If SwampLand was an enterprise engaged in a pattern of racketeering activity, as was all-too-broadly defined by the statute and interpreted by the courts, she could be subjected to RICO’s harsh judgment. And SwampLand would be added to RICO’s ignominious hit list along with Mafia families, the Hells Angels, abortion clinic demonstrators and even some Catholic bishops.
If the Feds were going after the SwampLand BBS under a conspiracy theory, when Alison downloaded the contraband FYEO encryption software and, making matters worse, emailed a copy to Kiyoshi, a foreign national, she’d clearly joined up with the co-conspirators.
She doubted whether she could untangle her knotty legal problems relying on CD-ROM readers and sneaking onto Lexis terminals. The smart thing to do would be to call a lawyer. But maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Why waste money on unnecessary legal counsel? Not unless and until her situation became a present issue.
She could lay low, like Rob had suggested. He was right — she was all the fucking way on the other side of the fucking planet. Laying low held a certain appeal. Head in the sand worked for her.
She was keen to warn Kiyoshi about what was going on, what muck she might have dragged him into. He might even have some idea about how to fix things. Assuming he still wanted to talk to her.
The cab pulled up in front of the house, and Alison, lost in thought pondering her options, sprang out of the taxi and dashed toward the front door. The cabbie yelled in that international language, universally understood. She’d forgotten the fare. With profuse apologies in English, Alison paid the driver, adding a big tip, which he pocketed.
Entering the front door, she saw the living room flooded with lights and Charles’ shoes in the genkan.
What rotten timing. Tonight of all nights, when she urgently needed to get online, Charles was home early. She kicked off her shoes, put on slippers and went to the kitchen for a glass of merlot.
“Charles?” she called. There was no answer. Alison poured herself a tall glass of wine and walked into their bedroom. From behind the bath door, the gurgle of the ofuro’s jets stopped. Charles stepped out of the bathroom, towel tied around his waist. His chest and shoulders glowed with a moist sheen. Did he realize what a knockout he was? Of course he did.
“Hey, Alicats.” He bent over and kissed Alison’s head.
“You’re getting me wet.” Alison flicked water droplets off of her hair.
Charles chuckled and walked to the kitchen bar. “How’s your day?” he called.
“It was OK,” Alison said. Other than the fact that I’m wanted by the FBI and they could be arresting me at any moment.” Alison drank some of her wine. “Why’re you home so early? Are the markets closed?”
“Department party. A bonnenkai.”
“Bonnenkai?”
“For the end of the year. You forget everything bad that happened during the past year to get ready for the new year. Didn’t I tell you?” Charles brought his drink back to the bedroom.
Alison could think of a whole lot of things during the year that she would just as soon forget. Like her looming legal problems. Which could easily become Charles’ legal problems. Even though their relationship had become more stress-fueled sex than romance and roses, he had a right to know. Just like Kiyoshi did.
“There’s something I need to talk to you about Charles. It’s important.”
“Sure thing, Alicats. Calendar it for tomorrow. Soon as I get home.” He toweled off and stepped into his briefs.
It wasn’t fair to let Charles go off into the night without knowing about the snarl of problems she’d created. “We should talk now,” she said.
“Can’t. Gotta get dressed.”
Alison swirled her glass and watched the wine’s honey-like drips slide down the crystal. Why shouldn’t Charles enjoy himself? Tomorrow she’d drench him with a splash of cold reality about what she’d been doing and how he could get roped in. He deserved his party. Her confession could wait.
And with him out of the house, she’d have a chance to alert Kiyoshi about the stormy legal clouds gathering on the horizon.
She drained her glass, refilled it, and joined Charles in the bedroom to help him get dressed. And hasten his departure.
“Need a hand?” She hoped she sounded eager to be of assistance rather than eager to see him out the door.
“I’m all right. No, wait.” He pulled down a satin bow tie hanging on the back of the closet door alongside a tux. “You tie it better than me.”
Alison took the bow tie from Charles’ outstretched hand. He stood before her with arms at his sides like an obedient schoolboy. Alison flipped up his collar, circled the satin fabric tight around his neck and pulled, adjusting the bow. “Perfect. For a fancy party.”
Charles turned his back to Alison and zipped up his pants. “I know, they’re overdoing it. It’ll be a snooze.”
“I’m sure it will.” She flopped on the living room couch and turned on the evening news. The coverage was focused on the English teacher from Canada whose body had been recovered from Tokyo Bay. The police wouldn’t comment on the cause of death. Gruesome news grabbed the headlines, just like in the States.
“Hey, Charles! They found the Canadian woman.”
“What?” Charles called from the bedroom.
“The missing English teacher. From Canada. They found her body in Tokyo Bay.” How could a young woman — a young gaijin woman — end up a corpse in the water? Alison hugged a throw pillow to her chest.
“Raw deal,” Charles said.
He strolled into the living room. Double-oh-seven-suave in his tux, bow tie and cummerbund. “How do I look?”
As if he didn’t know. With those shoulders, Charles could wear a pickle barrel and be ready for the cover of GQ. “You look great.” Alison caught a whiff of his aftershave. Lagerfeld. She’d given it to him for Valentine’s Day.
“You smell good, too.”
Charles pecked her cheek with a kiss. “Don’t wait up.”
She hadn’t planned to.
With Charles gone, Alison had a chance to get in touch with Kiyoshi. Rob had intimated that the matter was best not discussed by phone, so she unpacked her computer gear and set up shop in the study. If things went her way, she’d be able to catch Kiyoshi online. And because it was a new, untested toy, Alison turned on the Tracer device in case someone was trying to eavesdrop on her modem line.
She logged on. The familiar voice of World NetLink welcomed her and announced that she had new mail.
She opened her one piece of mail and saw that it had been sent anonymously. Again.
WELCOME HOME! DID YOU MISS ME!! I MISSED YOU. MY FRIENDS SAW YOU IN HONKON. THEY THINK YOU ARE VERY PRETTY AND CHARMING. TOO BAD YOU DID NOT MEET. THEY HAD A PRESENT TO UPLOAD ON YOUR COMPUTER.
Alison’s fingers tightened around her mouse. That damn bastard was the reason she was in the fucked-up legal mess she was in. His unrelenting taunts, obscenities and threats. He invaded her privacy with reckless abandon, like she was his toy, an amusement to be trifled with. And now that she’d taken action to defend herself, she could end up losing her law license. She could end up in a prison cell. All because of that psycho online pervert.
She wished she could bring in the authorities to get rid of the guy. But with the pile of legal shit that Alison had innocently stepped into, she didn’t know who the authorities would be more eager to pick up: the cyberfreak or her, the cryptographic terrorist conspirator.
But she’d deal with him. For all the torment he’d caused her, she’d find a way to heap it back on him. Somehow, she’d find a way. And payback would be sweet.
Alison broke from her reverie of revenge and refocused on her task at hand, letting Kiyoshi know that maybe he should think about possibly contacting a lawyer. Perhaps. As a bearer of conditional bad news, she felt like she was asking him to consider getting tested for some sexually transmitted disease, which he may or may not have contracted from her.
But he needed to know and had the right to kn
ow. She sent out an online page for Kiyoshi, and he responded.
“Hi, Kiyo! Glad I caught you.”
“Hello, Alison. How are you?”
“It’s been a horrible day.”
“What happened?”
“It’s about the encryption software we’ve been using.”
“It’s working fine.”
“We have to stop using it.”
“Why?”
“Please, trust me. We can send regular unencoded email and chat. OK?”
“The guy will be able to intercept our messages.”
“I’m running software to try to track him down.”
“What software?”
“I don’t feel comfortable talking about it online.”
“Then let’s talk on the phone.”
“I feel even more paranoid on the phone. Wiretaps, and all.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“Let’s cool it with the encryption software. I’ll find our annoying friend and turn him over to the police.”
“I told you to let me handle him.”
Alison slumped back in the chair. Her bones were heavy with the weight of taking care of everything by herself, of being paranoid and afraid by herself, of being on the lookout by herself. Why not let Kiyoshi deal with the freak? After all, what could she do? As a foreigner? On a semi-tourist visa? Not speaking Japanese? And an alleged felon subject to extradition?
“You win. If I get a lead on the guy, I’ll give you all the info.”
“You’ve got my cell phone number. Call me if you need me.”
Why hadn’t she told Kiyoshi the whole story? Why hadn’t she prepared him for the fact that she might — they both might — need some heavy-duty legal intervention? She was such a wimp. Afraid that the news might scare him off.
“Everything’s so fucked up.” Alison pounded the table with her fist. “So. Damn. Fucked. Up.”
Uncontrollable tears of frustration escalated into ragged sobs. She’d been stupid and naive to think that she could defend against the online predator. Using a bunch of equipment she’d acquired from sources she knew were marginally legal, at best. Now she was fighting a strong current, hoping to stay out of jail, hoping not to implicate Kiyoshi and Charles. She might have fucked up her own life, but they didn’t deserve to get sucked up in her whirlpool.
Exhausted and spent by her outburst, Alison took rhythmic yoga breaths to calm her nerves and clear her thinking. She needed her cool, rational lawyer mind to assess the extent of her problems and devise a strategy.
Blithely logging onto World NetLink as a newbie had landed her in a world of trouble. But maybe now, wizened and battle-scarred, she could use the network to help get herself out of trouble. World NetLink was a diesel-fuel clunker compared to the horsepower of Lexis, but she should be able to ferret out some useful legal information. Encouraged by having a plan of action, meager though it be, she returned to her computer.
Alison combed the law and legislation section of World NetLink. In the chat room, people posted questions looking for free online legal advice. She saw listings for the full text of the Constitution, the Code of Federal Regulations, and the U.S. Code. But there was nothing to shed light on the law she needed to know.
Alison decided to give it a rest for the night. Another glass of wine would help. As she prepared to pack up her gear and exit the system, something caught her eye.
The red light on the Tracer box was blinking.
44
It took a few seconds before Alison realized the significance of the Tracer’s flashing light. She had company. Nearby. And not the kind of company that rang the front doorbell. It was an uninvited guest, eavesdropping on her modem line. It was him. And he was close.
“You bastard!”
She leaped from her chair and dashed to the genkan. At last, she was going to catch her stalker in the act and unmask his ass. Kicking off her slippers, Alison grabbed an umbrella for a weapon and bounded out of the house.
Whoever was tapping her computer transmissions was nearby. Within one hundred meters, according to what Jed had told her.
She prowled up the street, peeking in the bushes and windows of her neighbors’ houses. She saw no one. Heard no one.
Alison jogged to the end of her street, guessing the intersection to be the outside of the hundred-meter perimeter from the Tracer device. She saw nothing suspicious.
How had she thought she could find the guy by running into the street like a loon? And if she saw him, what would she do? Bludgeon him with her umbrella? He could be anywhere, could be anyone. It was stupid to think she could find him.
She turned to walk back home when the shadowy figure of a man sprang from the shrubs across from her house and tore down the street.
“Hey, asshole! Stop!” Alison broke into a run in close pursuit. The guy made the corner and headed out onto the main street.
Alison followed. The busy intersection was crowded with salarymen returning home from work and housewives shopping for dinner groceries. Alison tried to figure out where the guy had gone, which of the many faces she saw was his, but to no avail. He’d vanished.
“Leave me alone, you asshole freak! Leave me the fuck alone!” she screamed at the swarming intersection. Faces turned, heads ducked, eyes peered at Alison, her bare feet, the umbrella, her lack of coat.
She could read the glances of the passersby: “Another crazy gaijin…”
45
The receptionist at Morgan Sachs looked up from the romance manga comic book she’d hidden under her desk. Two men had stepped off the elevator and were headed her way. It was unusual to see visitors to the trading floor this early in the morning. The market was just opening. This was the time when she usually got in her best reading.
She tried not to look annoyed at being interrupted by the men, one Japanese and one white. An American, the receptionist concluded, judging from his pallor, his height and his girth. She prided herself on being able to tell the different Caucasians apart.
The Japanese man walked over and spoke to the receptionist in a whispered voice. The receptionist flushed red, stood and bowed. She bustled off through the doors leading into the trading floor, leaving the lobby reception desk unattended.
Within minutes, she scurried back, trailing behind a rotund Japanese man. His suit’s lapel sported the firm’s logo pin. Through blubbery downturned lips, he introduced himself to the uninvited visitors as the Managing Director in charge of Morgan Sachs’ Tokyo office.
The three men huddled in the lobby. Eyes narrowed, the Managing Director wiped his balding pate with a handkerchief. He asked the men a question. Hearing their reply, he bowed deeply and retreated back through the doors to the trading floor. When he returned, he had an irate Charles in tow.
The American man took the lead. “Mr. Gordon. I’m Fairfax from the U.S. Embassy, and this is Saito-san with the Tokyo Police Security Bureau. We’d like to have a word with you.”
Charles looked down on the men and gave a strained smile. “Sorry, gentlemen, but I’m in the middle of a very busy workday.”
Fairfax shrugged. “Sorry, Mr. Gordon. But our very busy workday trumps your very busy workday.”
“What’s this about?” Charles crossed his arms.
“Let’s find a room, and we’ll tell you all about it.” Fairfax nodded at the Managing Director, who’d been easing his way out of the discussion circle.
Taking the cue, the Managing Director spoke up. “Yes, please follow me.” He showed the men to a small conference room off of the lobby.
“Call me if I can be of further assistance,” the Managing Director said before shutting the conference room door behind him.
01110011 01101111 01101101 01100101
Temples throbbing, Alison greeted the morning with a regrettable headache. Had Charles returned from his company party? The pillow on his side of the bed looked freshly plumped. Maybe he’d come home, slept and was back at work. She wasn’t sure. A deep sleep in
duced by the bottle of wine she’d polished off single-handedly made her pretty much oblivious to Charles’ comings and goings. She hadn’t intended to drink so much. But after spending a panicked day trying to assess the legal morass she was sinking into and then chasing that cyberfreak Peeping Tom down the street, a nice zin had been just the thing.
Alison groaned out of bed. She was still in her clothes from last night. After a toothbrushing, a shower, a steaming cup of Nicaraguan and an aspirin, the day had potential.
In the clear light of morning, she realized that she’d overreacted to the news in her brother’s fax. Sure, the Feds had busted the SwampLand BBS, and she was a member in good standing of said BBS. But the FBI was rooting out child pornographers. All she’d done was download some encryption software from the BBS. And the software itself wasn’t even illegal. Not exactly.
If that damn cyberfreak hadn’t made her so jumpy and jittery, she would’ve realized yesterday that she had nothing to worry about. No one with the FBI would be interested in what she was doing in Tokyo.
But her nerves had been on edge. Not just because of the SwampLand mess, but also because she couldn’t shake the feeling that that cyberfreak was spying on her. His undetectable presence was all too insulting, too intrusive, and — she had to admit — too frightening a menace in her life for her to be able to ground herself and think clearly.
When under attack by an off-tilt predator, a rational person wouldn’t grab an umbrella and go chasing the guy down the street. A rational person would call the cops and get a restraining order. Did they have restraining orders in Japan? Her logical, lawyerly, reasoning mind had given way to primal self-defense.
She had to keep her wits about her. What wits she had left.
Alison finished her coffee and lay down on the carpet. She hugged her knees to her chest to coax the morning stiffness out of her back. The ringing phone interrupted her yoga stretch.
“Hello?” she said, too tired to venture forth with the Japanese greeting “Moshi moshi,” which was likely to invite a wave of incomprehensible verbiage.
Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense Page 24
