by Peter Tasker
He was waving his hands around like an actor on a stage. Martine grabbed him by both wrists.
“Calm down,” she said sternly. “Now tell me what’s happened. Have you managed to identify my stalker yet?”
“Not exactly.”
“So what have you found?”
“I’ve found the computer the messages were sent from.”
“And?”
[254] Kimura’s friend glanced at the courting couple, now busily taking photos of each other. Then he continued in a voice so low it was hardly audible in the gusting wind. “You won’t believe this—it’s one of the computers in the building where I work.”
Martine let go of his wrists. “What? Are you sure?”
“Absolutely certain. It’s used by the special operations people.”
“Special operations? What does that mean?”
“It’s a completely separate unit. They work for the public security department of the police.”
Martine gazed at him, hands on hips, hair flying around her face. “Then I want to talk to whoever’s in charge.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Hmmm ... They must have telephones in there, right?”
“I suppose so,” Kimura’s friend muttered unhappily.
“Come on,” coaxed Martine. “You’d be able to find a phone number for me, wouldn’t you?”
“Wait a minute! You can’t just call these people up and ask for an appointment!”
“Why not?” asked Martine brightly. “It’s more polite than barging in uninvited.”
TWENTY-FOUR
They were waiting for her in a reception room on the fifteenth floor, three ordinary-looking men in plain dark suits and ties. They could have been section chiefs in a trading house, or hardworking officials at one of the less important ministries.
Martine bowed to the senior man and handed over her namecard.
“I’m Meyer of the Tribune. Thank you for sparing your valuable time.”
The man bowed with studied politeness. No namecard was offered in return. They took their seats around a plain glass table. The senior man took out a cigarette and lit it.
“How can we help you, Meyer-san?” he said, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke.
“First of all, you can tell me your names. Then at least I’ll know who to sue.”
“Sue?” The senior man spoke as if he had never heard the word before.
“Yes. Sexual harassment is a criminal offense, even in Japan.”
“I think there must be a misunderstanding. We are civil servants working hard to carry out government policy.”
Martine waved away a curl of cigarette smoke. “Does that include sending out obscene messages? If so, the readers of my newspaper would be very interested in hearing about it.”
“Ah.” The senior man’s eyes narrowed to a glimmer.
“I was there in that room, you know. I saw what really happened. You allowed that man to kill Shimizu, just as you allowed all those people to die from food poisoning and in that plane accident. Reiko Matsubara was behind it, but you people knew it was happening and you didn’t stop it.”
“Ah,” said the senior man, more softly. The two juniors sat watching him intently, hardly moving a muscle.
“You thought I was just going to stay outside and watch as the police rushed in. Then you would get your international coverage, a big scoop on [256] how the terrorist plot was foiled. That was the idea, wasn’t it?”
The senior man leaned back in his chair, eyes half closed. “I’m afraid you journalists have a weakness for outrageous conspiracy theories. They are usually unsupported by any hard evidence.”
“I have evidence,” said Martine coldly. “I have the messages you sent, the dummy newspaper too.”
“Messages? Dummy newspaper? I don’t believe such things exist.”
“They do exist. They’re stored in my computer.”
“Are you sure of that? When did you last look?” His eyes blinked open, and a self-satisfied smile crept across his face. The two juniors noted it, and started smiling too.
Martine winced as the realization hit her. It would be too late now. They would have hacked into her computer, searched her apartment, done whatever was needed. “Look, you’re not dealing with a reporter from the Nikkei or the Yomiuri here. This story is going to go global. It’s too late to stop it.”
The senior man made an “O” with his mouth, and a jet of blue smoke shot into the air. “Of course a famous journalist like you can write what you like. But you should be aware of the consequences. If you were indeed present at the crime scene, then perhaps you should be treated as a suspect.”
“A suspect? That’s ridiculous.”
“Yes, it does sound ridiculous, doesn’t it? But you yourself are claiming foreknowledge of several terrorist outrages. A sympathizer in the media, an ambitious journalist getting a little too involved with the story—it wouldn’t be the first time such a thing had happened. What do you think, Kato?”
The senior man turned to the junior on his right, who nodded earnestly. Martine guessed that this piece of theater had been well rehearsed.
“In my opinion, no possibility should be ruled out,” said Kato. “Obviously the testimony of the American witness would be crucial.”
“Ah, the American witness. It seems his testimony was rather confused. Perhaps another interview is needed to clarify what happened.”
Martine stared at them through the haze of smoke—the tired, bloodshot eyes, the ordinary faces of ordinary government employees. Were they really that ruthless? Of course they were! They would do anything to keep this information under wraps.
The senior man paused to take another long drag. “You’re a journalist. The job of a journalist is to report the facts. But in this case you don’t know the facts. Believe me, this is true. You do not know the facts. If you write a story that has no facts and no evidence, just rumors and suppositions—well, in that case you would merely be writing fiction. Don’t you agree Kato?”
Again Kato nodded like a clockwork dog. They sounded confident, but in reality they had to be nervous. They were mid-ranking bureaucrats dealing [257] with a situation that had slipped beyond their control. And there was no precedent to guide them.
“Look, this story is going to appear. It’s too late to stop it now. If I don’t know the facts, why not give them to me? At least you’ll have a chance to give your version of what happened.”
The senior man frowned. “But there is only one version of what happened. It was announced at the press conference given by the police last night.”
Martine felt a wave of frustration welling up inside her. These men were going to continue performing their assigned role right to the bitter end. They had no other way of looking at the world.
“And that’s your final position?”
“Meyer-san, please try and think in a more flexible way. We are always ready to cooperate with journalists of the highest quality.”
“What does that mean?”
“In Japan there are sometimes incidents that are puzzling or mysterious, certain individuals hiding inconvenient facts. Naturally we have access to a good deal of special information of this nature. Some of it is of great interest, enough to keep a journalist in scoops for decades.”
“So you leak these stories to favored journalists, I suppose?”
“A select few. Those who have demonstrated a keen sense of responsibility.”
Martine said nothing. After the threats came the bribes. Their position was obviously weaker than they were letting on.
“Perhaps you, Meyer-san, have such a sense of responsibility. What do you think, Kato?”
Kato smiled encouragingly. “I think she’s a true professional. I think she understands the value of information.”
“Well, Meyer-san. Is Kato correct in his judgment?”
Martine waved away another wisp of smoke. “Certainly information is the lifeblood of journalism. I’ll give serious
consideration to what you’ve said.”
The senior man stubbed his half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray. It lay in a twisted heap, still giving off a thin plume of smoke.
“That’s good to hear. We have always had a high regard for your potential.”
They led her to the elevator, the senior man making small talk about the weather, his juniors at his shoulders listening respectfully.
“Thank you very much for visiting us, Meyer-san. It was a pleasure to be of service.”
The senior man bowed politely, and Martine bowed in response. “Thank you for giving me your valuable time.”
Then the doors closed, and the elevator took Martine down to the lobby. [258] Only when she was alone in the back of a taxi did she unfasten the micro-recorder from her waist and check the tape.
Mark gazed down at the huge cinder block of a head lying on the pillow. Warwick Fletcher looked more peaceful dead than he ever had in life. The deep furrows had gone from his forehead, and his mouth was relaxed into a quizzical half-smile. It reminded Mark of the old photos, his father on the beach with his laughing wife or kicking a soccer ball at a somber little boy in shorts. He looked free of cares, which was how it was supposed to be.
David Liu patted Mark on the shoulder. He was standing too close, his face radiating bogus solemnity. “We’re sorry you couldn’t be here in time. It happened so fast, much faster than we expected.”
Mark shrugged. “My father never liked to do what people expected. I guess he just got bored of lying there in a coma all day long.”
“We did our best. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course. When did you call Jenny?”
“Just before we called you. She should be here any minute.”
Mark glanced out the window at the Los Angeles night, the streams of headlights, the glimmering neon. This anonymous, rootless place of hotels and highways and shopping malls was where his father ended his life, under hard, bright lighting, without friends or family, without myth or magic, without a touch of human kindness to console him. It was the logical end of the choice he made six years ago when he left the family home. Mark respected his single-mindedness, his drive to keep moving forward, but it wasn’t for him. Human beings weren’t like sharks. They couldn’t keep moving forward forever. At some point they had to stop and connect.
Down at street level a white Mercedes stretch limousine with smoked windows swung through the security gate of the clinic. It parked outside the main entrance and Jenny appeared from the passenger side. She was wearing a black minidress with glossy patent leather boots, and her head was wrapped in a black scarf. To round off the picture, she slipped on a pair of dark glasses as she trotted up the steps. Jenny liked to wear dark glasses, even at midnight. Jenny didn’t like to be surprised by paparazzi. She hated to be seen.
A few minutes later she marched into the intensive care unit, her face pale and pinched. She leaned forward to kiss him frostily on the cheek. Mark couldn’t help flinching.
“Hello, Mark,” she said. “Where on earth have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for the past two days.”
[259] “I’ve been busy.”
“Obviously.”
She darted a glance at David Liu who muttered some unctuous words of regret and left the room.
“And how are you feeling?”
Mark gave her a blank stare. “My father just died an hour ago. That makes me sad. How does it make you feel?”
“Don’t be insulting.” She stretched out a hand to touch Warwick’s cheek. Mark noted that she’d taken the trouble to wear black nail varnish too. Jenny the mourning widow was a polished act.
Jenny glanced sharply at Mark. “You and I need to talk, my darling son-in-law.”
“If you’ve got something to say, then go ahead and say it now.”
“What, here?”
“Why not? I’m sure Dad wouldn’t mind. In fact he’d probably enjoy it.”
There was a pause as they both stared down at Warwick’s heavy body, as still as anything could be. The lips still held their color, the hair was as thick and springy as ever. It wasn’t hard to believe that he was lying there listening to them.
For the first time in Mark’s experience, Jenny looked disconcerted. Maybe somewhere underneath that armor-plating was a soft core of elemental dread. She turned away from the bed and moved toward the window.
“Well then,” he pressed. “What is it you want to talk about?”
Jenny ran her fingers through her hair. “About that rather silly story in the Journal, the one about the new restructuring plan. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with it?”
Mark beamed back at her. “As a matter of fact I did. I’ve been working on the idea for a while, and I thought it was a good time to test the waters.”
“You’ve been working on a restructuring plan? On whose authority?”
“On my own authority. Of course I will be presenting it to the shareholders in due course.”
Jenny gazed at him incredulously. “Aren’t you forgetting something? As of an hour ago I am the chairman of the supervisory committee. If you oppose me, you will be removed from your current position in double-quick time.”
“You’re threatening to sack me? You can’t do that. I’m the CEO of a major public company.”
“Don’t be childish. I control enough institutional votes to do exactly what I want.”
“You think you can do what you want with a business that my father and my grandfather spent their whole lives building up? Just who the hell do you think you are?”
[260] Jenny scowled, which gave her the appearance of an angry cat. “I’m fulfilling your father’s dream, which is more than you could ever do. You were a great disappointment to him, Mark.”
“You’re trying to steal my father’s dream. And it’s not going to happen.”
Jenny turned away as he approached. She’d sensed the change in his mood and realized that something was coming. Mark grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back to the bed.
“What are you doing?” she squealed, raking at his face. Mark spun her around and forced her head down to the pillow.
“Why don’t you kiss him good-bye!” snarled Mark. “You won’t be seeing him again.”
He was vaguely aware of David Liu’s panic-stricken face in the doorway.
“What’s the matter with you?” panted Jenny, struggling to free herself. “You’ve gone completely mad!”
“Go on, kiss him. And after that you can tell him your real name.”
Jenny suddenly went limp. She lay there on the bed, sucking in air. Mark removed his hand from her neck.
David Liu walked into the room, ignoring Mark’s presence. “Are you all right, Jenny? Do you need any help?”
Jenny stood up gingerly, stroked the creases from her dress. “No thanks, David. Please leave us alone.”
Mark tapped him on the shoulder. “Why not stay, mate?” he said grimly. “I’d like to introduce you to someone.”
David Liu looked puzzled. Mark took a black-and-white photo from his pocket and threw it on the bed. It showed the naked body of a young Asian woman. She had two gunshot wounds in her left breast.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?” asked David Liu queasily.
“No joke,” snapped Mark. “That is the real Jenny Leung.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Martine had some spare time before meeting Makoto so she dropped by the antique shop in Ginza. Shiina was in his room upstairs inspecting a collection of Genroku-era tea ceremony implements. He rose shakily to his feet and greeted Martine with a long, rasping cough that was almost convincing.
They sat at a low table and discussed the weather, the properties of different kinds of lacquer, the best place to get early season persimmons. It was Shiina who nudged the conversation toward more pressing topics.
“I hear you have been very active recently,” he wheezed. “For a young person that’s good for the spirit. I wish I had
enough energy to go out and find out what is really happening in the world.”
It was one of Shiina’s personal myths that he rarely left the musty atmosphere of the antique shop. In fact Martine knew that he was to be found in Ginza bars and Kagurazaka restaurants several times a week.
“Your advice was extremely valuable,” said Martine. “Without your introduction to the Morikawa school, I would never have understood recent political developments.”
Shiina used a paper handkerchief to dab at a rheumy eye. “Ah, it was nothing. I’m just a weak-brained old man who can hardly remember his own name.”
“Even so, there are many questions remaining to be answered.”
“Please remember the proverb—behind the back is another back. You will never find a single answer to events like these. There are many answers, all different according to how you ask the question.”
Martine nodded. “But in this case some voices have said that questions shouldn’t even be asked. They have said that looking for answers would be dangerous.”
[262] “Dangerous for whom?”
“Dangerous for everybody, they say. And especially dangerous for me.”
“Ah.” Shiina coughed again, a series of hollow barks that left his chest heaving. He took a long draft of barley tea before continuing. “Generally speaking, the public should not be burdened by excessive information. That’s a sound principle, I think. However, it’s also true that our way of thinking must change. These recent political disturbances could not have happened under the old system. Unfortunately, the old system has outlived its usefulness. This is a new era of turbulence and change. We mustn’t let that fact be forgotten in all the jubilation and feelings of relief. It’s certainly time to reform and rebuild.”
“So you think these questions should be asked?”
“Yes, of course.”
“And you think the results should be published, even if they are incomplete?”
“Perhaps I could help to improve them. Of course a feeble old man can have little idea of the true course of these complicated events. But there are several people who could provide a clearer picture. If you want, I will make the necessary introductions.”