Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense

by Elizabeth Wilkerson

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  He hadn’t decided yet what the come-on would be. He needed to get a better sense of her personality, of her likes and dislikes. And her weaknesses. They all had weaknesses. And they all had their vulnerabilities. He’d find hers. He had to pay attention, to read between the lines, and he was halfway there.

  He knew she was from California. Meant she was probably athletic, outdoorsy, had a hot body. Probably was blonde. All Californians seemed to be. Maybe she was even one of those beach volleyball babes with their skimpy bikini uniforms, like he’d seen in the Olympics.

  But she said she was some kind of lawyer. So she must be smart. That was good — he liked them that way. The brainy ones always assumed they could outsmart him. So they put up more of a fight. Which meant more fun for him, watching them struggle with their disdain and their desire.

  But the details didn’t really matter in the end. Once their panties were wet and their nipples were hard, the foreign women were all alike. And TokyoAli, like all the others, would come crawling to him with her pussy throbbing. And she would spread her legs wide open and beg for it. One more stupid cow foreign bitch to add to his collection.

  10

  As dependable as the five o’clock song, Kiyoshi was online the next evening and invited Alison into a chat room.

  “Shall we get our usual room, madame? Or is it mademoiselle?”

  Oh, he’s smooth.

  “It’s mademoiselle, and I’ll meet you there!”

  She moved over to the chat room they created for themselves, Ki&Al.

  “Are you still traveling? Or back home with your family in Kobe?”

  She could be smooth, too.

  “I’m going back home to Kobe. But I live alone.”

  Alison grinned and grabbed the air with her fist. “Yes!”

  “I’m glad you can have dinner with me, Alison. I’m looking forward to finally meeting you.”

  “Me too. Where should we meet?”

  “I’ll be at the Compu-Expo Land convention in Akihabara. Is it all right if we meet at the Digital Pavilion at 7 o’clock?”

  A public place. Lots of other people around. Safety in numbers. Sounded good to Alison.

  “OK, but where is it?”

  “Akihabara. Do you know the area?”

  “I’m sure I can find it. How will I know you?”

  “I’ll have a rose behind my ear.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Seriously, I’m about 180 centimeters, my hair is goma-shio, what you call salt and pepper, and I don’t wear glasses. How will I know you?”

  “I’m easy to spot. I’m about five feet six, curly brown hair, shoulder length, gray eyes. I’m African-American, but people here in Japan tell me I look Brazilian. Whatever that means.”

  “YOU CAN DANCE A BRAZIL SAMBA IN MY LAP! A SAMBA LAP DANCE!!!”

  The computer message was accompanied by the sound of a woman’s squeals.

  “It looks like he’s back, Kiyoshi.”

  “Let’s just say — ja ne!”

  “What?”

  “Ja ne. It is like ‘bye’ rather than ‘goodbye.’ Friends use it with friends.”

  “Well, then, ja ne.”

  “You learn quickly, Ms. Alison. See you Thursday.”

  “I’LL BE BACK!” warned the voice of the Terminator.

  Damn that jerk who kept busting in on them. What a no-life creep.

  There had to be some way she could get her privacy back. She decided to call Rob. If anyone knew what she could do to defend herself online, it would be her techno-geek brother.

  Reaching for the phone, Alison paused. What time was it in Chicago? Counting on her fingers, she calculated that it was 2:30 in the morning. Better to send Rob an email.

  SOS, Rob: There’s some weirdo online stalker who keeps bothering me with freaky messages and busting into my chats. What can I do to stop it? Help!

  Alison sent the email and sat back in the chair.

  Daydreams about Kiyoshi, the mysterious Japanese stranger, floated through her mind. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. She pulled herself up short.

  You’re heading for a fall, Crane. She knew nothing about the guy. And how did he know her name was Alison? She never told him. Maybe it was a lucky guess, but maybe he’s an ax murderer. That poor Canadian woman who disappeared might’ve been out on an internet date, meeting a guy like Kiyoshi. Going out with Kiyoshi was like responding to a personals ad. The blindest kind of blind date.

  And you have a boyfriend. What about Charles? So what about Charles? He didn’t need to know every detail of her life. He went out with lots of people without ever telling her. And Kiyoshi was just her online friend. He lived hundreds of miles away. It was only a meal. Charles didn’t need to know all the particulars. Neither did Kiyoshi, for that matter.

  When it became a problem, if it became a problem, then she’d deal with it. It was premature to make any decisions. It’s like they say in the law: The matter was not ripe for deciding.

  11

  The bell over the door jingled as he stepped inside the dimly lit jazz coffee shop. He nodded to the mama-san and headed for his favorite table in the corner, directly under the heater. The only other customer, a college kid, was parked at a small table, with his head resting on his crossed forearms. With eyes closed and burning cigarette unattended, the kid looked like he’d fallen asleep. Only his tapping toe revealed that he was wide awake and deep in concentration.

  The mama-san brought over a steaming cup of black coffee. He loosened his tie and pulled out his earplugs.

  Giant Steps. He whistled along almost inaudibly. Even with his perfect pitch, it was hard to hit some of those wild leaping intervals dead on. How had Coltrane strung together such an improbable sequence of notes and keys and turned it into a brilliant melodic line? Genius.

  He’d tried to underscore some Coltrane into the TV commercial he was editing. Idiot producer had said that he wanted to hear something smoother. What could be smoother than Trane? Fucking TV producer. He’d had to re-edit the soundtrack eight times before the asshole was satisfied. Goddamn tin ears.

  He finished his coffee and let his chin drop to his chest. “A Love Supreme.” This tune he could easily follow. Four notes. Four sublime notes. “A Love Supreme.”

  He’d had a love supreme. During his freshman year at Berklee College of Music. Wide-eyed with hope and excitement to be in America, he’d finally been studying at the school he’d dreamed about his whole life.

  A Love Supreme. She had freckles and reddish blond hair. He didn’t care that she was taller than he was. Big deal. They were in music history class together, and she’d asked him about Japanese pop.

  He didn’t have many friends at Berklee. Americans talked so fast he had trouble keeping up. But he could understand her eyes. Jade green like the waters of Tokyo Bay, they flashed when she looked at him. Those green eyes had fixed on him and invited him into her dorm room. Sure, he’d come. How could he say no? A Love Supreme.

  She had wallpapered her room with yellow plaid sheets. She showed him how she’d stapled sound insulation underneath the sheets so her neighbors wouldn’t complain about her oboe practice. She’d been so proud of those damn sheets.

  And she smelled like strawberries. Maybe it was her shampoo or her deodorant. Even her room smelled like strawberries. He’d always liked strawberries.

  He sat down in her desk chair, and she offered him a glass of cognac. To warm up. After two glasses, he’d pretty much forgotten Boston’s winter chill.

  She lit a candle, turned off the lights in the room. And put on Coltrane. How could a chick like that listen to Trane? But she did.

  She moved close to him and massaged his shoulders. Pulled off his sweater and took his shirt out from under his belt. She loosened his pants and stroked his already hard dick. He hoped he could hold back and restrain himself.

  She refilled his glass and told him she wanted to show him somethin
g. She peeled off her jeans and stripped off her sweater. No shyness, no hesitation. Just that brash confidence so typical of Americans. She stood in front of him in her lacy green bra and matching panties. Her panties were the color of her eyes. Eyes that dared him not to worship her.

  She took off her bra and revealed two round breasts. In the candlelight, he could see her nipples standing firm. Firm and pink. Not plum-colored like a Japanese girl’s. His dick throbbed, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. He felt lightheaded and giddy, like he was in the middle of a pleasantly surreal dream.

  She dipped her finger in his cognac, then dribbled the cognac on her nipples. Lick it off, she said. Lick me dry.

  And he did. She tasted so sweet. Like strawberries. And cognac. But more intoxicating.

  He began to take off his jeans, but she said, no. There was more that she wanted to show him.

  She leaned back on her futon bed and opened her legs wide. With cupped hands, she rubbed her pussy with one hand while reaching into the nightstand next to her bed with her other hand. She pulled a huge kokeshi out of the drawer — a purple rubber dildo as big as his dick. Bigger. She stared at him and grinned before squirming out of her panties. Her pussy hair wasn’t black — it was blonde. Foreign girls were so different.

  She asked if he wanted to watch.

  He couldn’t find his voice to answer. His heartbeat skittered in his chest, and his dick itched and pulsed at the same time.

  She licked the dildo and eased it into her cunt. Her body shivered as she slid it in and out. In the candlelight, the dildo glistened with her pussy juice. Head thrown back, she’d moaned with pleasure.

  With green eyes glittering, she asked him if he liked what he saw.

  He kicked off his jeans and jumped on top of her. She had practically asked him to come fuck her. Had practically invited him to. It was her idea, not his.

  So why was he the one who’d gotten thrown out of school? She didn’t even bring official charges. Went running straight to the dorm proctor with her tears and accusations.

  But it was enough to get him an instant one-way plane ticket back to Japan. Enough to stop his music studies cold. A Love Supreme. The little cunt.

  American girls. Carefree seducers and indifferent destroyers with their teasing round eyes and toothpaste smiles. In the States, he hadn’t known how to defend against their siren song. But in Japan, it was a different story. A different tune altogether.

  And if the gaijin bitches wanted to get to know a Japanese man, wanted to get to know the natives, they’d better be prepared for what they might find. And let them struggle to understand the cultural differences. Let them try to understand how yes meant no, and no meant yes. Let them be humiliated and confused and off balance, like he had been. Let their dreams be shattered. And let them go sniveling home. A Love Supreme.

  12

  Dressed, coifed, perfumed, and with a Japanese-English dictionary tucked in her evening bag, Alison was ready to go. She stepped down into the genkan foyer and selected some Jimmy Choo pumps from the shoe closet. Charles called them her hooker heels. The shoes would be torturous to wear, but she hoped the effect on Kiyoshi would be worth it. Question was, would he be worth it? Alison tried not to have any hopes, any expectations about the man, about the friendship. But she tried in vain. She was excited about meeting him and had needed to run twice her usual distance in the morning to calm her nerves.

  As Alison was squeezing into the heels, the phone rang. She stepped out of the shoes and ran into the living room to catch the phone before the answering machine picked up.

  “Hey, Alicats!”

  “Hi, Charles, what’s up?” She tried to coax some gaiety into her voice. “I was on my way out the door to meet Ruth.”

  “Who?”

  “Remember, I told you. My friend Ruth from law school’s in town, and we’re getting together for dinner.”

  “Oh, right,” said Charles.

  “Anyway, I’m on my way out, so I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “The guys here decided not to go out tonight, so how about I join you?”

  Think fast Alison. “Charles, it’d be great if you could come, but — I know Ruth wants to talk to me about some problems she’s having with her husband. She’s only in town for tonight, and I don’t know if she’d feel comfortable with—”

  “Got it. Ladies Night Out. So, where’re you going?”

  Why was Charles suddenly getting so interested, so inquisitive? “We’ll probably go to Spago. I’m on my way to her hotel now.”

  “Where’s she staying?”

  “At the Imperial. Look, darling, I gotta go. See you when I get home.”

  Alison hung up the phone. Why was she suddenly lying to Charles? She hadn’t planned to. But neither had she intended to tell him she was off to meet another man for dinner, a man she’d met online, no less. Charles wouldn’t understand that it was just a dinner. Was it just a dinner?

  Now that she’d embarked on weaving a tangled web of deception, she’d have to be careful. Would Charles notice the new outfit? Would he wonder why she was dressed like this to meet a girlfriend? Maybe she should reserve a room at the Imperial in Ruth’s name if Charles called. Just in case.

  Alison reined herself in for a reality check. There was really no reason to get paranoid. Charles never kept such close tabs on her. She had that in her favor tonight. Alison put on her heels again and stepped out.

  The filled-beyond-capacity train stopped at Akihabara station and spat out the disembarking passengers.

  “Akihabara: The Electric City,” boasted the neon signs on the train platform. Alison fought her way out to the door of the train. She struggled against the phalanx of shoppers battling onboard using their newly purchased boxes of electronics as battering rams.

  Alison looked at a map of Akihabara station to try to find her way to the conference center where she was meeting Kiyoshi. Countless train, subway and streetcar lines all intertwined in a convoluted muddle at the station. Where was the orderliness Japan was so famous for?

  Too much noise, too many people. The familiar tightness grew in her skull as her brain deliberated whether to shift into claustrophobic panic attack mode, or not. She had to flee the clattering racket of the station. Now. Any door, any exit, would do. She pushed through crowds and escaped to the street. A huge banner stretched across the avenue: “Welcome Compu-Expo Land!” Hallelujah.

  Dumb luck guided Alison to the conference center, a collection of ultra-modern buildings, each seemingly cantilevered out of the next. Conference attendees streamed in and out of every door. Carrying canvas bags with the Compu-Expo Land logo, they looked as happy as kids in a toy store on Christmas Eve. She was in the right place, but finding Kiyoshi amidst the sea of digital devotees would be a challenge.

  Alison checked her time. She was five minutes late. All was going as planned. Not too early, and not late enough to be considered rude in a time-obsessed society like Japan.

  Standing outside, smack in the middle of the main entrance to the conference, she struck what she hoped looked like a casual, relaxed pose. She’d be hard for Kiyoshi to miss. Especially because there were hardly any women in sight. Or foreigners. She alternated between arms crossed over her chest, to one hand on her hip. She wanted to look available, but not like a working girl. And in the dress she was wearing with the stiletto heels, it might be a tough call.

  Piercing gusts blew through the plaza in front of the conference center. Alison hugged her thin, cotton swing coat around her. The coat was more for fashion than for warmth, and her legs felt wind-whipped and numb.

  A digital billboard flashed the time and temperature, 7:45 p.m. and 11 degrees Celsius. Alison couldn’t convert the temperature into Fahrenheit in her head, but 11 degrees Celsius sure felt fucking cold. And she didn’t have to calculate any numbers to know that Kiyoshi was forty-five minutes late.

  Maybe he’d gotten held up in traffic. Maybe he’d had business meetings that had run over
. Maybe, maybe. Or maybe he had shown up, taken a look at her and decided he wasn’t interested. She’d come this far, she’d give him another few minutes.

  She rocked from one leg to the other, giving each foot a momentary rest from the pain of her shoes. Alison looked for a place where she could sit down while still keeping an eye out for Kiyoshi. He was almost an hour late, and she was cold. What had she been thinking?

  Throngs of conventioneers swept past her and into the hall. Alison’s gaze followed them inside. Nerdy men in suits, jam-packed together. Excited and enthusiastic. It had to be warm in there. The close proximity of too many bodies had freaked her out on the train. But now, with toes and fingers gone numb, Alison welcomed the idea of sharing the body heat of strangers. It sure beat hypothermia.

  Her gut tightened with disappointment tinged with anger with the realization that she’d been stood up. Kiyoshi — or whatever his name really was — was proving to be a jerk. Better to know sooner rather than later. But he’d seemed like such a nice guy. And he was her only friend in Japan. She rubbed her hands together to get the blood moving. Maybe he had a good excuse. Or maybe she was pathetic. She’d go inside, thaw out, then head home.

  Walking into the convention center was like entering a psychedelic circus tent. Three billboard-size high-definition television screens flanked the walls of the center and simultaneously projected a music video of a tone-deaf girl group jerking through labored choreography. Fighting for airtime, a recording of Beethoven’s Ninth piped through stereo speakers showcased on a stage in the center of the hall. Overhead, laser light shows beamed advertisements through the ethers.

  Alison’s gaze bounced around the hubbub as she searched for a place to sit down, warm up and rest her abused and aching feet. Stumbling past the exhibition booths whose enthusiastic merchants bombarded her with offers of pens, key chains, T-shirts and magazines, she spotted a booth where a vendor was passing out samples of sake in square wooden cups.