Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  "Yes."

  "Good."

  "Where are we going?"

  "To see your friend," he said. "Miss Asakuma."

  ☼

  We were bouncing along the potholes of the Santa Monica freeway, heading downtown. The afternoon sky was gray; it looked like rain. My back hurt. Connor was looking out the window, humming to himself,

  In all the excitement, I had forgotten about Theresa's call the night before. She had said she was looking at the last part of the tape, and she thought there was a problem.

  "Have you talked to her?"

  "Theresa? Briefly. I gave her some advice."

  "Last night, she said there was a problem with the tape."

  "Oh? She didn't mention that to me."

  I had the feeling he wasn't telling me the truth, but my back was throbbing and I wasn't in the mood to press him. There were times when I thought Connor had become Japanese himself. He had that reserve, that secretive manner.

  I said, "You never told me why you left Japan."

  "Oh, that." He sighed. "I had a job, working for a corporation. Advising on security. But it didn't work out."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, the job was all right. It was fine."

  "Then what was it?"

  He shook his head. "Most people who've lived in Japan come away with mixed feelings. In many ways, the Japanese are wonderful people. They're hardworking, intelligent, and humorous. They have real integrity. They are also the most racist people on the planet. That's why they're always accusing everybody else of racism. They're so prejudiced, they assume everybody else must be, too. And living in Japan . . . I just got tired, after a while, of the way things worked. I got tired of seeing women move to the other side of the street when they saw me walking toward them at night. I got tired of noticing that the last two seats to be occupied on the subway were the ones on either side of me. I got tired of the airline stewardesses asking Japanese passengers if they minded sitting next to a gaijin, assuming that I couldn't understand what they were saying because they were speaking Japanese. I got tired of the exclusion, the subtle patronizing, the jokes behind my back. I got tired of being a nigger. I just . . . got tired. I gave up."

  "Sounds to me like you don't really like them."

  "No," Connor said. "I do. I like them very much. But I'm not Japanese, and they never let me forget it." He sighed again. "I have many Japanese friends who work in America, and it's hard for them, too. The differences cut both ways. They feel excluded. People don't sit next to them, either. But my friends always ask me to remember that they are human beings first, and Japanese second. Unfortunately, in my experience that is not always true."

  "You mean, they're Japanese first."

  He shrugged. "Family is family."

  We drove the rest of the way in silence.

  ☼

  We were in a small room on the third floor of a boardinghouse for foreign students. Theresa Asakuma explained it was not her room; it belonged to a friend who was studying in Italy for a term. She had set up the small VCR and a small monitor on a table.

  "I thought I should get out of the lab," she said, running the machine fast forward. "But I wanted you to see this. This is the end of one of the tapes you brought me. It begins right after the senator has left the room."

  She slowed the tape, and I saw the wide view of the forty-sixth floor of the Nakamoto building. The floor was deserted. The pale body of Cheryl Austin lay on the dark conference table.

  The tape continued to roll.

  Nothing happened. It was a static scene.

  I said, "What are we looking at?"

  "Just wait."

  The tape continued. Still nothing happened.

  And then I saw, clearly, the girl's leg twitch.

  "What was that?"

  "A spasm?"

  "I'm not sure."

  Now the girl's arm, outlined against the dark wood, moved. There was no question about it. The fingers closed and opened.

  "She's still alive!"

  Theresa nodded. "That's the way it looks. Now watch the clock."

  The clock on the wall said 8:36. I watched it. Nothing happened. The tape ran for two more minutes.

  Connor sighed.

  "The clock isn't moving."

  "No," she said. "I first noticed the grain pattern, on a close scan. The pixels were jumping back and forth."

  "Meaning what?"

  "We call it rock and roll. It's the usual way to disguise a freeze-frame. A normal freeze is visible to the eye, because the smallest units of the image are suddenly static. Whereas in a regular picture, there's always some small movement, even if it's just random. So what you do is you rock and roll, cycling three seconds of image over and over. It gives a little movement, makes the freeze less obvious."

  "You're saying the tape was frozen at eight thirty-six?"

  "Yes. And the girl was apparently still alive at that time. I don't know for sure. But maybe."

  Connor nodded. "So that's why the original tape is so important."

  "What original tape?" she said.

  I produced the tape I had found in my apartment the night before.

  "Run it," Connor said.

  In crisp color, we saw the forty-sixth floor. It was from the side camera, with a good view of the conference room. And it was one of the original tapes: we saw the murder, and we saw Morton leave the girl behind on the table.

  The tape ran on. We watched the girl.

  "Can you see the wall clock?"

  "Not in this angle."

  "How much time do you think has gone by?"

  Theresa shook her head. "It's time lapse. I can't say. A few minutes."

  Then, the girl moved on the table. Her hand twitched, and then her head moved. She was alive. There was no question about it.

  And in the glass of the conference room, we saw the shape of a man. He walked forward, appearing from the right. He entered the room, looking back once to make sure he was alone. It was Ishiguro. Very deliberately, he walked to the edge of the table, placed his hands on the girl's neck, and strangled her.

  "Jesus."

  It seemed to take a long time. The girl struggled toward the end. Ishiguro held her down, long after she had stopped moving.

  "He's not taking any chances."

  "No," Connor said. "He's not."

  Finally, Ishiguro stepped back from the body, shot his cuffs, straightened his suit jacket.

  "All right," Connor said. "You can stop the tape now. I've seen enough."

  We were back outside. Weak sunlight filtered through the smoggy haze. Cars roared by, bouncing in the potholes. The houses along the street looked cheap to me, in disrepair.

  We got in our car.

  "What now?" I said.

  He handed me the car phone. "Call downtown," he said, "and tell them we have a tape that shows Ishiguro did the murder. Tell them we're going to Nakamoto now, to arrest Ishiguro."

  "I thought you didn't like car phones."

  "Just do it," Connor said. "We're about finished, anyway."

  So I did it. I told the dispatcher what our plan was, where we were going. They asked if we wanted backup. Connor shook his head, so I said we didn't need backup.

  I hung up the phone.

  "Now what?"

  "Let's go to Nakamoto."

  ☼

  After seeing the forty-sixth floor so many times on videotape, it was strange to find myself there again. Although it was Saturday, the office was busy and active, secretaries and executives were hurrying about. And the office looked different during the day; sunlight poured in through the large windows on all sides, and the surrounding skyscrapers looked close, even in the L.A. haze.

  Looking up, I saw that the surveillance cameras had been removed from the walls. To the right, the conference room where Cheryl Austin had died was being remodeled. The black furniture was gone. Workmen were installing a blond wood table and new beige chairs. The room looked completely different.

&nb
sp; On the other side of the atrium, a meeting was being held in the large conference room. Sunlight streamed in through the glass walls on forty people sitting on both sides of a long table covered in green felt. Japanese on one side, Americans on the other. Everyone had a neat stack of documents in front of them. Prominent among the Americans, I noticed the lawyer, Bob Richmond.

  Standing beside me, Connor sighed.

  "What is it?"

  "The Saturday meeting, kōhai."

  "You mean that's the Saturday meeting Eddie was talking about?"

  Connor nodded. "The meeting to conclude the MicroCon sale."

  There was a receptionist seated near the elevators. She watched us staring for a moment, then said politely, "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

  '"Thank you," Connor said. "But we're waiting for someone."

  I frowned. From where we were standing, I could clearly see Ishiguro inside the conference room, seated near the center of the table on the Japanese side, smoking a cigarette. The man to his right leaned over to whisper something to him; Ishiguro nodded and smiled.

  I glanced over at Connor.

  "Just wait," Connor said.

  Several minutes passed, and then a young Japanese aide hurried across the atrium and entered the conference room. Once inside, he moved more slowly, circling the table unobtrusively until he was standing behind the chair of a distinguished, gray-haired man seated toward the far end of the table. The aide bent and whispered something to the older man.

  "Iwabuchi," Connor said.

  "Who is he?"

  "Head of Nakamoto America. Based in New York."

  Iwabuchi nodded to the young aide, and got up from the table. The aide pulled his chair out for him. Iwabuchi moved down the line of Japanese negotiators. As he passed one man, he brushed him lightly on the shoulder. Iwabuchi continued to the end of the table, then opened the glass doors and walked outside, onto a terrace beyond the conference room.

  A moment later, the second man stood to leave.

  "Moriyama," Connor said. "Head of the Los Angeles office."

  Moriyama also went outside onto the terrace. The two men stood in the sun and smoked cigarettes. The aide joined them, speaking quickly, his head bobbing. The senior men listened intently, then turned away. The aide remained standing there.

  After a moment, Moriyama turned back to the aide and said something. The aide bowed quickly and returned to the conference room. He moved to the seat of another man, dark-haired with a mustache, and whispered in his ear.

  "Shirai," Connor said. "Head of finance."

  Shirai stood up, but did not go onto the terrace. Instead, he opened the inner door, crossed the atrium, and disappeared into an office on the far side of the floor.

  In the conference room, the aide went to still a fourth man, whom I recognized as Yoshida, the head of Akai Ceramics. Yoshida also slipped out of the room, going into the atrium.

  "What's going on?" I said.

  "They're distancing themselves," Connor said. "They don't want to be there when it happens."

  I looked back at the terrace, and saw the two Japanese men outside moving casually along the length of the terrace, toward a door at the far end.

  I said, "What are we waiting for?"

  "Patience, kōhai."

  The young aide departed. The meeting in the conference room proceeded. But in the atrium, Yoshida pulled the young aide over and whispered something.

  The aide returned to the conference room.

  "Hmmm," Connor said.

  This time the aide went to the American side of the table, and whispered something to Richmond. I couldn't see Richmond's face, because his back was to us, but his body jerked. He twisted and leaned back to whisper something to the aide. The aide nodded and left.

  Richmond remained seated at the table, shaking his head slowly. He bent over his notes.

  And then he passed a slip of paper across the table to Ishiguro.

  "That's our cue," Connor said. He turned to the receptionist, showed her his badge, and we walked quickly across the atrium toward the conference room.

  A young American in a pinstripe suit was standing in front of the table and saying, "Now, if you will direct your attention to Rider C, the summary statement of assets and— "

  Connor came into the room first. I was right after him.

  Ishiguro looked up, showing no surprise. "Good afternoon, gentlemen." His face was a mask.

  Richmond said smoothly, "Gentlemen, if this can wait, we're in the middle of something rather complicated here— "

  Connor interrupted him. "Mr. Ishiguro, you are under arrest for the murder of Cheryl Lynn Austin," and then he read him his Miranda rights, while Ishiguro stared fixedly at him. The others in the room were entirely silent. Nobody moved at the long table. It was like a still life.

  Ishiguro remained seated. "This is an absurdity."

  "Mr. Ishiguro," Connor said, "would you please stand?"

  Richmond said softly, "I hope you guys know what you are doing."

  Ishiguro said, "I know my rights, gentlemen."

  Connor said, "Mr. Ishiguro, would you please stand?"

  Ishiguro did not move. The smoke from his cigarette curled up in front of him.

  There was a long silence.

  Then Connor said to me, "Show them the tape."

  One wall of the conference room consisted of video equipment. I found a playback machine like the one I had used, and plugged the tape in. But no image came up on the big central monitor. I tried pushing various buttons, but couldn't get a picture.

  From a rear corner, a Japanese secretary who had been taking notes hurried up to help me. Bowing apologetically, she pushed the proper buttons, bowed again, and returned to her place.

  "Thank you," I said.

  On the screen, the image came up. Even in the bright sunlight, it was clear. It was right at the moment we had seen in Theresa's room. The moment where Ishiguro approaches the girl and holds the struggling body down.

  Richmond said, "What is this?"

  "It's a fake," Ishiguro said. "It's a fraud."

  Connor said, "This is a tape taken by Nakamoto security cameras on the forty-sixth floor Thursday night."

  Ishiguro said, "It's not legal. It's a fraud."

  But nobody was listening. Everybody was looking at the monitor. Richmond's mouth was open. "Jesus," he said.

  On the tape, it seemed to take a long time for the girl to die.

  Ishiguro was glaring at Connor. "This is nothing but a sensational publicity stunt," he said. "It is a fabrication. It means nothing."

  "Jesus Christ," Richmond said, staring at the screen.

  Ishiguro said, "It has no legal basis. It is not admissible. It will never stand up. This is just a disruption— "

  He broke off. For the first time, he had looked down to the other end of the table. And he saw that Iwabuchi's chair was empty.

  He looked the other way. His eyes darted around the room.

  Moriyama's chair was empty.

  Shirai's chair.

  Yoshida's chair.

  Ishiguro's eyes twitched. He looked at Connor in astonishment. Then he nodded, gave a guttural grunt, and stood. Everyone else was staring at the screen.

  He walked up to Connor. "I'm not going to watch this, Captain. When you are through with your charade, you will find me outside." He lit a cigarette, squinting at Connor. "Then we will talk. Kicchiirito na." He opened the door and walked onto the terrace. He left the door open behind him.

  I started to follow him out, but Connor caught my eye. He shook his head fractionally. I remained where I was.

  I could see Ishiguro outside, standing at the railing. He smoked his cigarette and turned his face to the sun. Then he glanced back at us and shook his head pityingly. He leaned against the railing, and put his foot on it.

  In the conference room, the tape continued. One of the American lawyers, a woman, stood up, snapped her briefcase shut, and walked out of the room. Nobody else moved.


  And finally, the tape ended.

  I popped it out of the machine.

  There was silence in the room. A slight wind ruffled the papers of the people at the long table.

  I looked out at the terrace.

  It was empty.

  By the time we got out to the railing, we could hear the sirens faintly, on the street below.

  Down on ground level, the air was dusty and we heard the deafening sound of jackhammers. Nakamoto was building an annex next door, and construction was in full swing. A line of big cement trucks was pulled up along the curb. I pushed my way through the cluster of Japanese men in blue suits, and broke through to look down into the pit.

  Ishiguro had landed in a wet concrete pouring. His body lay sideways, just the head and one arm sticking above the soft concrete surface. Blood ran in spreading fingers across the gray surface. Workmen in blue hardhats were trying to fish him out, using bamboo poles and ropes. They weren't having much success. Finally a workman in thigh-high rubber boots waded in to pull the body out. But it proved more difficult than he expected. He had to call for help.

  Our people were already there, Fred Perry and Bob Wolfe. Wolfe saw me and walked up the hill. He had his notebook out. He shouted over the din of the jackhammers. "You know anything about this, Pete?"

  "Yeah," I said.

  "Got a name?"

  "Masao Ishiguro."

  Wolfe squinted. "Spell that?"

  I started to try to spell it, talking over the sound of the construction. Finally I just reached in my pocket and fished out his card. I gave it to Wolfe.

  "This is him?"

  "Yeah."

  "Where'd you get it?"

  "Long story," I said. "But he's wanted for murder."

  Wolfe nodded. "Let me get the body out and we'll talk."

  "Fine."

  Eventually, they used the construction crane to pull him out. Ishiguro's body, sagging and heavy with concrete, was lifted into the air, and swung past me, over my head.

  Bits of cement dripped down on me, and spattered on the sign at my feet. The sign was for the Nakamoto Construction Company, and it said in bold letters: BUILDING FOR A NEW TOMORROW. And underneath, PLEASE EXCUSE THE INCONVENIENCE.