Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense

by Elizabeth Wilkerson

  Zoe laughed. “Hey, it’s not my first time. Don’t take too long.”

  With the prospect of being able to breathe fresh air, Alison practically skipped down the stairs. She fought her way through the waiting crowds and outside.

  The outdoor air was chilly and wet but infinitely more pleasant than the smoke-and desperation-filled atmosphere of the immigration office. Alison opened the umbrella and took a tour around the neighborhood.

  Gray sky, gray concrete sidewalks, gray raindrops pounding heavy enough to make you run for cover. Gray faces of office workers in gray suits ducked under umbrellas as they burst out of gray buildings. The white-noise blanket of falling rain muffled the traffic sounds on the rain-slicked streets.

  Otemachi. The business center of Tokyo. So joyless, so grim. And the trees. How did they manage to grow? They looked like they were weary, tired of trying to be green. And without any nourishment or encouragement from the earth or the sky. Displaced and displayed for the convenience of people who barely noticed the trees trying so hard. Surviving in an inhospitable landscape, despite all. So much like her.

  Snap out of it, Crane.

  Alison took a deep breath in and blew it out hard. The melodrama of Zoe’s paperback must have rubbed off on her. She stretched her arms wide and held her face to the sky. Dirty raindrops landed on her nose and dribbled between her lips. Communing with nature. Tokyo-style. It was time to go back.

  Soggy but refreshed, Alison ducked under the umbrella and marched back to the immigration office.

  The line of visa penitents had zipped forward while Alison was out hugging trees. She looked up the steps to the front of the line where Zoe was waving frantically, gesturing for Alison to hurry.

  Alison joined Zoe at the front of the line and returned the umbrella. “Thanks for looking out for me,” Alison said.

  “We gotta hang together.” Zoe reached into her knapsack and handed Alison her meishi. “Give me a call. If you’re still in the country, that is.” Seeing the frozen expression on Alison’s face, Zoe added, “Just kidding.”

  “Right,” Alison said, off-balance but recovering. “I don’t have any business cards — any meishi — but I’ll be in touch.”

  A light in the doorway of Room 7 flashed. The immigration officers were ready for their next supplicant. “See ya, Alison! Good luck!” Zoe marched down the row of counters and stopped at the booth of the officer whose light was flashing.

  The signal in front of another counter flashed. It was Alison’s turn to run the gauntlet. Alison’s lucky draw was a heavy-set Japanese man who had bureaucrat stamped on his dour face.

  “Passport.” The immigration officer barely looked up from his desk area. Alison presented her passport, cleared her throat and launched into her saga.

  “I seem to have a little problem here. You see, I inadvertently overstayed my visa. Only a few days. This is my first time in Japan, and I didn’t get a visa stamp in the States because the consulate told me—”

  “Your entry permit has expired. You are now in Japan in violation of our immigration laws.”

  “Yes, but as I was saying, I only just realized that—”

  “What is it that you doing here?” The officer looked down on her past his ponderous jowls.

  Alison hadn’t anticipated that question. “Well, I — I’m here with a friend.”

  “You are a tourist?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “How much money do you have with you?”

  What the hell business was it of his? “I have enough to meet my needs.” Alison was getting irritated at the inquisition. “I’d like to get an extension on my visa for a few more—”

  “Are you looking for a job? English teacher? Hostess?”

  Alison didn’t know how to answer that question. She was looking for work, had in fact arguably taken work if you count the Green Space research assignment. But it wasn’t a job job. She used a technique she had learned in law school: When you don’t want to answer a question, don’t answer the question.

  “I’m an attorney.” She stood up straighter. “I have money, and I’m here visiting a friend. I came here today in good faith to renew my visa. If you can’t help me, I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”

  “Do you have an airplane ticket back to America?”

  “I have an open ticket to San Francisco.”

  “Show it to me. And your bank statement.”

  What gall this guy had. “I didn’t bring any of those documents with me. I can’t see how that’s relevant. I’d like to speak to your supervisor.”

  “You have violated the terms of your visa,” the official said. He opened Alison’s passport and stamped it. He handed her back her passport, turned on his counter light, and sat back with arms crossed, waiting for the next person in line.

  Alison sighed loudly and snatched her passport up. Stepping away from the counter, she opened her passport to see what the officer had stamped in it. The jerk had given her five more days in Japan. And, with a bureaucratic coup de grace, he had stamped in fat red letters, “FINAL EXTENSION.”

  24

  Alison stood dazed in the crowded hall of the office. She had to be out of the country in five days. The reality, surreal though it be, started to sink in.

  She couldn’t pick up and leave. Not in five days. Where would she go? She had work to do for Green Space. Surely there was a mistake. If she could speak to a supervisor. And why couldn’t Charles be there when she really needed him. But she was on her own, and she needed help.

  She mulled over her limited options and decided to try the people at the information desk downstairs.

  Descending the staircase, Alison was appalled to see the line for Room 7 was as long as it had been when she first arrived. These folks will be back tomorrow. She sympathized with the late arrivals at the end of the line. Alison would’ve been among them if Zoe hadn’t helped her out.

  A young woman was on duty at the information desk. She looked fresh, not yet suffering from job burn-out. Alison did her best to look pleasant.

  “I was wondering if you could help me,” she said. “I’ve been trying to speak to someone about my visa problem, and—”

  “Room 7,” the woman responded with a touch of automaton in her voice. She couldn’t have been on the job long enough to have turned into a bureaucratic robot already.

  “I just got an extension on my visa, but there seems to be a mistake,” Alison said. “I need to speak to a supervisor for the visa department. For Americans.” Alison knew that the U.S. and Japan had a longtime love-hate relationship. But as allies, it would seem that Americans would get some kind of special dispensation when it came to visa infractions. Or was everyone treated with equal efficiency and given the boot, like the Iranian workers?

  “There are no supervisors for visas. Please call your embassy if you need assistance.” The woman reached under the information desk and handed Alison a sheet with a multilingual list of embassy addresses and telephone numbers.

  “Thanks for all your help.” Alison pocketed the sheet and stomped out of the building. At least it had stopped raining.

  It wasn’t 4:30 yet. If she called now, she could probably reach someone at the U.S. Embassy.

  Alison stopped on the sidewalk, dug around in her purse, and pulled out her cell phone. She dialed the embassy number listed on the sheet of paper.

  “United States Embassy,” a woman’s voice answered.

  “Hello, I’m trying to get some help with a visa problem. I’m here in—”

  “One moment please,” the voice said, and Alison was switched over to background music, “Home on the Range.” Alison could feel her neck muscles tightening and took a few deep yoga breaths.

  “Lauren Lipton,” announced a new woman on the phone. “How can I help you?”

  The woman spoke with a punched staccato delivery. Alison recognized the type. A champion of cut-through-the-bullshit efficiency. The kind of person Alison needed to get her out
of the visa mess.

  Alison explained how her tourist visa had just expired, and that the immigration office wanted her out of the country within five days.

  Ms. Lipton was silent. Alison was wondering if the call has been disconnected when Ms. Lipton said, “Is leaving the country a problem? Do you have a return airfare to the States?”

  “Yes, but I was hoping to stay longer in Japan. My fiancé is here, and…” And she still had a shit load of work to do for Green Space, and she and Charles needed more time together.

  Ms. Lipton continued. “The bad news. The U.S. Embassy has no jurisdiction to intercede in a case like yours. Happens all the time, and, frankly, there’s nothing we can do. The good news is that usually visa violators have 48 hours to depart Japan, so consider yourself lucky.”

  “Funny, I don’t feel lucky.”

  “My suggestion is leave the country, go someplace close like Seoul, Guam, Hong Kong. Visit the Japanese Embassy or consulate and apply for a short-term business visa. It’s similar to a tourist visa, but easier to renew.

  “When you come back to Japan, carry some documents related to business meetings or appointments you have scheduled. Also, have a round-trip ticket out of Japan and cash to show. It might sound excessive, but the immigration officers are predictably unpredictable. Good luck, Ms. Crane.”

  Alison switched off her cell phone. Looked like she had better pack her traveling shoes.

  25

  The wind outside of Seibu department store lashed Alison’s bare legs numb with cold. Slight miscalculation on how wintry the nights were getting. She was relieved to spot Charles’ purposeful stride, his head bobbing amidst a sea of passersby. Alison waved, and Charles flashed a thumbs-up.

  “Hey, Alicats.” He reached out and squeezed her arm. Alison still wasn’t used to how undemonstrative Charles was in public in Japan. He said he didn’t want to attract attention. Not that being an African-American foreigner, at six feet two, wasn’t attraction enough. “How’d it go at immigration?” he asked.

  “Not so good. I’m getting kicked out.”

  “No way. Did you call the embassy?”

  “They told me to leave the country, get a short-term business visa, and then come back.”

  “Shit. But it could’ve been worse, you know.”

  “If it could’ve been worse, why didn’t you come to the immigration office with me?”

  Charles shook his head. “When do you have to leave?”

  “They gave me five days.”

  “Think of it as an impromptu vacation. A weekend getaway to Seoul or Hong Kong.”

  “Can you come? We could use a romantic escape.”

  “Can’t. I’m swamped at the office. You go, do some sightseeing, come right back. It’ll be fun.”

  “But—”

  Charles put his arm around Alison’s shoulders. “Let’s talk about this after we get some sake in us. I was at this really great oden-ya a couple weeks ago with Ueda-san from the office.”

  “What’s an oden-ya?”

  “Oden? It’s the antidote to a cold blustery night. Hot broth with fish, tofu, seaweed. Guaranteed to warm your innards. It’s down this way.”

  They walked along the main boulevard of Harumi-dori for a few blocks before cutting over to a side street. A carved wooden sign hung above the entrance door.

  “This is it.” Charles held the door open for Alison.

  Two chefs working at the counter measured out bowls of steaming soup for the handful of customers seated at the bar. When the chefs weren’t dishing out food, they drank sake and watched a sumo tournament on the television behind the counter.

  A chunky Japanese man struggled to his feet from the stool where he was seated by the door. “We’re full,” he said in English. Alison and Charles looked at each other. As tiny as the restaurant was, with only six customers, the place was nearly empty.

  Charles spoke to the man in Japanese. “Sumimasen ga aite iru seki wa yoyaku desu ka? Dekireba koko no oden wa oishii kara, seki wo tote hoshii no desu ga …”

  “Sorry, full,” replied the man in English.

  Charles’ Japanese took on a decidedly different tone which even Alison could understand, though she couldn’t follow the conversation. “Isshukan mae ni kita toki ni oku no heya ga arimashita neh. Soko mo ippai desu ka?”

  “We are full. Please go now,” said the man. He opened the door for Charles and Alison to leave. Just as the door opened, in walked a Japanese couple. The restaurant manager greeted them warmly and directed them to seats at the counter where the oden chefs were at work.

  The vein on Charles’ forehead pulsed. He was danger-zone pissed. Alison reached for Charles’ arm. “Let’s go.” She gently tried to pull him toward the door.

  “You say you’re full?” Charles yelled to the restaurant manager in English. “You’re full of shit, that’s what!” Charles kicked the door.

  The restaurant patrons turned to look at the scene.

  Charles’ blood-rushed face was fiery. “I ate here last week, asshole. You’ll hear about this. You refused the wrong fucking gaijin.” Charles stormed toward the door. “Come on,” he said to Alison. Two more couples entered the restaurant as Charles and Alison left. Alison could hear the manager welcoming the newcomers.

  “Dammit! Sometimes I can’t get over these racist yellow sons of bitches!” Charles said.

  “Forget about it, Charles. How about Spago? We always like it there.”

  “Yeah, why the hell not. At least we can get in the damn door.” They hailed a taxi and headed off for American food, Japanese style.

  The enthusiastic reception by the maître d’ at Spago was a welcome contrast to the animosity of the oden-ya’s gatekeeper. Alison and Charles were seated at a prime table even though the restaurant was crowded and they didn’t have reservations. Inquiring heads turned to check her and Charles out, wondering if they were Somebodies. Or maybe they were just checking out Charles.

  He was good-looking — gorgeous, really — but it still surprised her when women flirted with him right in front of her. And he never seemed to discourage the attention.

  Alison looked over her menu. How Tokyo could feel so much like California was an amazement to her. Not only did the waitstaff speak fluent English, but the menu, in English, of course, with Japanese translations, featured a full wine list. Of California’s finest. The place was a complete cut-and-paste from the States. A balm for the homesick Californian.

  “I need a drink, Charles. What a day.” Charles summoned over the waiter and sent him in search of a bottle of Mumm’s.

  Alison gulped the champagne. Its festive bubbles burned her throat. “Maybe this is a sign.”

  “A sign?” Charles asked.

  “That I should leave Japan. Go back to the States.”

  “Your call, but you’ve hardly given it a go.”

  “I can’t find a real job. My money’s tight.”

  “I told you. I got you covered.”

  “And I told you. I don’t want to be a kept woman. I’m a trained professional. At the peak of my career. But I can’t even get a job as a goddamn proofreader.”

  Charles reached across the table to caress Alison’s hand. “Give it time, Alicats.”

  “I’m dependent on you for every little thing. I can’t speak the language, can’t read the language. Maybe I should go back home.”

  “Do you want to go back?”

  “I can’t find my place here. We’d talked about getting married, and—”

  “You talked about marriage. I said why don’t we live together, see how it goes.”

  Alison had another slug of champagne. “Charles, if this relationship isn’t what you want, tell me. I’m packed and gone. Say the word.” Alison stared across the table, daring Charles to commit, one way or the other.

  “I don’t want to rush things. Not while I’m here, not while I’m building out the firm’s Asian business. Can we drop this now and just enjoy the meal?” Charles refilled Ali
son’s glass. “Tell me about that green group you were talking about. Green Peace?”

  “Green Space. I’m still hoping to wangle a full-time job out of them. Did their president call you? Yuko Yamada?”

  “Why would she call me?”

  “They’re having some problems with international finance. I thought maybe you could help.” Alison didn’t want to admit to Charles that his help might help her land the job. Not after her big speech about being an independent woman.

  The server presented Alison’s meal. Sheep cheese pizza with a side of linguine in squid ink sauce. After her marathon day at the immigration office, she deserved some carbo-loading.

  “Take a break, Alicats. Go to Guam, lie on the beach. Or check out Hong Kong. You’d like it. Unbelievable shopping.”

  “Charles. My Visa card couldn’t handle a pleasure trip. I have five days left in Japan and a ticket back to San Francisco. Maybe it’s a sign.”

  Charles reached inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket and took out his cell phone. He punched in three numbers and waited.

  “Charles Gordon, Tokyo office. I need an open round-trip to Hong Kong … Charge it to Business development … Crane. Alison Crane. And leave an account at the Mandarin.” Charles slipped his phone in his jacket pocket and grinned.

  “What did you do, Charles?”

  “My bon voyage present. Sorry I can’t make it with you, Alicats, but enjoy Hong Kong.”

  “Charles, I can’t let you pay. I — it’s too expensive.”

  Charles snorted. “Rounding error in my expense reports. No argument, it’s done.”

  Alison had heard that the shopping in Hong Kong was legendary. Maybe she could find some shoes in her size. A woman’s size 9 shoes were a rare sighting in Tokyo’s stores.

  She still had cash from the advance she’d gotten from Yuko Yamada for website research. Research Alison had yet to complete. But if she stayed on a tight budget and hauled ass on Green Space work when she got back to Japan, why not take a quick trip to Hong Kong?

  “That’s really sweet of you, Charles. I think I’ll take you up on your offer.”