Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense

by Elizabeth Wilkerson

  Alison dug in her handbag and flashed her passport.

  “Leave everything in the locker.” The gatekeeper pointed a finger in the direction of a wall of lockers, most of which had keys stuck in the locks. “You can take a pencil, note paper, your wallet.”

  Heaven forbid she should carry any potentially dangerous materials — like a ballpoint pen — into the precious CIA information reserve. She dropped her purse in a locker and took the key.

  Thus unencumbered, Alison pondered where to start. She pulled up a chair in front of the bank of research terminals. Looked pretty straightforward. She followed the commands as they appeared on the monitor.

  “Enter ‘Subject =’” the terminal prompted her. Easy. She typed “Subject = Green Space” and pressed the Enter key.

  The computer screen was instantly filled with newspaper and magazine article citations. The Japan Times, the Asian Wall Street Journal, Japan Business Today, EnviroNews and more. Over forty hits altogether. Alison printed out all of the cites.

  Waiting for the printer to plod through the list, her mind drifted. While she was at it, no harm in seeing if there was something in the archives about Kiyoshi’s company. What was the name of his company? Something generic. She remembered: Pacific Communications.

  Alison entered the company name, and received a handful of hits which she also printed out.

  Alison took the pages of cites over to the CD-ROM reader. Cross-checking against her printout, Alison picked the corresponding CD-ROMs that contained information about Green Space. And about Pacific Communications.

  She sat down at the CD-ROM reader, inserted the first disk and typed in the page number cited. The screen displayed a long article about a run-in the Green Space people had with some real estate developers who wanted to build a resort by the coral reef off of Iriomote Island in Okinawa. Green Space maintained that development of the resort golf course would poison the groundwater and affect the coral. Apparently there had been quite a few arrests during the altercation, and the development company had received some not-so-anonymous phone threats.

  The writer made Green Space sound borderline fanatic. Alison discounted a lot of the media hype because she knew from her own experience at Save-A-Tree that the press was often less than sympathetic to movements they dismissed as the work of extremists. She read on.

  The next article reported an incident in which Green Space closed down the operations of the Japanese subsidiary of an American chemical conglomerate. Toxic waste disposal that the EPA had prohibited in the States was being shipped offshore by the subsidiary. Green Space exposed the practice, and an international shit storm ensued. The State Department and the Commerce Department hurried to Tokyo for all-around damage control.

  Good one. She liked Green Space’s style.

  Global Giving ran a piece about Green Space’s advisory group in Vietnam. Local donors claimed that Green Space had raised money to clean up waterways polluted by Japanese steel manufacturers, but in fact, was colluding with the steel companies. The donors called for a government investigation.

  At Save-A-Tree, Alison had been in the uncomfortable position of having to field phone calls from cranky, but vocal, contributors. People thought that because they had written a twenty-five-dollar check, they could dictate Save-A-Tree’s policies. Pissing off donors was not something green organizations could indulge in.

  And the Green Space donors in Vietnam had called for a government inquiry. Maybe Green Space needed lawyers more than they realized.

  After reviewing all of the articles, Alison felt that she had a good grasp on the group’s activities and the controversies they were facing. From what she could glean, they were fighting the good fight, and fending off the predictable media mud and naysayers. She had some questions, but they seemed like her kind of folk. And they were paying her kind of money.

  Alison printed out the articles. Now, for the juicy stuff.

  She pulled out the stack of CDs with information about Kiyoshi’s company, Pacific Communications. An article from the New York Times explained a joint venture between Taiheiyo Tsushin, known as Pacific Communications in the U.S., and a computer game software company in Silicon Valley. Pacific Communications had developed the game software and now it was being licensed to the U.S. Department of Defense for military applications.

  Alison vaguely remembered hearing about the deal, about the legal questions it raised when the American military built classified defense software based on a foreign company’s technology. So that was Kiyoshi’s company. Interesting stuff. If you’re a technology lawyer. Alison preferred to stick to trees.

  Next was a color piece from Advertising World. An executive of Pacific Communications discussed the lucrative deals for American talent, mostly movie stars, making television commercials in Japan. The artist contracts stipulated tight constraints on publicity so that the image of the star would not be tarnished in the U.S. The report outed foreign stars and the products they represented in Japan. Arnold Schwarzenegger hawked instant ramen noodles, while Madonna peddled beer. Some of the stars got paid over $1 million for a few hours’ work.

  Alison understood. She wasn’t the only on with a yen for yen.

  The last article was a lengthy interview with Pacific Communications’ chairman and founder, Sadao Hisaka. Hisaka described his experiences growing up in American-occupied Kobe, and how, as a boy, he’d washed dishes at one of the military bases. He learned English from the American soldiers and was influenced by seeing firsthand the vitality of American people. Hisaka had subsequently grown Pacific Communications into one of the world’s largest advertising and media companies. His oldest son, Kiyoshi Hisaka, had attended university in the U.S.

  So, Kiyoshi was a ringer. The son of an international media mogul. Alison laughed as she pushed back from the computer. Boy, could she pick ’em.

  17

  Alison raced to open the front door and catch the ringing phone.

  “Moshi moshi,” she said. Why did she bother answering the phone in Japanese when moshi moshi — “hello” — comprised a large percentage of her conversational vocabulary?

  “Hey, Alicats. The guys from the office are getting together for a pub crawl tonight. You want to tag along?”

  Tag along? It made her sound like some damn puppy dog. “Charles, every time I’ve gone out with your office buddies, you talk shop. In Japanese.”

  “No, really, it’ll be fun tonight. Lots of the other ex-pats are coming, so English will be the preferred language. And if you get sick of it, we can blow it off and go home. What do you say?”

  Alison felt, maybe out of her own sense of guilt from her covert attempted date with Kiyoshi, that she’d better say yes. “Well, OK, I guess.”

  “Great. Can you get here in an hour?”

  “Sure, see you.”

  Alison hung up the phone. Maybe the evening wouldn’t be so bad. She’d give it the old college try, hope to make the best of the situation. She owed that much to Charles. And she still had some time before she needed to head out.

  She logged into NetLink, and there was mail waiting for her. From Rob.

  Ali—

  Glad you’re finally online. You might become a world-class hacker if you’re not careful.

  Chicago’s cold as a bad fuck. Had 6 inches of snow yesterday. Why didn’t I go to Cal Tech?

  That shithead busting in on you sounds like some phone phreak getting kicks. Probably a pimply faced adolescent jerking off. What might help is encryption software called FYEO (For Your Eyes Only). If you run the software, your messages are automatically encoded. When you send a message to somebody else, they can decrypt if they have your pass key. I’ve seen FYEO in operation. It’s pretty snazzy. You can download it from elite BBS in Palo Alto called SwampLand at 415-555-2346. The NUP is Acidjazz. That’s the NUP this week only, so if you don’t d/l this now, I’ll have to get the new NUP. Good luck. You know how to d/l, right?

  Your prompt-to-reply bro, Rob 0:-)
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  PS: If they want to know who sent you, say FrightNight at FantomCity. Don’t ask…

  18

  Atide of salarymen and OLs surged out of their Otemachi offices. It was Friday, and the twenty-fifth — the twenty-fifth being payday for virtually every worker in the nation — so the employees were in high spirits. And when payday fell on a Friday, all was right with the world.

  Alison battled against the undertow of streaming bodies, swam through to the lobby’s elevator banks and pressed the button for the top floor. She emerged in the reception area for Morgan Sachs.

  The firm’s entrance for receiving visitors was impressively plush. Silk Persian carpets lounged in the hallway from the elevator to the waiting area. Gilded Japanese screens with paintings of green-eyed tigers adorned the waiting room. How appropriate that Morgan Sachs would feature carnivorous beasts of prey in their office reception.

  She walked to the lobby desk, which was unoccupied. So much for the tight security of the Morgan Sachs trading floor. She waited a few minutes then decided to go hunt down Charles.

  Alison poked her head through the door to the trading room floor. Charles’ voice boomed in Japanese followed by whoops of laughter. She was more than mildly dismayed to see an Office Lady — couldn’t be a day over 22 — sitting on Charles’ lap, laughing her head off with a group of men in shirtsleeves joining in the joke. Charles had his arms around Miss Lap Dog and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  Play it cool, Crane, Alison told herself. It’s just some office fun. She tried to plant a warm smile on her face, but it felt more like a grimace.

  “Hello, Charles,” Alison said, holding open the trading room door with one hand.

  “Alison! Good! You’re here!” Stating the obvious, Charles stood, and the OL scampered off.

  “There wasn’t anyone at reception, so I came looking for you, and—”

  “No problem. The gang’s all here. Time to mobilize! Don’t forget to hold hands and stay together, children! We don’t want anyone to disappear on us.”

  “Yeah, one Canadian is enough!” yelled one of Charles’ compatriots.

  With much hooting and laughter, the group of seven American men and four Japanese women, including Charles’ lap dog, grabbed their coats and bags. Charles took the lead in organizing the ranks.

  “Attention, attention, everyone. This is our game plan for the much-anticipated and soon to be regretted Hana Kin, the Flower of Friday carousing and debauchery!” The troops whistled and cheered. “But remember: we have to keep this clean and respectable. We’re Morgan Sachs.”

  “Morgan sucks? Who?” hollered one of the boys.

  “Morgan sucks your dick, Lester. Keep it up, and I’ll have you cut off your little finger,” Charles said.

  Alison looked on in amazement at the Charles she rarely saw. Energized, rousing. A bad boy impervious to the consequences. Male bonding at its most testosterone-esque. Must remind him of his beer-chugging frat days at Dartmouth.

  “Tonight, our mission is to explore every respectable — and some not so respectable — nomiya in Shimbashi. If they hang a red lantern, we will come. We will come, we will drink, and we will conquer! To the taxis!” More whoops and hollers as the battalion mobilized. Alison hoped she’d be able to last the evening.

  Night was coming on fast, and by the time the commandeered taxis arrived in the heart of Shimbashi, the red lanterns hanging in front of the nomiya drinking pubs were all alit. Equally aglow were drunken salarymen already staggering through the small streets crowded with taverns.

  Alison and Charles squeezed with three others in the backseat of a taxi. “Charles, what was that crack you made about the little finger?”

  Charles looked at Alison. “What? Oh. You know, when a yakuza shames his gangster boss, the guy’ll cut off the tip of his little finger to apologize for fucking up. I was just kidding, Alicats.”

  Alison remembered her visit to Green Space, Suzuki holding his hands out to present his business card. Hands that were missing a digit of the little finger. Couldn’t be. Suzuki? Alison shook the ridiculous idea out of her head and rededicated herself to having a good time with Charles’ friends. No matter how painful it would be.

  The taxi stopped in front of the nomiya Charles had designated as their first target. Alison followed the others as they ducked under the noren curtain hanging in the entrance. The place was packed with rambunctious customers, hell-bent on having a good time.

  The nomiya’s manager led the group to a room upstairs that was not as crowded as the first floor, but no less noisy. Alison blinked hard to give her eyes a little relief from the sting of the thick cigarette smoke that filled the air. I will survive, I will survive, she silently repeated as a mantra to get through the night.

  Removing their shoes, the group gathered around a low table on the tatami mat floor. Alison sat down next to Charles, and Miss Lap Dog sat directly across from him. Charles ordered five large bottles of Ebisu beer for the table, crispy cooked river shrimp, sticks of yakitori chicken with green onions, and boiled soybeans. All his favorite dishes, Alison observed.

  The bottles arrived, and the customary pouring of beer into everyone else’s glass began. No one noticed that Alison’s glass was empty. She was forced to be rude and get her own damn beer.

  “Does everyone here know my friend Alison?” Charles asked. Quick introductions were made to the people Alison didn’t already know, which was just about everyone.

  It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Alison that Charles hadn’t introduced her as his fiancée. Not even his girlfriend. She was his Friend. My Friend Alison. She’d deal with that one later. In the meantime, Alison tried to engage in some chitchat with the guy sitting next to her.

  “Hi, I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name,” she started.

  “Guy Taylor. You’re Alison, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Been in Japan long?”

  “Just a few months,” replied Alison.

  “How do you like it here?”

  “It’s not too bad, I suppose. How about you, have you been here long?” Alison could hear the condescension in her own voice talking to this kid. The guy, sitting there in his boxy Brooks Brothers suit, looked like he had barely started shaving.

  “No, I got transferred from New York two months ago. But during my undergrad at Princeton I spent a semester in Kyoto, so I know my way around.”

  Alison noticed Guy’s attention drifting toward the conversation going on at the other end of the table. But at least he was trying to be polite to her. And she was doing her part to drag the dead horse on home.

  Guy turned his attention back to Alison. “So, what brings you to Japan? Teaching English?”

  Alison bristled. His question dripped with an investment banker’s typical egocentrism. If you were a foreigner in Japan and you weren’t an overpaid I-Banker, one could safely assume that you were a member of a lesser caste, the lowly English teacher. The little twerp was still popping zits and yet he was going to patronize her. She’d set him straight.

  “Actually, I’m an attorney, and I—”

  “And they bought them for two points over prime!” Guy shouted over Alison’s head to someone at the far side of the table. With that comment, the group burst into uproarious laughter for reasons Alison couldn’t surmise. This was going to be one helluva long night …

  With no one to talk to, Alison drank too much. First beer, then sake, then some rot-gut corn mash drink. Gave her something to do. But as she and Charles were heading home in the cab, each turn and swerve added to Alison’s discomfort. She hung onto the door handle and endured. Pain pounding in her head, she knew the morning would deliver a nasty hangover.

  It wasn’t an opportune time, but Alison couldn’t stop herself. “Charles, why did you introduce me as your friend?”

  “Huh?” Charles was unfocused and couldn’t appreciate the real question being posed.

  “Why didn’t you introduce me as your fiancée?”


  “Friend, fiancée, what’s the difference? Those people don’t care, and it’s none of their damn business.” He rubbed his eyes.

  “What’s the difference? There’s a huge difference! And it sure would send a message to that Cheeko—”

  “Her name is Chieko.”

  “That Cheeko who had her ass glued to your lap.” The conversation wasn’t going anywhere good, especially at two in the morning. But she couldn’t let it go. “Those Japanese women treat you and your buddies like little pashas. It’s nauseating. I thought you were more of a feminist, Charles. The least you could do is acknowledge in front of those—”

  Charles sat up and, with narrowed eyes, studied Alison with an intensity that burned through her alcohol haze. “I’m not talking about this,” he proclaimed and sank back down on his side of the cab seat. They rode the rest of the way home in silence. Alison’s cheeks burned with contained rage.

  They had entered the front door and walked into the genkan when she cracked. “Are you sleeping with her?”

  Charles wheeled around. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Cheeko. Chi-e-ko. Are you fucking her?”

  Charles glared at Alison, his face a mixture of exasperation and contempt. “Jesus, you’re drunk.” He threw his coat on the couch and stormed into the bedroom.

  Alison collapsed on the genkan step. Hugging herself, she sobbed, gulping hard for air. She wasn’t too drunk to notice that Charles hadn’t said, “No.”

  19

  “Gone out. Back late.”