Just watching the other passengers was truly an education in the dichotomy of the Japanese personality, Helene thought.
They got off at Shinjuku. Helene had worked out that this was the key shopping and entertainment area. Certainly the Japanese people seemed in a frantic hurry to have a good time. Huge, street-side video screens blared out a bewildering cacophony of ads for food, beer, films and a range of teenage J-pops bands that were so similar Helene wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised to learn that they were manufactured in the same efficient way as the latest Honda. There were three vans driving around broadcasting competing adverts at an ear-splintering level. And then there was a group of people in matching T-shirts protesting at the vans broadcasting at top volume: the protestors were using megaphones. How very Japanese.
To her relief, there were enough gaijin for them to blend in a little. Most of them seemed to be young Australians or Americans. Helene saw only one black person, unsurprisingly in a group of Americans, and he was attracting a number of stares. The Japanese were very open about it: they stared at anything they found unusual. Helene was glad that her wig and sunglasses gave her a degree of anonymity.
One of the plazas was full of free entertainment: buskers, dancers, DJs with outdoor decks, musicians of varying ability, bongo drummers, tap dancers, and dogs: lots and lots of dogs. In fact there were two parks dedicated to man’s best friend: one where big dogs could exercise; and one for the more bijou beasts. Helene was reminded of Mrs Jenkin’s dog, Alfie. He’d have liked the corral for smaller canines.
She wondered briefly what the Jenkins had made of her sudden absence.
Helene and Charlie meandered through the heaving streets, flowing with the crowds, stopping to look in shop windows, watching the street vendors selling red bean snapper cake, large pancakes stuffed with a variety of confectionary, takoyaki laced with spring onions and bright pink ginger, and generally acting like a couple of tourists without a care in the world.
In fact, stopping to look in shop windows gave Charlie a chance to check their back trail and see if anyone was following them. Helene figured it was an almost impossible task to pick out a face in the hordes, but then again, his instincts had kept them safe this long.
Without a particular plan in mind, Helene led them away from the shops and strange entertainments of the main streets. She was surprised and rather relieved when her aimless rambling led them through one of the narrower streets only to find a beautiful park opening up before them.
“Shall we go in?” she said. “It’s only ¥200 each?”
Which was about £1.20.
He shrugged. “It’s as good a place as any to waste some time.”
Helene carefully counted out the money and they were admitted.
“Oh, this is lovely!”
She couldn’t help feeling the pleasure of such a delightful place. Her shoulders relaxed and she felt she could breathe again.
“This must be amazing when the cherry blossom is out,” she said enthusiastically. “Can’t you imagine it? Rows and rows of cherry trees filled with pink blossom. It would make the most wonderful snow-fall of petals.”
She glanced at Charlie: he was smiling at her.
“What?” she said.
“Nothing. It’s just… you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met before.”
Helene was taken aback. “You think?”
He grinned at her.
“For sure! We’re on the ride of a lifetime, probably being hunted by any number of international agencies, and you can still… you can still enjoy this park. That’s pretty amazing. You’re pretty amazing.”
His blue eyes were suddenly serious.
“Oh. Thanks,” she said, looking away.
Helene was embarrassed. She must be a real simpleton to have been able to forget that they weren’t really tourists. She wouldn’t make that stupid, naïve mistake again.
The park was enormous. It looked as if it might have had western influences once as the layout had a European feel about it. They strolled past a greenhouse full of strange and showy tropical plants and watched while some children threw left over bits of rice ball into a pond of giant coy carp.
Further in, the neat shrubs gave way to soaring Cedars, tulip trees and the elegant cypresses so beloved by Japanese artists. Even Charlie seemed to relax slightly, some of the wariness leaving his face.
After an hour of pleasantly aimless wandering, they sat down at a lakeside tea shop, the still water framed by graceful water lilies, sumptuous in their over-grown beauty. Helene rested her aching feet gratefully and together they sipped the bitter green tea that was served everywhere.
Charlie leaned back, massaging his temples. Was there a grey hair amongst the blond? Maybe it was just a trick of the light.
He saw that Helene was watching him.
“You don’t think we’re going to make it, do you?” she said.
His blue eyes closed briefly as if he were very tired. Then he looked directly at her and again she was dazzled by the depth of colour in his eyes.
“The odds aren’t good, Helene,” he said softly. “Unless we can work out why we’re a target, we’re not safe anywhere. Finding guy Number Two is more than a long shot.”
Helene decided to try out a crazy idea that had been swirling around her brain. He could only tell her she was a fool: that would be nothing new – and nothing she didn’t know already.
“What about if we draw them out?” she said.
He raised his eyebrows in question.
“Well,” she continued in a rush. “What if we contact the people who are after us and… and try to work out what they want?”
“I’m listening.”
“You know you said that the programme you’d put on the laptop makes it untraceable… are you willing to risk your life on that?” she asked.
“I have before now,” he replied carefully.
Helene took a deep breath.
“Okay. So what about if we set up a website that’s going to attract their attention? The people you’ve been talking about would have programmed spiders to trawl the internet all day and everyday for anything weird, dangerous, or totally out-there… all those conspiracy theorists – they watch them all the time, right?”
“And what would you put on this website?” he said thoughtfully. “How would you attract their attention?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” she said in a neutral voice. “How about we just put up a skeleton website and when you click on it, it comes up with the words, ‘Langley’, ‘White House’ and ‘Spycatcher’?”
A slow smile spread across his face.
“That’s brilliant!”
“Thank you!” Helene laughed, relieved. “Then we leave them a place where they can post us a message. Hopefully they won’t be able to resist. Depending on what they say, we might be able to start to work out what it is they think we – or rather you – know, if we can start a dialogue with them: whoever ‘they’ are.”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it. We’ll need to go somewhere private so I can set this up. It won’t take long but I’d rather not be watched – but no hotels.”
Helene was delighted that he’d thought her silly idea worthy of acting upon.
“I think I saw something in the guidebook that might help us,” she said.
She flicked through a few pages, frowning.
“Yes, here it is. All-night coffee shops. They’re called Manga Kissa – cyber cafés. If you’ve missed your train home it’s where the kids go to watch DVDs and anime, play computer games, things like that. Yes, look here: you check in at the reception desk and get your own cubicle – it costs about ¥2500 for eight hours.”
She turned another page.
“There’s one not too far from here. Oh, and you’ll like this bit, you can also play darts and get a massage at some of them.”
“Fantastic,” he said, looking at her archly, “I like a game of da
rts.”
“You’re on,” she said. “I never miss a bulls-eye, by the way.”
“What’s the wager?” he said.
“I haven’t decided yet,” said Helene, smiling back.
The Manga Kissa was deliberately hard to find. Despite the fact it was in a guidebook, it was clearly supposed to be the kind of trendy in-place that was found by word-of-mouth, the location passed around like a secret code. The entrance was on a back street that surprised Helene with its shabbiness; everything else she had seen in Tokyo was notable by its cleanliness and newness. A couple of earthquakes and World War Two strikes by US warplanes, had helped to update the architecture.
In contrast to the sparkling high rises and shops surrounding it, Genji-yo! was discreetly dull and artfully worn. It reminded Helene of those brand new mirrors that interior designers used to swear by, with deliberately distressed gold frames and carefully warped glass.
Charlie pushed open the heavy, prison-like door and they walked into a warm fug of beer and cigarette smoke. It came as a bit of a surprise after the nicotine-free pubs and coffee houses of Britain Inc.
The soft hubbub of conversation died as they entered. Obviously not many gaijin followed the guidebook’s advice to search out the seedy back street.
“Not exactly what I’d call a stealthy entrance,” Charlie muttered. “God! This place makes me feel old.”
Helene had to smile: even Charlie was nearly a decade older than most of the clientele; she must look as old as the kraken to these teeny boppers.
A nervous looking young man stood up to welcome them – or show them the door if it turned out that they’d come in by mistake.
“Rashai!” said the young man politely, making little attempt to mask his anxiety at their unexpected arrival.
It amused Helene to see his elegant bow offset by a T-shirt that was printed with a spatter pattern of blood straight off some CSI crime scene. His hair was also thoughtfully tousled, gelled into astonishment with erratic spikes projecting out at odd angles. It must have taken a long time to achieve that casual, just-got-out-of-bed look.
Shooting worried looks at them, the host escorted them to a table that was in the main room and exposed to too many pairs of curious eyes. Helene shook her head and the young man looked puzzled.
She pulled out her dictionary and looked up the words for ‘private’ and ‘cubicle’ which the guidebook had promised was a Genji-yo! speciality.
“Koshitsu?” she said hopefully.
The host looked even more worried.
“I think that’s the right word,” said Helene to Charlie, frowning.
It certainly didn’t seem to be having the effect she’d hoped for. Suddenly a young woman near the bar started laughing.
“Ku-ga!” she giggled. “Ku-ga!” pointing at Helene.
Several of the other clients started laughing, too. Helene and Charlie had no idea at what. The host looked embarrassed.
“Ku-ga! Ku-ga!” shrieked the young woman, her hand over her mouth, in fits of giggles.
“I’ve no idea what she’s saying,” said Helene rather desperately, flicking through the pages of the guidebook’s dictionary. “It says here that ‘Kugatsu’ is ‘September’ and ‘kugun’ means ‘airforce’. That doesn’t make any sense.”
But it seemed to make sense to their young host because he bowed deeply and led them, at last, to a private cubicle.
It had everything they wanted: wi-fi, a table, chairs, a comfortable looking futon couch and privacy.
Helene ordered a coffee and Charlie ordered a beer. She hoped that the place served food, but without her having to turn to the guidebook for help, the host returned with a handwritten menu in the Latin script the Japanese called Romaji. Even with the English translations, they were little wiser about some of the dishes: ‘bee larvae with vegetable’ was particularly memorable. In the end Helene had no choice but to resort to the page of helpful phrases: the guidebook was turning out to be good value for money after all.
She practised the sentence she’d picked out a few times and when the host returned she was ready with:
“O-makase shimasu.”
Please decide for me.
The host nodded his understanding: he looked as relieved as Helene at the simplicity with which they had managed the ordering of food. He returned shortly with two hot towels scented with lemon which were deliciously refreshing after a hot, sweaty day, tramping through the city. Soon after that the food started arriving: the ubiquitous miso soup with tiny pieces of tofu floating on the top; bowls of rice, without which no meal seemed complete; some steamed fish and vegetables in mouth-watering colours; spicy wasabi dip; a thick, brown sauce that may or may not have been some sort of soy; and a dish of tempura – the type, at present, obscured by deliciously light cornflour batter: vegetables unknown and unnamed.
“Fucku?” said the host smiling and bowing.
“Pardon?” said Helene.
“You want fucku?” said the man, still smiling, still bowing.
“No, I do not!” she said with warmth.
The host looked perplexed, his eyes flicking worriedly between them, unsure how he had offended her.
“I think,” whispered Charlie, “he was asking you if you wanted a fork.”
“Oh,” said Helene.
The host backed away nervously, leaving them to their meal. He didn’t come back with a fork.
The impromptu meal was delicious and Helene was ravenous. Charlie watched wonderingly as she packed away vast amounts of food. She’d always had a rather camel-like ability to feast after a famine.
When at last she placed her chopsticks by the side of her bowl and leaned back replete, Charlie had been busy at the computer for some time.
“How’s it going?” she said.
“Okay. I’m just hacking into a server account. With a bit of luck it could be several weeks – even longer – before they realise they’re hosting a rogue site.”
“You’re pretty good at all this,” she said.
“All what?” he said, still concentrating on the small screen.
“This cyber-crime stuff. How come you’ve never done it full time?”
“What are you talking about?” he said abruptly, looking up at her. “I’m not a criminal.”
Helene frowned. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… all these things you know, hacking and that.”
She paused. He waited.
Eventually he said, “Apology accepted. I suppose you could call it… counter intelligence.”
There was more silence.
Charlie re-focused on the computer and Helene was blaming the contentment of a full stomach on her uncanny habit of opening her mouth only to change feet. She tried to remember what her father had said about speaking only to prove that you were a fool.
There was a gently tap at the side of their cubicle. Helene was glad of the interruption. The host was peering nervously at them.
“Okay?” he said anxiously.
“Delicious,” said Helene. “Hang on… oishikatta!”
“Ahh!” the host smiled happily and chattered away in Japanese as he cleared the table and retreated bowing gracefully.
“You’ve made his day,” said Charlie.
“I have that effect on people,” said Helene, hoping to keep the tone light.
“By the way,” he said innocently, “I think I’ve worked out what that girl meant when she said ‘ku-ga’.”
“And?”
He smiled.
“She was calling you a cougar.”
Helene scowled. The young girl had thought she was one of those older women who frequented clubs to prey on, and seduce, younger men.
How humiliating.
Chapter 10
Helene spent the next few hours dozing on the futon couch. It was rather hard but surprisingly comfortable and supported her aching back beautifully.
Charlie, who seemed to need no sleep, tapped away at the computer and drank more
coffee than was good for any normal human being.
“Okay,” he said at last. “I’ve done as much as we need. Come and have a look, Ms Journalist.”
Helene stretched carefully, feeling every vertebra in her back creak. She missed the comfort and quiet luxury of her own bed. When you get to a certain age, she had decided, sleeping in your own bed was one of life’s great pleasures.
She pulled up a chair and sat next to him to look at the computer. The screen was plain black with the words written in white:
Langley?
White House?
Spycatcher?’
There was a button saying ‘Comments’ in the bottom right hand corner.
“Nice design,” she said sarcastically. “Minimalist.”
His face was impassive. “I thought you’d like it.”
Helene looked at his face. What aren’t you telling me, she thought. Then she looked at the web address: www.HeleneofTroy.com
“Oh, very funny!”
“I thought you’d like that.” Now he was smiling.
She sat back.
“So what do we do now? Just wait, I suppose?”
He nodded. “Yah, they’ll be in touch.”
“Are you sure? How do you know?”
He shrugged. “It was your idea… but it’s a good one, trust me. I know.”
She looked at him thoughtfully.
“Interesting use of words, Charlie: ‘trust’. I don’t really know anything about you and yet I’ve trusted you with my life.”
He pretended to look hurt. “Have I let you down?”
She paused.
“No-o. But I don’t know you. I don’t know how you’re going to react in any given situation and that makes me nervous.”
He shrugged. “No-one really knows how they’ll react – or what they’re capable of – until they’re put in a situation.”
“Point taken. But Bill, for example: you were really going to kill him, weren’t you?”
He nodded, watching her, examining her, testing her perhaps.
Exposure Page 11
