Girl in a Box Read Free Page B

everything you mentioned except for graduating from Waseda. I was there my junior year, though.”
    â€œI know. We’ll put together a transcript showing that you were there four years,” Michael said. “And you’ll be operating under your own name. That way, if you run into acquaintances shopping in the store, there’ll be no chance of blowing your cover.”
    â€œDon’t you think I’m slightly notorious?” I handed Michael a new box to put together. He was much faster at it than I could ever be.
    â€œWell, you’ve got a common enough Japanese name—I don’t think it’s going to raise any red flags.”
    â€œBut I’ve had my photo in the papers.”
    â€œYes, but who cares?” Michael ripped off a length of tape and pressed it along the box’s edge. “I think it’s great that you have a backstory in Japan. The problem with Tyler Farraday was that he veered too dramatically from his natural identity, and he knew shit about Japan. Anyone who stumbles across evidence of your life before will fixate on a few paparazzi shots of a young woman out on the town with her various well-connected boyfriends. At a glamorous store like Mitsutan, those kinds of connections are going to be considered more of a help than a hindrance.”
    â€œThe nail that sticks up must be hammered down.” I repeated a cliché about Japan, because I wasn’t above using clichés when I wanted to make a point.
    â€œNobody could hammer you down,” Michael said. “Ever. This is the reason why, out of the half-dozen or so special informants who were considered for this job, you are the chosen one.”

3
    I thought about Michael’s words in the long hours after midnight, when the boxes had been packed and my boss had driven back to the postgraduate school for a night in the bachelor officers’ quarters. A trained professional had tried to do the job; he’d been recognized and murdered. And now it was the rookie’s turn, the rookie who was supposed to be able to succeed just because she could pass for Japanese and she was, as Michael had said, connected .
    I twisted between the uncomfortable poly-cotton-blend sheets that came with the apartment—the sheets that I wouldn’t even have to launder the next morning, because OCI would pay for the cost of cleaning the vacated apartment. I’d never show up in class again; my classmates would assume I had given up.
    Michael clearly hadn’t trusted me to awaken in time, because he was at my door at ten minutes to five. I wasn’t completely ready, of course; I scampered about for twenty minutes collecting things, while he repeatedly checked his watch. For him, it was easy; a good three hours later in the morning, EST. Michael looked as though he’d had plenty of time to shower, shave, and dress. He was crisp in a dark blue business suit, a white shirt, and tie with a tiny pattern that hurt my eyes when I looked at it.
    â€œSo, does everyone dress up for the plane?” I asked, feeling uneasy. I had gone for cozy: a beloved pair of faded, patched Levis and a ribbed thermal undershirt. Over it all was a vintage Persian lamb jacket, in anticipation of the cold when we landed.
    â€œNot exactly. You’ll see lots of uniforms, because mostly military people fly on these planes.” He looked me over with a sober expression. “You do look casual for a DOD employee traveling on business. If anyone pushes you for more information about who you are, just pull out your ID card. Officially, you’re a linguist on orders to transfer to D.C.”—he pulled a folded paper out of a briefcase he was carrying—“that’s all they need to know.”
    â€œA linguist,” I said as we rode along the coastline, watching the sky slowly lighten over the water. “If you only knew how badly I did in linguistics at Waseda.”
    â€œYou’re not much of