The Spy Across the Table

by Barry Lancet

  That brought his head up fast. “You hardly know my daughter.”

  His tone was accusatory and the comment hurt, but I swallowed the offense without judging him. Tanaka was in pain and, justified or not, was lashing out at the closest target.

  “That’s true. I only met her that once in passing, when I ran into the three of you in Nihonbashi. But I knew your wife well, and I was there at the Kennedy Center when she and Mike Dillman were shot. I feel responsible because I was the one who brought them together. What’s worse, I saw the killer and couldn’t catch him. Those things are tearing me apart. If anyone can understand my pain, you can. And if anyone outside your family can understand your pain, I can. If that’s not enough, I give up. Say the word and I’ll walk out of your life and never bother you again. I’ll drop the first lady’s commission and go after the killer on my own, without your help. But, either way, I’m not stopping.”

  He stared at me through eyes still muddy and bloodshot but now tearing up. A frail clarity clawed at the cloud of confusion hovering over him. “Maybe you’re right. I don’t know. I can’t think anymore. This may kill me. I might not live to see my daughter’s return, assuming she is alive, as you say.”

  “She is,” I said.

  The corners of his mouth sunk. “How can you possibly know that when even the Japanese police don’t know such a thing?”

  “Because there’s been no ransom note.”

  He blinked. “If that’s true, why didn’t the police tell me that?”

  “Because you only just gave me the other piece of the answer a moment ago.”

  He blinked again. “Me? I don’t understand.”

  “No ransom note and no leverage. If they don’t want your money and there’s no reason to use Anna for blackmail, that leaves only one thing.”

  “What?”

  “They want something from Anna herself.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t know yet. But if you’ll work with us, I promise I’ll do my best to find out.”

  His eyes rolled around in their watery sockets like an unmoored oyster in a half shell. I’d pushed him too far. Then his gaze refocused and found mine with feverish intent.

  “Of all the agencies and officials and policemen who have tramped through this house, no one has put it that way.” The haze of hurt and confusion parted some more. “What do you need from me?”

  “I need everything you know and everything you know but don’t know you know.”

  He began to nod and kept nodding. At first in acknowledgment to my answer, but next to an inner voice. Then, without warning, he rose on unsteady feet, saying, “Let me bring more tea,” and headed off once more to the rear of the house.

  Mari’s eyes spilled over with worry. “Is he coming back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The teapot remained untouched on the table in front of us.

  * * *

  My phone buzzed with an incoming message from Renna, back in San Francisco. It was a follow-up about Jared Trooger and the murder-robbery that earned Mikey a sealed juvie record.

  Trooger is out. Springfield PD jumped on him first thing in the morning. Doesn’t speak Spanish. Accounting office where he works has him punched in at the time of the Kennedy Center murders. SPD will cross-check alibi with boss and employees, but accounting head said Trooger operates a machine on an assembly line for vacuum cleaners. Any absence would have stalled the whole line until they found a replacement. Nothing else on Mikey in SF has led anywhere. Ball’s in your court.

  So Trooger wasn’t the Spanish-speaking killer I’d heard backstage at the Kennedy Center, and none of Mikey’s skeletons were going to get me the why behind the murders. If we didn’t find the answer here, in the Tanakas’ living room, my inquiry into my friends’ deaths would stall out.

  Some ball.

  * * *

  Relief swept over us when Tanaka finally reappeared.

  Another minute and we’d planned to dive into the back rooms after him.

  Sharon’s husband had used the time to wash his face and comb his hair. Perhaps for the first time that day. He’d also shaved.

  “Forgot this,” he said with a sheepish grin. He picked up the bamboo-handled teapot and headed off again, reappearing a moment later and pouring fresh tea all around before reclaiming his seat. “Let’s bring my daughter home,” he said.

  For the first time since our arrival, there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes. In my peripheral vision I saw Mari perk up. Noda’s eyebrows rose, then resettled.

  “Let’s,” I said. “We can start with your daughter’s job. What exactly does she do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  “She never talked about her work?”

  “No.”

  “Did you ask?”

  “Of course. I’m her father. It’s just that . . . that . . . Akemi—Anna to you—made me promise not to mention her security clearance, which is the only thing I know about her work. And only because some people from the American embassy came to interview me.”

  “How about the name of the company?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know if it was a company or, say, a government agency?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever mention any of her colleagues by name?”

  “No.”

  “Or introduce you to any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Is there anything more you do know?”

  “No.”

  I’d slammed into a wall of no’s erected by the very woman we were trying to rescue.

  Mari spoke up for the first time. “Brodie, would you mind if I asked Mr. Tanaka some questions?”

  “Please,” I said.

  Our detective-in-training smiled at Tanaka. “Aside from folklore, did your daughter have any other interests?”

  “Of course. Volleyball and computers.”

  Mari’s eyes sparkled. “Did she, like, maybe go online sometimes?”

  “Constantly. Why?”

  This was no coincidence. Mari had found some hint of Anna’s online activities.

  “Because from the age of eight I was that way too,” Mari was saying.

  “My Anna started at six,” Tanaka said with a measure of pride.

  Mari grinned as if she’d found a soul mate. “Did she have a handle?”

  “A what?”

  “A screen name she used when she was online.”

  “Oh, yes, although she stopped all that nonsense once she graduated college. Online she was Spiker13. She always dreamed of playing on the women’s Olympic volleyball team, so she made herself the thirteenth member.”

  “No way,” Mari said. “Your daughter is Spiker13?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Spiker13 was my idol. She was a white-hat hacker and the top female computer talent in Japan for four years running until she graduated college and was headhunted by SoftBank.”

  “I don’t know what a ‘white-hat hacker’ is but the rest of it’s correct. How do you know all that?”

  SoftBank is one of Japan’s premier tech companies. Its founder, Masayoshi Son, was one of the first people in Japan to ride the Internet wave to riches. He went into broadband, software, and Internet properties, then cell phones, banking, and beyond.

  “Are you kidding? In my circle, your daughter is a rock star.” Mari fired an impassioned look my way. “Brodie, Anna Tanaka is a software genius. She was lured away from SoftBank by Google, where she stayed only two years before being poached by a company on the East Coast.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “No one knows. My hacker friends and I plowed the trenches to find out, but couldn’t.”

  “Is all that true?” I asked Tanaka.

  “Your partner knows as much as I do.”

  I cleared my throat. “That’s a good start, but we’re going to need more. You need to tell us why your daughter came to her
mother’s funeral in disguise.”

  Tanaka’s gaze bounced between Mari and me, then he shrugged. “You seemed to have guessed so much already. It’s because of her security clearance. Her employers didn’t want her to come at all. The disguise was a compromise Anna herself suggested. We enlisted one of her mother’s friends to do the makeup.”

  I sat back, stunned. “That’s some plan. And you have absolutely no idea who she works for?”

  “No.”

  “Or even a hint of what she does?”

  “No.”

  “Can you give us anything new at all? It could make a difference.”

  His brow furrowed. “Well, I did see an email of hers once by mistake, but I doubt it’s important. I read it and I shouldn’t have. I’ve always taught my children to respect the privacy of others, so you can understand my embarrassment. My lapse is unforgivable, so please keep this between us. All of it was too technical for me except for one thing. Akemi worked at a place called Fort Meade.”

  His answer electrified me. “Are you sure that was the name?”

  “ ‘Stationed at Fort Meade’ was the phrase I saw. Do you think it’s important?”

  “It changes the whole ball game,” I said.

  CHAPTER 41

  BACK out on the street, Mari turned immediately to me. “What’s at Fort Meade?”

  “The NSA,” I said.

  Mari shook her head. “I know the name but I don’t follow that stuff. Do you, Noda-san?” He said no, so Mari said, “You need to fill us in, Brodie.”

  Which I did.

  Aside from a handful of military installations, Fort Meade housed the headquarters of the National Security Agency. The NSA collected and analyzed the emails, phone calls, Internet movements, and any other form of digital activity of Americans and foreigners around the world. Tens of thousands of people worked directly for the NSA or its contractors. It was all part of the buildup of the security-military-industrial complex in Washington that Dr. Kregg had mentioned at the museum—as a new source of donations for her, and as a warning to me. And just the kind of place that could find endless uses for someone with Anna’s talent.

  Mari could not contain her agitation. “You’ve got to find her, Brodie.”

  “We’ve got to find her. We’re a team. You did well in there.”

  She blushed and looked away. In Japan, a nonverbal sign of approval was the traditional route.

  I said, “But first I need to know if Anna Tanaka is really as good as you claim, or were you just being nice to her father?”

  “Spiker13 is awesome. She’s a top Japanese talent.”

  That clinched it.

  This wasn’t about Anna herself or someone she might know.

  This was about what was in her head.

  * * *

  11 P.M.

  THE SHINJUKU NI-CHOME DISTRICT, TOKYO

  Habu will post guards front and back, the Korean bodyguard Jiro Jo had told us. You want him, you’ll have to get past his men.

  Noda and I arrived at the edge of Tokyo’s gay quarter. A light shower earlier in the evening had swept away the dust. Streets and storefronts glistened. Bright neon signage cast rainbow streaks across rain-slicked sidewalks.

  Barhopping men cruised the narrow lanes. They strolled by alone and in pairs. Splashy clothes and plumage were rare on the street. Shy to a fault, most Japanese preferred to unwind behind closed doors. To that end, colorful attire was cloaked under a light spring jumper or carried in a shoulder bag. More ambitious souls dragged small carry-on luggage with wheels in their wake. Tourists from the countryside flicked sly glances at the native exotica. A few outright gawkers rocketed through the streets, laughing and talking in loud speculative voices.

  Further intel from Jo gave us a handle on Habu’s movements. The yakuza boss would keep it low-key until the police let up. Low-key for him meant a woman on each arm, two of his best men roaming the room, and guards posted outside his chosen club to screen for unfriendlies.

  “Habu is sly,” the bodyguard had said. “He uses Ni-chome as another layer of defense. You two won’t pass.”

  Our arrival would trigger an immediate alert, we were informed.

  “What about the club proprietors?” I asked.

  “Habu spreads a lot of money around up front. You’ll be in hostile territory from all sides.”

  We hit the first two clubs with negative results and were beginning to doubt Jo’s street creds. Ni-chome housed three hundred bars of all sizes. Most were select, clubby affairs catering to special segments of the community, with seating of fifteen to twenty, sometimes less. Habu frequented large nightclubs where the crowd stretched to several hundred.

  Noda and I strolled through Habu’s first two hangouts to flesh out our target’s preferences: he liked loud, noisy, dark, and cavernous. On a Friday night, the clubs were busy and chaotic. Habu could hide in plain sight. Both of the first two spots confined the dancing to one corner of the club, which worked to the gang leader’s advantage. Dancing created too much random movement and made it harder to detect an approaching attack.

  Dragon Skin was the last name on the list. As with the first two haunts, we planned to circle around the front and back, an eye peeled for Habu’s watchmen. We needn’t have worried. From a block away, we spotted two soldiers leaning against the wall of the building, four lots from the corner.

  “Sign says third floor,” I said. “The green and yellow one.”

  “Might be men in the stairwells too,” Noda said.

  There was nothing buff or bear or butch about the pair of thugs hovering around the entrance. They made no pretense about blending in. They would note the same of us, so before we hit their radar, we took the next turn and swung around to the rear. On the back side of the block, a narrow lane four yards wide was lined with a string of Japanese-style “snack” bars offering karaoke, drinks, and “hostesses” of the male persuasion.

  I glanced down the alley.

  “Two more men,” I said.

  “Makes a good blind. Gonna call in the boys.”

  Noda hit redial on his cell phone, laid out the location, said “Ten minutes,” disconnected, and turned to me with: “That enough time?”

  “It’ll have to be.”

  We walked on.

  CHAPTER 42

  THREE minutes later we looped back.

  A jumble of music peppered the night air. Buoyant notes from The Phantom of the Opera trickled through the parted window of a third-floor club, and the heavy base beat of dance mixes reached our ears two doors down.

  Side by side, Noda and I turned into the slim passageway. Despite attempts to deflate our natural bulk, we filled the opening. Five yards in, the pair of watchers spotted us. Suspicious eyes swung our way—and stayed.

  Our gait was loose-limbed and lubricated. We walked a crooked line, weaving about like drunks pretending they could hold their liquor. Just a couple of guys who maybe wandered down the wrong alley in the wrong section of town.

  “The welcoming committee’s spotted us,” I mumbled. “They don’t seem to be buying.”

  It was an impressive committee. Both were muscular and bulked out. They leaned side by side against the back wall of the building housing Dragon Skin. One had a leg cocked and bent, foot planted flat against wall. The other turned to face us, then let a shoulder fall back against the brick.

  Noda stumbled and fell into me.

  I pushed him away, saying with undisguised disgust, “Drunk already?”

  “Ain’t drunk, you stupid gaijin.” Stupid foreigner.

  That earned a laugh from our audience.

  Noda took a sloppy swing at me. I sidestepped the attack, and the momentum of his ill-aimed punch dragged him sideways. He stumbled and nearly fell.

  One of the guards snorted and looked away. No threat there. The other, not yet convinced, continued to monitor our progress.

  “Get a grip, you idiot,” I said. “Night’s still young.”

  Noda connect
ed with a long, loping roundhouse to my ribs and I said “Hey!” and stumbled back against a wall, knocking over a knee-high trash bin.

  Snickers from the onlookers reached our ears. The second one finally lost interest.

  We wove on. Maybe five microbars lined each side of the lane, and more of the same were stacked six or seven stories above them. We passed narrow staircases leading upward to the off-street establishments. Distant snatches of music and chatter swept down the stairwells.

  Behind us came a screech of wheels and then a tap of a car horn. Not a rude blast of an irritated driver but a tolerant, prodding, nudge-the-drunks-to-the-side sort of beep.

  We turned in time to see the driver of a large restaurant supply van thrust his head out the window. “Need you to give us some room, gentlemen. We have a delivery to make.”

  Gentlemen. No road rage here.

  Noda and I veered out of the vehicle’s path. I slipped in behind the chief detective. The delivery van advanced at a glacial pace, afraid we’d lurch back into its path in a drunken misstep. The wheels made a sucking sound on the wet pavement. I laid my hands on Noda’s shoulders to steady myself. Noda tripped and stumbled into the path of the truck before weaving back the other way. The driver hit the brakes. Tires screeched on the slick pavement.

  Noda and I trekked on single file. The truck inched forward, not daring to pass us.

  “Take your arms off,” Noda said, his voice carrying down the passage.

  “Not till the damn truck goes by. You can’t hardly walk. Know I can’t see straight.”

  I glanced around. The truck consumed most of the alleyway’s girth.

  The head yakuza shot us a disgusted look, but despite our world-class acting job he and his partner tensed as we drew near. I released my grip on Noda. Without his steadying presence, my legs drifted sideways and buckled. I slumped against the wall and slid to the ground, groaning.

  “Maybe I’ll rest here a minute,” I said.