“Tell me about yourself, Dwong.”
“I’m six feet of studly manliness. My dick is rock hard now. Eight inches. Can you handle it?”
This has got to be enough.
“Sorry, Dwong. All of my men are one-footers.”
She abruptly disconnected the chat.
Now, let me take a look at you through my PeepHole, KimDwong. She exited the network and opened the PeepHole log.
13:43
Recipient Name: PartyAnimal
Registered as: Alison Crane
User Computer Identification: Alison Crane
Logon Point: 8132345-2348
Sender Name: KimDwong
Registered as: Tei Dwoh-Kwan
User Computer Identification: Kaiwoo Electronics
Logon Point: 8862411-8546
Alison grinned as she read the well of information captured by PeepHole activity log. She recognized her phone number, but where was the phone number KimDwong was calling from? She consulted the English language phone book. Taiwan. Great. She’d been picked up by some horny Taiwanese electronic lounge lizard who was calling from his job, no less.
At least she knew that the PeepHole software was working. All she had to do now was wait for the cyber freak who’d been tormenting her to crawl along, and then she’d spring the trap. She had the means to expose his ass. He wouldn’t be able to hide behind bullshit online anonymity.
Pleased with her progress so far, Alison booted up the FireAx program to get a feel for how it worked. She opened the text file, which warned her to ReadMeNow. The instructions might as well have been in Japanese for all she could glean from them. She decided to trust the program’s professed intuitive interface to hold her hand while she stumbled through learning the software.
The FireAx boot-up screen offered Alison two set-up options, Basic or Power User, depending on the level of protection against intruders and search capabilities in accessing remote systems. The Power User option contained a perplexing array of customization. Alison opted for the basic settings. She was happy to swim in the shallow end. Or even just splash in the kiddie pool.
The program described how in the event a foreign system tried to access her computer, she would get an on-screen notification and a report of an attempted break-in. The report included the perpetrator’s tag — their calling card, as the guy at Happy Camera had said — their phone-in access point, computer identification, plus the time of the attack.
Alison pushed up her sleeves. Time to get busy.
FireAx’s defensive muscle was only half of its talent. The software could also make a proactive move and enter another system. To test out FireAx on the offense, Alison needed to call up another computer network and see if she could get inside. It wasn’t like she was breaking any laws. She was only exploring, taking FireAx for a spin.
But which computer network to call? World NetLink was certain to have impenetrable protective barriers in place. And they had her phone number in their records. They could easily detect her trying to sneak in the back door. She needed another network.
A twinge of pain stabbed at Alison’s shoulders, which had borne the burden of her amateur attempt at an Olympic hammer throw. Massaging her trap muscles, she wondered how she could find some other network. It wasn’t like she could call the English language operator the way she had called for help in getting in touch with Green Space.
Of course, that was it. Suzuki-san had taken special pride in telling her about Green Space’s electronic bulletin board, its BBS. Alison couldn’t remember the name of the network, but Suzuki had written down the phone number. Buried in her pile of research documents was the paper Suzuki had given her with the network name jotted down. Green Net. She had her guinea pig.
All she had to do was see if she could get inside the Green Net system, take a quick look at the private file directory, and scoot back out. Then she’d know for sure that FireAx was working, that she had real protection against her cyber stalker.
With the timid excitement of a new driver taking her first solo spin, Alison entered the Green Net BBS phone number in the FireAx program. She reversed the direction of the program’s arrow to indicate that she wanted to call into the location rather than monitor calls from the outside.
The built-in computer modem clicked and dialed. Alison’s heartbeat reverberated in her stomach, and she unbuttoned the tight collar of her blouse.
A directory of files arranged in columns appeared on the monitor. Most of the text was gibberish — a random assortment of letters, symbols and numbers — but some were in English. File listings she could read included Press Releases, Int’l. Transfers, Acquisitions and Foreign Orgs.
She’d done it. She was looking at the inner workings of Green Space’s computer network.
Alison clicked on the Press Releases heading. Nothing happened. She tried again. No response.
Alison sank back in the chair and rolled her shoulders. Who was she kidding? She didn’t know what she was doing. She’d gotten overly excited and bought some software that was at best over her head and at worst a piece of shit. Maybe Jed could help her figure out which.
Scrolling to close up the press release column, she noticed that the releases were listed as item 17. Was that the problem? Was it as simple as that? She typed “17” on the keyboard. The screen momentarily blanked out then flashed a list of dates and titles:
08.05.94
Coral Reef Endangered in Japan
13.03.93
Golf Resort Pesticides in Philippine Drinking Water
25.08.93
Malaysia Tropical Rain Forest Destroyed
The screen displayed three more pages of listings, and Alison skimmed some of the articles. Typical marketing hype touting the organization’s work.
Since she was already poking around, she might as well see what else was on the network. Alison opened the Foreign Orgs category and scanned what appeared to be a list of accounts at financial institutions.
Account
Location
Transfer Agent
Kazan Fire Trust
Vanuatu
Pacific Bank & Trust
Lakefrost Holdings
Zurich
Fifth Trust Co.
Coral Waters Trust
Nauru
Bank of Samoa
Palmetto LP
Tonga
Banco de Vallarta
Sunlight Trust
Guernsey
Hangsen Bank Co.
Turtle Bay Holdings
Grand Cayman
Gulf Shore Bank
An otherwise random assortment of banks, but Alison recognized the locations from listening to her father, the tax attorney, during his riveting dinner conversation. Tonga, Guernsey, Nauru, the Caymans. All of the locations shared a common denominator — they didn’t ask too many questions about the movement of foreign currency.
Ms. Yamada had said that Green Space was having problems transferring money to fund its international offices. No wonder they parked their cash in tax havens. Only made sense.
Alison was rolling the computer’s trackball to close up the file directory when one particular entry jumped out.
Tropic Reef Development
Bahamas
Morgan Sachs
Tropic Reef? That was the real estate developer planning the resort near the endangered coral reef in Okinawa, the ones Green Space was having so much trouble with. So why was Tropic Reef listed as a Green Space account?
Alison clicked the entry to get more detailed information. The account had been set up three days ago. Established with a transfer of 700 million yen from Tokyo to a bank in the Bahamas for the account of Tropic Reef Development. And the Morgan Sachs agent handling the transaction was none other than Charles Gordon.
“I’ll be damned.” Alison stared slack-jawed at the screen. Shock and puzzlement stunned her, like the clueless guest of honor at a surprise party.
Charles hadn’t mentioned that he was working
with Yamada-san. Maybe he was bound by client confidentiality. But he made it seem like he and Yamada were meeting for the first time at the party. Or maybe Alison had just assumed as much. She remembered Charles’ hands on Yamada’s hips when he was leading her through a dance. He and Yamada certainly had looked chummy. A little too friendly for a first-time meeting.
She couldn’t ask Charles about it. She wasn’t even supposed to be seeing this stuff on Green Space’s computers. And she could hardly confront Charles about a flirtation with Yamada. Not after her dalliance with Kiyoshi.
Nosing through the computer records was immoral if not illegal, and she’d already seen more than she’d anticipated. Alison closed the Green Space network connection and quit the program. FireAx was working just fine.
Through the cracks in the window blinds, Alison watched the outdoor light turn from a mousy brown to a muddy gray. Her mood mirrored the murkiness of the late evening sky. After her first foray in breaching a computer network, troublesome thoughts niggled at her. And none of them made sense.
An ear-shattering screech cut through her brooding. The burglar alarm. Alison scrambled for a weapon. All she could find was a staple remover. It would have to do.
She could call 911 — or was it 119? — for help. Where was her cell phone? In her eagerness to check out the new software, she’d broken into her own house, left a smashed window as an open invitation to the world, and forgotten to bring her cell phone with her. She’d left herself exposed and vulnerable, just for a chance to play with her new computer programs designed to keep her from being exposed and vulnerable.
It was too late for self-recriminations. The alarm’s piercing shriek warned that someone was at the door. Was it Charles? Or the cyber freak. She needed a plan.
The squawking stopped. Silence.
“Alison?” Charles called out. “You home? Are you all right?”
Hearing Charles’ voice, Alison’s stomach tightened. She was glad it wasn’t some lunatic invader, but Charles’ arrival was an irritating disruption reminding her that the vacation was over.
He’d interrogate her to explain what she was doing with a computer. It was her computer, but he would be certain to needle her with questions. She wanted to keep some parts of her life private, even from Charles. Especially from Charles.
Alison swept all of her Happy Camera gear into the laundry bag and hid it, along with her computer, under the desk.
“Hey, Charles.” Alison walked to the living room where Charles was exchanging his shoes for slippers.
“Glad you’re back, Alicats. What happened to the window?” He hugged Alison while working his hands down to cup her ass.
He smelled like Charles, a faint trace of Lagerfeld. Was he wearing it for her? And he caressed her butt cheeks the same way that he always did. But Alison stiffened at the intimacy of his touch. Had she only been gone for just a few days?
“I lost my keys. It’s a long story.”
“I’ll have the office fix the window. Glad you’re home.”
Alison peeled Charles’ hands from her body and backed up to face him. “We’ve got to talk,” she said, crossing her arms.
Charles nodded and walked toward the kitchen. “You want a drink?”
“Sure.”
He returned with two Scotches and handed Alison her glass. They sat at the coffee table on opposite chairs.
“So, let’s talk,” Charles said. He knocked back some Scotch and leveled his gaze at Alison. This was her stage, her show.
Alison took a sip of Scotch. “Yeah, let’s talk.” Where to start, what to say? So much had happened since she’d been booted out of Japan.
“How was your trip?” Charles derailed her as she was marshaling her arguments about the countless things that were wrong with their relationship, why she didn’t want to continue the way they were, and, oh, by the way, was he having an affair with Yuko Yamada?
“It was OK.” Except for getting mugged on the street, having her hotel room broken into, and, to cap it all off, a strip-search welcome reception at Narita airport. Not to mention mind-blowing sex with her new lover she met online. She raised the glass to her mouth to cover the grin she couldn’t control just thinking about Kiyoshi. “And I got my visa, no problem.”
“Good job.”
Alison downed more Scotch. It wasn’t her drink of choice, it was Charles’. He had already established a home field advantage. “Look, Charles, you know that things between us have been kind of — well, not the best. Ever since I came to Japan.”
“I’ve been damn busy. I told you not to move here right away, to give me some time to get my ducks in a row.”
“I know, I know. You’re right. I probably shouldn’t have come so soon but I wanted to be with you. In the same city.”
Charles drank his single malt. “Bottom line it. What’s going on?” He stared at her through those eyes, as cold, metallic and hard as two ball bearings. Alison didn’t see anything remotely resembling love reflecting back at her in those steel-alloyed eyes.
She set her glass on the table. “I’m wiped out from my trip, Charles. Let’s do this another time. I came back, OK? I’m back.”
Their lovemaking was slow and easygoing, comfortable and familiar. Alison didn’t try to moralize about what she was doing or attempt to sort it out in her head. Her body had its own wisdom, its own authority, and her body responded to Charles as it invariably did. She could always count on her body to betray her that way.
40
Five Americans. Three Brits. He reviewed the collection of recordings in his iTunes library. One Peruvian. But she was Peruvian-Japanese, so she didn’t really count. Two Australians. Those Aussie chicks were wild. The threesome had been their idea.
When he got to the Canadian, he paused. Maybe he should delete her. The recording was incomplete and the sound quality was shit. He’d had to record her in that flea-bag love hotel in an echo chamber of a room. The quality wasn’t up to his standards.
Stupid bitch from Vancouver. Going to the love hotel had been her idea. She’d thought it was cool that he wanted to record her voice while she played with herself and while they fucked. She said the idea turned her on. But she’d insisted on doing it in a love hotel.
It would’ve been easy to get a decent recording at his apartment. His state-of-the-art equipment was ready to go, and his acoustics were fine-tuned. It would’ve been a hell of a lot cheaper, too. That damn love hotel charged by the hour. But she’d insisted, and he’d agreed. He didn’t have any Canadians in his collection.
So he’d packed up his gear — a Shure wireless microphone, XLR cable, digital recorder — and reserved a room for a three-hour “rest” at a cheap love hotel in Yokohama. He’d have to set up his equipment, check his sound levels and get a good recording, all in three hours. Should be enough time, if her pussy was juicy and she was begging to fuck. He tossed a bottle of shochu liquor in his gear bag in case she needed warming up. At 40 percent alcohol, a couple of shots would help move things along.
The love hotel room wasn’t a tacky fantasyland like most of the others he’d seen. Just shabby, plain and practical. If it weren’t for the condom placed on top of the pillow, he might’ve thought he was in a seedy flop-house. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t there for romance. He was there to do a job. And he was on the clock.
In the gloomy room, he set up his equipment while she hummed Mariah Carey tunes, sipped shochu and undressed. She had a girlish voice, like that spacey chick from Iceland who warbled and growled when she sang.
The room’s bouncy acoustics were a problem. He adjusted the input levels, wondering if he’d be able to capture the Canadian’s vocal tone when she came. His apartment would have been so much better. He switched on the recorder and handed her the cordless mic. And a purple latex dildo. Showtime.
She was a natural actress, really enjoyed playing it up. Standing naked in front of him, she flicked his microphone against her tits and swung her hips. She stared direct at him, cha
llenging him, while she leaned forward and drove the dildo into her cunt.
Her howl, primal and raw, made his dick throb in anticipation. Performer that she was, she held the microphone up to her lips the whole time. He hoped he’d get a decent recording of her, even in this shithole room with its fucked-up acoustics.
She pulled the dildo out and rubbed it over her lips, smearing her pussy juices across her face. “Come here,” she’d said. She dropped to her knees, unzipped his jeans and sucked him so hard that he’d gasped and bit his lip. He had to fight not to lose it. Not yet, not too soon. He needed to hear her come first, get a good, clean recording of her out-of-control climax. Then he could enjoy himself.
He pushed her mouth off of his dick, said he had a surprise for her. Reached into his gear bag, took out his gun. Told her to take the gun, slide it into her cunt and fuck it. Promised her that the gun was hard and smooth and would feel so good in her pussy that she’d scream with pleasure.
And damn, did that dumb bitch scream. Not that anyone would notice in a love hotel, where a woman’s screams were nothing unusual. But, eyes wide with terror and hands outreached, she shrieked and scrambled backward trying to get away from him.
Clumsy bitch. Tripped over her own damn feet and cracked her head on the table. Fell as hard as if she’d really been dropped by gunfire.
It wasn’t his fault that she panicked. He wasn’t going to use the gun. Didn’t even have any bullets. He only wanted to hear how a tinge of fear changed the timbre of her voice. To get a sample. For his collection.
Sprawled face-up on the carpet, she was unconscious but still breathing. He could fuck her if he wanted to, she was laying there with her pussy open wide. But if he couldn’t get a recording, what would be the point?
He considered skipping out, leaving her there for the cleaning crew to find. But the love hotel had his credit card number and could track him down.
And if they found her, a foreign woman stark naked and unconscious in the room he’d rented, it’d be her word against his. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Hadn’t made her do anything she didn’t want to do. But they would believe the gaijin bitch’s lies and exaggerations, just like they had when he got kicked out of school in Boston. They’d believe her, and he’d be the one who’d get fucked over.
Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense Page 21