Tokyo Firewall: a novel of international suspense

by Elizabeth Wilkerson

  Alison exhaled loudly over a slow breath and lowered her hands. “What happens now?” she asked.

  “Gordon’s not stupid,” Fairfax said. “He confessed.”

  “Confessed?”

  “Yes, indeedydo. They had quite an international network. Computerized and nut-hard to trace. But your little boyfriend left his electronic bee-hind bare. No protection, no firewall. Cocky SOB. Once we had his computer, we could source out his whole organization.”

  Alison tasted her tea, which had quickly turned lukewarm. Charles had always wanted it all and had a way of making things happen. Alison liked that about him, his resourceful confidence. But to stoop to criminal plots with Yamada? And use Alison as a pawn? The bastard deserved whatever was coming his way. “What’s going to happen to Charles?” she asked.

  “Gordon’s singing like Tweety Bird, naming names, trying to cut a deal. He’s going home, for starters. Folks at Justice have some business to take up with him.”

  “What a mess he’s gotten himself into.” Alison dragged her computer case closer and propped it in her lap. Part shield, part security blanket, the computer provided a comforting weight. As awful as the day had turned out to be, she was thankful. No one was asking about her online association with the SwampLand BBS or any of the encryption software she’d downloaded. It looked like she’d dodged a legal bullet.

  But no thanks to that online creep. The freak had tormented her so relentlessly, had unnerved her so completely, that she’d resorted to drastic measures to take back her privacy and reclaim her life. How was she to know that with a simple download of encryption software, she’d joined up with a band of online weirdos trading kiddy porn and cyberterrorists exporting illegal software? She’d been acting in self-defense, but she’d come uncomfortably close to being arrested and doing time. All because of that demented digital pervert.

  Charles was getting his comeuppance, but what about the cyberfreak? Alison had had the perfect opportunity to deliver her devastating email to him, but decided it was the wrong thing to do. But now, more than anything, she wanted to see justice done. And if she could give justice a little nudge, all the better.

  “Mr. Fairfax,” Alison began. “There’s something else I should tell you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Charles didn’t talk too much about his work, and, to tell you the truth, I didn’t understand much when he did try to explain what he did.” She hoped she wasn’t laying the dumb blonde act on too thick. She was far from blonde. And she was tired of being dumb.

  “International finance is complicated and confusing,” Fairfax agreed. He reached across the table and patted Alison’s hand. The jerk.

  “I remember that one particular person kept calling Charles on the computer. Email and stuff. Charles said the guy was his system operator, or something like that.” Alison paused for a pensive moment. “Once when I was on Charles’ computer, a message came through from the guy. I wrote down the email address so that I could tell Charles. Let me check if I’ve still got it.”

  She flipped open her computer and went through the motions of pulling up files. “Found it!” Alison wrote down the IP address of her stalker and pushed the information across the table to Fairfax. “I’m not trying to justify what Charles did, but it’s not right for him to be taking all the blame if there are others. You might want to talk to this guy, too.”

  Fairfax looked at the address. “I’ll give this to the boys to run a finger on. If it’s local, and it looks like it might be, we can bring him in. And thanks, Mizz Crane. You’ve been the model American citizen abroad.”

  If he only knew the half of it.

  Fairfax buzzed through the intercom. “I need Peterjohn,” he said. In moments, the lanky computer nerd Alison recognized from the search party going through her house that morning appeared. “Pete, run this. See if you can find out who’s behind it.” Fairfax handed Peterjohn the IP address.

  Peterjohn studied the paper. “I’m on it,” he said and left the room.

  Let loose the hounds! Alison smirked, knowing that the U.S. Embassy could hunt down the cyberfreak with more digital prowess than she could ever manage. And if the embassy enforcers paid him a visit, he might think twice before messing around with her.

  Alison put on her coat and slung her computer case over her shoulder. She was eager to take her PowerBook and leave the embassy grounds before her lucky streak turned. But before she headed out, there was one more matter she wanted to take care of. “Mr. Fairfax,” Alison said, “can I see Charles?”

  “No can do. It’s not standard procedure.”

  “I know it’s not how you usually do things, but Charles is my boyfriend. My fiancé, actually. Or he was. Just for one minute. Please.”

  Fairfax squinted at Alison and his face stretched into that uncomfortable smile. “I’m an old softie when it comes to the ladies. Come on now, just for a minute,” he said. “It’ll help you get over the sonuva …”

  Fairfax placed his hand in the small of Alison’s back and guided her to a room down the hall. Two armed Marines stood posted outside the door. The Marines stepped aside to let Fairfax and Alison enter.

  The room, windowless and dimly lit, stank of stale coffee and perspiration. Charles sat slumped in a folding chair at a metal table strewn with empty Styrofoam cups. He looked up, his eyes brightening at the sight of Alison.

  “Alison!” Charles walked over to her and gave her a big bear hug, hanging on to her like a drowning man clutching a life preserver. “I’m so glad you’re here, Alicats. They’re really trying to stick it to me,” he said, almost whimpering.

  Alison returned Charles’ hug. She whispered softly in his ear so that only he could hear, “Charles, Charles, Charles.” She rocked him gently, back and forth.

  “Alicats, the firm doesn’t want to know me. They aren’t sending any lawyer, no help, no nothing. I love you so much, Alicats. And you’re a lawyer. Hurry, get me out of here.” His grip on Alison’s shoulders tightened.

  “Oh, Charles.” She broke away from his embrace. In his eyes where there was usually an imperious assuredness she saw dark pools of fear. He needed a lifeline, all right. But he’d have to cast somewhere else. “Charles, I can’t believe what’s happening to you. It’s really horrible. And you’re right. You do need a lawyer. A really good one. But, you know what? You can’t afford my hourly rate.”

  Alison nodded to Mr. Fairfax who escorted her out the room.

  As Fairfax and Alison were walking through the halls of the embassy, Peterjohn appeared from around a corner.

  “Phil! Phil! Wait up!” Peterjohn called. He bounded down the hall to catch up with them. “I fingered that address. His name’s Daisuke Sogo, and he’s in Akihabara. 3-14-2 Akihabara.”

  “Good job, Pete,” Fairfax said. “Get two of the boys and let’s head out to Akihabara, take a look at the guy’s operation. And get on the horn to our friend at MITI. This might be the guy he’s looking for.”

  “You got it,” said Peterjohn.

  Fairfax walked Alison back to the main entrance of the embassy. “We all owe you a debt of gratitude, Mizz Crane, for all your help and cooperation,” Fairfax said. He extended his hand.

  “No, really, Mr. Fairfax. I just believe in seeing justice done.”

  “A lot of people in your place would have tried to cover up or hide the evidence. But you’re a good girl, and you did the right thing.”

  Alison bristled at the “girl” part, but she managed to bite her tongue rather than bite his head off. There was no need to antagonize Fairfax as long as he had his pit bull Peterjohn who could go fetch electronic evildoers with such ease. Fairfax’s “good girl” could be his next target if she didn’t keep her head down.

  “I’m glad you have the matter resolved now,” Alison said. “But what will you do with Mr. Sogo?”

  “Assuming he’s a Japanese national, we’ll have to work with the locals, ’course. But they’ve been on this with us all along. And if y
our guy’s a link on the AsiaNet gang of hackers, well, the Japanese have been trying to shut AsiaNet down for months.”

  “Why? What do they do, AsiaNet?”

  “Just your garden variety misfits. Like to mess with folks online, worm into their systems. But their new thing is server attacks. Take down an entire site like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Bunch o’ losers. Not All-Americans like you, Mizz Crane.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Fairfax. It’s been my pleasure to help.” She smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and waved goodbye.

  Alison passed through the embassy’s guard checkpoint and out onto the streets of Tokyo. If Fairfax only knew what she knew. But thank God he didn’t. Crusty old fart.

  Alison caught the first cab she could hail at that busy hour. “Akihabara,” she told the driver. “3-14-2 Akihabara.”

  50

  Rush-hour traffic clogged the intersection, and grid-locked drivers flashed their headlights in frustration. Alison chewed her lip, trying to stay calm. She’d wanted to hightail it to the cyberfreak’s place before the embassy apprehended him. But at the pace traffic was moving, the show might be over by the time she arrived.

  The cab driver, equally aggravated over their slow progress, whacked his steering wheel and drove off of the main artery onto the side roads. But the alleys were engorged with the flow of early-evening pedestrian traffic. The cabbie fought his way through human bodies and bicycles and ended up back on the main thoroughfare not much farther along than where he’d turned off.

  As the cab limped along, Alison’s cell phone rang.

  “Alison, it’s Kiyoshi. What’s going on? I called the lawyer. Sasaki. He said he never heard from you.” Kiyoshi’s low voice sounded angry, accusatory.

  “I’m on my way back from the embassy, and there wasn’t any problem. Except that they’ve arrested Charles.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently, he’s part of some online money-laundering operation. With your old pal Yuko Yamada.”

  “Yamada-san?” Kiyoshi clicked his teeth. “Doesn’t surprise me. Not with her family ties. Does your friend have an attorney?”

  Alison smiled. “Kiyoshi, you’re sweet to be concerned about Charles. I wish I could say I shared the sentiment. But, frankly, when it comes to Charles, I don’t give a damn.” And saying it, she knew it was true.

  “So you’re not in any trouble?”

  “I met with the same guy who searched the house this morning, Fairfax. He wasn’t interested in anything I had to say. So now I’m in a cab on my way to visit a friend. Someone you know.”

  “Who?”

  “Our friend from online. That anonymous jerk. I found out his name. And his address. He lives in Akihabara, of all places.” She felt smug with the information.

  “You’re not going to see him alone.”

  “No, the cops are on their way. But I want to have a ring-side seat when they get there and bust his ass.”

  “That might not be a good idea. He could be dangerous. You don’t need to go to his house and—”

  “Kiyoshi. The guy has been like a blood-sucking tick that’s burrowed under my skin, into my life. I’ll stay out of the way and let the cops do their job, but I want to see his face. Watch him go down. After all the shit he’s put me through, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “He might try to—”

  “Your signal’s breaking up. I’ll call you tonight when I get home. Bye.” She disconnected before he could further try to dissuade her.

  The cab turned onto a murky narrow street and stopped at a two-story building. A bicycle missing a tire leaned against the front railing. Laundry left to dry still hung on the line even though the sun had long since set. All in all, a depressing little abode.

  A shabby metal sign with peeling paint was posted in front of the apartments. Even though she was a mediocre student of Japanese, Alison could read the building’s name, written in the simplified phonetic katakana syllabary used for foreign words. She sounded the words out. “Fo-Re-Su-To Ma-N-Sho-N.”

  Forest Mansion? Alison glanced over the dreary pre-fab structure. Dream on. She paid the driver, grabbed her computer, and exited the cab.

  Alison stood alone in the noiseless street. She thought she saw a cat crossing in front of her. Or was it a rat? Not waiting to find out, she scrambled up the steps of the apartment building and hid in a dark corner under the stairs to the second floor.

  Here she was at last. The home of the bithead goon who had invaded her privacy, spied on her most intimate moments, shattered her confidence and turned her days into living hell. Tonight he would be unmasked.

  With the blood thirst of a mob gathered around the gallows, Alison’s pulse quickened at the prospect of watching justice be done, up close and personal. And the embassy guys, the deliverers of justice, would be arriving at any moment.

  But where were they? She checked her watch. She’d assumed that they’d left the embassy about the same time she had. Certainly they would have been able to cut through the traffic tangle she’d encountered.

  An arctic wind disturbed the trash in the corner of the stairwell. Alison’s shoulder ached under the weight of her computer case, but she didn’t want to set her PowerBook down on the ground. Not with the rat droppings and cigarette butts.

  Maybe she should call Fairfax, ask what was keeping them. But Fairfax wouldn’t be expecting to find Alison on the scene. She’d gotten off scot-free after her soul-baring visit to the embassy. No need to put herself in their line of sight now. She’d have to be patient. The cavalry from the embassy would be arriving soon.

  But while she was waiting, why did she have to stay in hiding? The apartment complex wasn’t exactly abuzz with activity. If she was quiet and careful, she could do some advance reconnaissance. Check out the freak’s home turf, just as he had surveilled hers. It would feel so good to put one over on the guy. Let him be under the microscope for a change.

  Kiyoshi was being overly cautious in warning her not to go to the guy’s house. It wasn’t like she was planning to go knock on the geek’s front door. And any minute now, the cops would be there to arrest the pervert.

  01110100 01101111

  The flashing light in the corner of his computer screen alerted him. Something — or someone — had set off the motion-activated security camera outside his apartment door. The sex fantasy chat was going strong, and he hated to be bothered.

  Ever since that door-to-door newspaper salesman had banged at his entry and ruined a recording session, he’d disconnected his doorbell and hung a “No Soliciting” sign at his door. Why didn’t those sales maggots fuck off and leave him alone? Couldn’t they read?

  He zipped up his pants and shoved his gun in his waistband. What worthless asshole had interrupted his private time and killed his erection? He switched his display to look at the feed coming from the camera.

  A small figure was sidling out of the camera’s frame. But it didn’t look like a salesman. Big tits, long legs and a well-rounded ass, it was a woman. A gaijin woman.

  He froze the image to zoom in for a better look. An electric surge reinvigorated his dick. It was her. At his apartment.

  How had the foreign bitch found him? He was a master of online anonymity. No one was better. And he’d completely covered up his digital tracks.

  But here she was, scratching outside his door like a hungry alley cat. Arriving at his apartment like she had been invited. Typical American bitch. So damn pushy.

  She should know better. Hadn’t he taught her that he was the one who dictated when they met? His terms, his schedule, his satisfaction. He’d have to remind her who was in control, teach her a lesson. Aggressive little cunt.

  He logged off of the sex fantasy chat, and, using his computer mouse, adjusted the angle of the security camera.

  Now she was standing in the front of the apartment building eyeing the units in the complex. She looked like she was lost, unsure which way to go. He watched her through the camera feed as
she shifted her computer case from one shoulder to the other before walking up the stairs to the second floor.

  He would teach her an unforgettable lesson, and he had to work fast. From his gear bag he quickly assembled the preparations.

  He would teach her, and she would learn, that he was the composer, the arranger and the conductor. He would orchestrate her moaning to a rhythm he set, a tempo he’d command. She would pleasure herself to please him. Masturbate when he told her to, orgasm if he allowed her to. He would record it all, and from her panting, her screams, her whimpers and her climax, he would create a work of genius. The masterpiece of his collection. His dick ached in anticipation.

  Soon. Very soon. But where was she now?

  Through the camera feed he saw her walking back down the stairs.

  No! She was leaving. That part wasn’t written in his score. At the bottom of the staircase, she looked at her wristwatch, paused, then turned around. As if lured by the pull of an intractable beam, she moved toward him.

  The sign at his front door read “Do Not Disturb,” but this was one interruption he would welcome.

  01110110 01101001 01110011 01101001 01110100 00100001

  Alison stepped out from under the staircase and examined the Forest Mansion complex. Two floors of apartments, two units on each floor. An outdoor walkway connected to the door of each apartment. Your basic motel architecture. Alison studied the four units in front of her.

  Some of the apartments seemed to have the names of the occupants posted on the door, but the names were written in kanji beyond Alison’s reading ability. And Alison realized — too late — that she’d forgotten the weirdo freak’s name. Peterjohn at the embassy had said it was Sogo something. After all the trauma the pervert had put her through, she couldn’t remember his name. But one of these apartments was his, and she’d be damned if she couldn’t figure out which one.