The Mask: A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel (18 page)

Kyoto station was three levels of glass and steel surrounded by multilevel department stores and restaurants. Munroe led them up from the parking level and out the main entrance, across the street to a Starbucks whose large portico patio and interior were filled with so many foreigners they’d never stand out.

It had been more than a day since she’d eaten, was probably the same or longer for Alina. Munroe ordered enough food from the cold cases to feed four people. They found seats near the back and between bites that curbed the shaking hunger, Munroe said, “How long before they give you a passport?”

Alina looked down at her food. “How did you know?”

“I’m familiar with bureaucracy and red tape. Did you tell them the truth?”

“They would keep me longer to ask questions and would want to make a police report, and Jiro would use that as a map to find me.”

“How long?”

Alina reached into her purse and handed Munroe the remaining yen and the receipt for the paperwork. “Two days.”

Munroe scanned the receipt and passed it back, with the money. “Keep it,” she said. “I’ll drop you off at the hotel, I have to work.”

Alina’s hand, halfway to her mouth, froze. Voice low and desperate, she said, “Please let me go with you.”

“Not a good idea.”

“Please.”

Munroe stared at the table weighing options between bites and swallows. Alina had seen things, knew things. Carting her around, out in the open, carried risks; so did leaving her defenseless in a hotel room. She said, “If you saw the men who were with my friend that night, would you recognize them?”

Alina nodded, far too vigorously.

Munroe sighed, appetite gone, burden heavy. When height and skin flashed attention-grabbing neon at every step, two days was a long time to keep a target hidden from a man who wanted her dead.

They sat on the landing, across the road, not far down from the sheared-off glass face, watching the parking lot and facility entrance, and when Alina had grown comfortable in the shadows, Munroe handed her a small notebook and a pen and then stood to go.

Alina grabbed her wrist. Munroe yanked free.

Without sound, without sobs, as if a secret tap had been turned on, tears started to flow down Alina’s cheeks.

Munroe crouched so they were face-to-face. She had felt this fear, had lived the fear, but never the incapacity. “I have to go farther and I can’t take you with me,” she said.

Alina’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

“You’ve kept the battery out of your phone?”

Alina nodded.

“Nobody knows where you are. Nobody can see you sitting here, tucked away in shadow, and if they can’t see you, Jiro can’t find you.”

Alina nodded again.

Munroe tapped the notebook. “This is why I kept you with me instead of taking you back to the hotel,” she said. “If you see anyone familiar, write down everything: clothes, colors, glasses, hairstyle, if he goes to a car or walks to the train—even the smallest detail, okay?” Munroe took off Bradford’s watch and placed it on Alina’s knee. “If I’m not back in two hours, it means I’m not coming back,
ever,
you understand? If I don’t come back, then take a taxi, go to the consulate, and stay there until they give you your passport. But until two hours have passed, you can’t panic.”

Alina stared at her feet.

“You’re not helpless, Alina,” Munroe said, and stood. “You have enough money to hide until you get your passport.” She paused, pulled a small roll of bills from her boot, and shoved it into Alina’s hand. “And you can buy your ticket out.”

Alina’s fingers wrapped around the roll, but her focus stayed on her feet, so Munroe turned, jogged down the stairs, and continued across the street.

The
why
behind Bradford’s setup ate at her.

Behind that was the
why
of his hiring: why a company wholly insular in its drive to protect its secrets, operating in a country equally insular in protecting its labor force, had gone through the effort of bringing in a foreign contractor as a security consultant.

Today was for the food chain: the men who, in part or in whole, had pulled the levers and cranked the gears to bring Bradford to their doorstep.

Munroe pushed through the lobby doors. If she fucked this up, there’d be no one coming behind her to clean up the mess.

At the entry stiles she swiped her badge. There’d been plenty of time for the facility’s security to invalidate her access, but the light flashed green and the arm swung open.

C-level offices were on the second floor and Munroe headed up the stairs with a truncated list of Bradford’s folders cycling through her head.

She reached the door for Yuzuru Tagawa first: head of operations and Bradford’s boss. She stepped into the anteroom without knocking.

A plain woman looked up from the monitor that graced a plain desk. Beside her, several filing cabinets were the extent of decor and furniture, and the walls were just as drab as those in Bradford’s office, but without the scuffs.

Hands slack, gaze lowered, Munroe asked for Tagawa.

“He’s busy,” the woman said.

Munroe stayed at the desk, silent and expectant.

After a moment, the woman looked up again and said, “Tagawa-san is unavailable.”

“Yes,” Munroe said, and she stayed put, allowing her foreignness to absorb the impact from the breach in etiquette.

After another moment the woman eyed Munroe over the rims of her glasses, and when Munroe still didn’t speak or turn to leave, she reached for the phone with an exasperated sigh. A brief conversation later, she stood and opened the door to her boss’s office.

Yuzuru Tagawa, shirtsleeves rolled up and tie askew, glanced up from a stack of paper. He was in his early fifties, with a soft midsection and hair combed over to hide a mostly bald pate. He motioned Munroe inside, and when the door was shut, he turned back to his papers, ignoring her.

She waited, military at ease, taking in the room and the man who, due to a diversion in the chain of command for the sake of accountability, had become Bradford’s boss and now was hers.

Tagawa’s focus continued from papers to computer screen and back, his right hand keeping a running commentary on the keyboard’s number pad. Minutes passed and at last he looked up, then stood and stepped around his desk.

Munroe thrust a hand forward, though bowing would have been the culturally appropriate thing.

Tagawa shook it uneasily and greeted her in broken English, clearly uncomfortable with its use and, by proxy, uncomfortable in her presence.

Bradford had always had Okada as an interpreter.

Munroe lifted the security badge high enough and long enough that Tagawa would get a clear look. Switching to Japanese now would only be awkward and make the discomfort worse, so she continued in English.

“I’ve been hired by Miles Bradford to finish his work,” she said.

Tagawa’s lips tightened as he studied the badge, as if he tried to construct words and draw grammar from years-old study. At last he bowed and said, “Thank you for come.” He stuck a palm toward the door as if adding
next time make an appointment and bring your interpreter
and said, “Talk security, you help.”

The air of the door kissed Munroe’s backside in its haste to close.

She nodded at the plain woman in glasses on her way out.

One down, two to go.

Noboru Kobayashi was Tai Okada’s boss, the man who would have been Bradford’s boss if Bradford’s position hadn’t been assigned to operations in an attempt to segregate power and accountability. Lies that had become truths granted a quicker, easier access—she had indeed come straight from Yuzuru Tagawa and she did indeed have a message.

Kobayashi was younger than Tagawa. He was perfectly conforming in his salaryman uniform of navy-blue suit and tie, but had an air of hunger about him and wore an edge of rebel in his highlighted and slightly gel-spiked hair.

He spoke fluent English with the accent of one who’d lived or studied abroad years ago, and when Munroe repeated a larger, better-worded version of the introduction she’d made a few offices over, Kobayashi crossed his arms, sat on the edge of his desk, and studied her with a mixture of smirk and challenge.

Then he held out a hand for her badge.

Munroe lifted the lanyard from around her neck, gave it to him, and waited, silent, while Kobayashi glanced at it. Like Tagawa before him, he didn’t seem surprised to see her. He handed the badge back and said, “When were you subcontracted?”

“Right before the arrest—it’s taken a while to get caught up on all the notes, so this is the first chance I’ve had to make official introductions.”

Kobayashi’s head ticked up just a little too quickly. “He left notes? I thought the police cleaned out his office.”

“He handed them off to me the day before.”

“Well, that was fortunate timing,” Kobayashi said, then stood. “It’s good that you have something to work with—we won’t have to start at the beginning. Have you already arranged for a liaison? Are you working with”—he paused and snapped his fingers, as if trying to remember a name, though the action had a certain falseness. “Who was it?” he said. “Tai Okada, right?”

“I should start fresh,” Munroe said. “Mr. Tagawa said to speak with the security department. I’m on my way downstairs to put in a request.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Kobayashi said.

He walked with her the few steps from his office door to the end of the hallway, and she felt his eyes boring holes in her back as she continued on. She turned once, not for confirmation that he watched her, which she didn’t need, but to let him know she knew.

She waved, as did he, then he returned to his office and Munroe started up again, head down, eyes to the floor, attempting to sift an accurate sense of what had just happened through a sieve of cultural mores that avoided directness and potential conflict.

There’d been not a question asked about Bradford.

She could excuse the lack of surprise at her arrival—that spoke to the security departments having done their jobs well since she was last on-site and explained why the clearance was still active. But even if touching on the issues of murder and arrest pushed hard against the boundaries of politeness, she would have expected Kobayashi, with his good English and foreign familiarity, to have at least asked about her work history and connections to Bradford, especially when she’d provided him the opening.

Like the office downstairs, it was as if Bradford had never been.