Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense

by Elizabeth Wilkerson

  Alison snatched Charles’ note off of the refrigerator, crumpled the paper and threw it in the trash can. Charles’ response to their fight was typical — withdraw and disappear. If Charles was going to be gone all day, then she’d get on his computer, ride it hard and put it away wet.

  Alison popped some aspirin, thankful that her hangover wasn’t too bad. She spread out on the living room floor with her coffee and a pile of computer magazines she had bought at an English-language bookstore.

  With a whole day home alone on the computer, she had a chance to get that software Rob had told her about so that she could encrypt files online. That way, she and Kiyoshi could have their privacy and not be dogged by that wacko. All she had to do was download the software.

  Downloading, downloading. Where had she seen something about downloading? She leafed through her collection of computer magazines until she found the article she was looking for. A how-to article about downloading software, how a user could connect to another computer system and retrieve files from its directory. Once the file was located, the download process began. But the receiving computer had to be set to a receive mode which was compatible with the host system, and on and on and on.

  Alison’s eyes glazed over as the article discussed stop-bits, flow control and AT codes. Why not give it a shot?

  With magazine in hand and her email note from Rob, Alison sat down at the computer. She adjusted the modem settings to bypass Charles’ network connection, and typed in the phone number for the BBS in Palo Alto, crossing her fingers.

  Either it works, or it doesn’t. But it better work.

  The modem beeped away, digitally dialing. The computer emitted a different set of tones and the computer screen changed to a picture of two hands shaking. Alison guessed that meant she was in. That was easy.

  Then the screen went blank. Nothing. Not knowing what to do, Alison hit the computer’s Return key a few times, as her magazine article suggested would sometimes establish a connection with a remote computer.

  The screen changed again.

  Welcome to SwampLand. Enter your handle or the NUP.

  Alison didn’t understand what the hell was going on, but she had Rob’s instructions. NUP? Okay, no problem. Alison typed in “Acidjazz.” The computer immediately came back at her:

  That is an unrecognized name. Enter your handle or the NUP.

  Alison typed in “Acidjazz” again. The computer flew back:

  Illegal logon attempt.

  The screen cleared, and Alison heard a dial tone. The damn remote computer had hung up on her.

  She’d try it again. Alison went through the same steps, the same dialing sequence, got a handshake with the other system, but in the end the remote computer dumped her again.

  “Fuck you, too,” she said. Asshole computer. She knew she shouldn’t be taking it personally, but she was being told she wasn’t worthy — by a damn machine!

  Or maybe the NUP was no good. Rob said the NUP changed from week to week. She’d give Rob a call. Maybe he knew something.

  She picked up the phone handset at the computer and called Rob. Miraculously, he was at home. And having a party, judging from the throb of George Clinton’s funk music pounding in the background.

  “Hey, it’s me,” Alison said.

  “Hey, kiddo! Wazzup?”

  He definitely was partying. “It sounds like you’re having a great Friday night.”

  “All work and no play. You know how that goes.”

  Alison laughed. “I won’t keep you, but I’m trying to get into the bulletin board you told me about. Problem is, I keep getting thrown out. I think that the N-U-P—”

  “That’s NUP like ‘noop.’ You know, New User Password.”

  “Oh! Right. Anyway, I think the password has expired, or something, and I was wondering if you could get me the new one.”

  “Ali, I doubt it’s old. I got that three days ago. There’s some more six-packs on the fire escape.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sorry. You sure you’re inputting the password right?”

  “Give me a little credit, Rob.”

  “The system might be case-sensitive.”

  “Come again?”

  “You know, it might read upper case and lower case differently. Try again, and type in all caps, and all lower case, and variations on that, OK? Look I gotta go. Send me an email and let me know what happens.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Rob,” she said to a dead phone line.

  All right. Case-sensitive. Alison felt a rush at the challenge of getting into the remote computer that had so ungraciously snubbed her.

  “I’ve got you now, you little twit computer. I’m busting in,” she said. “Nobody and no thing is keeping me out.”

  She hit the redial key on the computer, and the modem obligingly beeped out the series of tones to connect her to the BBS.

  Welcome to SwampLand. Enter your handle or the NUP.

  I’m ready for you this time, she thought. Alison input the password with all capital letters. ACIDJAZZ.

  That is an unrecognized name. Enter your handle or the NUP.

  This time she’d try all lowercase letters. Alison typed “acidjazz.” The screen chirped at her, and the graphic image of a bubbling swamp filled her screen. Bloopy, gurgling noises provided online background music.

  “Weird. Very weird,” Alison said. The screen welcomed her to SwampLand.

  She was instructed to enter her name. Easy enough. She typed in “Alison Crane.” And her handle. That must mean her screen name. Alison typed in “AliCat.” Next, a password. How about bengoshi, Japanese for “lawyer,” a hard-to-guess foreign word, like that worthless customer service rep at World NetLink had recommended.

  The screen scrolled with text laying out the bulletin boards’ Terms of Service. Among the other items, all users had to attest to the fact that they were in no way, shape or form employed by, connected to, or affiliated with any law enforcement agency.

  Does being a member of the State Bar of California count? Who cared, just a bunch of boilerplate legalese. Alison entered her agreement to abide by the Terms of Service.

  The SwampLand BBS computer asked for her phone number for verification before her membership would be complete. That was a problem. Alison didn’t want anyone calling her at home in Tokyo. Maybe she should put in Rob’s phone number. No, that wouldn’t work. The BBS said that the phone verification was immediate. After she typed in her phone number, the computer would call her right back to confirm.

  Tokyo home phone number it was. Boy, would they be surprised to get have an overseas call-back for a new BBS member.

  She input her home phone number in Tokyo. The computer shot back at her:

  Welcome, AliCat. You are now a registered member of SwampLand, subject to phone verification. We will now disconnect and call you back. Please leave your modem on.

  The modem connection was broken, and the screen turned gray. As promised.

  Within one minute the phone rang. The computer modem picked up automatically, restarting the monitor. The handshake graphic appeared again. Her screen informed her:

  SwampLand membership complete. Welcome, AliCat. When you call back, you will have full access and online privileges.

  Then the modem connection was broken again.

  Alison redialed the SwampLand BBS yet again, entered her handle and password as instructed. Her password was accepted. She was in the club. And from all the hoops she’d had to jump through to join the club — referrals, passwords, verifications — she felt like she’d been accepted into an exclusive secret society like Skull & Bones or the Masons.

  The computer screen flashed an exhaustive directory of files she could access. But where would the encryption software be? The “Mac Files” area sounded promising, so she entered and saw a lengthy list of files available for downloading.

  SwampLand maintained quite a catalog. The word processing sub-directory included Microsoft Word, WordPerfect. In the business area
she saw Works, Excel, PageMaker.

  She remembered seeing those same programs for sale at a computer shop in Akihabara. For sale at a hefty price. But here at SwampLand could she download the programs for free? Or maybe you had to give a credit card number. Or maybe it was there for the taking … Not her concern. See no evil, hear no evil. She was looking for her encryption software, so she moved along.

  Alison browsed through the file directory but could not find her program. In the midst of her fumbling around, her computer screen beeped, and, letter by letter, a message appeared.

  “Hey there, AliCat. You’re new and it looks like you’re having some trouble. Can I help?”

  What or who was that? She typed back:

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m one of the SysOps for the board. RoadKill’s my name. I happened to be here and saw you join up. What’re you trying to do?”

  “I’m looking for a file to download. I can’t seem to find it in the directory.”

  “What’s the file called?”

  “FYEO. An encryption program.”

  “Cool, we got it. You want to send someone some GIFs, or something? It’s really good for that.”

  “What?”

  “Some JPEGs, GIFs, you know, pictures. Forget it. Since I’m here, I’ll just shoot the file over to you.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “OK, all you need to do is set your computer ready to download, and I’ll send it over. Ready?”

  “Yes. Thanks, Roadkill.”

  “De nada. Here we go. Just lie back, spread ’em, and enjoy it.”

  Alison watched as her computer screen flipped to a picture of an hourglass.

  File download: FYEO, 156.8 MB.

  She watched as little computer-generated grains of sand fell through the hour glass, filling it up.

  Receiving an unknown file from an unknown man. She assumed he was a man. Her computer was wide open and receiving whatever wad he was shooting her way. Waiting for the hourglass to fill, she felt like she was having unsafe sex with a stranger. “Lie back, spread ’em and enjoy it,” he’d said. He didn’t have to be so crude.

  But she needed the file. Having the software meant she could keep that online creep out of her life. So, she would lie back and spread ’em. Just this once. Boys with their fucking toys.

  After a few minutes of staring at falling sands, Alison got on the floor to do some yoga stretches. In the middle of the cobra pose, the computer spoke.

  File received.

  Alison smiled. Good job, Crane. You have the makings of an official techno-nerd.

  20

  Alison was itching to install the FYEO encryption software she’d downloaded, but she had to wait until Monday before she had access to Charles’ computer again. Sitting at the monitor to his computer, she caught sight of the installation icon for the encryption software. Had Charles noticed it? He hadn’t mentioned anything. But once she installed the software on Charles’ computer, would he know it was there, that it was running on his machine? How could she hide it?

  What a bother trying to cover up her tracks and slink around in her own home. She was a grown woman. She could get her own damn computer. And she wouldn’t have to give a hoot what Charles had to say about how untouchable and off-limits his exclusive toys were.

  Computers were expensive, but it would be a tax-deductible expense. And having her own computer would certainly make it easier for her to finish her research for Green Space.

  Alison made up her mind to get with the times and buy her own laptop. If the Gods of Plastic were willing.

  She combed through her purse, pulled out her wallet and dialed the emergency number on the back of her Visa card. When quizzed by the customer service agent, she rattled off her account number, mother’s maiden name and the last four digits of her social security number. Yes, she was Alison Crane.

  “I want to check my available credit. I’m in Tokyo, and I need to know how much room I have—”

  “Ms. Crane, we haven’t gotten a payment from you in the past two months.”

  Alison swallowed. An everyday detail she’d overlooked while trying to adjust to her new life in Japan. “I’m sorry. I’d meant to set up my account to automatically pay out of my savings account, but I guess I forgot.”

  “There’s a hold on your card, Ms. Crane. You can’t use it until you make the minimum payment past due. With late fees with accrued interest.” The card service rep seemed to enjoy berating Alison in his nasally whine.

  “I’ll fax you the authorization form. You can see I’ve got some money in my savings account. Can’t you transfer the money out of my savings account?” Alison kicked herself for forgetting to send in that damn form.

  “Your account is delinquent, Ms. Crane.”

  Alison was getting nowhere with the pissant’s red tape. “May I speak to your supervisor, please?”

  “One moment.” Alison was subjected to golden oldies on-hold music while Visa dug up another body to stand between her and her money. Or, rather, her lack of money.

  “This is Ms. Wright. How can I help you, Ms. Crane?”

  “I’m in Tokyo, and I was trying to figure out how much money I had on my Visa card, and I completely forgot to fax back to you the auto-payment authorization, so I’m behind in my payments.” The words tumbled out as Alison tried to appeal to the supervisor.

  “We haven’t received any payment for the past two billing cycles.”

  “I know but I’d like you to pull the funds out of my savings account to bring me back up to date. And you can check my savings account balance with your bank. I have enough to cover it.”

  “There’s nothing I can do without written authorization. If you send us the form, it will only take three or four business days.”

  Four business days in the States. That translated to maybe a week in Japan, given the time difference. Getting her credit card rehabilitated with enough capacity to buy even a cheap computer wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. And she wanted her own computer now.

  But how much would a computer cost? Especially with the added inflation of buying anything in Tokyo. Alison steeled herself and raided her stash of Green Space retainer money. She counted out twenty 10,000 yen bills and stuffed the cash in her wallet. Heaven help her if Ms. Yamada wasn’t satisfied with her work product and wanted the money back.

  01101110 01100101 01100001 01110010

  Kinokuniya. Tokyo’s answer to Barnes & Noble, Borders and the local library. A high-rise bookstore that was chronically crowded with ravenous eyeballs hunting for new reading material to devour.

  Alison was amazed by the amount of printed matter the Japanese consumed. A nation of readers. Standing on the train, waiting for the bus, between slurps in the noodle shop. Everyone traveled with something to read.

  Charles had told her that Japanese kids studied from first grade to senior year in high school to learn the 1,800 basic Chinese kanji characters they’d need to know just to be able to read the daily newspaper. Yet with a literary rate of 99 percent, virtually everyone in Japan could read. How did things go so wrong in the States?

  She and about ten other people fought their way onto Kinokuniya’s elevator. Alison was thankful that she could read the only part of the store’s floor directory written in English. Seventh floor, English-language books, magazines and newspapers. Ah, literacy.

  The door opened on the seventh floor, and Alison joined the homesick foreigners trying to stay current with local U.S. newspapers air-delivered to Tokyo, Japanese wanting to read classic English novels, and students of the Japanese language who were adding to their collection of books, tapes and kanji dictionaries.

  Alison snagged a shopping basket and cruised by the shelves packed with Japanese language study materials. One text that promised she could “Read Kanji Today!” Alison rolled her eyes. Hollow promises.

  If only she could read written Japanese kanji today or any day. Alison was still plowing through the two other phonetic alph
abets that comprised modern Japanese — hiragana and katakana. Still, no matter how she cut it, she was functionally illiterate. And after a few months in Tokyo — not being able to read product labels in the grocery store, having no idea what train she was getting on — she understood too well the frustration and vulnerability of illiteracy.

  Holding the kanji text, she thought of all of the language instruction materials she had purchased with the highest of intentions yet they remained virtually untouched on her shelf. Alison shrugged and added the kanji book to her shopping basket. Buying a new textbook was almost as good as actually learning the language.

  Alison browsed through the bookstore shelves until she came to an area dedicated to computers. She leafed through a wide assortment of books about the internet and computer networks. Whereas just a few weeks ago, all of these book topics would have been Greek to her — or perhaps, more accurately, would be like kanji to her — now she could peruse the tables of contents and understand, at least conceptually, what the discussion was about.

  She scanned book covers looking for information on online privacy protection, internet security systems, anything that might help her keep that creep out of her life. Not finding a single relevant book, she reminded herself that she had come to the bookstore to get information about how to buy a computer. She walked on to the magazine area.

  Customers reading magazines crowded the periodicals row. In Japan no one cared if you stood and read an entire magazine without buying it. The economics didn’t make sense to Alison, but she enjoyed being able to dip in and out of the latest issue of Newsweek without paying the shocking price of a periodical that had been flown halfway across the planet.

  Alison put back the Vogue she’d been leafing through and found what she had come for — a Macintosh computer buyer’s guide. Megahertz comparisons, RAM upgrades. What the hell were they talking about? She just wanted a nice little computer, something cheap and small. She mentally ballparked a yen conversion for the dollar prices quoted in the magazine. Ouch. She’d definitely be tapping the Green Space booty to finance a purchase.

  While thumbing through the magazine, she spotted a little flyer taped to the magazine rack. The flyer announced a Macintosh User Group meeting — “All Welcome” — at 8 o’clock Thursday night at the Omote-Sando Kaikan. English.