taken them several minutes to realize that Nikki was virtually fluent in their language, able to carry on a normal conversation in idiomatic Japanese. Once they’d grasped that, their amazement had known no bounds. A gaijin who ate in yaki bar and who spoke their language. They’d pulled out a bottle of their best sake, heated it in a bowl of hot water, and poured liberally and often into Nikki’s and Toshikazu’s ceramic thimble-cups.
It didn’t take long for the meal to become what Nikki thought of as “out of hand.” The sate had flowed, punctuated by beer — big, artistically curved cans of Sapporo Draft. The family Hoho had joined in as well, toasting Nikki, Japanese-American relations, Nagara Corporation, the Sapporro brewery, and anything else that happened to come to mind. Throughout, they’d kept serving food — grilled yakitori, feather-light tempura, and slices of raw tuna sashimi. The food was excellent, one of the best meals Nikki could remember eating.
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