by Peter Tasker
Martine was shocked. “It can’t be helped? Why not?”
“It’s an instinct, isn’t it? Thanks to the crisis, there are more and more men who can’t get women. And when men can’t get women, they behave like cats. You know what cats do? The male cat bites the female cat on the back of her neck. That paralyzes her and then he takes what he wants. Female cats spend their lives getting raped over and over again.”
“How awful! What about dogs?”
“Dogs are much better behaved. Plato is a good example. He’s very gentle with all his girlfriends.”
They both laughed. Saya had loosened up now, and her cop face had gone. Martine touched her on her arm.
“Saya-san, I’m sorry to ask, but I need another favor.”
“Meaning you want me to break the law again.”
“Exactly. There was a young girl called Junko Kawaguchi who was killed in a hit-and-run accident in Nagasaki. I’d like to know what’s in the file.”
“When was that?”
[214] “Way back, the year after the Atami incident.”
Saya nodded thoughtfully. “All right. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks. You’re a good friend, Saya.”
“I’m not doing this for friendship. There’s too much weird stuff happening in this country, and what you’re doing could make a difference. I really believe that.”
She took Martine’s hand, and for a moment they looked into each others’ eyes. Saya had beautiful eyes, large and deep and sparkling with life. Martine managed to pull her gaze away before it got embarrassing.
When Martine got home, there was a message from Makoto on the answering machine. An important potential investor had asked for a second presentation, which meant he would have to stay in London for a few more days.
It was good news about the investor, but Martine noticed how reserved he sounded, as if he were holding something back. But then Makoto was always holding something back. That was his character. At least that’s how he was these days. The more Martine had discovered about his past—which wasn’t much, since he preferred to keep it locked up inside his head—the more she realized how his wife’s death had changed him. You could see it in the old photos—the way he’d smiled then was uninhibited, filled with enjoyment of life’s possibilities. Now he had a different smile, careful and controlled.
The number of times Martine had seen the old smile were few and far between. Once in the early days, they had gone to a hot-spring resort in the mountains and got superbly drunk on saké and beer. Makoto had been soaking in the outdoor bath, along with half-a-dozen young salarymen on a company trip, when Martine came walking down the path, coolly slipped off her kimono, and stepped into the water. For a moment there had been silence, then Makoto stood up and started applauding. Within seconds all the salarymen had joined in, as red as prawns in the steaming water. That had brought out the old smile on his face, and afterward he’d been like a man in his twenties. He enjoyed being outraged, or pretending to be outraged. It broke down his inhibitions, physical and mental. In fact their few really important conversations, the ones where feelings were deliberately laid open and explored, had all taken place when they were naked or drunk or both.
It was late afternoon, Martine’s favorite time of day. The heat was fading, the metabolism of the giant city slowing down. She considered rollerblading to the park and doing some yoga or sketching or just sitting there and reading Proust—all sensible stress-reducing activities that Kyo-san would surely approve of. In the end she decided to do something almost as relaxing as yoga: she would make a fruit gateau, a thank-you present for Saya. Martine rarely did any serious cooking—not for herself, not even for Makoto—but for some reason the idea of a fruit gateau was particularly appealing. She could [215] picture it quite clearly, with moist sponge cake soaked in sherry, a row of gleaming cherries. It was going to be scrumptious.
She found what she was looking for on the internet, downloaded the recipe, then cycled over to a top-of-the-line supermarket where expatriate wives did their shopping. She was out of place there; amidst the overpriced vegetables and jewelry-draped housewives. When they peered at her out of the corner of their eyes, what did they see? They saw a blond in jeans and T-shirt, an obvious non-housewife, wandering inexpertly up and down the aisles. They saw the kind of woman they wouldn’t trust their husbands anywhere near. And what did Martine see, when she looked at them? She saw emptiness, disappointment, an overpowering boredom that would have invaded her soul, snuffing out every spark of Martine-ness until there was nothing left.
It was nearly dark by the time Martine got home. She parked her bicycle and walked into the lobby of the building. There was a copy of the Tribune sticking out of her mailbox. The delivery boy must have made a mistake, since she had already received her copy in the morning. Martine rolled the paper under her arm and got into the elevator. It was only when she tossed it onto the kitchen table that she noticed the headline on the front page.
“Japanese Politician Assassinated by Drug-Crazed US Citizen.”
The shopping bag hit the ground with a thud, sending black cherries rolling in all directions. Martine ignored them. She flattened the paper on the table and stared at it in astonishment. Under the headline was her own byline—“by Martine Meyer in Tokyo”—then two short paragraphs of text.
Japan was today plunged into a state of shock by the assassination of Tsuyoshi Nozawa, the leader of the radical National Regeneration Party. Nozawa, also one of Japan’s most popular singers, was shot dead while making a speech in front of Shibuya Station. The lone gunman, believed to be an American citizen, shot himself in the head and is currently in critical condition. According to initial police reports, the man has a long history of substance abuse.
Spokesmen from all across the political spectrum have been paying tribute to Mr. Nozawa’s courage and integrity. “He was a true Japanese patriot,” said Yasuo Shimizu, acting leader of the National Regeneration Party. “We will redouble our efforts and carry his vision forward into the future.
Martine checked the rest of the paper. Every other story—every photo, every detail, from the weather report to the stockmarket numbers—was the [216] same as in the copy she had received that morning. How difficult would it be to fabricate something like this? Not difficult at all. Martine was no computer expert, but she had often used page layout programs. All you would need to do is scan the front page, then blank out the story and replace it with something of equivalent size. The last message from the stalker had been a warning that Nozawa was going to be killed. She had responded by asking for details and now she had her answer. Nozawa was going to be shot dead while making a speech in front of Shibuya Station.
And somehow this was related to Reiko Matsubara and the Atami incident. The orange juice poisoning, the sabotage at the chemical plant, and the plane crash were all related to Matsubara. That wasn’t hard to believe—the woman was notorious for murder and mayhem. So what did that make Martine’s cyberstalker? An acquaintance of Matsubara’s group, probably a member of the group. Somebody eager to make a claim of responsibility in advance.
Martine knelt down and started putting the scattered cherries back in the bag. Suddenly she was no longer in the mood for cake-making.
In the backstreets of Shimokitazawa stood a wooden two-story building half-covered with ivy. The ground floor boasted a small shop specializing in “ethnic goods”—African masks, incense burners from Thailand, leather goods from South America, silver jewelry and blankets and wood carvings from all over the world. The floor above contained the tiny apartment where the shop’s proprietor had been living for the past twenty years.
The proprietor was a soft-spoken man with shaggy gray hair. His elderly neighbors felt sorry for him since he had no family or friends. He was such a pleasant man—well educated and courteous—that nobody liked to inquire too closely about the state of his business. It was obvious that conditions were difficult because hardly anyone visited the shop, a
part from a few students on Sunday afternoon. Still he remained cheerful and diligent. Often he traveled abroad to find new suppliers, leaving the shop closed for weeks on end. On his return, he always brought his neighbors little gifts—cookies or handkerchiefs or bath salts.
Today, though, if anyone had been watching, they would have noticed an unusual level of activity in the shop. Half-a-dozen different people dropped by in the course of the afternoon. One looked like a high school teacher, in a shabby jacket and shoes with trodden-down backs. As he left, he glanced up and down the little alley as if he were emerging from a porno theater not a trinket shop. The next looked like a wealthy doctor, the kind that might buy [217] up all the display items in one go. Unfortunately for the proprietor, however, he bought nothing, though he lingered inside for a long time. Three other men appeared, nondescript types who might have been salarymen at mid-ranking companies.
The last to arrive were two women, a young one with a figure like a movie star, and a stout middle-aged one. They stayed the longest, well over an hour, but at least they did make a purchase. The middle-aged lady came out clutching a calfskin attaché case.
NINETEEN
Martine watched Kawamoto emerge from the Nozawa headquarters—ringed, as usual, by a crowd of look-alike fans—and walk across the street to the coffee bar. From a distance she looked like any other fashionable young woman hurrying to work, though dressed rather plainly in her black cotton trouser suit. Only when she pushed the door open could you see the lapel badge and collapsible baton that identified her as a security guard.
“I supposed you’ve had breakfast already.”
“Two hours ago,” said Kawamoto, unsmiling. “After the traditional ethics class.”
“You’re studying traditional ethics?”
“I’m teaching it.”
Kawamoto sat down and asked for a cup of green tea. Martine ordered a morning set, with iced coffee and toast with strawberry jam.
“Thanks for coming out at such short notice.”
“I came because you said you had important information about Nozawa-sensei.”
“That’s right. Remember when we met in Shinjuku a couple of weeks ago? You told me about all the threats he was getting.”
The security guard gave a little shudder. “Yes, there are so many people who want to harm him. The bright light of his genius fills them with hatred and jealousy.”
“Have there been any particularly serious threats recently?”
“Serious? What do you mean?”
“An assassination threat, for example.”
“We get several of those every week, mostly from crazy people who never leave their rooms. But if you’ve heard about one, please tell me. I’ll make sure it’s thoroughly investigated.”
[219] Martine waited until the drinks arrived before continuing. “I did hear about a threat to kill Nozawa, and the people behind it don’t sound crazy. They sound clever and well organized.”
Kawamoto took a notebook from her inside pocket. “Go on,” she said calmly.
“It’s going to happen soon. They’re planning to shoot him while he’s making a speech in front of Shibuya Station.”
Kawamoto’s pencil clattered to the table. Suddenly she looked as if she’d seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter?” asked Martine curiously.
“Nothing. I mean, it’s just such an upsetting idea, isn’t it? The sense! means so much to everyone ...”
Whatever skills Kawamoto had learned under Shimizu’s tutelage, they did not include deceit. Rarely had Martine come across so clumsy an attempt to withhold information. Kawamoto tried to get up from the table, but Martine took her wrist and firmly pulled her back down.
“I thought you said he got these assassination threats all the time.”
“He does. It’s just that—I don’t know, I shouldn’t really say anything. I’ll get into so much trouble ...”
Kawamoto looked utterly lost. She had reverted to the confused, naive young woman who had arrived in Tokyo from the countryside.
“Go on. You can tell me,” coaxed Martine, despising herself as she spoke. Tell all your secrets to a journalist—what a recipe for peace of mind that was!
Kawamoto took a deep breath. “The thing you just told me—it shouldn’t be possible.”
“Why not? There would be plenty of opportunities for a clear shot, wouldn’t there?”
“No, I don’t mean that. It shouldn’t be possible because nobody should know about it yet—the speech in Shibuya, I mean.”
Now it was Martine’s turn to be confused. “Nobody should know? You mean the speech in Shibuya has already been scheduled?”
Kawamoto’s voice fell to a whisper. “It’s for tomorrow. But nobody outside our organization is supposed to know about it. It’s supposed to be a surprise event.”
For a moment they stared at each other in silence, digesting the implications of what they had discovered.
“I think you’d better cancel it,” said Martine quietly.
Kawamoto nodded. She looked on the brink of tears. When she stood up this time, Martine didn’t try and stop her.
When Martine got to the Tribune’s office, Kyo-san was watching the INN news on the flat-screen TV. The picture showed a middle-aged Japanese man, [220] being led out of a building by two burly cops, head bowed, jacket folded over his arms. He stumbled at the curb and the jacket fell to the ground, revealing the handcuffs underneath.
The voiceover was by the big-haired newscaster with the rubber mouth.
“Today top executives of Japan’s Yamada Motors were facing charges of criminal negligence relating to thousands of deaths and injuries caused by the best-selling Yamada Ninja sports utility vehicle. Investigations carried out by INN reporters have shown that Yamada executives took no measures to remedy the Ninja’s tendency to roll over when cornering at speed ...”
Martine made a face, and Kyo-san turned down the sound.
“Is there anything else happening?” asked Martine wearily.
“The usual stuff. The trade talks are stalled. The peace talks are stalled. The environmental talks are stalled. Oh—and a present arrived from one of your admirers.”
On the table was a package wrapped in extravagant red paper. Martine opened it and took out a box of chocolates and a note from Shimizu that read “Thank you for your excellent work.”
Martine opened the lid to find twenty-four chocolate figures of Nozawa, each representing a different activity—Nozawa riding his motorbike, Nozawa playing the guitar, Nozawa planting rice seeds, and so on. She handed the box to Kyo-san, who took out a figure of Nozawa in judo gear and vindictively bit its head off.
“Go on, have one,” said Kyo-san. “Chocolate is good for you apparently. It gives you energy and combats stress.”
“Really? Who says so?”
“Scientists say so. The Tribune’s health column reported it a few weeks back.”
The health column was the first part of the newspaper that Kyo-san read. After that came the book reviews, then the sports page, and finally the crossword puzzle.
“Did these scientists also point out that chocolate gives you pimples and cellulite?”
“Relax, Martine-san. You’re so tense these days. You really need those chocolates.”
Martine picked out a chocolate Nozawa posing with a sword. She examined it critically, then nibbled at it cautiously. It was surprisingly good, filled with a dark, gooey sweetness.
Kyo-san was right, of course. She was too tense. The Nozawa story was bigger, uglier, and more dangerous than she had thought. It came after you, followed you around, and grabbed you when you weren’t looking. Before you knew it, you were no longer sitting there reporting the news. You had been pulled inside the news, and there was no way out.
[221] The phone rang. It was Saya. In the background Martine heard sirens whooping and a woman screeching out obscenities in an Osaka accent.
“What’s all that noise?” said Martine. “I can h
ardly [hear] you.”
Saya sounded as calm as ever. “I’m standing outside a pink salon in Roppongi. We just made an arrest for robbery and assault with a baseball bat.”
“That woman was beaten with a baseball bat?”
“She’s the one who did the beating. The client wouldn’t pay so she whacked him over the head and took his wallet.”
“Ah. It can’t be helped, right?”
“I can understand her point of view. Unfortunately she went a little too far and the guy’s in a coma.”
Martine gazed over at Kyo-san, who was already working on the crossword. She doubted whether Kyo-san would approve of Saya.
“What about the hit-and-run incident? Did you manage to find anything?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Martine-san. It’s strange, but this file is empty too.”
“Empty? But the girl was killed! There must have been a lengthy investigation, witness reports, statements from her parents. All that information can’t have just disappeared!”
“That’s what I told my friend in the records department. He said they’d been having all sorts of problems with the computer system. He blames the budget cuts.”
The woman from Osaka was growling out blood-curdling threats at close range. It dawned on Martine that the object of her anger was Saya.
“I don’t think budget cuts are responsible for this particular problem.”
Saya had to raise her voice over the gravel-throated cursing. “Neither do I,” she said tightly.
Martine put the phone down. The outlines of the story were getting clearer. A young folk-rocker—not well known yet, but with obvious talent and charisma—gets involved in a hit-and-run incident. The police take him in for questioning, but a powerful person intervenes. The singer gets released without charge and all records of the incident are conveniently lost. Many years later, when the singer has become the biggest star in the Japanese music industry, the powerful person calls in the debt. The singer is steered toward right-wing nationalism and a whole movement is fashioned around him. Then, when the plan is complete, they get rid of him and the political professionals take over.