Fujima lived with his wife and two daughters in a spacious apartment near Yoyogi Park. They had been living here for nearly seven months. The elder Fujima daughter, Keiko, attended the International Trade and Industry Inspection Institute, which was just a five-minute walk from the apartment. Their younger daughter, ten-year-old Emiko, attended the Children’s Play International School, which was a six-minute walk from the apartment. They were lucky to get the 2,000-square-foot, two-story place, though the Fujimas’ good fortune came at a price. They lived here because the Japanese economy was in turmoil. A commercial photographer used to live here. When retail sales began to struggle, advertising was cut back. If agencies ran advertisements at all, they used text and computer-generated images rather than photographs. The photographer was evicted. The Fujimas moved in from an apartment that was half the size and nearly as expensive.

“These are sad times,” he muttered to himself as he flicked his cigarette toward the street. They were difficult for the economy and they were barely manageable in areas of world security. He was lucky to be home this early. To be able to have dinner with his wife. To see the kids before they went to bed. Assuming Keiko got off the phone and Emiko unplugged herself from the computer, that is. He smiled as he turned back to the apartment. He could not really expect them to change their routine for him. Things were not as they were when he was a boy. If he had not gone to his father when he came home from his job as a train conductor, he would have been beaten with a strap.

“Maybe it’s good to have things so predictable here,” he thought aloud. His life at the office was anything but that.

Suddenly, Keiko came running from her room. Her long raven hair framed her vampire-pale face.

“Father, there’s a man on my cell phone,” the teenager said. “He wants to talk to you.” She held out the purple phone.

“Someone called for me on your phone?” Fujima asked.

“Yes. He cut in while I was talking with Kenji. He said it’s urgent. He sounds foreign,” she added. “His Japanese is terrible.”

Fujima took the phone and thanked her. He turned back to the balcony. “This is Fujima,” he said.

“I’m sorry to call this number,” said the voice on the other end. “It was the only one listed in the directory.”

Keiko was right. The man’s Japanese was awful. But the voice was familiar. “Who is this?” Fujima asked.

“It’s Paul Hood at Op-Center,” he said in English. “I’m sorry. I was using a god-awful translation program on the computer. My phonetic Japanese is not particularly good.”

“Neither is your timing, Mr. Hood,” Fujima said. “This call is extremely—”

“Unorthodox, I know,” Hood said. “My apologies, Mr. Fujima. But we need to speak.”