Girl in a Box (13 page)

The rest of the week sped by. I'd never worked harder, and at night I had no energy left for Tokyo's high life. I supposed that it was just as well. Thursday night, instead of going out with Richard for happy hour, I stayed home to fiddle with the listening station. Despite my having installed a bug at Comme des Garçons, the listening station was not spilling forth conversations about fashion, financial transactions, or even what the salesgirls were going to do that weekend. All I heard was static.

By nine, I was feeling frustrated enough to phone Michael. Seven in the morning in Washington, and he wasn't at home or at the office. Now that I was gone, he was taking it easy, probably breakfasting in bed with the gorgeous blond girlfriend, showing up at the office at nine.

My annoyed thoughts were interrupted by my own phone trilling in the classic Japanese double-beep. I picked it up on the second ring, answering in the higher-pitched voice that I'd adopted since coming to Mitsutan.

There was no sound.

“Brooks?” I asked.

Michael drew in his breath sharply. “You didn't sound like yourself!”

“I guess my cover's becoming reality,” I said, realizing that this was the first time I'd spoken English since my embarrassment with Mr. O'Connell. The words came a fraction more slowly, and I realized, for the first time, how sharp-edged English sounded.

“So, what's new?”

“Well, as I e-mailed you earlier, my first device is in place. But I can't seem to pick up any sound on my receiver.”

“Really.” Michael sounded almost blasé. “And what's the situation at the store right now? Is anyone working?”

“No, the doors closed at eight.”

“So what you're hearing is the sound of silence.”

“But I'm supposed to be able to hear things that were said
earlier
!”

“Look at the left side of the machine. Is the green light on?”

It turned out that I'd never activated the record feature. Michael told me I could leave it on, or start it up the next morning, before I left for work. I opted to leave it on, because chances were I'd forget the next morning.

“I'm such an amateur,” I said.

“Don't feel bad. This is your first experience with devices, and everybody takes a while getting used to them. And it's good you've got the hang of it early. You know, the store's board of directors is probably going to discuss the proposal from Supermart in the next few days.”

“How do you know that?”

“Well, I don't really know. I'm guessing it's likely, because a story in the Asian
Wall Street Journal
reported that Jimmy DeLone is veering away from Wako and Mitsukoshi. I'd like you to get a listening device into the Mitsutan boardroom next.”

“I'd like to as well. The only problem is that the boardroom is in a privately owned building somewhere in Shinagawa. I can't possibly come up with an excuse to get over there.” I paused. “Mrs. Okuma went there today, so she probably will go again sometime. And she's so absentminded, it's possible that I could send a bug over with her and let her leave it there by mistake.”

“It's an idea,” Michael said. “But they probably clean up papers after each meeting. On the other hand, if you could get a bug on any of the store big shots, say the Mitsuyamas, your idea would work.”

“But I can't see how—”

“Be creative.”

I thought for a minute, and said, “Maybe I could get close enough to plant something. Masahiro Mitsuyama goes around the food basement, tasting food and raising hell. And it's a crowded environment, I could drop something into his pocket—though there'd be no chance to sew it in.”

“He'd find it,” Michael said. “You need time to work on his clothing, if you're going for that idea. Does he—or his son, for that matter—tend to take his jacket off?”

“Never,” I said. “It's important for them to preserve formality and show how powerful they are. For all I know, those suits never come off until they undress to take their nightly bath—but…but…hold on.” A germ of an idea was growing. “There's a senior management retreat at a hot spring this weekend.” I told Michael that Mrs. Okuma was going to the hot spring resort in Izu.

“I have Saturday off. Theoretically, I could hop the bullet train and get down there within a couple of hours. But how could I be there?” I wondered aloud. “I have no reason to follow Mrs. Okuma. I hinted already that I'd like to help her, but she dismissed the idea.”

“You don't have to be seen,” Michael said. “You spent a week studying how to get around without being noticed. I remember it well.”

“The Mitsuyamas wouldn't recognize me, but Mrs. Okuma certainly would. I don't know about the others. What should my story be?”

“Before we run around in circles frustrating ourselves, let's outline whether there even is a logical way to plant a bug down there. You're facing the same challenges you have in Tokyo, except that once you're there, I won't be able to help you much. I've never been to a hot spring; I don't know how they're set up.”

“Maybe Okamura Onsen has a website.” Already I was tapping the Mac's keyboard, getting into the Japanese Yahoo! site. Bingo. Okamura Onsen came up, with both English and Japanese versions of the page available. I told Michael the web address of the English version, and within a few seconds, the two of us were looking at a picture of the sun setting over a rocky beach.

“Looks like a gorgeous part of Japan. Nice tiled roof on the place, too. But we need to see floor plans. It doesn't look as if there are any.”

“There are floor plans on the Japanese-language website,” I interrupted Michael. “Hold on, I'll give you the link.” I walked him through the picture, telling him which rooms were which. The baths were obvious—they were represented as blue boxes attached to most of the rooms. There was also a communal bath, partly indoors, with the bulk outdoors. The drawing was so detailed I could even see the location of the men's and women's dressing rooms.

“Chances are that at some point in the evening, the men are going to bathe communally,” I said. “That's when the real business talk will start.”

“So, you're thinking of going for their clothes in the locker room?”

“Too risky. I thought I could circumvent the whole problem by going for their shoes. They'll have to leave them in the
ryokan
entryway. It's just going to be a matter of knowing which shoes belong to whom—and getting a quiet moment, like bath time, to go for it.”

“So you're thinking of planting something in the shoes?”

“The heel. That's the easiest, least detectable place.”

Michael was quiet for a moment. “I like it. The beauty of it is, they'll keep wearing their shoes. We can pick up conversations for months—maybe even a year.”

Suddenly I was alarmed. “The pay is great, and so is the apartment, but…I'm not going to have to spend a year working at Mitsutan, am I?”

“Nope. If you can bug the big guys—and we actually get good stuff on tape—I can have you out of Japan within the next month. We'll just have the listening station in your apartment moved to that of another of our colleagues in the area.”

“I'll be sure the listening station's working properly,” I promised. “I won't make a mistake like leaving the record feature off.”

“Don't worry about that,” Michael said. “The heel bug is a brilliant idea. But now we have to figure out a good excuse for you to be in Izu, a day and a half from now.”

 

A good excuse. I thought about it for most of the night, but the answer finally came when I was drinking cappuccino the next morning at Giulia's. Unfortunately, I couldn't call Michael right away—I had to go to work. And Friday was projected to be one of the busiest shopping days of the week; I and the other Mitsutan employees were reminded of this again during the morning lecture.

Enobu Mitsuyama, wearing another elegant charcoal-striped suit and polished black brogues, talked about how the end of this week was very important. We would have more office lady shoppers in the time frame from five to eight o'clock in the evening, because they would be killing time in the city before going to nightclubs. This meant they would eat casual dinners in the store's restaurants and from the counters in the food basement; many others would sample free chocolates at the Happy Valentine Chocolate Fair set up on the main floor near Accessories. And as for shopping—well, chocolate was scientifically known to stimulate blood flow and create euphoria, and a shopper in a euphoric state was more likely to stretch herself financially. Cosmetics, Young Fashion, and Accessories were the departments that were expected to double their profits this evening.

“It is our duty to create a state of joy,” Enobu Mitsuyama boomed into his microphone as he strolled around the first floor. “We are always smiling, always available with an extra size and a kind compliment for our honored customer.”

After we'd dispersed and gone to our workstations, I asked Mrs. Okuma about how we managed to stay so busy in the evening with the pre-nightclub business, when there were so few nightclubs in the Ginza that appealed to young people.

“Is that so?” My boss turned from me to look at Miyo. “I'm afraid I don't know much about nightclubs. Han-san, what do you think?”

“Shibuya has more clubs, yes, but you can reach it on a straight subway connection. It's not a great distance.”

Mrs. Okuma said, “I think we're close to many good employers, and that's our advantage. There are some very big companies based around Ginza-dori; they have plenty of office ladies, as well as foreign workers. Which reminds me, Han-san, how are things coming along with the telephone calls to the resident international shoppers?”

Over the last couple of days, in the rare moments when I'd been at my desk instead of out on the floor with customers, I'd watched Miyo working her way through the call list. I'd grown annoyed by the sound of her flirtatious broken English: “Mr. Johnson? This is Miyo Han calling from Mitsutan K Team. It has been a long time. How about coming back to Mitsutan to say hello to me and buy somethings nice for yourself?”

Now Miyo said to Mrs. Okuma, “Since yesterday I've called seventy customers, and several have made shopping appointments. Mr. Martinson agreed to come at noon today to look for a suit.”

“Well done, Han-san. Shimura-san, while she's gone you can pick up the rest of the list, starting with the English speakers. Let me explain it to you.”

Blessedly, this list was typed in English, because so many of the customers were westerners. The only Japanese reference points were the headings: for example, “place of employment,” “number of K Team visits,” “departments of interest,” and “sales total to date.” I goggled at the amount of money some customers had spent; they were easily earning the five percent thank-you discount. Well, it wouldn't be hard if you had the funds, and you were shown the best that Mitsutan could offer. I myself had spent $600 on clothing as I tooled around the store over my last few lunch breaks—and I had yet to receive my first Mitsutan paycheck to pay for it.

I was glad to be in the office, going over the list, with Mrs. Okuma nearby. I had noticed the folder she was carrying around, labeled “Izu Retreat,” and I was ready to make a move toward it the first chance I could get. But in the meantime, I went through the list, noticing the starred names that Miyo had called. Atkinson, Barrett, Chambers, Cudahy…almost all of them western, and male. There were many more female customers—but Miyo hadn't bothered with them.

I continued through the list, realizing that there were some names I recognized—people like Winifred Clancy, a snobbish embassy wife who might, potentially, embarrass me with questions about Hugh if she ever came in.

I continued down the column of names and stopped at one I'd never heard before: Melanie Kravitz. I knew the name Kravitz, of course. Warren Kravitz was the banker who had raised the red flag about Mitsutan with Treasury. There were loads of Kravitzes in America, but not so many in Japan. Could this Melanie Kravitz be Warren's wife?

I read through Melanie Kravitz's profile. Native language, English. Employer, Winston Brothers (husband). Departments of interest: designer women's clothing, designer men's, accessories, jewelry, cosmetics, traditional Japanese handicrafts. Number of shopping trips to Mitsutan: sixty-five. Amount spent: 13.5 million yen.

This was Warren's wife, without a doubt. But why had Warren complained to Treasury about Mitsutan if it was a place he liked enough to let his wife spend $135,000 there? I glanced down the list to see the year-to-date spending of other resident international customers. Most of the sales were between $500 and $10,000; a few were in the high five figures; but the Kravitzes were the highest.

I felt my fingers itching to pick up the phone and call Melanie Kravitz; this was one person I'd like to take around. But common sense told me that since she was Mitsutan's number one foreign customer, she'd probably come in spontaneously on her own. I turned a few more pages and came to a printout for client entertainment. I blinked at the sums spent: 20,000 and 30,000 yen per meal. Either Mrs. Okuma and Miyo Han had taken out plenty of customers each time at the store's restaurants or everyone had eaten like a horse, because the prices at Mitsutan weren't outrageous by Japanese standards. In a couple of the in-store cafés that I'd glanced into, a cup of coffee was 600 yen, a little under six dollars; cake was only 400 yen; and a sandwich and soup cost 800 yen. Of course, the fancy Chinese and Japanese restaurants on the dining floor would cost more—maybe this was where they'd taken the customers.

A group of Chinese schoolgirls interrupted my thoughts. They were happy but frantic, with only two hours to shop before their teacher took them down the street to Kabuki-za. They had tiny budgets and huge shopping lists. To my surprise, Mrs. Okuma smilingly offered to take them; but then I remembered that one of her languages was Mandarin. It was amazing to see how smoothly she switched to it. Over her shoulder she said to me, “Don't leave till I come back.”