Asiatica 5679

ACT ELEVEN

Shuto Expressway, Tokyo, Japan

Atticus grips the steering wheel of the car. The expressway is effectively empty at this hour of the night. It's half an hour past midnight, well beyond when he'd normally expect to be up, but he has a job to do. His car is a black sedan. High end, courtesy of the United States Federal Government. 

Atticus had not expected this assignment. He had hoped to stay at home with his wife, by her side during in her pregnancy. Of course, things don't often go to plan in aviation, and when a regional jet liner drops off the map over the middle of the pacific ocean, someone has to do something. 

The NTSB had a habit of sticking its' nose where it didn't belong. It left Atticus wondering if 'making every international crisis about yourself' was fundamental to US foreign policy. The Bureau didn't really want to involve themselves in this case, actually, but the Japanese had requested it, much to the shock of Atticus who was not expecting to be called on a Saturday morning and told he was shipping off to Tokyo the following afternoon. 

What shocked him even more is that he was the only agent assigned here. He'd have to find this plane, alone. He wondered if the budget was wearing thin. He never asked about any of his wonderings, of course, but wondering still helped alleviate the annoyance of dealing with a bureaucracy on this magnitude. 

Atticus moved into the left lane, ready to take the next exit. He was a young man, in his late 20s, and had never really felt this kind of freedom in his work. Until now it had been do this, say that, go here. Now, he had been dropped into a foreign nation with a hire car, a hotel, and a couple of leads on who to talk to. To say he was a bit out of his league was an understatement. 

Despite all this, Atticus was an ambitious man, and he was not about to let his circumstances prevent him from finding a swift resolution to this problem. After all, if he wanted to prove himself, this was ever the case to do it. 

Atticus takes the exit, and turns down a street, then down another, and finally onto another larger road. The skyscrapers and buildings surrounding him were mostly devoid of light, except one. The Subarashi Yashin Hotel. Reporters and media personnel block the road before him. Beyond them, he can see the lights of the Japanese police cars, blocking entry to the hotel. As Atticus slows before the media, they part like the red sea, letting him access the front of the building. Remarkably polite, he thought, or at least compared with the American press.

He stops in front of the hotel, and police officers approach his car. He steps out and shows them his credentials. They examine them, speaking among themselves. Behind him, Atticus hears the snaps of flash cameras of the news photographers. The police officers hand him back his ID, and badge, and grant him entry to the hotel behind them. 

He enters the lobby. The staff are reserved, and, as though expecting him, usher him into the elevator, with the instruction to head to floor 34. The elevator closes, and rises. The lift is glass, and mounted on the exterior of the building, giving a panoramic view of the city below as Atticus ascends the skyscraper. 

The elevator door slides open, and Atticus proceeds into the hallway. The hotel is pristine, and while most of the rooms show no sign of life, some of the doors open, and adolescents within the rooms look out at the NTSB agent as he passes by. He smiles politely at them, but they do not return the favour. At the end of the hallway, Atticus finds a small lounge. Sitting across the room, looking out the window, is a woman with red hair, wearing a blue dress. 

"They told me you'd be coming," her gaze remains set out the window.

"I suppose they did," Atticus responds. "They told me absolutely nothing about you, however."

"Is that so? Shocking."

"Well," he walks slowly towards her, she gets up from her chair and turns to see him. "I suppose we should start by getting to know each other then?"

She stifles a laugh, "If you say so. Laylah Paderewski."

"Atticus Warren," he extends a hand, and she shakes it, reservedly. "What are you looking at down there?"

"The media," she sighs, and turns back to the window. "I'll never work again, you know."

"Sorry?"

"They've plastered my face and name everywhere. Who is going to hire the teacher who was there when half her Year 12s disappeared and died?"

"I'm sure you'll find something. And besides, how do we know they're dead?"

"We don't." She sighs. "And that's what you're here for. Find them. Save them."

"Ms. Paderewski," he lets out a slight sigh. "I'll try my best, I will."