Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense

by Elizabeth Wilkerson

  Might as well be pesos or rupees or Monopoly money. All Alison knew was that her cash seemed to evaporate in Tokyo, and she was constantly surprised at how quickly she was broke.

  But now Alison was holding her own money. A hefty amount of money. And it was time to count.

  Pristine and virginal, the bank notes stuck together as Alison peeled them off the stack. Like a veteran bank teller, she licked her index finger and snapped each bill as she flipped it off the bankroll.

  After she finished her tally, Alison checked the currency exchange rates in the morning newspaper, got out a pencil and did the math in the margin of the business section. Wow! Could that be right? She checked her calculations. The numbers were correct. Yamada-san had handed her over twelve thousand dollars! Jackpot!

  Alison’s initial frisson of delight gave way to a gut-wrenching dread. Twelve thousand dollars. For that kind of money, Yamada-san would be expecting a bang-up, first-rate job. Alison took professional pride in her work, but computers weren’t exactly her strong suit.

  It wasn’t too late to return the money. She could tell Yamada that she didn’t have time to help out with the website. But if Alison backed out now, she’d probably blow any chance of a future job with Green Space.

  Twelve thousand dollars. Some new clothes. A bit of breathing room until she found regular work. Financial independence from Charles.

  She slid five of the bills into her wallet, and tucked the rest in her suitcase in the closet. She’d keep the money, and somehow figure out how to do the internet research.

  It was time to earn her pay, and she needed help. Fast. Alison reached for the cordless phone and dialed her brother.

  “Hey, Rob, it’s me.”

  “Hey, kiddo, I was asleep.”

  “Asleep? What time is it there?”

  “Four in the fucking a.m.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, how are you? How’s the dissertation going?”

  “Don’t even ask. My adviser isn’t for shit. How about you? Still in culture shock?”

  “The proverbial stranger in a strange land.”

  “You find a job?”

  “That’s why I called. I’m doing some computer research for a green group out here.”

  “Computer research? You?”

  “Yeah, well, the truth is, I might have bitten off more than I can chew. I don’t have a computer here, and they expect me to be cruising the internet—”

  “What about Prince Charles? He’s gotta have a computer.”

  “Yeah, but he told me not to touch it. Doesn’t want me to mess up some modem connection to his New York office.”

  “When are you gonna cut that guy loose, kiddo?”

  “Don’t start, Rob.”

  Rob exhaled audibly. “Anyway. For starters, kiddo, you need a computer. Go to a Kinkos or whatever rent-a-box place they have there.”

  “No, I don’t want to do that. It can get expensive renting machines.”

  “Okay. You know that disk I sent you? You can run that software on Charles’ box without fucking up His Highness’ stuff.”

  “I tried to get online on Charles’ Mac, but I got stopped by a firewall.”

  “You can get past that. Just run your software in the background. You set up an account on World NetLink, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Take a look at the stuff I faxed you about getting online from overseas. It explains everything. How to get onto NetLink from a dedicated line, how to override an always-on connection, how to dial into a BBS.”

  “A what?”

  “BBS. Bulletin board system. Like when you dial up direct to another computer. You have to switch the modem settings if Charles is networked. Read the article.” Rob yawned while he spoke.

  “Thanks a lot. Go back to sleep.”

  “Good luck, kiddo. Email me. Let me know how it goes.”

  Alison went to the study and sifted through the folder of items she’d collected to help her adjust to life in Tokyo. Pamphlets, maps, letters, help wanted ads. She found Rob’s fax, a MacUniverse article with a screaming banner headline: “GETTING ONLINE ON THE ROAD: EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW BUT WERE TOO STUPID TO ASK!!!” Rob had given her a World NetLink floppy disk to encourage her to get online.

  Alison sat at the dining room table and smoothed the pages of the fax out in front of her. Bent over the article, she marked critical information with a fluorescent yellow highlighter.

  Alison looked up from the papers. Even though she was home alone, she tiptoed as she prowled back to Charles’ office. The flashing screen of the computer, her competition for Charles’ time and fascination, danced and blinked seductively. She pulled out the chair in front of the keyboard, spread the how-to article out next to Charles’ beloved computer, cracked her fingers, and tapped the computer’s return key.

  The computer screen sprang to life at her touch. The Morgan Sachs pyramid logo glowed with an expectant rhythm.

  Alison glanced down to confirm the article’s step-by-step instructions, then slipped the World NetLink disk into the computer’s drive. She hit the combination of computer keys to toggle between applications without shutting down, inched the computer’s mouse over to the WNL graphic and clicked.

  A computer voice said, “Welcome to World NetLink!”

  Alison grinned. “Thank you,” she replied. No problem, she could do this. She entered her user name and set sail.

  Cruising online through World NetLink was easier than Alison had thought it would be. TokyoAli, née Alison Crane, discovered weather reports, travel recommendations and even an online casino. She searched for information about environmental groups and issues, but found nothing. The Green Space research assignment was going to be tricky. Alison pushed on.

  After hours of tracking down disappointing research leads, Alison decided to visit another part of the network, the community chat rooms. Maybe she could hook up with some like-minded environmentalists there.

  She tried to maneuver to the chat area, but the network computer informed her that it was “For Adults Only.”

  Alison clicked on a box to affirm that she was over the age of eighteen, way over, and entered the restricted-access area.

  The list of active rooms read like the personals section from an alternative newspaper. Men looking for women, men looking for men, couples looking to swap mates, even S&M devotees. These weren’t the kindred spirits she was looking for to help with her Green Space work, but what the hell. With a tinge of voyeuristic guilt, Alison crept into the sex fantasy chat room.

  Ten chat participants with descriptive screen names inhabited the room. LipLik was flirting with the other users as he — she? Alison wasn’t sure — shed his/her clothes. The chat room inhabitants egged LipLik on with electronic whistles, hoots and applause, which sounded through Charles’ computer speakers.

  Alison’s eyes were wide, her mouth agape in astonishment. How had she never heard about amusements like interactive computer porn?

  A silent spectator, she jumped when the computer beeped at her announcing that she had an online instant message from ByteMe:

  “Hey TokyoAli. You want to eat my sushi? It’s really raw!!”

  Alison sat in horror. She had assumed that she was invisible as long as she stayed out of the fray. But now she had to do something, to get into it. Or out of it. She typed “No thanks!” and beat it out of the chat room, launching herself into a distant area of the World NetLink network.

  Once safely out of the electronic orgy she’d happened upon, Alison laughed. This could really be a lot of fun.

  The computer beeped again.

  “You’ve got a message from Kiyoshi346.”

  Now what to do? She wasn’t supposed to even be using Charles’ computer let alone communicating with other people. But what the hell. She hit the Reply button.

  “Hello.”

  Kiyoshi346 came right back at her with a message.

  “Hello, TokyoAli. Are you in Japan?

  “Ye
s. I’m in Tokyo.”

  “Have you been in Japan long?”

  “No, I moved from San Francisco a few months ago. Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Kobe. Let’s get a room.”

  Get a room? What was he talking about?

  “What do you mean get a room?”

  “I mean a private chat room.”

  Oh, of course. Alison knew that. Sort of. It sounded a little sleazy, but she replied.

  “OK.”

  “I will create a chat room called Kobe. Meet me there.”

  Kiyoshi346’s message broke off and Alison was left staring at the screen. She was enjoying herself online even though she didn’t completely understand what was going on. But what could be the harm? She entered the newly created private chat room.

  Kiyoshi was waiting for her and messaged:

  “Hello, TokyoAli. I have been stuck in meetings all day. It’s good to talk to someone new.”

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I work in marketing. And you?”

  “I’m an attorney.”

  “A bengoshi-sensei. Like Perry Mason.”

  “No, I’m an environmental lawyer.”

  “How do you like Tokyo?”

  “It’s so gray. I can’t get a breath of fresh air.”

  “There are many beautiful places in Japan. As beautiful as Big Sur.”

  “You know Big Sur?”

  “I studied at UCLA.”

  “Small world.”

  “TokyoAli, I must get back to work. Can we talk again tomorrow at 5 o’clock?”

  “Sounds great. See you then, so to speak.”

  “SEE YOU I CAN SEE YOU!!! CAN YOU SEE ME SEE ME BECAUSE I CAN SEE YOU TOO YOU TWO??”

  “I don’t understand. How can I see you?”

  Alison sent the message, but Kiyoshi had already left the chat room.

  Who was that guy she’d met? And why had he suddenly switched to all capital letters in his message? Even Alison knew that all caps was considered rude. She was curious to know more about him, but she couldn’t exactly ask. Mr. Suzuki had easily been able to get personal data about her online. Why couldn’t she explore online to learn about her new acquaintance.

  Alison entered the Member Profile area of the board where users could provide information about themselves and typed in a profile request for the screen name Kiyoshi346.

  The computer responded:

  “There is no user with that screen name.”

  Odd. He sounded interesting, but who was that man?

  She arranged the screen just the way it had been when she sat down and positioned the mouse back to where it had been stored. She could do her research for Green Space online and Charles would never guess.

  01001110 01100001 01110010 01101001 01110100 01100001

  TokyoAli. Better known as Alison Crane. That much he had figured out easily. But what does she like to do? Where does she like to go?

  Maybe she was married and having a little online fun and games on the side. A virtual affair. The online chat was innocent enough. For now, anyway. It hadn’t started getting juicy yet. Not like the steamy online chat with YokohamaMama.

  The gaijin women were such easy-going sluts, always ready for a virtual fuck. No inhibitions. So trusting, so stupid. As if a computer keyboard was all the cyber condom they needed for protection.

  Didn’t they realize that they were easily traceable? And trackable? They assumed that their foreignness made them better, made them untouchable, made them invincible.

  His mishap in Boston had taught him well. Maybe he didn’t get the Berklee music degree he’d dreamed of, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t gotten an education. He’d learned everything he needed to know about foreign women. How those big-eyed cunts will tease you with their blond gaijin pussy hair. Come on to you, suck you dry. And then nonchalantly destroy your future.

  But with education came power, and now things were different. After Boston, he’d learned how to control the foreign bitches. How to bend them and break them. He always made sure that they enjoyed it. Until it was too late for them.

  TokyoAli, you have a new admirer. He set up a user trace on his network so that he could monitor TokyoAli’s online moves.

  Adjusting the gun in his lap, he settled back in his chair, and entered the Adults-Only area. He created a new public chat room, “Looking for Love in Tokyo,” and sat and waited.

  6

  Charles’ eyes volleyed back and forth between the quotes on the screens at his desk. He had one phone tucked under his right ear and another phone held up to his left. Into the right phone he barked instructions in English, into the left phone he placed an order in Japanese.

  Charles slammed down both phones and threw his fists up over his head. Victory.

  “Cleared our position in CMOs with Bankers. Less than thirty seconds to close.”

  “You got balls, man,” said Osborne.

  “That’s why they pay me the mega-bucks, my friend. I just hope those fucks in the head office don’t go limp again.”

  Charles pushed back the telephones and computer monitors in his work area, reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and poured himself a generous shot of Lagavulin. His hands stopped shaking as the buttery burn of the Scotch slid down his gullet.

  Osborne held out a cigar, which Charles took. “You going back to New York after your assignment here?” Osborne asked.

  “Haven’t decided.” Charles bit the end off the cigar, lit up and sucked hard. “Tokyo agrees with me.”

  Charles peered out of the trading floor window and looked down on the gray-suited foreigners scuttling below on the streets of Otemachi, Japan’s Wall Street outpost.

  He remembered his arrival on Wall Street. He had been one of the anointed ones from Stanford Business School who’d landed a summer position with the Corporate Finance department at the Morgan Sachs investment bank. At the end of a summer of ego-inflated MBAs jockeying for entry into the most elite of I-bank clubs, Charles had been summoned into the office of the Managing Director of the Corporate Finance department.

  Charles had tried to look relaxed and worry-free as he’d entered the inner sanctum of lucre, but the starched collar of his monogrammed Turnbull & Asser shirt bound at the neck by an Hèrmes tie — an I-Bank uniform he had noted and copied — felt like a garrote choking off his oxygen.

  “Sit down, Gordon.”

  Charles obeyed.

  “Scotch?” The MD pushed the crystal decanter across the desk. Charles took a tumbler from the tray and poured himself a glass. But he didn’t dare drink. Not yet. Not when his future was about to be unveiled.

  “Charles, you’ve had a terrific summer. We’ve all been highly impressed by your performance.”

  “Thanks, Scott, I’ve had a great time, and—”

  “Congratulations. We’d like you to come aboard.”

  “Awesome, Scott. The Corporate Finance department’s—”

  “However, we think that you’d feel more comfortable in a slightly different position, a position where your skills and talents could really shine.”

  “Oh?” Charles felt his heartbeat quicken, and he had a sip of Scotch. The firm had even bigger plans in store for him.

  “Yes. We’d like you to join us on the floor, to give it a go as a trader.”

  “The floor? A trader on the floor?” Charles’ shoulders sagged against the chair. “But Corporate Finance is what—”

  “Charles, to be perfectly candid—” The MD put down his drink and locked Charles in his sights. “With your background and skill set, you’d be better leveraged on the floor. You don’t bring the value-add we’re looking for in Corporate Finance.”

  Value-add? Charles understood what the partner was really saying — that Charles didn’t have the requisite family pedigree and country club network to cut it in the rarefied Corporate Finance department, where personal connections were everything.

  But Charles had been realistic. He knew that h
is contacts were more blue collar than blue chip. And when he was being painfully honest with himself, he knew that Morgan Sachs wasn’t ready to be represented before its bread-and-butter Fortune 500 clientele by a Black man.

  So Charles had taken the position he’d been offered. A trader. And found that the down-and-dirty world of the trading room floor, where the most daring pitted their wits against the world, suited him to a T.

  He was good, and the money was good. Damn good. Better than what’d he’d pull down in Corporate Finance. But even so, Charles still bristled to think that as much money as he was making, the firm was making even more money off of his smarts, his instincts, his street sense. His fucking value-add.

  Osborne interrupted Charles’ thoughts. “Listen, some of us are grabbing a drink at the Pool Cue tonight. You in?”

  An OL, a so-called “office lady,” a young woman hired at the bank to serve tea and, unofficially, to find a husband, walked by in the uniform blue vest and hip-clinging blue skirt. She stopped at Charles’ desk and refilled his glass of Scotch. The OL took a sip from Charles’ glass, licked her lips and pushed the glass over to Charles. Without a word, she headed toward the door.

  “Chieko’ll be there.” Osborne winked.

  Charles’ eyes followed Chieko’s ass down the length of the trading floor. Big butt for a Japanese woman. He liked that.

  “Yeah, I’m free.”

  7

  “It’s never good news when a person’s been missing this long.”

  “The Canadian Embassy is doing its own investigation.”

  “I’m scared to go out at night.”

  Alison had finished her Green Space research for the day and was reading the day’s entries on WNL’s “Tokyo — Love It or Leave It” message board when the municipal PA system began its broadcast. Five o’clock. Time to talk to her new friend.

  She paged Kiyoshi346 online, but there was no reply. She searched the list of users logged on to the network. Kiyoshi346 wasn’t among them.

  Disappointed, she sent him an email.

  Dear Kiyoshi — I was looking for you this afternoon. Just wanted to say hello.