"Hard Rain" - читать интересную книгу автора (Eisler Barry)3I CALLED HARRY from a public phone on Aoyama-dori. “Are you on a secure line?” he asked, recognizing my voice. “Reasonably secure. Public phone. Out-of-the-way location.” The location mattered, because governments monitor certain public phones-the ones near embassies and police stations, for example, and those in the lobbies of higher-end hotels, to which the nearby lazy can be counted on to repair for their “private” conversations. “You’re still in Tokyo,” he said. “Calling from a Minami-Aoyama pay phone.” “How do you know?” “I’ve got things rigged so that I can see the originating number and location of calls that come in to my apartment. It’s what nine-one-one uses in the States. You can’t block it.” And yet, despite my efforts, he could also be astonishingly naïve. I would never tell anyone the kind of thing he had just told me. You don’t give away an advantage like that. “The NSA should never have let you go, Harry,” I told him. “You’re a privacy nut’s worst nightmare.” He laughed, but a little uncertainly. Harry has a hard time knowing when I’m teasing him. “Their loss,” he said. “They had too many rules, anyway. It’s much more fun working for a big-five consulting firm. They’ve got so many other problems, they don’t even bother trying to monitor what I’m up to anymore.” That was smart of them. They couldn’t have kept up with him, anyway. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Nothing really. Just wanted to catch up with you while I could. I had a feeling that, if your business here was done, you might leave soon.” “I guess you were right.” “Is it… done?” Harry has long since figured out what I do, although he also understands that it would be taboo to actually ask. And he must have known what it meant when he had contacted me earlier that evening, at my specific request, to tell me precisely where and when I could find the “It’s done,” I told him. “Does that mean you won’t be around much longer?” I smiled, absurdly touched by his hangdog tone. “Not much longer, no. I was going to call you before I left.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.” I looked at my watch. “In fact, what are you doing right now?” “Just getting up, actually.” “Christ, Harry, it’s ten at night.” “I’ve been keeping some strange hours lately.” “I believe it. Tell you what. Why don’t we meet for a drink. For you, it can be breakfast.” “What have you got in mind?” “Hang on a minute.” I grabbed a copy of the Tokyo Yellow Pages from under the phone, and flipped through the restaurant section until I found the place I was looking for. Then I counted ahead five listings, per our usual code, knowing that Harry would count five backward from whatever I told him. Not that anyone was listening-hell, I couldn’t imagine who could listen, if Harry didn’t want them to-but you don’t take chances. I’d taught him to always use a layered defense. To never assume. “How about Tip-Top, in Takamatsu-cho,” I said. “Sure,” he said, and I knew he understood. “Great place.” “I’ll see you when you get there,” I told him. I hung up, then pulled a handkerchief out of a pants pocket and wiped down the receiver and the buttons. Old habits die hard. The place I had in mind was called These Library Lounge, pronounced “Teize” by the locals, a small bar with the feel of a speakeasy nestled on the second floor of an unremarkable building in Nishi-Azabu. Although it inhabits the city’s geographical and psychological center, Teize is suffused by a dreamy sense of detachment, as though the bar is an island secretly pleased to find itself lost in the vast ocean of Tokyo around it. Teize has the kind of atmosphere that quickly seduces talk into murmurs and weariness into languor, peeling away the transient concerns of the day until you might find yourself listening to a poignant Johnny Hodges number like “Just a Memory” the way you listened to it the first time, without filters or preconceptions or the notion that it was something you already knew; or taking a saltwater and iodine sip of one of the Islay malts and realizing that this, this exactly, is the taste for which the distiller must have mouthed a silent prayer as he committed the amber liquid to an oak cask thirty years before; or glancing over at a group of elegantly dressed women seated in one of the bar’s quietly lit alcoves, their faces glowing, not yet lined, their faith that havens like this one exist as if by right reflected in the innocent timbre of their laughter and the carefree cadences of their conversation, and remembering without bitterness what it felt like to think that maybe you could be part of such a world. It took me less than ten minutes to walk the short distance to the bar. I paused outside, before the exterior stairs leading to the second floor, imagining, as I always do before entering a building, where I might wait if I hoped to ambush someone coming out. The exterior of Teize offered two promising positions, one of which, the entryway of an adjacent building, I especially liked because it was set back from the bar’s entrance in such a way that you wouldn’t see someone lurking there until after you’d reached the bottom of the stairs, when it might be too late for you to do anything about it. Unless, of course, before descending, you took the trouble to lean out over the bar’s front balcony in appreciation of the quiet street scene below, as I had now reminded myself to do. Satisfied with the security layout outside, I took the stairs to the second floor and walked in. I hadn’t been there in a long time, but the proprietors hadn’t seen fit to change anything, thank God. The lighting was still soft, mostly sconces, floor lamps, and candles. A wooden table that had begun its life as a door before being elevated to its current, considerably higher, purpose. Muted Persian rugs and dark, heavy drapes. The white marble bar, confident but not dominating at the center of the main room, shining quietly beneath an overhead set of track lights. Everywhere there were books: mostly works on design, architecture, and art, but also seemingly whimsical selections such as “ “That’s fine,” I told him in Japanese. “I think we’ll just sit at the bar.” Which, in addition to its other advantages, offered a tactical view of the entranceway. Harry arrived an hour later, as I was beginning my second single malt of the evening, a sixteen-year-old Lagavulin. He saw me as he came in, and smiled. “John-san, I stood up and we shook hands. Despite the lack of formality of the occasion, I also offered him a slight bow. I’ve always liked the respect of a bow and the warmth of a handshake, and Harry merited both. “Have a seat,” I said, motioning to the bar stool to my left. “I hope you’ll forgive me for starting without you.” “If you’ll forgive me for avoiding what you’re having and ordering some food instead.” “Suit yourself,” I said. “Anyway, Scotch is a grownup’s drink.” He smiled, knowing I was ribbing him, and ordered an herb salad with tofu and mozzarella and a plain orange juice. Harry’s never been a drinker. “You do a good SDR?” I asked him while we waited for the food to arrive. An SDR, or surveillance detection run, is a route designed to flush a follower or team of followers out into the open where they can be seen. I’d taught the subject to Harry and he’d proven himself an able student. “You ask me that every time,” he replied in a slightly exasperated tone, like a teenager remonstrating with a parent. “And every time I give you the same answer.” “So you did one.” He rolled his eyes. “Of course.” “And you were clean?” He looked at me. “I wouldn’t be here if I weren’t. You know that.” I patted him on the back. “Can’t help asking. Thanks again for the nice work with that He beamed. “Hey, I’ve got something for you,” he said. “Yeah?” He nodded and reached into a jacket pocket. He fished around for a second, then pulled out a metal object about the dimensions of a dozen stacked credit cards. “Check this out,” he said. I took it. It was heavy for something of its size. There must have been a lot of circuitry packed in it. “Just what I’ve always wanted,” I said. “A faux-silver paperweight.” He moved as though to take it back. “Well, if you’re not going to appreciate it…” “No, no, I do appreciate it. I just don’t know what the hell it is.” Actually I had a good idea, but I prefer to be underestimated. Besides, I didn’t want to deny Harry the pleasure of educating me. “It’s a bug and video detector,” he said, pronouncing the words slowly as though I might otherwise fail to comprehend them. “If you come within shooting distance of radio frequency or infrared, it’ll let you know.” “In a sexy female voice, I hope?” He laughed. “If someone’s trying to record you, you might not want them to know that you know. So no sexy voice. Just a vibration mode. Intermittent for video, continuous for audio. Alternating for both. And only in ten-second bursts, to conserve battery power.” “How does it work?” He beamed. “Wide-range circuitry that detects transmitters operating on frequencies from fifty megahertz to three gigahertz. Plus it’s got an internal antenna that picks up the horizontal oscillator frequency radiated by video cameras. I’ve optimized it for the PAL standard, which is what you’re most likely to encounter, but I can change it to NTSC or SECAM if you want. Reception isn’t great because it’s so small, so you won’t be able to tell where the bug or camera is, only that one is there. And the big security closed-circuit TV units you sometimes see in train stations and parks will usually be out of the unit’s range.” Too bad about the CCTV units. If I had a reliable, portable way to detect those, I’d have a shot at getting my privacy back from Tatsu and whomever else. “Any chance you can make the reception a little better?” I asked. He looked a little hurt, and I realized I should have praised him before asking that. “Not for something this small,” he said. “You’d need something with a much bigger antenna.” Oh well. Even with its limitations, the unit would be useful. I hefted it in my hand. I was familiar with functionally similar commercial models, of course, but I hadn’t seen one this small. It was an impressive piece of work. “Rechargeable battery?” I asked. “Of course. Lithium ion. Just like a cell phone.” He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out what looked like an ordinary cell phone charger. “I ran it down testing it, so you’ll need to charge it when you get home. And don’t forget to juice it up every day. There’s no low battery indicator or anything else like that. I built this thing for speed, not looks.” I took the charger and put it on the table next to me. Then I pulled out my wallet and slid the unit into it. It was a nice, snug fit. I would examine it back at the hotel, of course, to confirm that it was a bug detector and not some sort of bug. Not that I don’t trust Harry. I just like to satisfy myself about these things. I put my wallet back in my pants and nodded appreciatively. “Nice work,” I said. “Thank you.” He smiled. “I know you’re a professional paranoid, so I figured it was either this or a lifetime supply of Valium.” I laughed. “Now, tell me, what’s with the vampire hours?” “Oh, you know,” he said, looking away, “just lifestyle stuff.” Lifestyle stuff? As far as I knew, Harry had no lifestyle. In my imagination he was always huddled in his apartment, worming his way into remote networks, creating backdoors to exploit later, mediating the world through the safety of a computer screen. I noticed he was blushing. Christ, the kid was so transparent. “Harry, are you going to tell me you’ve got a girlfriend?” I asked. The blush deepened, and I laughed. “I’ll be damned,” I said. “Good for you.” He looked at me, checking to see whether I was going to tease him. “She’s not exactly my girlfriend.” “Well, never mind the taxonomy. How did you meet her?” “Work.” I picked up my glass. “You going to give me details, or do I have to force-feed you two or three of these to loosen your tongue?” He made a face of exaggerated disgust. “One of the firm’s clients, one of the big trading houses, was happy with some security work I did for them.” “Guess they didn’t know about the backdoors you left for yourself in the process.” He smiled. “They never do.” “So the client is happy…” “And my boss took me out to celebrate, to a hostess club.” Most westerners have a hard time grasping the concept of the Japanese “hostess club,” where the women are paid only for conversation. The west accepts the notion that sex can be commodified, but rebels at the idea that other forms of human interaction might be subject to purchase, as well. For hostesses are not prostitutes, although, like the geisha from whom they’re descended, they might strike up an after-hours relationship with the right customer, after a suitable courtship. Rather, patrons at such establishments pay for the simple pleasure of the girls’ company, and for their ability to smooth out the rough edges of business meetings, as well as for the hope that, eventually, something more might develop. If it were simple sex that the hostesses’ clients were after, they could buy it for much less elsewhere. “What club?” I asked him. “A place called Damask Rose.” “Haven’t heard of it.” “They don’t advertise.” “Sounds upscale.” “It is. It’s a pretty refined place, in fact. In Nogizaka, on Gaienhigashi-dori. They probably wouldn’t let you in.” I laughed. I love when Harry shows some spirit. “Okay, so the boss takes you to Damask Rose…” “Yeah, and he had a lot to drink and was telling everyone that I’m a computer genius. One of the hostesses asked me some questions about how to configure a firewall because she just bought a new computer.” “Pretty?” The blush reappeared. “I guess. Her computer was a Macintosh, so I liked her right off the bat.” I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t know that kind of thing could form the basis for love at first sight.” “So I answered a few of her questions,” he said, ignoring me. “At the end of the night, she asked if I would give her my phone number, in case she had any more questions.” I laughed. “Thank God she didn’t just give you her number. She would have died of old age waiting for you to call.” He smiled, knowing that this was probably true. “So she called you…,” I said. “And I wound up going over to her apartment and configuring her whole system.” “Harry, you ‘configured her whole system’?” I asked, my eyes mock-wide. He looked down, but I saw the smile. “You know what I mean.” “You’re not going to… penetrate her security, are you?” I asked, unable to resist. “No, I wouldn’t do that to her. She’s nice.” Christ, he was so smitten that he couldn’t even spot the sophomoric double entendre. “I’ll be damned,” I said again. “I’m happy for you, Harry.” He looked at me, saw that my expression was genuine. “Thanks,” he said. I raised my glass to my nose, took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and let it go. “So she’s got you keeping odd hours?” I asked. “Well, the club is open until three A.M. and she works every day. So, by the time she gets home…” “I get the picture,” I said. Although in fact, it was a little hard to imagine Harry with an attachment that didn’t have an Ethernet cable and a mouse. He was an introverted, socially stunted guy, with no contacts that I knew of outside of his day job, which he kept at arm’s length in any event, and me. Conditions that had always made him useful. I tried to picture him with a high-end hostess, and couldn’t see it. It didn’t feel right. “What’s her name?” I asked. He smiled. “Yukiko.” “Yukiko” means “snow child.” “Pretty name,” I said. He nodded, his expression slightly dopey. “I like it.” “How much does she know about you?” I asked, taking a sip of the Lagavulin. My tone was innocent, but I was concerned that, in the delirium of what I assumed was first love, Harry would be unnecessarily open with this girl. “Well, she knows about the consultant work, of course. But not about the… hobbies.” About his extreme proclivity for hacking, he meant. A hobby that could land him in jail if the authorities caught wind of it. In the ground, if someone else did. “Hard to keep that sort of thing secret,” I opined, testing. “I don’t see why it would have to come up,” he said, looking at me. A waitress appeared from behind a curtain and set Harry’s order on the bar in front of him. He thanked her, showing a deep appreciation for this newly wonderful class of being, I realized at some level that if Harry was going to start living more like a civilian, he would be less useful, and possibly even dangerous, to me. His increasing transparency to the wider world might offer an enemy a window into my otherwise hidden existence. Of course, if someone connected Harry to me, they might come after him, too. And despite what I’d tried to teach him over the years, I knew that, out in the open, Harry wouldn’t have the means to protect himself. “Is she your first girlfriend?” I asked, my tone gentle. “I told you, she’s not really my girlfriend,” he answered, ducking the question. “If she’s occupying enough of your attention to keep you in bed until the sun sets, I feel safe using the word as shorthand.” He looked at me, cornered. “Is she?” I asked again. He looked away. “I guess so.” I hadn’t meant to embarrass him. “Harry, I only ask because, when you’re young, you sometimes think you can have it both ways. If you’re just having fun, you don’t need to tell her anything. You shouldn’t tell her anything. But if the attachment gets deeper, you’ll need to do some hard thinking. About how close you want to get with her, about how important your hobbies are. Because you can’t live with one foot in daylight and the other in shadows. Believe me on this. It can’t be done. Not long-term.” “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “I’m not stupid, you know.” “Everybody in love is stupid,” I told him. “It’s part of the condition.” I saw him blush again, at my use of the word and the assumption behind it. But I didn’t care how he referred to these new feelings in his own mind. I know what it’s like to live walled off, isolated, and then suddenly, unbelievably, to have that pretty girl you’d longed for returning the feeling. It changes your priorities. Hell, it changes your damn values. I smiled bitterly, thinking of Midori. Then, as if reading my mind, he said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. But I wanted to do it in person.” “Sounds serious.” “A few months ago I got a letter. From Midori.” I finished off the Lagavulin before answering. If the letter had arrived that long ago, a few moments more for me to figure out how I wanted to respond weren’t going to make a difference. “She knew where to reach you…,” I started, although I had already figured it out. He shrugged. “She knew because we brought her over to my apartment to handle the musical aspects of that lattice encryption.” I noticed that, even now, Harry felt compelled to carve out Midori’s precise role in that operation to clarify that he had been fully capable of handling the encryption itself. He was sensitive about these things. “Right,” I said. “She didn’t know my last name. The envelope was only addressed to Haruyoshi. Thank God, otherwise I would have had to move, and what a pain in the ass that would have been.” Harry, like anyone else who values privacy, takes extreme pains to ensure that there is no connection anywhere-not on utility bills, not on cable TV subscriptions, not even on lease documents-between his name and the place where he lives. This kind of disassociation requires some labor, involving the establishment of revocable trusts, LLCs, and other blind legal entities, and it can all be blown in a heartbeat if your Aunt Keiko visits you at your home, notes your address, and decides to send you, say, flowers to thank you. The flower shop puts your name and address into its database, which it then sells to marketing outfits, which in turn sell the information to everyone else, and your true residence is now available to anyone with even rudimentary hacking or social engineering skills. The only way to regain your privacy is to move again and repeat the exercise. If what was sent to you was just an ordinary letter, of course, the only person who might make the connection is the postman. It’s up to the individual to decide whether that would be an acceptable risk. For me, it wouldn’t be. Probably not for Harry, either. But if only his first name had appeared on the envelope, he would be all right. “Where was the letter from?” I asked him. “New York. She’s living there, I guess.” New York. Where Tatsu had sent her, after telling her I was dead, to protect her from suspicion that she might still have the computer disk her father had stolen from Yamaoto, a disk containing enough evidence of Japan’s vast network of corruption to bring down the government. The move made sense for her, I supposed. Her career in America was taking off. I knew because I was watching. He reached into a back pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. I took it and paused for a moment before unfolding it, not caring what he would make of my hesitation. When I looked, I saw that it was written in confident, graceful longhand Japanese, an echo, perhaps, of girlhood calligraphy lessons, and a reflection of the personality behind the pen. I read it again, slowly, then a third time. Then I folded it back up and extended it to Harry. “No, no,” he said, his hands raised, palms forward. “You keep it.” I didn’t want him to see that I wanted it. But I nodded and slipped it into an inside pocket of the blazer I was wearing. I signaled the bartender that it was time for another Lagavulin. “Did you answer this?” I asked. “I did. I wrote back, and told her that I had heard exactly what she had, that I didn’t have any other information.” “Did you hear from her after that?” “Just a thank-you. She asked me to let her know if I heard anything, and told me she would do the same.” “That’s all?” “Yeah.” I wondered if she had bought the story. If she hadn’t thanked Harry for his response, I would have known she hadn’t bought it, because she was classy and it wouldn’t have been like her not to respond. But the thank-you might have been automatic, sent even in the presence of continued suspicions. It could even have been duplicitous, intended to lull Harry into thinking she was satisfied when in fact the opposite was true. Then a bitter smile: There was nothing duplicitous about Midori, and knowing it opened up a little ache. The environment I’ve inhabited for so long has conditioned me to assume the worst. At least I still occasionally remember to resist the urge. It didn’t matter. There were too many oddities surrounding the disk’s disposition and my disappearance, and she was too smart to miss them. I’d spent a lot of time thinking about it over the last year or so, and I knew the way she would see it. After what had happened between us, the doubts would have started small. But there would have been nothing to check their growth. And she knew I was part of something subterranean, although she never knew exactly what. The CIA? One of the Japanese political factions? Regardless, an organization that had the resources to fake a death and backstop it reasonably effectively. Yeah, with all these loose threads, and without me there to reassure her that what happened between us had been real, I knew that, eventually, she would conclude that she had been used. That’s how I would see it, in her shoes. “Did I handle it right?” Harry asked. I shrugged. “You couldn’t have handled it any better than you did. But she’s still not buying it.” “You think she’ll let it go?” That was the question I was always left with. I hadn’t managed to answer it. “I don’t know,” I told him. And there was something else I didn’t know, something I wouldn’t share with Harry. I didn’t know if I What had I just told him? |
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