Title: The Samurai Strategy
Author: Hoover, Thomas
Language: English
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THE SAMURAI STRATEGY

_"A financial thriller right out of the headlines."  _Adam Smith

A high-finance, high-tech thriller that correctly predicted the 1987
stock market crash. It was the first fictional treatment of a major
international concern of the Eighties. Set in locales as diverse as
Wall Street and the offices of Japan's powerful Trade Ministry, THE
SAMURAI STRATEGY describes a scenario of murder, worldwide currency
manipulation, a revival of Japan's smoldering nationalism, and is set
against a background of a new high-tech computer milieu. Matthew
Walton, a freelance corporate 'takeover' lawyer is hired by a
mysterious Japanese industrialist to purchase a New York office
building and begin a massive 'hedging' in the financial markets. Two
weeks later, off an island in the Inland Sea, divers working for the
industrialist's organization, recover the original Imperial Sword,
given to Japan's first Emperor by the Sun Goddess, Japan's 'Excalibur',
and lost in a sea battle in 1185. He forms an '800-Year Fund' and
billions of yen flow to his fingertips. He then dumps all the
Treasuries Japan had acquired and devastates the American economy.

As the story rushes to its stunning conclusion, Matt Walton goes to
Japan and determines that the 'Imperial Sword' is, in fact an unusual
antique he once owned himself.



BOOKS BY THOMAS HOOVER

Nonfiction

Zen Culture

The Zen Experience

Fiction

The Moghul

Caribbee

Wall Street Samurai (The _Samurai_ Strategy)

Project Daedalus

Project Cyclops

Life Blood

Syndrome



All free as e-books at

www.thomashoover.info



         Wall Street Samurai



                       (The Samurai Strategy)



                                         Thomas Hoover

                                   www.thomashoover.info



THE SAMURAI STRATEGY A Bantam Falcon Book / June 1988

All rights reserved. Copyright © 1988 by Thomas Hoover.

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam
Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.



OPM 0 9 8 7 6 5 4



Key Words:

Author: Thomas Hoover

Title: The Samurai Strategy

 Wall Street, Japanese Stock Market, Treasury bonds, Stock Market,
Imperial Sword, Emperor of Japan, Japanese History, Supercomputer



_The following story is entirely imaginary . . . I hope._



CHAPTER ONE


New York, New York. Friday, early September, dusk. Heading uptown on
Madison. Sheets of icy rain washed the pavement, heralding the
onslaught of autumn and the miserable winter to come. The city was
poised for its cruelest months, that twilight of the spirit when
strangers arm-wrestle for taxis, nobody has time to hold a door, and
you cherish every fleeting human kindness.

Bring on the blizzards, the holiday madness. This winter I was planning
something long overdue. To treat my daughter Amy, the Madame Curie of
her ninth grade, to a real vacation. Just us. We'd leave at
Thanksgiving and stay gone through the Christmas break. She got to live
with me three months a year, and December was by God going to be one of
the months. School? She'd already skipped a year; maybe she was a
little too fast-track for thirteen.

Since Joanna, my ex, had already lined up her own holiday excursion
(Amy the spy claimed it was with some divorced Tishman VP), she hadn't
bothered inventing the usual roadblocks. Clear sailing. We'd open the
house down in St. Croix and spend a month getting reacquainted. Work on
the tan and some postgraduate snorkeling, a strategic move while I
still enjoyed a small sliver of her attention, before a certain
"totally terrific" skateboard virtuoso finally got around to noticing
her. Only a couple of jobs needed finishing, but they'd be wrapped up
with weeks to spare.

That night, in truth, had its moments of nostalgia. The destination was
Sotheby's auction house, a place where Matthew Walton was greeted by
name at the cashier's window. Home away from home for obsessive
collectors. I leaned back

against the vinyl seat of the Checker, letting the rhythm of the
streetlight halos glimmer past, and reflected on all those happy nights
I'd made the trek with Joanna. She'd had no real interest in my
collecting hobby, Japanese samurai swords and armor, but she was always
a decent sport about it. Besides, she had her own passions. While I was
agonizing over long blades and short blades, she'd sneak off and browse
for something French and nineteenth century and expensive. Fact is, I'd
usually plan ahead and have something of my own on the block just to
pay for that little sketch, or print, she suddenly had to have. Out of
habit I'd even shipped up a couple of mistakes for the auction this
evening (a hand axe and a lacquered-metal face guard).

Though tonight's sale had only a few odd items in my specialty, the
slim offerings actually suited the occasion. It left the evening open,
time for the real agenda--getting things rolling with a new client who'd
inexplicably handed me a job as simple as it was strange.

The man, name of Matsuo Noda, had rung all the way from Japan Friday
before last, introduced himself in generalities, then declared he had a
pressing legal matter requiring both speed and confidentiality.
Inquiries had led him to me. Would I have time to help him locate an
office building to buy? He claimed he was head of a Kyoto consulting
outfit that called itself Nippon, Inc., and he was looking for
something in midtown, seventy-million range.

Honestly I couldn't quite believe he was serious at first. Why this job
(just a little legwork, really) for somebody he'd never even met? I
could swing it, sure, but now that Japanese investors were snapping up
U.S. property right and left, who needed some ex-Texan turned New York
lawyer knocking around? There was no rational reason to engage a
corporate attorney.

"Out of curiosity, why aren't you working through one of the Tokyo
firms here in New York, say, Hiro Real Estate or KG Land? Surely they
could--"

"Mr. Walton," he interrupted smoothly but firmly, "allow me to say I
have my reasons. May I remind you I stressed confidentiality."

"Merely asking." I took a deep breath. The connection was distorted, a
high-pitched hum in the background, as though he wasn't using
commercial phone lines. "If you want, I can look around and see what's
on the market . . . and in the meantime how about sending along a
prospectus, just for the file?"

"Assuredly," he said, "and I do look forward to working with you."
After a few more polite nothings, he abruptly closed out the call.

Peculiar. That wasn't how the Japanese road show usually did business.
From what I'd seen, Tokyo invests very cautiously and deliberately,
sometimes "researching" a deal half to death. I momentarily wondered if
it wasn't just one of the jokers from my old partnership pulling my
leg.

He was real enough. A brochure arrived by overnight air, bound in
leather, with a flowery covering letter. Two problems: most of the
thing was in his native tongue, and what I could read didn't tip his
hand. From the looks of its public disclosures, Nippon, Inc. was merely
some kind of money manager for Japanese investment banks; it had almost
no assets of its own. All I could find listed were a few million
dollars, lunch money for a Japanese outfit, mostly cash parked in some
short-term Euroyen paper. That, and a head office in Kyoto, was the sum
of it. What's more, Noda only worked with Japanese banks and firms. No
foreign clients.

So why did this man suddenly require space in New York? An entire
building. I honestly couldn't figure it. On the other hand, with any
luck the whole deal probably could be put together with a few phone
calls.

By way of introduction, let me say that I worked, technically, as a
straightforward attorney-at-law. I say "technically" because I was, in
fact, a freelance defensive back in the corporate takeover game, which
these days is anything but straight. You'd have to go back to the
roaring twenties to find so many creative screw-jobs.

Some people are drawn to power; guess I'm more attracted to the idea of
occasionally whittling it down to size. So when some hotshot raider
found a happy little company whose breakup value was worth more than
the current stock price, then decided to move in and grab it, loot the
assets, and sell off the pieces--one of the players apt to end up
downfield was Matt Walton. For reasons that go a long way back, I liked
to break up the running patterns of the fast-buck artists. It's a game
where you win some and lose some. The trick is to try and beat the
odds, and I suppose I'd had my share of luck.

Give you a quick example. Back in the spring, a midsize cosmetics
outfit called me in as part of their reinforcements to fight an
avaricious rape, better known as a hostile takeover, by one of their
biggest competitors. After looking over the balance sheet and shares
outstanding, I suggested they divest a couple of unpromising consumer
divisions--namely a "male fragrance" line that made you smell like a kid
leaving the barbershop, and a "feminine hygiene" product that could
have been a patent infringement on Lysol--and use the proceeds to buy
back their own common shares. We also threw together a "poison pill"
that would have practically had them owning anybody who acquired more
than twenty percent of their stock. Our move scared hell out of the
circling vultures and reinforced my reputation on the Street (unduly
harsh, I thought) as a give-no-quarter son of a bitch.

Another fact worth mentioning is that I worked without benefit of a
real office; after selling off my piece of the law partnership, I
operated out of my place downtown, with a telephone and a couple of
computers. A kindly gray-haired dynamo by the name of Emma Epstein, who
had a rent- controlled apartment down the block, dropped by afternoons
and handled correspondence, filing, matrimonial advice, and the
occasional pot of medicinal chicken soup. The only other member of my
staff was a shaggy sheepdog named Benjamin, who served as security
chief, periodically sweeping the back garden for the neighbor's cat.
That was it.

Oh, yes, one other item. Crucial, as it turned out. I'd always been a
collector of something--once it was antique spurs, for chrissake--but
about ten years earlier I'd started to get interested in things
Japanese and ended up going a little overboard about old swords and
such. Joanna's unscheduled departure managed to burn out a lot of my
circuits, and what had been merely an obsession grew into something a
little crazy. For a year or so I became, in my own mind at least, a
sort of American _ronin_, a wandering samurai.

You see, the Japanese warriors had a code that said you ought to live
every moment in full awareness of your own mortality. When you adopt
this existential outlook, so they claimed, all regrets, emotions,
complaints, can be seen as an indulgence. You're ready to meet life
head-on, to risk everything at a moment's notice. That's the only way
you ever discover who you really are, and it's supposed to make you
marvelously detached.

Almost enough to make you forget how your raven-haired, brilliant, sexy
mate packed it in one New Year's Eve twenty

months past . . . when you called late from the office, again . . .
after declaring that that was the goddam last straw and apparently the
only thing you could find worthy of undivided attention came printed on
goddam computer paper and she was goddam sick of it--which she
demonstrated the next day by slamming the door on her way out.

Add to which, she used my momentary disorientation to get custody of
Amy. So while I was battling corporate Goliaths, I let her walk off
with the only thing I would have given my life for. The more time went
by, the more I wanted to kick myself. Alex Katz (of Walton, Halliday,
and Katz--now minus the Walton) read the custody agreement the day after
I signed it, sighed, glared over his smudgy half-lenses, and announced
that this kind of unconditional surrender should only be signed on the
decks of battleships. What did he have, a law partner or a fucking
schlemiel?

He was right, for all the wrong reasons. Not long after, I cashed in my
piece of the firm and went independent. Win or lose, it's best to sort
things out on your own. I was then forty- three, six one, and weighed
in at an even one eighty. There were a few lines on the face and
several more on the psyche, but the sandy hair was mostly intact, and I
could still swim a couple of miles if absolutely essential. Maybe there
was still time for a new start. Part of that therapy was going to be
our trip.

Perhaps I should also add that I'd had a brief "rebound" fling, for
what it was worth. The lady was Donna Austen, a name you'll recognize
as belonging to that irrepressibly cheerful "Personalities!" host on
what Channel Eight likes to term its Evening News. She'd called about a
segment on the subject of the cosmetics company takeover, then very
much in the local press, and I'd said fine. She ended up downtown, and
soon thereafter we became an item. She was the closest I'd had to a
girlfriend, and at that it was mostly an on-again, off-again thing--
which terminated in an event reminiscent of the Hindenburg's last
flight. In the aftermath I went back to chatting with Amy every day on
the phone, putting together stock buyback packages, and collecting
Japanese swords.

Anyway, while the cab waited for a light, worn-out wipers squeaking, I
fumbled around in my coat pocket and extracted the _meishi_, the
business card, one side in English, the other Japanese, that had been
included with Noda's letter. He'd

personalized it with a handwritten note on the side with English print.
Now, I'd kept track of the new Japanese investment heavies in town--
Nomura, Daiwa, Nikko, Sumitomo--since you never know when a corporation
might need some fast liquidity. They were starting to play hardball,
and these days (with all that cheap money back home) they would
underbid a nine-figure financing deal before Drexel Burnham could spell
"junk bond." But Nippon, Inc.? Never heard of the outfit.

Well, I thought, you'll know the story soon enough. The driver had just
hung a right on Fifty-seventh and was headed east toward York Avenue.
I'd called that afternoon to lower the reserve on one of my lots and
had been told that because of some union squabble the preview would
continue till just before the sale, now scheduled to kick off at eight-
thirty. It wasn't quite seven yet, so we would have at least an hour to
run through my list of prospective buildings.

As the cab pulled up next to the chaste glass awning, I took a deep
breath, shoved a ten through the Plexiglas panel between the seats, and
stepped out. While the battered Checker (lamented remnant of a
vanishing species) squealed into the dark, I unbuttoned my overcoat and
headed up the steps. A few grim-faced patrons milled here and there in
the lobby, but nobody looked familiar. There was even a new girl at the
desk by the stairs, ash blond and tasteful smoked pearls, pure Bryn
Mawr art history. A class act, Sotheby's.

It appeared that most of the Japanese crowd was already upstairs,
undoubtedly meditating on their bids with the meticulous precision of
the Orient. I was headed up the wide, granite steps myself when I
decided to check out the downstairs one last time.

Hold on, could be there's a possibility. Waiting over by the coat
check, thumbing the catalog, was a distinguished-looking guy,
retirement age, wearing a light, charcoal suit. Italian. Unlike the
usual Japanese businessmen, he clearly didn't assume he had to dress
like an undertaker and keep a low profile. No, probably just some
Mitsubishi board member thinking to diversify his portfolio with a few
_objets d'art_.

Abruptly he glanced up, smiled, and headed my way. I realized I'd been
recognized.

"Mr. Walton, how good of you to come." After a quick bow he produced
his card, a formality that totally ignored the fact he'd already sent
me one. As convention required, I held it in my left hand and studied
it anew while I accepted his hearty American handshake. "It's a
pleasure to meet you. At last."

At last?

I let that puzzler pass and handed over a card of my own, which he held
politely throughout our opening ritual, then pocketed.

Noda had a mane of silver hair sculptured around a lean, tan face, and
he looked to be somewhere between sixty and seventy. Though his dark
eyes were caught in a web of wrinkles that bespoke his years, they had
a sparkle of raw energy. He moved with an easy poise, and the initial
impression was that of a man eminently self-possessed. He had that
sturdy, no-nonsense assurance usually reserved for airline pilots. If
you had to entrust somebody with your wife, or your life savings, this
man would be your pick.

Well, my new client's a mover, I told myself. All the same, I accepted
his hand with a vague twinge of misgiving. What was it? Maybe something
about him was a little too precise, too calculated.

"Mr. Walton, permit me to introduce my personal consultant." He
laughed, a slight edge beneath the charm, and more wrinkles shot
outward from the corners of his eyes. "I always seek her approval of
major acquisitions, particularly those of the Heian period, her
specialty." He turned with what seemed obvious pride and gestured
toward the tall Japanese woman standing behind him. I'd been so busy
sizing him up I'd completely failed to notice her. "I must confess she
is, in fact, my . . . niece. I suppose that ages me." Another smile.
"You may possibly be familiar with her professional name, so perhaps I
should use that. May I introduce Akira Mori."

Who? I stared a second before the face clicked into place. And the
name. They both belonged to a well-known commentator on Tokyo
television. Only one slight problem: her "specialty" had nothing to do
with art.

"_Hajimemashite_. How do you do, Mr. Walton." She bowed formally and, I
noticed, with all the warmth of an iceberg. No surprise--I knew her
opinion of Americans. She did not bother meeting my eye.

She looked just as I remembered her from the tube. A knockout. Her hair
was pulled back into a chignon, framing that classic oval face, and her
age was anybody's guess, given the ivory skin and granite chin. She was
wearing a bulky something in black and deep ocher by one of the new
Tokyo designers. For some reason I was drawn to her fingernails, long
and bronze. The parts, a mixture of classic and avant-garde, did not
seem of a piece, the kind of detail you didn't notice on the TV. But
there was something more important than her looks.

I'd been to Tokyo from time to time for various reasons, and I'd heard
a lot of stories about this lady. Fact is, you didn't have to be
Japanese to know that Akira Mori was easily Japan's most listened-to
money analyst. You've probably seen her yourself in snippets of that
weekly chat show she had on NHK, which used to get picked up by the
networks here when they needed a quick thirty seconds on "Japan This
Week" or such. Her ratings had little to do with the fact she's a
looker. She was, talk had it, an unofficial source for official
government monetary policy. Akira Mori always had a lead on exactly
what was afoot, from the Bank of Japan to the Ministry of Finance, even
before the prime minister broke the news.

Miss "Mori," whoever the hell she was, had some very well placed
friends. Tell you something else, she didn't go out of her way to find
flattering things to say about how Uncle Sam handled his bankbook these
days. Her appearance here made Noda's unorthodox office plans even more
perplexing.

"We both appreciate your taking time from your schedule to meet with
us." He bowed again. "We've been looking forward to having you join us
at the sale."

While Akira Mori appeared to busy herself with a catalog, Noda and I
got things going with that standard formality preceding any serious
Japanese professional contact: meaningless chat. It's how they set up
their _ningen kankei_, their relationship with the other guy, and it's
also the way they fine-tune their _honne_, their gut feeling about a
situation. Any greenhorn foreigner who skimps on these vital niceties
runs the risk of torpedoing his whole deal.

In response to my pro forma inquiries, Matsuo Noda declared he liked
New York, had even lived here for a while once, honestly found it less
hectic than Tokyo, usually stayed these days at the Japanese hotel down
on Park but sometimes picked the Plaza when he needed to be closer to
midtown. He adored La Grenouille and thought La Tulipe overpraised.
When I pressed him, he declared his favorite Japanese place to dine was
Nippon, over in the East Fifties (maybe he merely liked the name, but
it was my pick as well).

After he had in turn solicited my own views on Sotheby's, a couple of
the galleries down Madison, and various North Italian eateries, he
suggested we go on upstairs and preview the lots.

All the while Miss Mori appeared to ignore us, standing there like a
statue of some Shinto goddess, except for the occasional tug at her
dark hair. Maybe she didn't give a damn about this obligatory small
talk, thought it was old-fashioned. Or possibly she liked the idea of
being the only one not to show a hand. And as Noda led the way up
toward the exhibition rooms, she trailed behind like a dutiful Japanese
woman--while we, naturally, continued to talk of everything except, God
forbid, why we were there.

In the first room we were suddenly in my arena--samurai swords and
battle gear.

"This is your special interest, is it not, Mr. Walton?" Noda smiled,
then turned to admire the row of shining steel _tachi_, three-foot-long
razors, now being watched over by a trio of nervous guards. Sotheby's
didn't need some amateur Toshiro Mifune accidentally carving up the
clientele. "I understand you have a notable collection yourself."

What? What else did he know about me?

Easy, Walton. Play the game. I knew what a Japanese would expect in
reply.

"Matter of fact, I've lucked onto a couple of items over the years."
Then the standard disclaimers. My own painstaking collection was merely
a grab bag of knickknacks, the fumbling mistakes of a dabbler, etc.,
etc.

Noda monitored this culturally correct blarney with satisfaction. "As
it happens, Mr. Walton, I was in Nagoya last year when several of your
pieces were on loan for the show at the Tokugawa Museum. I still recall
certain ones, particularly that fine fifteenth-century katana,
attributed to the Mizuno clan. Unusual steel. No date or mark of the
swordsmith, but a remarkable piece all the same." A split-second pause.
"Your reluctance to part with it was most understandable."

This man had done his homework! Or maybe he'd been the one who had
tried to buy it. The steel was unusual, too heavy on copper. I'd even
had a little metallurgical testing done on it down at Princeton, just
to prove that hunch. But it was no big

deal, merely an oddity that had fallen my way via an estate sale. There
was an anonymous inquiry shortly after the exhibition opened, with an
insistent offer, but I'd turned it down.

Poker time. "I was honored. Your figure was more than generous."

He laughed--bull's-eye. I watched as he glanced back at Miss Mori, maybe
a bit nervously. Then he returned his attention. "Merely a small
gesture for the museum. I felt it should be back in Japanese hands." He
continued, his voice now sober. "You do understand?"

"Certainly." I just stared.

"Good. I see I was right." He had paused to examine a large monochrome
screen. It was eighteenth century and he inspected it with only mild
interest, then moved on.

I was still knocked over. Could that be why he'd retained me as his
U.S. legal counsel? Because of some damned antique sword? Okay, I was
already getting the idea Matsuo Noda might be a trifle eccentric, but
all the same . . .

"Interesting." He was pointing at a long picture, part of a series
locked in a wide glass case. "_Honto ni omoshiroi, desu ne_?'

Miss Mori was already there. In a voice scarcely above a whisper she
proceeded to give him a rundown of pros and cons. It was the first time
I'd noticed any enthusiasm out of the woman all night.

I checked my catalogue. The piece was a Heian hand scroll, said to be
"exceedingly rare." After a few moments Noda motioned me over. "Perhaps
you could give us your opinion. What do you think?" He pointed down.
"The subject is intriguing. These are ladies-in-waiting for the
emperor, Fujiwara. Notice the delicate refinement of the coloring, the
matched fabrics, each enhancing the other like flowers in a bouquet.
That was eight centuries ago, just before the rise of the first shogun,
the first 'generalissimo' who would rule in the emperor's name."

When he said "shogun," niece Mori shot him a quick admonitory glance.
There was some kind of unmistakable electricity passing. Something left
unspoken.

"The Heian era ended with the great conflict between the Heike and
Genji clans that led to the death of the ruling emperor in 1185 and the
loss of the imperial sword at sea." Next he said something in guttural
Japanese to Mori, obviously very intent, and indicated one corner of
the painting, where the emperor sat. Her reply was quick and curt. Now,
I only know a little of the language, maybe a couple of cuts above
Berlitz level, but I did manage to pick up she wasn't talking about the
painting. Something to do with the emperor himself, though I missed the
rapid-fire delivery.

In response to Noda's question I tried to sound intelligent, saying the
ink coloring looked well preserved, or some such auction house mumbo
jumbo. It wasn't my thing really, which the man surely knew. He seemed
to know everything else about me. After he listened politely, they
switched back to Japanese and finally settled on a bid. I watched as
she marked it in the catalogue--low six figures.

Walton, I thought, you're dealing with a pair of heavyweights.

By then I'd decided not to bother bidding on anything. There were too
many curious twists, not to mention the building deal. Surely the
ritual had gone far enough, the samurai negotiating ploy of making your
adversary be first to reveal his game plan.

Why not bring up why we were there, just for the hell of it?

When I did, Noda betrayed a fleeting smile. "But of course, the
building." He made it sound like some kind of trivial annoyance, a
nuisance to get out of the way so we could all get back to the serious
work of admiring the pretty pictures.

_Touche_, I thought. Round one to Noda, on points. "I assume you've had
a look at the package of materials I messengered up to your hotel
yesterday?"

A broker friend had put together some listings for office buildings
around midtown--it turned out the market was softening a touch due to
the latest construction binge--and I'd hoped that maybe something would
catch Noda's eye. Matter of fact, there were a couple of real bargains
over near Sixth.

"My people have examined it in detail. We would like to move forward on
the twenty-story building on Third Avenue."

For a second I thought he was joking. Sure we'd tossed in the write-up,
because it fit his profile, but it was a crazy all- cash deal, and they
wanted ninety million, firm.

"Did you read the terms on that one? It's all--"

"There is a vacant floor, is there not? Available immediately?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"There may be a few items to clarify--we would like your legal opinion
concerning the leases of the existing tenants--but nothing major. If the
seller is prepared, I think we could even go to contract early next
week, while I'm here. I would like very much to close as soon as
possible. If some of my staff can meet with the seller's attorneys over
the weekend, perhaps we can start work."

Over the weekend? No counter bid, no haggling? Now, you didn't have to
be a brain surgeon to realize this was a fast-track deal; Matsuo Noda
was a man in a hurry. "Looks like you just may have yourself a piece of
property. I'll try and get hold of them in the morning, if I can, and
start the ball rolling."

"Excellent." He hesitated a moment, as though framing his words, then
continued, "But in fact, Mr. Walton, we'd actually wanted to meet you
tonight for an entirely different purpose. I'd hoped we might be
working together on, well, some additional matters."

"Something else?"

"As you might surmise, we are not enlarging our presence here to no
purpose. Tonight I wanted to tell you something about the objectives of
Nippon, Inc. And then let you decide if what we propose merits your
participation. Your financial expertise could make you a great asset to
us."

Hang on, I thought. This thing is starting to go a little fast.

"What do you have in mind?"

"First let me say you are a man I have long admired. Your style is not
unlike my own. We both understand the importance of moving cautiously,
of keeping our adversaries off guard. Most of all, there is a rigorous
discipline about your work. That is the style of _bushido_, the way of
the warrior." He smiled, and his tone lightened. "I think we could
cooperate very effectively."

Already I was wondering whether I really wanted to "cooperate" any
further with Matsuo Noda. Something about the man, and Miss Mori, made
me very nervous. Besides, I was trying to finish off work now, not
begin more. But he'd found out the one line that would keep me
listening. He'd somehow discovered I was a deep admirer of the old-time
military strategists of the East--such as Sun Tzu and Miyamoto Musashi.

Like a hostile takeover bid, the ancient Japanese way of

combat was ritualized, as mounted warriors rode out, announced their
lineage (to the SEC?), then matched up with men of equal renown. The
samurai prized flexibility over brute strength; they had steel swords
that handled like scalpels and body armor that was a woven mesh of
lacquered-iron scales laced together in rows to create a "fabric" of
metal. Those weapons and armor made for agile movement, easy feints,
fast changes in strategy--all trademarks of mine on the corporate
takeover battlefield.

As a result, I fancied myself some kind of samurai too. . . .

The question was, how did _Noda _know this?

For some reason just then I glanced over toward Akira Mori. She
appeared to be studying a scroll with the detachment of a Zen monk in
_zazen_ meditation, but she wasn't missing a syllable.

"Care to run through whatever it is you have in mind?" I indicated one
of the ottomans along the side of the room, now clearing as bidders
rose to go inside. I watched as the dark- suited Japanese businessmen
filed past, none with Noda's sense of style, and noticed that several
seemed acquainted with him, pausing to offer obsequious bows.

"With pleasure." He settled himself. Mori, now looking over some
screens, still didn't elect to join us. "First, may I presume you
already know something of Nippon, Inc.?"

"No more than what I gleaned from that package you forwarded. Almost
nothing, really."

He laughed, a flash of even teeth. "Perhaps I should be pleased. These
days too much visibility in the U.S. can sometimes stir up 'friction'."

"Your prospectus indicated you help banks manage capital, so I assume
you're looking to enter the financial picture here."

That was the funny part, recall? There was no indication of any U.S.
action in his prospectus. Yet I knew that, overall, Japan's U.S.
investment, private and public, was in the tens and hundreds of
billions. Pension funds and industries were building factories,
financing corporations, snapping up Treasury paper. Japan had become a
major source of fresh money for the U.S. and for the world. But Nippon,
Inc. wasn't one of the players.

"Yes, we intend to be concerned, initially, with the position of
Japanese capital in the U.S. We are particularly interested in the
matter of Treasury debentures."

That was what anybody would have figured. Just that week the Journal
had noted that Japanese investors were expected to cover half of our
Treasury overdrafts for the year. They were advancing us the bucks to
keep up that spending spree known as the national deficit. They sold us
Toyotas; we sold them federal IOUs, using the proceeds to buy more
Toyotas. In effect they were financing the good life, supplying us the
"revolving credit" to buy their cars and DVDs and semiconductors.

"Treasuries always make a lot of sense." I picked up the thread. "Full
faith and credit of the U.S. government, all the rest."

"Quite so, Mr. Walton, but since all things are theoretically possible,
over the past few months I've undertaken a small program through
subsidiaries of Nippon, Inc. to begin cushioning Japan's exposure in
your Treasury market somewhat." He paused. "Now that my effort may be
expanding significantly, I was wondering if perhaps you might consent
to serve as our American agent in that endeavor."

For a second I didn't grasp what he was driving at, probably because my
involvement seemed totally unnecessary. Surely he realized Treasuries
were bought and sold here every day on the open market through dealer
banks? No big deal. Why bother hiring a middleman?

"I can make this quick. Why don't you just contact some of the
authorized Japanese brokers here in New York? You must have used them
before. Nomura Securities is well respected. There's also Nikko
Securities. And Daiwa Securities America. They're all primary dealers
in Treasury paper now. Buy or sell whatever you like."

Noda nodded. "Of course. But we both know the financial markets can be
very delicate. Impressions count for much, which is why I have chosen
to keep a low profile. Consequently, I would prefer to continue to
operate for a time outside normal channels. And in that regard, I now
believe it would be desirable to have an experienced American financial
specialist assist us. You, in particular, would be ideal."

I studied him. "Let me make sure I understand this. You're asking me to
step in and begin fronting for you here in the Treasury market?"

"That is correct, Mr. Walton." He rose and strolled over to the row of
_tachi _swords, where Miss Mori was still standing. They were lying on
a spread of dark velvet, and she was scrutinizing them with a
connoisseur's eye.

Now, I'd like to think I was a quick study of a situation, but this one
was definitely out of whack somehow. If all Noda wanted was to roll
over a little government paper, why the hush-hush? More to the point,
why a whole building in midtown? He could easily do it from Tokyo. The
scenario didn't compute.

"Before this conversation goes any further, I'd like a better idea of
the kind of activity you're talking about. Selling Treasuries? Moving
the funds into corporate bonds or munis? Commercial paper, equities."

"Sell?" He abruptly paused to watch as the staff began carefully
assembling the weapons to take inside for the sale, and his mind seemed
to wander. "You know, Mr. Walton, the sword always has held the
greatest fascination for me. To make one of these, layers of steel of
different hardnesses were hammered together like a sandwich, then
reheated, hammered out, folded, again and again, until there were
perhaps a million paper-thin layers." He pointed to one of the long
blades now glistening in the light. "You cannot see it, of course, but
they used a laminate of soft steel for the core, harder grades for the
cutting edge. And whereas the edge was tempered quickly to preserve its
sharpness, the core was made to cool very slowly, leaving it pliant."
He suddenly smiled with what seemed embarrassment and turned back. "I
take great inspiration from the sword, Mr. Walton. The man holding one
must learn to meld with the spirit in the steel. He must become like
it. What better than to meet the world with your hardest surface, yet
maintain an inner flexibility, able to bend to circumstance as the need
may arise?"

He stood a moment as though lost in some reverie then chuckled.
"Sometimes I do tend to go on and on. I believe it was selling you
asked about. The fact is you would not be actually selling Treasury
obligations."

"Then what . . . ?"

"Are you familiar with interest-rate futures?"

"Of course." The question was so unexpected I answered almost before I
thought. Futures contracts were part of the big new game on Wall
Street, although most of the action was still out in Chicago, places
like the Merc and the Board of Trade, left over from the old days when
farmers sold their crops in advance at an agreed-upon price. The farmer
"sold" his grain harvest to a speculator while it was still nothing but
green sprouts. He was worried the price might drop before he got it to
market; the speculator was praying it would head up. The farmer,
interestingly, was selling something he didn't yet have. But even if
the price of wheat suddenly tanked, he was covered.

These days futures contracts were traded for all kinds of things whose
value might change with time. High on that list were financial
instruments such as Treasury notes and bonds, whose resale worth could
drop if interest rates unexpectedly rose. If you owned a bond and were
worried it might go down in value, you could hedge your exposure with a
futures contract, in effect "selling" it in advance at the current
price and letting somebody else assume the risk of future market
uncertainty.

Modern finance being the marvel it is, you could even sell bonds you
didn't own, just like the farmer's nonexistent grain. The Wall Street
crowd called this a "naked" contract, since you were obligated to go
out and acquire that bond in the open market on the day you'd agreed to
deliver it, even if the price had skyrocketed in the meantime. Or you
had to try and buy back the contract. Of course, you were betting that
price would go down, letting you pocket the difference.

Pious spirits on the futures exchanges called these deals high finance
and risk hedging. They operated, however, remarkably like legalized
gambling. Dabbling in interest-rate futures was not for those with a
dicey heart.

"Our objective," Noda went on, "is to cushion Japan's exposure
somewhat."

"With futures contracts?"

"Precisely. U.S. Treasury obligations are held by a variety of
investors in Japan, but up until now we have made very little use of
the protection possible in your futures markets. Nippon, Inc. will
concern itself with that."

I listened thoughtfully. "So you're saying you want to create an
insurance program for Japanese investors in case the price of
Treasuries weakens?"

It made sense. If interest rates went up here, reducing the value of
their government paper, then the price of his futures contracts would
rise to offset the loss.

I glanced over at Japan's monetary guru, Akira Mori, who

was carefully examining her bronze fingernails. Was she the one behind
all this sudden nervousness about America's financial health? What
could these two know that we didn't, I wondered. It was all a bit
mysterious.

One thing was no mystery, though. Whatever was going on with Matsuo
Noda and Akira Mori gave me a very unsettled feeling.

"I'm flattered." I looked him over. "But afraid I'll have to pass. This
fall I plan to take off for a while and . . . catch up on some personal
matters that--"

"Mr. Walton," he cut in. "I would urge you not to lightly dismiss my
proposal." He was staring back at me intensely. "I can only say for now
that issues are involved . . . well, they encompass matters of grave
international consequence." Another pause, followed by a noticeable
hardening of tone. "Your other obligations cannot possibly be as
important. It would be in your best interest to hear me out."

Want the truth? At that moment all my negative vibes about Matsuo Noda
crystallized. He wasn't threatening me exactly. Or maybe he was. The
large viewing room was all but empty now. Maybe he'd deliberately
waited before getting down to his real agenda.

"My other 'obligations' happen to be very important to me just now."

"Then please consider rearranging them."

"Besides, my fees can be substantial." They weren't all that
substantial, but I was looking to slow him down.

"Your fees do not present a problem." He continued, "This afternoon a
retainer of one hundred thousand dollars was deposited in your personal
account at Chase."

"What in hell . . .!"

"Money is of no consequence in this matter, Mr. Walton. Time is."

"You seem awfully sure I'll agree."

"We expect your involvement to begin immediately. I cannot stress too
strongly the urgency of what you will undertake." He smiled thinly. "I
also feel confident a man who enjoys a challenge as much as you do will
find our undertaking . . . intellectually rewarding."

Seems I was hired and I hadn't even said yes.

This guy had another think coming. Besides, he could get anybody to do
what he wanted. He didn't need me. As I stood

there, I started trying to guess the dimensions of Matsuo Noda's
financial hedge. Taken all together, Japan probably had roughly a
hundred billion and change tied up in U.S. government paper. No way
could he be thinking of covering more than a fraction of that. I knew
plenty of law clerks who could do it, for godsake. A few phone calls to
a couple of floor traders in Chicago . . .

"Look, the most I can do for you is recommend some very competent
brokers I know to help you out. There shouldn't be too much to it.
You'll just have to go easy. You can't hit the market makers in Chicago
with too much action all at once. Prices get out of kilter. Then, too,
there are exchange limits. . . ."

"That is why we will be trading worldwide." Noda withdrew a folded
sheet of paper from his breast pocket. "Perhaps you'd like to glance
over our program. These are cumulative totals, which include our
activity to date, but we will begin moving much more rapidly as soon as
I've completed all the financial arrangements with our institutional
managers at home. Perhaps you will see why we need a monetary
professional."

I was still chewing on the "financial arrangements" part as I took the
paper, opened it, and scanned the schedule of contracts. While I stood
there, the room around us sort of blurred out. I had to sit down again.
All his talk about samurai and nerves of steel was for real.

Matsuo Noda had a program underway to sell futures on a pile of U.S.
Treasury bills, notes, and bonds he didn't own, "naked," in an amount I
had trouble grasping. I knew one thing, though: if interest rates
headed down, raising the value of those presold obligations, he'd be
forced to cover awesome losses. He'd be in a financial pickle that
would make Brazil look flush. On the other hand, if some disaster
occurred and U.S. interest rates suddenly shot sky high . . .

Numbers? The CBOT's long-interest contracts, notes and bonds, are in
denominations of a hundred thousand each; the Merc's short paper, bills
and CDs, are in units of a million per. Finally I did some quick
arithmetic and toted up the zeros. Something had to be wrong here.
Nobody had balls that big. I decided to run through the figures again,
just to be sure.

It was along about then that I realized all Noda's pious talk about
sheltering Japanese widows and orphans had been purest bullshit.
Resting there in my hand was the biggest wager slip in world history.
Assuming enough players could be found worldwide to take his action, he
was planning to advance-sell U.S. Treasury IOUs in the amount of five
hundred billion dollars. A full quarter of our national debt.

His bet: something or somebody was about to push America over the
brink.



CHAPTER TWO


"Yo, counselor. Get thy butt over here and buy me a drink."

I was standing in the smoky entry of Martell's, on the way back
downtown from Sotheby's, when I heard the voice, a Georgia drawl known
from Wall Street to Washington. And sure enough, leaning against the
long mahogany bar, the usual Glenfiddich on the rocks in hand, was none
other than Bill Henderson.

Long time, no see. I'd actually stopped by for a little ninety proof
nerve medicine myself, not to pass the time with America's foremost
cowboy market-player. But the idea of bringing in a Wall Street pro was
most welcome. If anybody could dissect Noda's game, Bill was the man.

What was I going to do? I'd stalled on giving Matsuo Noda a final
answer, telling him I needed time to think. Then just to make sure the
whole thing hadn't been some sort of macabre hoax, I'd checked at a
Chase bank machine on Lex. He hadn't been kidding. A retainer had been
deposited all right, presumably by certified check, since it had
already cleared. I was on the payroll, ready or not.

Noda was right about one thing. What he planned to do had grave
international consequences. The problem was, his game had just one
payoff. The way I figured it, he won if, and only if, the U.S. suddenly
went broke. As international consequences go, that seemed reasonably
grave.

Henderson was the perfect guru to take apart the scenario. Assuming he
was sober. Tell the truth, at first glance I wasn't entirely sure. The
guy looked a mess. I assumed he was holding some sort of private
celebration, or maybe it was a wake. What was the occasion?

"William H., welcome back to town. Thought you'd decamped permanently
down to D.C."

"Packed it in. Back to start making a living again. Could be I've just
set some kind of new world record for the briefest tenure ever seen on
the Council." He eased over to make room, while the jukebox began some
Bobby Short standard about incomparable NY. "So where's your TV star
tonight? Sure love that gal." He toasted Donna's memory. "If tits were
brains, she'd be a genius."

Sexist? Tasteless? That was merely Henderson warming up.

I hadn't actually set eyes on Bill since an ill-fated birthday dinner
Donna had thrown for him in midsummer, a favor to a producer friend of
hers at the station who'd wanted to try vamping a real live
millionaire. That evening he'd arrived with a serious head start on the
whiskey, his meditation on the concept of birthdays, and then proceeded
to regale those assembled with his encyclopedic repertoire of farmer's-
daughter and traveling-salesman vignettes. In the aftermath, Donna
swore she'd kill him if he ever set foot in her place again. When I
made the mistake of speaking in his defense, she critiqued a few of my
character defects as well, then added me to the list.

"Friend, no small thanks to you and that sordid evening, I haven't seen
Donna since."

"That was a dark moment in my history. After listening half the night
to that air-head producer she put next to me, I was in mourning for the
hearts and minds of America." He revolved back to the bar. "What're you
drinking?"

"Something serious." I pointed toward the single malt. Laphroaig neat.

Just then Bill paused to watch as two women in bulky raincoats brushed
past. They receded toward the other end of the bar, settled their coats
across an empty stool, and ordered drinks. One was a youngish blonde, a
bit nervous, having some tall, colored potion that looked as if it
could use a cut of pineapple and a plastic monkey on the glass. But the
other one, brunette, was a different story. Pained eyes, with a psychic
armor that could only be called battle-weary New York. Joanna, all over
again. Tanqueray martini. Straight up.

"Hot damn, sure is good to be back in this town." He was trying,
without conspicuous success, to catch the younger woman's eye.

"Henderson, you're standing next to a man with some news that could
well alarm you considerably."

"Like maybe this dump might run low on booze?"

"Not likely." I reached for my new drink. "I've got to make a decision,
fast. So try to keep a clear head and see if you can help me out."

In my estimation Henderson was a phenomenon--sober or loaded. He'd
emerged from the red clay hills somewhere in north Georgia, former
football All-State ("I only did it for the pussy"), and ended up at
Yale Law--where we shared an apartment for three whole years. By the
time we'd finished our degrees, I figured I was ready to tackle real
life, but Bill had hung in and gone for a Ph.D. in economics. Although
his athlete's physique hadn't survived Yale--an early casualty of the
single malt and the Dunhills--Henderson still had the delusion he was
twenty-five. Easter before last he'd arrived at my place down in the
islands with some leggy print model half his age and a case of Jack
Daniel's Black. Did the redneck routine bamboozle the cautious hearts
of his admiring ladies? Probably. Right under the radar.

All that notwithstanding, it was a commonly accepted fact that Bill was
the sharpest private currency-trader on the East Coast. If tomorrow the
dollar was about to dive, the guy who'd already sold it short tonight
from Hong Kong to Zurich was invariably Henderson. That part of his
life had been all over the papers the previous spring, after he got
tapped for the President's Council of Economic Advisers. I guess some
genius on the White House staff--urged on by that wily senator from New
York, our mutual friend Jack O'Donnell--concluded the Council needed a
pet "contrarian" on board for appearances, and Henderson looked to be a
sufficiently pro-business prospect. Wrong. After a couple of interviews
he was forbidden to make any more public statements. He'd failed to
grasp that the national interest required fantasy forecasts just before
elections. Bill may have been a master of subtlety when he was trading,
but otherwise he tended to call a spade a spade, or worse.

"What's up?" He was about to punt with the blonde after one last try.

"Maybe you'd better go first." I took a sip, savoring the peaty aroma.
Let Henderson decompress in his own good time, then sound him out on
Noda's chilling proposition. "What are you doing here?"

"Call it modesty and discretion." He turned back.

These were not, as you might infer, the first descriptors that leapt to
mind whenever I thought of Bill.

"Care to expand?"

He slid his hand across the bar, extracted another Dunhill from its red
pack, and launched a disjointed monologue starting with the goddam
traffic in D.C., then proceeding to ditto coming in from LaGuardia.

All this time his cigarette had been poised in readiness. Finally he
flicked a sterling silver lighter, the old-fashioned kind, and watched
the orange flame glisten off the mirror at our right. "So, old buddy,
that's it. All the news that's fit to print. History will record this
as the moment yours truly bailed out. I figure it like this. If I can't
read the signals myself these days, what in hell am I doing giving
advice? Time to hit the silk. Get back to making a living. Don't know
how long this circus is going to last, but I figure we'd all better be
saddled up and ready to ride, just in case."

As it happens, self-proclaimed ignorance was a crucial ingredient in
Henderson's deliberate "country boy" camouflage, designed to disarm the
city slickers. I estimated the professional dirt farmer next to me,
Armani double-breasted and gold Piaget timepiece, was now worth about
forty million, including a chunk of an offshore bank. Yet for it all,
he still liked to come across as though he'd just moseyed in and wished
somebody would help him through all this fine print.

"Don't bullshit me, Bill." I toyed with my drink. "What you're really
saying is you couldn't get anybody else to agree with you."

"Have to admit there were a few trifling differences of opinion about
the direction things are headed." He positioned his Dunhill in the
ashtray and washed his throat with more Scotch. "You can't cover up the
fundamentals with cosmetics. Things like a megabillion trade shortfall,
a debt nobody can even count, and a dollar that don't know whether to
fish or cut bait. Worst of all, we're still selling the suckers of the
world more funny-colored paper than czarist Russia did. There ain't no
quick fix for this one." He took another sip, then turned back. "But
fuck it. Remember that old saying I used to have about being a lover,
not a fighter. I always know when it's time to call in the huntin' dogs
and piss on the fire. I'm back in town to stay. I got hold of my boys
and they're coming in tomorrow to start getting everything out of
mothballs. We're going back on-line."

As anybody who knew Bill was aware, he'd installed a massive computer
bank in the converted "maid's quarters" of his Fifth Avenue apartment,
hooked to the major futures exchanges and financial markets around the
world. Running his operation on a moment-to-moment basis were a couple
of young fireballs, his "Georgia Mafia," who did nothing but watch
green numbers blink on a CRT screen and buy and sell all day. He and
his boys talked a language that had very little to do with English--
jargon about comparing the "implied volatility" of options on this
currency against the "theoretical volatility" for that one, etc. On any
given day they were placing "straddles" on yen options, "butterfly
spreads" on pound sterling futures, "reverse option hedges" on deutsche
marks, and on and on. Half the time, Einstein couldn't have tracked
what they were doing. Add to that, they leveraged the whole thing with
breathtaking margins. To stay alive in Henderson's game, you had to be
part oracle, part Jimmy the Greek. You also had to have ice water in
your veins. It wasn't money to him, it was a video game where the
points just happened to have dollar signs in front. The day I dropped
in to watch, he was down two million by lunch, after which we casually
strolled over to some shit-kicker place on Third Avenue for barbecued
ribs and a beer, came back at three, and by happy-hour time he was
ahead half a million. In the trade Henderson was part of the breed
known as a shooter. Up a million here, down a million there--just your
typical day in the salt mines. A week of that and I'd have had an ulcer
the size of the San Andreas fault.

He liked to characterize his little trading operation as "a sideline to
cover the rent." I happened to know what it really paid was the
incidental costs of a lot of expensive ladies. Could be Bill's
entertainment fund was in need of a transfusion.

"Back to business?" I asked. "Like the good old days?"

"Bright and early Monday morning. Got a strong hunch the

Ruskies'll be in the market buying dollars to cover their September
shorts on Australian wheat futures. Might as well bid up the greenback
and make the comrades work for their daily bread. Then round about
eleven, I figure to unwind that and go long sterling, just before
London central figures out what's happening, shits a brick, and has to
hit the market for a few hundred million pounds to steady the boat."

Well, I thought, Henderson the Fearless hasn't lost his touch.

"Bill, I want to run a small scenario by you." I sipped at my drink.
"Say somebody'd just told you he was taking a massive position in
interest-rate futures? What would that suggest?"

"Tells me the man's getting nervous. If he was holding a lot of
Treasury paper, for instance, he'd probably figured rates were about to
head up and he didn't want to get creamed. See, if you're holding a
bond that pays, say, eight percent, and all of a sudden interest rates
scoot up to ten, the resale value of that instrument is gonna go down
the sewer. But if you've already 'sold' it using a futures contract,
whoever bought that contract is the one who's got to eat the loss.
You're covered."

"I'm not talking about standard hedging." I was wondering how to
approach the specifics. "Say somebody started selling a load of bond
futures naked. Nothing underlying."

"Well, thing about that is, the man'd be taking one hell of a risk." He
swirled the cubes in his glass. "Anybody does that's bettin' big on
something we don't even want to think about. Some kind of panic that'd
cause folks to start dumping American debt paper."

I just stood there in silence, examining my glass. That was precisely
my reading of Matsuo Noda's move. "But I can't think of any reason why
anything like that's in the cards, can you?"

"You tell me. It's hard to imagine. The economy's like a supertanker.
Takes it a long time to turn around. But if you want a special
Henderson shit-hits-the-fan scenario, then I can give it a shot. Say,
for instance, some Monday morning a bunch of those hardworking folks
around the world who've been emptying their piggy banks to finance our
deficit suddenly up and decided they'd like their money shipped back
home. That'd create what's known as a liquidity crisis, which is a
fancy way of saying you don't have enough loose quarters in the cookie
jar that morning to pay the milkman and the paperboy both. The Federal
Reserve would have to jack up interest rates fast to attract some cash.
Else roll the printing presses. Or of course"--he grinned--"we could just
default, declare bankruptcy, and tell the world to go fuck itself."

"Nobody would possibly let it go that far, right?" I toyed with my
Scotch. "Particularly Japan. We owe them more money than anybody."

"Wouldn't look for it to happen. Remember though, right now the U.S.
Treasury's out there with a tin cup begging the money to cover its
interest payments. If the national debt was on MasterCharge, they'd
take back our card. So let some of those Japanese pension funds who're
shoveling in money start getting edgy, or the dollar all of a sudden
look weak, and you could have a run on the greenback that'd make the
bank lines in '29 look like Christmas Club week."

"That's thinking the unthinkable."

"Damned well better be. But don't ever forget, paper money is an act of
faith, and we're in uncharted territory here. Never before has the
world's reserve currency, the one everybody uses to buy oil and grain
and what have you, belonged to its biggest debtor nation. We're bankers
for the world and we're ass over elbow in hock. Everybody starts
gettin' nervous the same day, and the bankers on this planet could be
back to swapping shells and colored beads."

"Offhand I'd say that's pretty implausible."

"And I agree. The system got a pretty good shakeout in the October
Massacre of '87 and things held together, if just barely. Stocks
crashed but the dollar and the debt markets weathered the storm. Nobody
dumped. Japan doesn't want its prime customer to go belly up. Who else
is gonna buy all that shiny crap?"

I studied my glass again. If Henderson, who had pulse- feelers around
the globe, wasn't worried, then maybe Matsuo Noda was just a nervous,
spaced-out old guy. A loony-tune with an itch to gamble. Funny, though,
he appeared the very essence of a coolheaded banker.

About then, the two women across the bar waved for their check and
began rummaging their purses. Sadly enough, the brunette had done
everything but send over an engraved invitation for us to join them.
She and I had looked each other over, and we both knew what we saw. The
walking wounded.

It made me pensive. More and more lately I'd begun to wonder about the
roads not taken, the options that never were. What if all our lives had
started out differently? Where would you be? Where would I be--playing
lawyer now, or maybe driving a cab? It was the kind of woolgathering
that drove Donna Austen insane.

It was on my mind that first afternoon I met her, when she brought her
sound guy down to record some "voice-overs" to use with shots of the
house. She made the mistake of asking for a little background, so I
decided to go way back and give her the big picture. It turned out to
be a little kinky for the six- o'clock news.

I suited the tale by telling her about my father, once a rig foreman in
the oil patch out around Midland, Texas. I was still a kid when he
started tinkering around weekends with drill bits out in his shop, and
I was no more than about ten when he came up with a new kind of tip.
Turned out it could double the life expectancy of a bit, not to mention
the life expectancy of a lot of roughnecks who had to change them every
few hours. He patented the thing, and next thing you knew, he was
"president" of Permian Basin Petroleum.

"Your father was a successful inventor?" She'd set her Tab down on the
living room table and perked up. Here was some "color" for her profile.

"More than that. The man was a believing capitalist." Was she really
going to understand the significance of what happened? "You see, since
no banker would risk loaning out venture capital back in those days, he
had to take PBP public. He needed money so badly he sold off sixty
percent of the company."

"Like those entrepreneurs who created home computers in their garage?"
She brushed at her carefully groomed auburn hair. Maybe here was her
hook, the grabber.

"Close. He took the money, several million, and started production. And
guess what? The bit he'd invented was too good. Next thing you know,
another outfit that will remain nameless here came along and infringed
on the patent, saying 'sue us'--which he began trying to do. But since
they were already tooled up to manufacture, they undercut his prices
and drove PBP's stock down to zip. Then came the kill. They staged a
hostile takeover and--since PBP now owned the patents, not him--axed the
lawsuit. Bye, bye, company."

"How does this story relate to what you do today?" She was checking her
watch, no longer overly engaged.

"Well, by the time all this happened, I was off studying engineering at
the University of Texas. But when I graduated, I decided to do
something else. I headed for Yale Law."

"If you can't lick 'em, join 'em? Something like that, Mr. Walton?"

"Not exactly, Ms. Austen. I wanted to find out if the Bible's right:
that guys who live by the sword better be ready to die by the sword.
After the sheepskin, I shopped around and found the Manhattan law firm
that handled the biggest oil-field-service outfit in the country, then
applied to that firm's corporate department. A couple of years and a
lot of memos later, our oil-field client somehow got the idea they
ought to go vertical, acquire their own source of equipment. Next I ran
some numbers and showed them how profitable it would be to acquire a
certain tool company that now owned the patent on a terrific drill bit.
Of course, it would require a hostile buyout, but with a little
restructuring they could swing it financially."

"And?"

"I worked nights and weekends for six months and personally devised the
takeover. By oddest coincidence, when we were through we decided to
strip all that company's overpaid executives of their 'golden
parachutes' and dump them on the street. My graduation present to the
old man."

She rolled her eyes and waved at her sound man to shut off the mike.
"Mr. Walton, I think our viewers would be more interested in personal
stories."

What did she want, I wondered. This was the most "personal" story I
had.

"What do you mean? What I eat for breakfast?"

"I do personalities." She looked around the living room. "Are you
married?"

"I was."

On came the tape. But she didn't get what she wanted. Joanna wouldn't
appreciate being critiqued on Channel Eight's evening news. And Amy
would have killed me. So I just plunged ahead and finished off the
other saga.

"There's a bit more to this intimate bio. Guess I'd seen enough quick
money in the oil business that I'd forgotten you were supposed to be
impressed by it. Or maybe I'd just never mastered the art of kissing my
elders' asses convincingly. You'll find, Ms. Austen, that those are two
attitudes whose rewards are largely intangible; Wall Street
compatibility definitely not being on the list. After five years the
Management Committee offered a partnership, but by then I'd decided to
go out and try making it on my own. Be my own man."

She waved the sound man off again. "You mean you quit?"

"Couldn't have said it better. I hung up a shingle . . . and started
playing the other side of the scrimmage line."

"I understand you've been in quite a few takeover fights."

"Let's say I've fought a lot of takeovers, Ms. Austen. There's a subtle
but important distinction."

Donna Austen turned out to be more interested in my marital status than
in anecdotes about corporate mayhem. Thing was, beneath all that glitz
I found her a challenging woman. Amy, on the other hand, despised her.
But then she never likes anybody I bring home. The real problem,
however, was that I kept thinking more about Joanna than I did about
Donna. As witness this evening, when that sadder-but-wiser brunette
headed out the door reminded me of her more than a little. . . .

"Hate to see that young specimen depart without a good-faith offer of
condolence." Henderson was wistfully eyeing the young blonde.
Definitely his type. "Trouble is, I couldn't locate the equipment
tonight with a compass and a search warrant." He hoisted his glass,
then turned back and reached for another Dunhill. "So tell me what
brings you uptown. Never knew you to venture this far into civilization
just to stand a drink for your oldest and wisest confidant."

Back to reality. "William H., you will undoubtedly find this difficult
to accept, but I just got asked to front some Treasury action for a new
client. Selling futures."

"Where do you find your suckers?" He grinned. "That's never been your
game."

"Hey, at least I know the rules. Corporations have been known to hedge
their debt offerings, my friend. But what I've done up to now's been
strictly bush league compared to this."

"So what's the play?"

"A foreign outfit that wants low profile. And P.S., they're talking
substantial numbers."

"What do you mean, 'substantial'?" Suddenly Henderson's input file was
on red alert.

"Probably wouldn't impress a high roller like you, Bill." I paused.
"Half a trillion dollars."

"Jeezus." He went pale. "Who's putting up the earnest

money for this shot? Let interest rates head the wrong way, you
couldn't cover the margin calls on a position that size with the GNP of
South America."

"What if it happened to be some of our friends from across the Pacific?
An outfit that calls itself Nippon, Inc." I looked at him. "Ever hear
of it?"

"Nope." He just stood there, examining his drink as though it suddenly
had acquired an enormous insect. "But you've got a surefire knack for
really messin' up an evening."

"I guess this is what's meant when people talk about the big time."

"Christ Almighty. Tell you one thing, that's a hell of a number to put
on the table. I'd sure like to see those boys' hand."

"Maybe somebody's paying to see ours." I finished off my drink and
signaled for another. The more I thought about Matsuo Noda, the more I
realized I needed it. "You know, this half scares the crap out of me."

"Matt, old buddy, do yourself a favor. Stand clear. Just back away." He
was getting more sober by the second. "You'd be lifting up some kind of
big rock when you don't know what's under it. I never do that. Ironclad
rule. Same as I always cut losses at ten percent and never let a long
position ride over a weekend. And I'll tell you something else. Nobody
lays down a bet like that unless he knows the casino's fixed." He
paused. "I wonder if maybe we oughtn't to give Jack a call?"

"O'Donnell?"

"Low-key. Just touch base. Inside word is his Finance Committee's going
to be holding hearings on foreign investment, maybe in a couple of
months. Besides, I know for a fact he owes you a few."

That was true. Senator Jack O'Donnell was headed for reelection
headaches. He was America's corporate nightmare-- a former professor of
labor law at Columbia who'd gone out and bought some tailored suits,
shed thirty pounds, dyed his hair, and actually gotten elected to the
U.S. Senate. He was despised on Wall Street for good reason. O'Donnell
was the Grand Inquisitor of the corporate scene, hauling CEOs in front
of his committee every time he sniffed some new scam to shortchange
stockholders. Since we saw eye to eye a lot, I'd made it a point to
lean on a few of my clients and come up with some campaign bucks for
him, telling them it was good "insurance money." Still, if I leaked
this to Jack, I'd probably be reading it tomorrow in The Washington
Post.

"Henderson, I can't bring him in. Nobody's talking anything illegal.
Still, I'm beginning to think I ought to keep an eye on this from the
inside."

"Matt, you haven't been listening. Let me pass along a major working
principle on how to keep your ass intact in this world. Write it down
and tape it to your phone: Staying on the sidelines is a position too.
That applies to Wall Street, and it damned sure applies to life." He
stretched for a Dunhill, then leaned back. "Ever tell you about that
feisty 'coon hound I used to have, redtick I called by the name of
Red?"

"Only about a hundred times." Red was his favorite sermon text.

"Well, ol' Red somehow conceived the idea he was just about the meanest
fucker in the county, and he was always out to prove it. Then one night
he made the mistake of treeing a big old mama 'coon, up in this little
sycamore we had down by the creek. I heard him barking and raising hell
and I knew I wouldn't get a wink if I didn't go down and see about it."

"Henderson, Christ, I've already heard this."

"Well, I'm gonna finish it anyhow, by God. Sounds like you could use a
refresher course." He took a drink. "Now then, after I made it through
the copperheads and briers and got down there, naturally the first
thing I did was shine that tree with my light and count the eyes. Turns
out that mama raccoon had a bunch of her little ones up there too. So
she was in a real disagreeable frame of mind. Her eyes were bright red
and I could tell she was thinking she just might eat herself a smartass
hound for supper. I tried to explain this to Red, call him off, and get
him to come on back up the house, but no, sirree, nothing would do but
he had to take her on. So I figured it was time he had a little reality
contact. I chunked a couple of rocks, got lucky, and down she tumbled.
Next thing ol' Red knew, he thought he had his ass caught in a brand-
new John Deere hay baler. I finally had to kick her off him and get her
back up the tree before she really got mad."

"Henderson, I hear you."

"Listen up, friend. There's a moral. You see, ol' Red didn't have
enough expertise that night to know when to stand off. But I'll tell
you one thing: he learned real fast. Next time he chased that
particular mama up that sycamore, he took one sniff and just trotted
right on back to the house." He sipped again. "Every time I come across
a tree full of something I don't know about, I remember old Red and
just turn around and walk away."

"I'm taking your warning under advisement." I threw down a fifty,
glanced at the soundless Mets game on the TV over the bar, and reached
for my coat.

"You'd damned well better."

"Henderson, get some sleep. As a friend and colleague, I must in all
honesty advise you, you look like absolute hell."

"I've always valued your candor." He waved for another drink. "But I've
got some heavy thinking to do."

"Okay, get home safe. Let's keep in touch."

He saluted with his glass. "Tell you what, Matt, maybe I'll just do a
little sniffing around myself, see if I can't get a fix on what's up
the tree."

"Okay." I was putting on my coat, checking through the window to see if
the rain had stopped. Looked like it had. "Let's both sleep on it."

"You do that." He wasn't smiling as I headed out the door.

Henderson, who could slumber like a baby when he was down a million for
the day, didn't look like he had much rest ahead that night. For all my
brave talk, I didn't either. Now that the rain was over, I wandered
over to Fifth to look at the trees sparkling in the streetlights. And
to think. If you're from West Texas, you love to see green things wet.

Then I hailed a cab downtown, still with lots of unanswered questions
on the subject of Matsuo Noda. What had happened to my country that
could make it so vulnerable to the financial shenanigans of a single
white-haired foreign banker? Was this what people meant when they
talked about the tides of history? Was the free ride over?

Back when I was a kid, I'd accepted as an article of faith that America
was the greatest, that we were destined to lead the world forever. Was
that hubris? Now I had this sinking feeling we were about to begin
learning a little modesty. Maybe Amy didn't know it yet, but her
America was going to end up being a lot different from mine. All of a
sudden folks all over the world were about to be richer than we were.
It was going to take some painful adjustment.

That's when I finally decided. Yes, by God, I would track this one. And
when I figured out what Noda had up his sleeve. I'd blow the whistle.
Somebody needed to stand guard over this country, and if not me, who?

Matt Walton vs. Matsuo Noda.

As it turned out, the evening still wasn't over. Things continued to go
off track, beginning with when I walked in my front door. I guess by
now everybody's pretty blase about urban crime, but it's still always a
shock when it happens to you. I also think it's getting worse. I can
remember five years ago when Joanna and I never bothered even to latch
the street windows. These days they have bars--a small precaution
following an evening on the town during which everything we owned with
an electric cord attached walked out into the bracing Manhattan night.
That was my first experience with the hollow feeling in your gut when
you realize your sanctum has been plundered. It's not the lost toys,
it's the violation that gnaws at your karma.

This time, though, it appeared to be minor. No forcible entry. Somebody
had actually picked the front-door lock, a fact I only established to
my satisfaction after every other possibility had been considered and
dismissed. Truthfully, I probably wouldn't have noticed anything at all
that night if not for a wayward train of thought on the way home.

I'd been meditating on a particular sword in my collection, a _katana_,
which was totally without distinction except for a little oral history.
Reportedly the blade once tasted blood in a rather arcane episode. Noda
probably would have approved. The story was, the samurai who'd
commissioned it decided he liked it so much he didn't want the
swordsmith telling anybody how he'd forged it. So after he'd thanked
the guy graciously, deep bows and all the rest, he picked up the sword,
bowed one more time, and then hauled back and sliced him in half, clean
as a whistle. The _kesa _stroke, left collarbone straight through the
right hip. It's said a samurai could do things such as that in the old
days.

My meeting with Noda had made me want to look it over, to refresh my
memory concerning that Japanese capacity for the unexpected. So after I
let myself in through the front foyer, I tossed my raincoat over a
banister, headed down to the kitchen to pour myself a nightcap, and
proceeded upstairs to the "office."

I clicked on the light and then . . .

Jesus! The place had been trashed. Drawers open, files

tipped over, piles of paper askew. After the first numbing shock, that
perception-delay your senses impose before you can actually accept what
you're seeing, I quickly started taking inventory. Okay, what did they
get this time?

Well, the computer and printer were both intact, cordless phone was
there still, the little nine-inch Sony in the corner was untouched. . .
. Hey, could it be they hadn't actually lifted anything?

Then I remembered why I'd come upstairs. Off to the side, under the
back stair, was a big walk-in closet I called my sword room, always
kept under lock and key. I glanced over at the door.

Hold on. It was hanging open slightly. I strolled over and checked it
more closely. The mechanism had been jimmied, professionally, but with
enough force that the metal frame around the door was askew. Not a
blatant entry, but a determined one.

My heart skipped a beat. That's why they didn't bother with TVs. These
guys knew where the real action was, the lightweight, very expensive
loot. I opened the door, took a deep breath, and felt for the light.

You could have heard my sigh of relief all the way out in the street.
From the looks of it, nothing was missing here either.

Be sure now. I quickly glanced down the racks, mentally cataloging the
pieces. Everything had a place, and all the places were still full.
Strange. This stuff was worth thousands. Burglars break in to steal. So
what happened? Maybe something scared them off. My sheepdog Benjamin,
the fearless terror of the streets? He was now snoring at the foot of
the stairs, but who knows . . .

Walton, you lucky stiff, this could have been a major hit. I cursed at
the thought of having to have the door and lock repaired, made a mental
note to remember to call the locksmith over by Sheridan Square in the
morning, and pushed the damaged door closed.

What a hell of a night. I pulled the Sotheby's catalogue out of my
pocket, recalling the auction that had inaugurated this fateful
evening, and turned to chuck it in the file cabinet where I kept all
the records for my hobby: prices, news clippings, correspondence, the
rest.

The cabinet, one of those cheap tin jobs you buy at discount office-
supply places, was slightly askew. What's this? I yanked open the top
drawer and saw chaos.

Uh, oh. I went down the row, checking. Tell you one thing, my intruders
had been thorough. Every drawer was a mess, just like the office. Then
I got to the bottom, the one with backup data on the collection.
Appraisals, provenance of the pieces, that kind of thing.

It was empty.

But of course! Any pro would know that half the value of a collection
such as this would be in all the documentation. Which meant my
methodical thieves were no dummies; they'd started with the paperwork,
the valuations and authenticity info . . . which meant they weren't
through. I must have interrupted their . . .

My God! They could still be here.

I edged for the phone and punched 911, the police emergency number.
Next I went back and pulled down a sword, just for protection, and
swept the empty house. It was all nice and tidy.

Finally New York's men in blue showed, an overweight Irishman and his
Puerto Rican partner, both with mustaches. I actually knew them, having
once received a ticket for walking Ben off the leash. We went through
the formalities, lots of questions with no answers worth writing down,
and then they offered to send around a fingerprint squad in the
morning. Sure, why not. And you'd better get new locks for this place,
Mr. . . . Walton. Right. We all thanked each other and I saw them out.

Then I headed back down to the kitchen. What was this all about?
Stealing files? Papers? Those documents, lovingly and painstakingly
assembled, were what made the swords somehow uniquely a part of my
life. Something that actually wasn't going to decide to take a hike the
next week. The stuff had no value to anybody except Matt Walton.

Or so I thought.



CHAPTER THREE


Some people will swear life runs on coincidence. Is it true? If so,
here's one for the history books. It's the tale of an old flame. Before
my ex-wife Joanna, before my later ill-starred adventure with Donna
Austen. The lady's name was Tamara Richardson, and she was a professor
at New York University. When I knew her, though, she was merely an
assistant prof with a shiny new Ph.D. At any rate, she was fresh out of
Columbia's graduate school and very much starting out. I was too. Best
I can remember, we met shopping for green groceries at Balducci's, just
up Sixth Avenue from my place, and we saw each other a few times. It
had to be at least fifteen years (how time flies) since our brief
episode.

Tam Richardson, however, was not easy to forget. There was a kind of
under-the-surface intensity about the woman that seemed always close to
the ignition point. When you were around her, you were always worried
somebody might accidentally light a match. However, she had no shortage
of men in her life, and eventually we each went our own way. Ships that
passed in the night. I never expected to hear of her again.

Things didn't quite work out that way, however. She started getting
famous, as a thorn in the side of America's lackadaisical corporate
management. Somewhere along the line, Tam Richardson had taken it upon
herself to single-handedly kick some overpaid ass in America's plush
boardrooms, and she wasn't trying to win any popularity contests doing
it. She was the kid in the story who pointed out the emperor had on no
pants, while everybody else was claiming his tux was a great fit. Guess
you can't fire somebody in academia merely for saying what everybody
knows to be true but doesn't have the guts to verbalize.

Then about a year ago, I noticed a full-length profile of her

in an airline magazine spread about "America's New Achievers." No
escaping her. Between the lines, I got the definite impression she
hadn't really changed all that much over the years. She was around five
seven, high cheekbones, dark hair that looked like it could use a
brush, and eyes that made you think twice about giving her a lot of
bullshit. Reminded me of, say, the young Glenda Jackson with a heavy
spike of Debra Winger. For my money, though, she was just about ideal
in the female department. Trim bottom, nice little twist in her stride,
just enough cleavage to make you wonder. She didn't go out of her way
to advertise, but you figured the goods were on board. My recollection
in a nutshell? Tam Richardson was a better than average looker, damned
smart, and she knew no fear. None.

There was something about her, though, that always left people
puzzling. Where'd she come from? American, sure, but no way could she
have been corn-fed Midwest like her surname. The answer was, she had a
slightly more exotic, and probably painful, history than most of us.
Maybe that was part of the reason she always seemed to be a loner,
never went along with the crowd. The one time she'd tried that, it
hadn't worked. I got to know her well enough to hear a bit of the
story, but I'd sort of repressed the details.

Maybe I'd do well to come clean and admit I still thought about Tam
from time to time. What's more, I gleaned from the magazine piece that
she still lived right around the corner. Made me think briefly about
giving her a call, get together for a drink, the old days, etc. But I
finally decided I'd had enough high-spirited women for a while. Time to
mellow down. Why go looking for lightning in a bottle?

She'd always liked three things: good-looking men, telling the high and
mighty unpleasant truths, and interior design. Consequently it was no
great surprise that the magazine devoted a photo spread to her rambling
six-room apartment. The place was in one of those NYU-owned buildings
on the west side of Washington Square Park, and it was definitely a
knockout. She'd played off the old classic interior, a generously
proportioned thirties layout, turning it into an environment that
blended technology and design. Not for Tam, though, the utilitarian
"high-tech" look so trendy a few years back; no ugly "state of the art"
machines. It was eclectic--modernism here, deco there.

Take her library-office. I smiled when I noticed that next to the
latest IBM PC was a "streamlined" Raymond Loewy- designed calculator,
pure thirties. Same old Tam. On the other hand, just to keep it all
from getting too serious, she also had a collection of kitschy salt and
pepper shakers scattered among the books--a dog peeing against a
hydrant, a naked babe with spicy boobs . . . she told the writer it was
her "tribute to America."

The place was everything she was, a potpourri of the world, a mishmash
of styles, and she clearly loved it. I probably missed a good half of
the insider gags, this outrage up against that one, but I must say she
brought it off with appreciable _elan_. Truthfully the place was a
perfect reflection of the Tam I remembered--a woman who did her own
thing.

She was now, so it said, a full professor at the university.
Undoubtedly she deserved it. She was also director of their new Center
for Applied Technology, which she'd founded. When the interviewer asked
her which department the Center was under, she'd apparently shrugged
and said "certain people" at the university wanted to bring it in under
the School of Business. But the Center had outside funding, was doing
vital work, and she was darn well going to stay independent.

Whoops. That ballsy crack, although perfectly in character, meant she
was now giving the back of her hand to university politics. Mouthing
off in a national publication about some departmental power play is no
way to endear yourself to college deans. It lays bare all their petty
empire-building. Didn't seem to worry her, though; just like in the old
days, she said exactly what she was thinking and let the chips tumble.

Her major occupation in recent years, as anybody who reads the op-ed
pages around the country knows, was to shame American executives into
getting off their duffs, to make them start diverting some of their
executive perks into the serious problem of getting this country
competitive again. She had plenty of ideas where the corporate-jet
money could be better invested. Over the years she'd knocked out half a
dozen books on technology and the American workplace--office automation,
computer-aided design in engineering, robots and computer-integrated
manufacturing, that kind of thing. Tam Richardson still believed
America could whip the world, but it would take more than speeches and
flag waving. Her latest expose of America's corporate fat cats, which
actually got a sidebar in the story, claimed they'd better start
cutting their million-dollar salaries and putting the money into
creating American jobs, or we'd all soon end up fetching coffee for the
new Pacific Rim dynamos and buying our goodies at East Asia's company
store.

Only she didn't bother to say it that nicely. Worse than that, the book
actually supplied a long list of America's more notoriously overpaid
CEOs. I suspect there were a lot of corporate contributors to the
university who'd just as soon seen her muzzled. Good luck, Tam.

Now the coincidence. The Saturday following my Friday night episode
with the inscrutable president of Nippon, Inc., an event occurred that
would soon bring Tam Richardson back into my life. Random luck? Fate?
Anybody's guess. As it turned out, however, while I was on the phone
leaving messages at country clubs for the building's attorneys, a mere
five blocks away from my place Dr. Tamara Richardson was putting the
final touches on preparations for an evening dinner party--destined to
throw us together again only weeks later.

The dinner was supposed to be strictly social, to celebrate the
beginning of her sabbatical--academic talk for a year off with three-
quarters pay. There were a few dinner debts to square away, so the
timing was perfect. She had several articles lined up; she'd finally
axed a stormy year-long affair with a colleague in Economics named
David Mason; and she was scheduled to begin a book on intelligent
robots. She was trying not to think too much about academic politics
and the real possibility her department chairman might consign her to
some kind of academic hyperspace, there to teach freshmen for the rest
of her tenured days.

By mid-afternoon she was down to the last-minute refinements on the
evening's plans. Since the overnight rain had purged the soot from the
air, she was feeling great. She put on a new Vangelis CD, worked a few
modern-dance moves into her routine as she cleared the loose books out
of the living room, and continued trying to convince herself that
breaking off with Dave Mason had been a smart move. After a while,
though, she wasn't humming anymore, just thinking. Okay, it had only
been a week, but why had she invited him to come to the dinner? Just to
be a good sport?

The thing about it was, they'd actually had a more or less

unspoken understanding not to inquire too closely into each other's
occasional little diversions. They were both adults, right? This time,
however, Dave had pushed it too far. He'd finally broken the rules,
bringing one of his admiring grad students up to the apartment--her
apartment. She bumped into them coming down in the elevator, and this
one was a prize--stage makeup, bleached hair, the works.

Out of bounds. She'd nailed him right there in her marble lobby: you
want to bang some Queens debutante, you'd better not be doing it here.
This place is my home. She then told him to pack. The apartment was
hers, and she wanted all signs of him out by Monday.

Then she'd invited him back for the dinner. Why? Could Humpty-Dumpty be
put back together again? Crack eggs, make an omelet . . . she half
smiled at the odd way your mind connects absurdities when you're a
little overworked. . . .

That was when the phone rang.

Was it Dave, dropping out at the last minute to prove he could still
piss her off, one more time? She headed for the kitchen, so she could
at least chop some veggies while they argued for half an hour on the
phone.

It wasn't Dave. Instead it was a scratchy old voice, one she loved.
Shouting into a cell phone at Kennedy was Allan Stern, who announced in
his staccato tones that he'd just stepped off a JAL flight fresh from
some conference in Tokyo. He had to see her tonight.

"Tonight?" When it rains, it pours, she thought. "Allan, I'd love to,
but I'm having some people in from school . . . What? . . . Well, sure,
nothing that special . . . Allan, I adore you dearly, but you wouldn't
know any of the . . . Okay, okay . . . Can you get down by eight?"

"See you then, Tamara. You're a dear."

Stern was an old, old friend, and a guy everybody in the country had
probably heard of vaguely. Any freshman in computer science could tell
you he was one of the unofficial founders of the field known as
artificial intelligence, now usually shortened to "AI." As it happened,
she had convinced him the previous spring that they ought to
collaborate on a book about the growing use of smart robots in the
workplace, but for some reason his input had never made it past the
talking stage. She'd decided just to go ahead on her own with the
writing.

Well, she thought, maybe he's decided to pitch in after all. Great.
That would mean it might be adopted for a lot of college courses. Allan
had plenty of respectability with the establishment.

He was probably the closest friend she had, her mentor almost. They
went back to a Denver conference fifteen years agp, when he'd stood up
in a session and challenged the conclusion of the very first paper she
ever gave, though he'd come in midway through. Even then he had been a
powerhouse in Washington, chairing one of the technical committees that
reviewed federal grant applications submitted by university
researchers. The inside talk on campuses was: love him or hate him, but
think twice before you cross the opinionated bastard.

She was so mad she didn't care. She had sidled up to him at the coffee
break and introduced herself, saying what an honor it was to meet a
scholar so highly regarded, a man whose reputation was so well
established. He nodded in absent acknowledgment, sipped at his
Styrofoam cup, and stared over her shoulder. She then proceeded to
advise the celebrated Allan Stern that he'd missed the whole thrust of
her talk, which she'd explained in the introduction, and furthermore--
judging from the data at hand--he struck her as a pompous asshole.

Such forthrightness, which was entirely new to Dr. Allan Stern's
sheltered existence, so astonished him he apologized on the spot. By
week's end he was trying to recruit her out to Stanford. He still was.

Allan was always punctual, to the minute, and that Saturday night was
no exception. The doorman downstairs announced him at eight sharp. When
she met him at the elevator, her first impression was he looked a
trifle worn down. America's foremost futurist was gaunt, as always, but
his trademark shock of white hair streamed over a lined face that was
more than usually haggard. His hard eyes, which could bore through
screw-off Congressional staffers like a pair of Black & Decker drills,
were actually bloodshot. In short, the man looked awful. Then she
remembered he'd just come in on the 747 directly from Narita. Into the
teeth of the latest baggage-handlers' slowdown at Kennedy. Give the
poor old guy a break.

She made him a drink and then asked, "Okay, Allan, what's up?"

"Later, Tamara. It's a long story." With which he lapsed silent. Very
out of character.

About then everybody else started coming up, reasonably on time since
Tam was known far and wide to hate the concept of "fashionably late."
Also, she was a great cook. Bottles of bargain wine with the prices
scraped off collected on the table in the foyer, and coats amassed in
the second bedroom. Given that everybody knew everybody, it was mostly
elbow patches and open collars. Only the women had bothered to dress.
Simpson from Computer Science, whose wife worked in Admissions; Gail
Wallace from Business, whose pudgy, skirt- chasing husband had guided
two companies into bankruptcy; Alice and Herman Knight, who both taught
in Economics (she was dean of the undergraduate college) and published
as a team; Kabir Ali from Mathematics and his browbeaten little Iranian
wife Shirin who seemed frightened of the world--and her husband. Only
Dave had the nerve to be late and hold things up.

While they waited, they knocked off a little Scotch and white wine,
trashed the administration, and complained about all the committees on
which they were being pressured to serve. Around a quarter to nine Dave
finally appeared, sandy curls askew to let her know where he'd been.
She didn't even bother offering him a drink, just announced that
everything was ready so let's adjourn to the dining room.

There're two kinds of dinners: ones that follow the rules, and ones
that break them all. Tarn's were the latter. This time it would be real
tallow candles and everybody's wine, including her own. Somehow her
craziness always seemed to click; they inevitably came back for more.
This time she'd decided to pay an offhand tribute to autumn and
American cuisine. Cheddar cheese soup, marinated Ottomanelli's quail
broiled with fresh sage, sweet potato fritters and baby peas, homemade
corn bread, and then, as a change of pace (keep 'em off balance), an
endive salad spiked with coriander. Dessert was an apple- walnut
casserole, washed down with pots of McNulty's dark Haitian coffee. At
the end she produced an ancient cognac you could inhale forever. By
eleven-thirty everybody thought they'd just ascended to paradise.

She ordered Dave to take care of the dishes (since he'd

been acting as if he owned the place, let him help), then led everybody
back into the living room. In the park below the weather was perfect,
and marijuana sales were in overdrive. A couple of joints also appeared
around the room, accompanied by withering glares from Allan. Then,
while Ed Wallace was chatting up Shirin and everybody else was drinking
and smoking, Allan picked up his cognac and motioned her in the
direction of the study.

Finally, she thought. This must be some story.

She was right.

It wasn't her book he wanted to discuss. Instead, he wanted to tell her
about what he'd just seen, and not seen, in Tokyo.

"Loved dinner." He settled into a leather chair, the one next to her
long bookcase, and drained his snifter. "I was afraid I was turning
into a fish over there." He laughed, but only briefly. Social hour was
over. "Tam, I wanted to ask you if you could maybe help me out with
something."

"What do you have in mind?"

"Well, you know I've always thought I was on top of what Tokyo is
doing, but now I'm not so sure anymore. I'm afraid things are starting
to get away from me."

"Such as?"

"Okay. Now, it's no secret I've been to Japan a lot. I've got my share
of friends over there, people I respect and admire very much. But this
trip started to get very strange. It's as though I'm suddenly an
outsider. Just another _gaijin_. I'm puzzled, and I wonder if maybe I
ought to be worried."

_Gaijin_. That sounds familiar, she thought. But it wasn't something
that usually bothered Allan. She brushed her brown hair back out of her
eyes and studied him. He'd never been more serious.

"What happened?"

He paused. "You know about their big artificial intelligence effort,
called the Fifth Generation Project. If it goes the way they're saying,
before too much longer they'll have programs, software, to design the
next generation of computer technology. "

This was supposed to be news? Come on, Allan. Everybody knew. It was
the talk of the industry. Japan's goal was computer logic capable of
replicating human thought processes, a monumental, maybe impossible,
undertaking.

"Allan, don't you remember we discussed doing a chapter on it in the
robotics book? And if you--"

"Tamara, bear with me. You also know very well that project is Japan's
attempt to leapfrog American technology. Added together with all their
R&D on chip technology. In my opinion, by the way, our response is
definitely too little, too late. More and more we're having to buy
essential components for missile guidance systems from Japan. The
Department of Defense is already nervous, but not nervous enough. We
may have dug our own grave. And now I think our worst fears may be
about to come true. Something funny seems to be happening, only I'm not
sure what."

"What do you mean?"

"Let me close that door." He got up and did so, then turned back.
"Maybe first I ought to tell you about the odd experience I had last
week."

"Go on." She heard somebody in the living room put on one of her old
Beatles albums--still the middle-ager's idea of hip.

"Well, as always, I scheduled a stop at the Fifth Generation lab to get
up to speed on how their effort's doing. But all of a sudden it seems
I'm too darned famous to be bothered with the shirtsleeve stuff. I
tried to get in there for three days running. It was always the
honorable Stern-san this and the celebrated Stern-san that and you must
meet the head of every damned ministry and we have to set up this
formal dinner and blah, blah, blah."

"Allan, you're the Grand Old Man these days." She laughed. "Get used to
it."

"Wash out your mouth, Tamara Richardson. I'm not grand and I'm most
decidedly not old." He sniffed. "No, it's as if they were very politely
cutting me out. Okay, they didn't exactly say the project was off-
limits now or anything, but there never seemed to be a convenient time
to drop by the lab."

"Who knows? Maybe they just didn't want some American partisan poking
about the place anymore."

"Could be. But why? I'm scarcely a spy for DOD, or the CIA. They know I
only do pure science. Okay, maybe I'm old- fashioned, but Dr. Yoshida
at least has always claimed to respect me for that. I used to spend
hours with him going over his work there and vice versa. We swapped
ideas all the time.

Now all of a sudden there's this smokescreen." He paused, sipped at his
brandy, and then leaned back. "Which brings me to that favor I need."

"What?'

"Well, I was wondering if maybe you could try and get into the Fifth
Generation lab yourself, check around a bit. See if you can find out
what's cooking."

"Go to Tokyo?"

"I realize it's a lot to ask, but who else can I turn to? Tam, you're
the only person I know who could pull this off. You know the
technology, and they respect you. Also, you understand the language.
Maybe you can cut through all the politeness and the translated PR. If
you'd like a little per diem, I'll see if I can't shake loose the money
from somewhere."

"Allan, really, don't you think you're maybe going overboard just a
little. What if Dr. Yoshida was just tied up? The last time I visited
the lab, he showed me everything, completely open."

"Ho, ho." He set down his brandy, and his eyes hardened. "I still
haven't told you the clincher. There's some new guy in charge now."

"That's hard to believe. Yoshida practically invented the Fifth
Generation Project. He's the director--"

"That's just it. Kaput. All of a sudden he's not around anymore. They
said he's now 'technical adviser.' But you know what that really means.
Removed. _Sayonara_. Promoted upstairs or downstairs or some damn
thing. That in itself is mystifying. He's one of the most competent . .
. oh, hell, the man is a genius. Why would they do that?"

"Very strange."

"Exactly. But now he's out. Couldn't even see me. 'On vacation.' The
new director is some bureaucrat by the name of Asano. I spent a little
time with the man, and I can testify he's a smoothie. Lots of pious
generalities about 'technical cooperation.' But I got the distinct
feeling he didn't want to talk details with me. Actually, I wondered if
maybe he wasn't even a bit afraid to say anything."

Asano? Oh, shit. She took a deep breath. "Was his name Kenji Asano?"

"Ken. Right, that's his first name. Maybe you know him. I think he used
to be a flunky with some government bureau

over there. But now he's just been put in charge of the Fifth
Generation work. It's more than a little curious."

She puzzled a minute. From what she knew about the Fifth Generation,
and about Kenji Asano, he had a lot more important things to do than
run the lab. The "government bureau" he worked for was none other than
MITI, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry. In fact, at
last count he was Deputy Minister for Research and Planning, a top-
ranked executive slot. Could this mean that Japan's ambitious
artificial intelligence effort was being moved in on by MITI, their
industrial war room?

"Allan, I'll tell you the truth. You may not have heard, but I'm in a
fight now at the university. I expect to win, but I've got a lot on my
mind. Notes for the book. I can't just suddenly--"

"Tam, I need your help. Look, maybe they've had some new breakthrough
that none of us ever imagined." He paused. "Just between us, I lifted a
strange MITI memo I found lying around an office when Asana took me on
an escorted tour up to the labs at Tsukuba Science City."

She looked at him. "Was it classified?"

"How would I know? There was something about it. My sixth sense told me
it was a document nobody was supposed to see. When I get back to
Stanford, I plan to have a postdoc over in Physics make me a quick
translation."

It was very unlike Allan to walk off with confidential memos uninvited.
Which could only mean he must suspect something he wasn't telling.

"You'd better give me the whole story."

"Not now. Not yet. It's only guesswork, Tam." He glanced away. "Nothing
to bore you with at the moment. But if you can find out anything, we'll
write it up as a report I can circulate around the Hill. This could be
important, believe me. Already Cray has started having to buy critical
chips for its supercomputers from Japan. And while the Department of
Defense is pouring billions into research on semiconductors that will
withstand nuclear radiation, Japan is forging ahead on speed and
miniaturization--what really counts. I think they could be about to have
us by the balls, pardon my French. If they've somehow incorporated AI--"

"Allan, it doesn't add up. I once met Asano. In fact it was a couple of
years ago at that Kyoto University symposium on

Third World industrialization. He spent a lot of time trying to pick my
brain about our specialized silicon-chip manufacturing here. But he
wasn't the slightest bit interested in artificial intelligence."

"Well, prepare yourself for a surprise. He's plenty interested now. And
knowledgeable. But still, it's not like the Japanese to do something
like this, install some government guy to run an R&D program."

"That's certainly true." She strolled over, looked down upon the park,
and began to want a brandy of her own as she chewed over the
implications. Was MITI setting up some new high-tech industrial
assault? If the Fifth Generation had been taken over by Kenji and his
planners . . . "Allan, let me think about this for a couple of days."

"Don't think too long. I'm convinced somebody over there is suddenly in
a very big hurry. I need to find out the real story. Am I just starting
to go nuts in my old age? . . . Well, make that my prime." He grasped
her hand for emphasis. "And you really should make it a point to see
this Asano fellow. If you already know him from somewhere, I'd say
that's even better."

She started to respond, then stopped. She knew Kenji Asano all right.
From a little episode at that conference, when he had invited the panel
members of a session he chaired to a late-night tour of the endless
tiny bars in Kyoto's Gion district. She remembered all the steaming
sake and being ignored by flustered bar girls who were pretending that
another woman wasn't around. They had no idea what to do about a member
of their own sex there in their sanctuary of male flattery. Ken
apparently had staged it mainly to watch their reaction, and hers.

Part of the scene was that Ken Asano was actually something of a hunk,
as Westernized as they come and attractive in that way seemingly
reserved for men of great wealth or great power. He may have had both,
but she was sure only about the second. Whenever he handed out that
_meishi_ card with the MITI logo, even millionaire industrialists and
bankers automatically bowed to the floor.

A lot of sake later, after the other panel members had piled into a cab
for their hotel, she decided to show Kenji Asano a few things about
women he wouldn't learn from giggling bar girls. She'd always heard
that Japanese men were pretty humdrum in bed, quick and self-centered,
at least in the opinion of a woman she knew who'd done exhaustive field
research on the topic. After her own experience with Ken, though, she
wasn't so sure. Still, it had been a passing thing. The next morning
she awoke in her own room in the Kyoto International and half tried to
tell herself it hadn't really happened--just a dream, a chimera of the
sultry Kyoto night, brought on by all those quaint little side streets
and red paper lanterns.

The truth was she still thought about him from time to time. He was a
talented lover, she certainly recalled that part well enough, and he
was a charmer. In fact, she could use a little of that charm right this
minute.

What she didn't admire was the organization he worked for: the infamous
MITI. Behind a smokescreen of "fair trade" rhetoric, MITI's intentions
clearly were to extinguish systematically Japan's world competition,
industry by industry. And so far they were batting a thousand. They'd
never once failed to knock off a designated "target." What was next?
Had MITI finally concluded that, down the road, intelligent computers
could be the drive behind some massive shift in world power?

Maybe she should go.

She poured another dash of cognac for Allan, and they wandered back
into the living room, just in time to see the Simpsons out. Everybody
else followed except for Dave, now perched by the windows and glaring
out into the dark. She decided to ignore him as she walked over, opened
one a crack, and looked down. In the park below, commerce was tapering
off and the Jamaican Rastas had begun toting up receipts for the night.
No sounds, except the faint strains of reggae from a boom box.

Funny, but every once in a while she'd stop everything and watch the
kids in the playground down there. What to do? The damned shadows were
growing longer by the minute. Maybe Dave wasn't so bad. Trouble was, he
needed mothering too.

Think about it tomorrow, Scarlet. She sighed, poured herself a cognac,
and headed for the bedroom to get Allan's coat.

After she'd put him on the elevator, she came back and checked out
Dave, now slouched in the big chair by the lamp, his eyes closed. He
looked positively enticing, and she sounded his name quietly. Nothing.
Then she realized he was sound asleep. Snoring.

The bastard. This was it. She grabbed his coat, pushed him out the
door, poured herself another cognac, and plopped down in the living
room to think.

All right, Allan. You've got a deal. Could be you're on to something. I
seem to remember there's a conference in Kyoto starting week after next
on supercomputers. Kenji Asano will probably show. Good time to catch
him off guard and try to find out what's suddenly so hush-hush.

Yes, by God, I'll do it.

She didn't bother with any of Allan Stern's funding. This trip would be
strictly off-the-record. She wrapped up some loose ends, called a few
people she knew in Tokyo, lined up half a dozen interviews that might
be helpful on the new book, packed her toothbrush and tape recorder,
and boarded a Northwest flight for Narita.

She had no idea then, of course, but she was Alice, dropping down the
rabbit hole. A fortnight later she was dining with the Emperor of
Japan.



CHAPTER FOUR


Allan Stem's alarm about Japan's semiconductor challenge reflected only
part of the picture. There was also plenty going on with Japanese
research in addition to information processing. Superconductivity was
getting a big push, as was biotechnology, optoelectronics, advanced
materials. Although we in the West think of Japan as a newcomer in the
high-tech sweepstakes, it actually has a long tradition of innovation.
A typical for-instance: in the area of advanced materials those of us
hooked on swords know the Japanese were already creating "new
materials" hundreds of years ago that still haven't been bettered. Back
then it was flawless steel for _katana _blades; today it's, say,
gallium arsenide crystals for laser-driven semiconductors. How, one
might inquire, did all this expertise come about?

To stick to materials research, if you think a moment you realize it's
a discipline that actually must have begun in the latter days of the
Stone Age. "High technology" in those times meant figuring new ways to
use fire and clay to create something nature had neglected to provide.
Not integrated circuits, but a decent water pot.

And the Japanese have been making terrific pots for a thousand years.
As it happens, some historians claim the very first Japanese pottery
was made in the province of Tamba, near Kyoto. Why mention this?
Because, then as now, technology and politics had a way of getting
mixed together in Japan, and Tamba was a perfect example. Tamba's
artisans made great use of a special oven known as a climbing-chambered
kiln. Whereas ceramics kilns elsewhere in the country were narrow and
high, Tamba's climbing-hill chambers were wide and low, thereby
allowing the fire to touch the clay directly. The result was a rugged,
flame-seared stoneware that pleased the manly eye--powerful earthy
grays, burnt reds, greenish-browns, all with a hard metallic luster.
Thus Tamba was a locale much frequented by the warrior shoguns.

Which may be why Tamba province has another claim to history as well.
It is the location of the one-time warrior castle- fortress of
Sasayama, once a regional command post of the Tokugawa strongmen in
Tokyo. You won't find overly much about Sasayama in the usual
guidebooks, since it has the kind of history that's more interesting to
Japanese than to tourists. The place has no gaudy vermilion temples, no
bronze Buddhas ten stories high. Fact is, very little remains of the
fortress itself these days except for a wide moat, green with lotuses,
and a few stone walls lined with cherry trees that blossom an exquisite
white for a few breathtaking moments each spring.

Although the castle is now burned down, a few homes of the samurai
retainers of its various warlords remain. If you stand on the rocky
edge of the moat at its southwest corner and look down through the
cherry trees, you'll see an old-style house built some two hundred
years ago by the twelfth _daimyo_ of Sasayama for his most loyal
retainer. Its walls of white plaster are interspersed with beams of
dark wood, its thatch roof supported by the traditional ridgepole.
Think of it as the home of the samurai most trusted, the guardian of
the gates, the warrior nearest the fount of power.

Perhaps it will not seem surprising, therefore, that this ancient
samurai residence, in the shogun stronghold closest to ancient Kyoto,
was now home base for a powerful warrior of modern Japan. Matsuo Noda.

Samurai had once battled in Sasayama's streets; many's the time its
castle had been stormed by raging armies; much blood had been shed and
much honor lost. But the event that occurred in Sasayama precisely two
weeks after Tamara Richardson's dinner in New York was a historical
moment more important than any in its thousand years prior.

It began shortly after dawn, a cool September gray just ripening to
pink over the mountains. The early sounds of morning--birdsong, the
faint bell of the tofu seller, the steam whistle of the autumn sweet-
potato vendor--were only beginning to intrude on the quiet. Noda was
where he always was at this moment: on the veranda overlooking his
personal garden, a classic Zen-style landscape whose central pond was
circled by natural-appearing rocks, trees, bushes, paths. It was, of
course, about as "natural" as those sculptured hedges at Versailles. In
order to create the illusion of perspective and depth, the stones along
the foreshore of the pond were bold, rugged, massively detailed, while
those on the opposite side were dark, small, smooth--a little trick to
make them seem farther away than they were.

It's a game heavy with nuance. For example, the stone footpath on the
left side of the pond may look as if it goes on forever, but that's
just part of the art: the stones get smaller toward the back, curving
in and out among the azalea bushes till they make one last twist and
disappear among the red pines and maples at the rear. Which trees,
incidentally, have themselves been slightly dwarfed, again enhancing
the illusion of distance, just as the back is deliberately shaggy and
dark, like the beginnings of a forest that goes on for miles.

Noda's Zen garden, which deludes rational judgment by manipulating all
the signposts we use to gauge distance and space, appeared to be
limitless. The secret was that nothing actually ends: everything simply
fades out and gets lost. It was a closed space that seemed for all the
world as if it went on and on if you could only somehow see the rest of
it. Yet peek only a few yards away, and you've got the mundane streets
of sleepy Sasayama.

This special dawn, as a few frogs along the edge of the

pond croaked into the brisk air, he knelt on the viewing veranda in a
fine cotton morning robe, a _yukata_ emblazoned with his family crest
(an archaic Chinese ideogram meaning "courage") and began to center his
mind. He'd left his Kyoto headquarters early Friday evening, skipping
the usual after-hours-drinking obligation of Japanese executives and
grabbing the eight-thirty San-in Express to Sonobe, where his limo
waited to bring him the rest of the way home. Now he was up before
daybreak and readying his usual morning ritual. As he sat there, gazing
across the placid water dotted with lotuses at the foreshore and framed
with willows at the far horizon, his silver hair contrasted with the
marine blue of the robe to create a presence easily as striking as the
garden itself.

For a time he merely knelt, silently contemplating the view and
listening to the metrical drip of water from a bamboo spout situated
just at the edge of the steps. Finally he turned and picked up his
_sumi _stick, a block of dried ink made from soot, and carefully began
to rub it against the concave face of an ancient inkstone, till its
cupped water darkened to just the proper shade. When the fresh ink was
ready, he wet a brush in a separate water vessel, dried it by stroking
it against a scrap of old paper, dipped it into the dark liquid, and
looked down.

This was the moment that demanded perfect composure, absolute control.
Before him was a single sheet of rice paper, purest white, and now his
hand held the brush poised. He was waiting for that instant when his
senses clicked into alignment, when the feel of the brush merged with
his mind, much the way a samurai's _katana _blade must become an
extension of his own reflexes.

Although he would stroke only a few kanji characters, scarcely enough
for a telex or a memo, the moment required discipline acquired through
decades of practice. His Zen-style calligraphy allowed for no
hesitation, no retouching. It must be dashed off with a spontaneity
that was, in itself, part of the art. As with the swordsman, there
could be no time for conscious thought, merely the powerful stroke
guided by intuition. No decision that confronted him throughout a
business day would demand half so much mental control, inner resolve.

Just then, at the far end of the pond, the first sun flickered through
the wisteria. Suddenly, without his consciously knowing the exact
moment had arrived, as a Zen archer's arrow must release itself of its
own will, his hand struck. The dark tip of

the brush pirouetted down the paper, starting at the left and laying
down a mere five lines, twenty-two syllables.



_Inishie ni

            _Once held_,_

_ari kemu hito no

             _it's said, _

moteri cho

             _by men of  long ago,_

omitsuwa wo

             _my ancient prize-- _

ware wa mochitari

            _at last is near!_

_

It was done.

He sighed, leaned back, and reached for the cup of green tea that
rested beside him on the polished boards. The verse was in an archaic
style, a few syllables longer than a haiku, modeled on an eight-
hundred-year-old work by a court poet of the Heian era. The strokes
were perfectly nuanced, the flow of the brush precise, the intuitive
strength as natural as a waterfall.

Noda drained his tea, then rose to go back inside. His antique house
was tastefully "empty": its _tatami_-floored rooms, measured in
multiples of those standard three-by-six reed mats, were barren, a
museum to times past. They also were open to each other, their sliding
doors, _fusuma_, being pushed wide. The walls, too, were vacant
expanses of white plaster with only an occasional mounted six-fold
screen depicting poetry parties of the Heian era, that courtly
civilization portrayed in The Tale of Genji. And there were no overhead
lights, merely an occasional cypress _andon_ floor lamp to augment the
pastel glow of the rice-paper shop windows.

"_Asa-han_." He curtly ordered his gray-haired cook to bring breakfast,
then turned to mount the ancient stairs.

"_Hai_." She nodded and was gone.

Although he kept the lower floor exactly as it had been two centuries
past, the upstairs was a different matter entirely. It had been
converted into a high-tech office, hooked through a maximum security
TeleSystems TCS-9000 direct uplink (via the mid-Pacific Mareks-B
satellite) to the mainframe of his new NEC information management
system in the Kyoto headquarters, an augmented NEAX 2400 IMS, which
handled voice, data, text, image. He had scarcely flipped on the system
when the woman who managed his kitchen appeared, bowing, and deposited
a tray bearing _miso _broth, rice, an uncooked egg, and more tea.

He grunted thanks as he was checking a CRT screen for the current rate
on Fed funds, the cost of the money American banks lend each other
overnight to meet reserve requirements. No surprises. Then he turned
and cracked the egg over his rice, adding a leaf of dried _nori
_seaweed. As he leaned back, chopsticks in hand, he quickly glanced
through the Tokyo papers, followed by The Asian Wall Street Journal and
the satellite edition of London's Financial Times. Finally he tossed
them aside.

This was always the moment when he liked to take measure of the three
photos standing in a row across the back of his teak desk. The first
was his deceased wife Mariko--long-suffering, deferential, resignedly
selfless. A model Japanese woman. He still thought of her with
fondness, but as was expected of a Japanese helpmate, she always ran a
distant second in his affections. His work came first.

The next picture was very different. This woman's face was white, her
hair a lacquered wig, her lips a tiny red pout. Her name, Koriko, had
been assigned years ago in the Gion district of Kyoto, and she was
holding a three-stringed lute, a samisen, and intoning some classical
melody from centuries past. These days she purchased thousand-dollar
kimonos the way most office girls bought jeans, but she worked for the
money. She was a geisha, a real one, an artist whose calling required
years of training and commanded the awe of even the most modern
Japanese. Like a prizefighter or a matador, she'd spent long painful
hours perfecting style, technique, art. She had been Noda's one-time
protégée, beneficiary of his patronage. Now, though, she had other
"patrons." He still missed her, but the memory was fading.

The third photo was a face familiar to all of Japan's avid TV viewers--
Akira Mori. She was wearing a dark blue Western suit, her hair a glossy
pageboy cut, the conservative look of times past. It was the occasion
of her graduation from the School of Law, Tokyo University (Tokyo
Daigaku, or Todai as it's known), an important moment. Todai's alumni
represent a network, a _batsu_, of the country's ruling elite, who
compete with each other for the choicest, most prestigious government
ministries. Although she had chosen a more visible career, she still
relied heavily on her contacts in this governing clique, heads of the
leading ministries, including Finance, Foreign Affairs, and of course
the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, MITI.

Matsuo Noda himself had, in fact, once headed MITI, probably Japan's
most powerful ministry. He came from ancient samurai stock--fittingly
perhaps, since the bureaucrats of modern Japan are mostly of that
class. The samurai caste, men who served a liege lord and were
forbidden to engage in trade, were actually Japan's first public
servants. In between civil wars they became sword-carrying bureaucrats.
Many a modern bureau chief has ancestors who wore two swords and sliced
up a peasant or a merchant now and then with impunity, which may help
explain why the average citizen still views government officials with
such nervous awe.

A Todai honors man himself, Noda was a natural for MITI, which runs
what is in many ways a covert operation. The head offices are in a
nondescript, soot-covered building of tinted glass and limestone near
Tokyo's Hibaya Park, guarded by armed, helmeted members of Japan's
National Police. Inside it's mostly open floors and lines of gray steel
desks; no plush carpets and mahogany suites. MITI has twelve bureaus,
each devoted to a major industrial sector. If its officials decide
Japan's strategic interests would be served by a certain manufacturing
group's cutting production, lowering prices, altering product lines,
these "recommendations" are passed along. And it happens.

Noda began his career there by circulating through the different
sections, "going around the track" as it's called, after which he
proceeded to run the General Affairs office of various bureaus, by
which time everybody had him picked for a mover, on the "elite course."
Eventually he was promoted to section chief in the International Trade
Bureau, next on to bureau chief, and finally at age forty-seven he made
the top. Vice minister.

After he reached the pinnacle, he held the job for a mere five years,
then routinely left. He had to go; early fifties and you're out. MITI
is no country for old men. He moved on to head the Japan Development
Bank, JDB, where he financed various high-tech start-up industries.
Finally he retired and went out on his own.

Unlike most other retired government officials, however, he didn't
accept any of the lucrative private offers he received, the suddenly
"vacant" spot on a conglomerate's board of directors. No, he had his
own smoldering vision. In a dazzling and successful departure from
usual Japanese convention, he

founded Nippon, Inc., an adjunct to Japan's major financial players,
with headquarters in the commercial center of Kyoto. His new
organization immediately became a financial fixture in the new
postindustrial, high-tech Japan, and now, five years later, Nippon,
Inc. was a thriving force in the management of capital. These days even
the new generation at MITI routinely called him up for "consensus."

For Matsuo Noda now, everything was in place; he was at last ready to
pursue a lifelong dream. He'd never forgotten the end of the war, that
last day on Okinawa when Ushijima's 32nd Army was a dazed remnant. He'd
been in the cave above Mabuni when the general radioed his farewell to
Imperial Headquarters, then severed his own spinal cord. Matsuo Noda,
with anguish he could still remember, had burned the regimental flag
and told those remaining to scatter, to become guerrillas--repeating
Ushijima's last command to "fight to the last for the eternal cause of
loyalty to the emperor." Noda had declared that their struggle would
continue on for a hundred years if need be.

He had overestimated the difficulty. The plan now poised had required
less than fifty.

As usual for a work-at-home Saturday (just another business day in
Japan), he was wrapping up loose ends from the week, finishing reports,
signing off on audits. Two printers were running, since he preferred to
work with hard copy, and he was reviewing the list of outstanding loans
NI was in charge of monitoring, checking for any early signs of
trouble. Had any credit ratings slipped? If a receiving corporation was
publicly traded, had its stock faltered? What was the overview:
securities, un-amortized discounts on bonds, cash on hand? Next he
paged through the weekly updates from the Small Business Finance Corp.,
the National Finance Corp., the Shoko Chukin Bank, various credit
associations and savings banks. It was all on his Kyoto information
base, pulled off the new fiber-optic network that linked Japan's
financial centers.

He was about to ring down for fresh tea when a priority override
flashed on the screen for his eyes only. This meant a coded message
that could only be unscrambled using a special module in the computer.
The Kyoto office knew he was on line, but they hadn't wanted to route
the information directly.

Highly irregular.

He punched in the code, called up the receiving routine, and waited for
the message.

There had been a call from ship-to-shore phone, the communications line
linking him directly with Dr. Shozo Takahashi, director-in-charge of
his top secret "project" in the Inland Sea. The director was requesting
that Noda-sama contact him immediately via scrambler. Top security. He
felt his pulse begin to race as he digested the news.

It had been so easy. Almost too easy.

He sat perfectly still for that timeless, historic moment, gazing at
the photograph of Akira Mori. A promise kept, from long, long ago. Four
decades now, and he had never forgotten what he had said he would do
for her.

He called down for tea, waited till it had been delivered, then punched
on the phone and switched it to the security mode.

But even on the scrambler, Takahashi began circumspectly. As the
esteemed Noda-sama was aware, their "project" had, over its three
years, contended with great difficulties and many disappointments. They
were working at the very limits of undersea technology. As Noda-sama
also knew, he went on, their early attempts at seismic vertical
profiling had been a complete failure. Takahashi took personal
responsibility for that. Next they had changed strategy and utilized
state-of-the-art microwave radar, hoping that minuscule changes in
density along the bottom might indicate what they sought. That too,
Takahashi apologized, had been unproductive from the start as Noda-sama
had been informed, and he, Takahashi, took full blame for the failure.

Noda cut in at that point, impatient and wanting to circumvent the
litany of apologies. Why was Takahashi calling?

The director paused dramatically, then declared he wished to inform the
august Noda-sama that their latest approach, the use of a new digital
magnetometer, had at last borne fruit. Only this morning they had
detected and brought up an "item." In the treacherous straits east-
northeast of Shikoku. It was a water-tight gold case embossed with what
appeared to be a sixteen-leaf chrysanthemum or _kiku_. The imperial
insignia.

Other confirming inscriptions? Noda nervously reached out and clicked
off the humming computer.

Yes, the formal script across one end appeared to be no later than
tenth century. Although they dared not open the gold case for fear of
damaging its contents, at this moment preliminary analytical procedures
were underway and the early results, including a makeshift attempt at
shipboard X-ray crystallography, suggested that the steel inside, which
clearly showed traces of copper alloy, contained less than a hundredth
of one percent of iron oxide. In short, it was possible the "item"
might be perfectly preserved.

It was theirs, Takahashi said, in that breathy, clipped language
inferiors use to signify great importance and great deference. It was
his extreme honor to announce to the esteemed Noda-sama that the most
important archeological find in the history of Japan now belonged to
Nippon, Inc., and they--

"_Chigau_," Noda cut him off, in the curt tone expected of superiors.
Incorrect: it belonged to its rightful owner and would now be returned.

And furthermore, he added, Nippon, Inc. had just ceased to exist. Since
the name for ancient Japan was Dai Nippon, "Great Japan," as of this
moment Nippon, Inc. had just become Dai Nippon, International. A
complete reorganization would begin immediately.

Finally he ordered a total blackout. Radios silenced. No shore leave
for crew or scientists.

He clicked off the phone and repressing a tremble, descended the
stairs.

And there on the garden veranda, using a new brush and perfumed _sumi_
ink from his rare collection, Matsuo Noda composed a very elaborate
letter, long swirls of black down a perfect sheet of thick, flowered
paper hundreds of years old. It was then sealed in a silver case and
hand delivered by special messenger to a fortress in, the center of
Tokyo.

Five days later its recipient read it before a nationally televised
press conference, and Japan exploded.



CHAPTER FIVE


"_Kami wo araitai no desu ga. Ii desu ka_?" Tam peered through the
doorway and nodded hello to the girl in the blue Imperial Hotel
uniform. The hair salon was almost empty. Perfect.

"_Hai, so_." The girl, startled at the _gaijin's_ accentless Japanese,
bowed to the waist. "_Dozo_."

"_Manikyua mo onegai shimasu_." What the heck, Tam thought, why not go
all the way, get a manicure too.

"_Hai. Dozo_." Another bob as the girl ushered her forward.

There was the plush, padded chair. Big, gray, and voluptuous. She
sighed and settled back. Heaven. Perfect peace in the middle of hectic
Tokyo. She knew that here for an hour or so she would be an honored
guest, smothered with attention. One of the most incredible experiences
in Japan.

While three of the girls began shampooing her hair, they went back to
chattering about the new husband a matchmaker had just arranged for the
petite assistant in the back. The bride-to-be was blushing and there
were plenty of giggles all around, hands over mouths. Tam realized,
though, that the girls were being a little circumspect. Who was this
strange brunette _gaijin_, speaking Japanese with no accent. Maybe she
understood what they were saying.

She did.

The woman who would become Tam Richardson was born Tamara no-name in
Kobe, Japan, the somewhat embarrassing result of an evening's diversion
for an anonymous GI. Her mother, equally anonymous, had prudently given
her over for adoption rather than face the social awkwardness of
raising a fatherless, half _gaijin _child.

She was eventually adopted by Lieutenant Colonel Avery Richardson, U.S.
Air Force, and his wife Mary, proud Iowa

stock, six years after she'd been stuck in the orphanage. That was
during the latter days of the Occupation, but they'd stayed on in Japan
through '54 while Lieutenant Colonel Richardson served as adviser for
the rearming of what would be the Japanese Self Defense Forces. He'd
also become a Japanophile by then, so he left her in a Japanese school
rather than subjecting her to the "army brats" on the base. Finally
they returned to the States, with a dark-eyed little daughter who'd
spoken Japanese for almost a decade and being the achiever she was,
read it virtually as well as a high-school graduate.

The thing she remembered best from all those years, though, was one
word. _Gaijin_. It wasn't exactly that the modern Japanese consider
_gaijin_ inferior. They no longer dismiss Westerners as "red-bearded
Barbarians." No, _gaijin _were merely unfortunate, luckless folk not
part of the earth's elect tribe. You were either born a part of Japan,
a full _nihon-jin_, or you were forever outside of it, _gaijin_.

But knowing it was one thing, and living it as a kid was something
else. She wasn't one of them, and they made sure she got the message.
Finally, however, she discovered the hidden secret of Japan. Most
Japanese get very uncomfortable around a _gaijin _too fluent in their
language or customs, since that outsider has penetrated their life
without the constraint of relationships and obligations. No _gaijin
_can ever entirely belong to their seamless culture for one simple
reason: no outsider could ever be held accountable to the powerful
social and family interdependencies that allow a population half that
of the U.S. to get along in a place functionally smaller than
California. So to survive there if you're not _nihon-jin_, you just
play that fact for all it's worth. Then, like everybody else, you've
got a niche; yours merely happens to be outside the system. As an
almost-_nihon-jin _you're threatening; as a _gaijin_, you're safe.
She'd finally learned this the hard way, from all those unsmiling
little girls in blue school uniforms who used to hiss "_gaijin_." But
thanks to them, Tam Richardson learned to be a permanent outsider. And
a survivor.

Well, here she was again, ready for another bout. Round- eyed "Tama-
_chan_" all grown up and still on the outside.

Though she knew Tokyo well from times past, she was still trying to
readjust. After checking into the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo's Hibiya
section, she'd showered, changed, and headed out for some jogging--the
best way she knew to see a lot of the

city quick. Her major puzzle: where to look for the new impulse behind
Japan's big drive, their meteoric move toward the target of _dai ichi_,
"number one" in the world. Try to feel the vibes, she told herself, be
a tourist and see the "New Japan" through fresh eyes. If it had been
winter, she'd have gone straight over to Shinobazu Pond in Ueno Park to
watch the migratory Siberian waterfowl diving for fish among the clumps
of floating ice. In spring she would have first monitored the radio to
find out which park had the finest cherry blossoms, then gone somewhere
else to avoid the sake-swilling crowds. And if it had been summer, she
probably would have headed for the cool of the Imperial Palace East
Gardens to catch the pink and red azaleas.

Autumn, though, was a time for swallowing the city whole. She started
with the Meiji Shrine, that garish tribute to Japan's Westernization,
then moved on to the Imperial Palace, itself a place that, like Tokyo
itself, had something for all seasons. She passed through the East
Gardens watching provincial honey- mooners snapping pictures for the
parents back home, then worked her way across toward the Sakuradamon
Gate so she could follow the Palace moat as she made her circuit back
to the hotel. Along the way she passed the Diet Building and the
Supreme Court, then decided to look in on the Yasukuni Shrine, buried
in its own exquisite grove of cherry trees and mixed foliage. The
massive bronze _torii _arch leading into the shrine was always
surrounded by stalls selling those marvelous little rice cakes, sweet
and leaden, she remembered as a kid. She stopped and bought two.

By then she was experiencing advanced jet lag, so she decided to head
on back to her crisp-sheeted bed at the Imperial. Tokyo this time
around was as impossible as always, maybe more so. Where do you start?
The garish Ginza, the self-conscious trendiness of Roppongi, the
skyscrapers of Shinjuku, solemn Marunouchi--all of it engulfing,
awesomely materialistic. Each trip the city seemed to get bigger,
louder, more everything. More cars, more neon, more . . . yes, more
money. She could remember, almost, a time when this town was a burned-
out ruin. Now . . .

She needed some time to think, to work out a game plan. Sure, clues to
the phenomenon of modern Japan were everywhere--drive, self-confidence,
competence--but how did they fit together? Change was coming like an
avalanche. Who could keep track?

The best thing, she'd told herself, was to start with a clear head.
Back off for a while. After all, the last year had been much toil and
little play, with the latest book coming out, hassles at the
university. She needed some unwinding. Maybe a little time spent
thinking about nothing would be best of all.

So for a day she lived off room service, immersed herself in the local
papers, magazines, TV, and just relaxed. She let Allan's hints about
some ominous new development slip way down the scale.

One of the things she couldn't help noticing, though, was an odd
stirring in the newspapers, something very much between the lines but
all the more real for that very reason. In typical fashion, signals
were going out that a major event was in store. The government, she
knew, always used a kind of early-warning system for important shifts.
Very Japanese. If the Bank of Japan was about to raise or lower
interest rates, a move that would impact thousands of businesses and
banks, for days in advance various unidentified "officials" would be
quoted as speculating that maybe a change in rates might be possible.
Of course they didn't actually say it was going to happen; they merely
hinted it could be an idea to consider, it was plausible, conditions
might well warrant . . . Anybody with any sense knew immediately this
meant the decision was already made and citizens were being alerted to
cover themselves posthaste.

Consequently, if "government sources" start hinting an event is
conceivably possible, you can usually assume it's as good as fact.

But what was this about, she wondered, all these allusions to a new
"interest" of the Emperor's? The standard elements were all there:
leaks, guesswork, columns, unnamed "high sources." No doubt, something
major was pending. And just to make sure nobody missed the importance
of whatever it was, there was even speculation His Majesty might
actually hold a press briefing.

That last possibility, she decided, was clearly farfetched. Just not
done. A picture session, maybe, but that was it.

After a day of unwinding, she was ready to get out and start gathering
some information. This time around, however, she wanted a different
image. A shift from the staid-professor look to high-tech Japan. Start
with a few clothes, something smashing/expensive/designer Japanese. And
the hair. Right. A cut, a different style, a something.

Thus around noon the third day she finally got into street clothes and
headed down to the lobby, then teeming with lagged-out Aussies in funny
tour hats. She took one look, ducked around them, then made for the
lower arcade and the shops.

And here she was. Already feeling recharged. Relaxed and . . .

Just then a short, excited hotel porter ducked his head in, bowed, and
announced he'd just heard that the Emperor was about to be on TV.

His Majesty? The salon froze.

At first Tam thought the porter must just be playing some kind of local
prank. Arcade high jinks.

Then she remembered the speculation in the papers. Could it be true?
She glanced at her watch; it was a couple of minutes before twelve.

The girls immediately dropped everything and clicked on the big Toshiba
digital set suspended over the mirror. Service halted in midstream,
just as in a soba noodle shop when the sumo wrestlers on the corner
tube had finished glaring, thrown salt three times, and were ready to
lunge. Then one of the hairdressers remembered Tam and--maybe still
believing no _gaijin _could understand her language--reached down to
snap on the small black-and-white Sony attached to the chair arm, tuned
to CNN's Tokyo service. It was currently scrolling temperatures in the
U.S.

Now on the big Toshiba overhead, NHK (the government channel) was
announcing they were about to switch to a remote broadcast, live, from
the sacred Yasukuni Shrine.

Uh, oh, she thought. Yasukuni! Has everybody here gone crazy?

Back before 1945, Yasukuni had been a memorial to the "master race,"
official home of the new "State Shinto." Japan's militarists had
revised traditional Shinto, a simple nature- reverence, to include
violent nationalism, emperor worship, "the Yamato spirit," the "way of
the samurai": every warlike aspect of national character. These days
Yasukuni enshrined the names of Japan's two million heroic war dead, a
roll call recently enlarged to include Tojo and others the U.S. later
executed as criminals--which had turned the place into a political hot
potato, resulting in an enormous flap when the prime minister tried to
appear there in his official capacity. So, for the Emperor to show up
suddenly, with heavy press coverage, was almost unthinkable. Besides,
she'd just been by the place and hadn't noticed anything. This was very
sudden.

Then the remote came on. The front of the shrine was roped off, right
across the bronze _torii_ gate, with only cameras and press allowed
inside. On screen was a shot of an elaborate new dais where an official
from the Imperial Household Agency, the government bureau that kept His
Majesty under its care and schedules his appearances, was just
finishing up a long-winded introduction. Then it was the prime
minister's turn. After what seemed half an hour of absolutely content-
less oratory (a Japanese politician's most respected skill) on the
subject of the country's majestic Imperial past, the PM finally stepped
aside to allow a tall, strikingly handsome Japanese man to approach the
speaker's podium. Since the occasion had official significance, his
walk was ceremonial, with his feet wide apart in the jerky samurai
swagger necessitated in days of old by the two swords at the waist.
Meanwhile, everybody around him was bowing low.

His Imperial Majesty, wearing a formal male kimono, equivalent to
morning dress at Ascot, looked truly august. He was also carrying a
long silver box, filigreed.

When he finally started to speak, the girls around Tam gasped in
astonishment. She noticed immediately that he wasn't using modern
Japanese. Instead, his language was an archaic, highly ornate dialect:
the court speech of long ago.

After his brief, almost unintelligible prologue, one of the Household
officials opened the box for him and took out a long, scrolled
document. The cameras did a quick close-up, showing a page of antique,
flowered paper inscribed with brush and sumi ink.

It turned out to be a letter in modern Japanese from the president of a
financial organization called Dai Nippon, International. As the Emperor
read it to the cameras, it began with a recounting of the loss of the
Imperial sword in the Inland Sea during the 1185 battle of Dan-no-ura.
That sword, it declared, signified Japan's physical link to a Divine
past. . . .

What? History 101 on TV?

Then came the bomb.

Abruptly CNN cut into their normal late-night programming for a live
satellite report. Their reporter, grasping a mike and standing in front
of the milling mob around the podium, was reading from a press handout
that provided an English summary of the letter. Since the CNN signal
was being flashed to the U.S. and then back to Japan on the "bird,"
effectively circling the globe, it was a few milliseconds behind the
NHK broadcast. She turned up the sound.



_. . . noon here in Tokyo, and at this shrine sacred to all
Japanese, His Majesty, the Emperor of Japan (Cut to shot of the
Emperor speaking. Reporter voice-over.) has startled the nation by
announcing that marine archeologists working for an investment
organization called Dai Nippon, International have just succeeded in
recovering a famous symbol of early Imperial rule. A three-year
secret project in the Inland Sea, funded by DNI, culminated five
days ago when scientists brought up a watertight gold case
containing what is believed to be the original Imperial sword. (Cut
back to reporter.) Although no photos of the sword have as yet been
released, we are told it is in virtually mint condition. (Glances
down to read from press release.) According to the ancient Japanese
chronicles, this sword was given to Japan's first emperor by the Sun
Goddess Amaterasu-Omikami, sometime around the year 600 B.C., as a
symbol of his divinity. Historians say it was later lost at sea in
the 1185 Battle of Dan-no-ura. That bloody naval episode, the
subject of much Japanese lore and tradition, marked the end of
direct Imperial authority here and the rise of the first shoguns,
military governors who would rule in his name. . . .

_

She rolled down the sound. Who needed some English press summary? She
was watching the whole incredible event live as it unfolded. And her
first thought was: Good God, that's like finding Excalibur, or maybe
the Ark of the Covenant. Myth turned into reality. She glanced around
the salon, and already the electricity in the air was crackling. But
what happened next turned out to be the real news, the hidden agenda.

After His Majesty finished reading the letter, he passed it

to an underling and switched back to his ancient dialect. Now, though,
his speech was being "translated" across the bottom of the screen into
modern Japanese.

He declared that since the Imperial Household, through the loyal
services of Dai Nippon, International, had had restored to it that
which it always possessed, namely the sword, he was pleased to honor
the firm by allowing it to construct a new museum to house the sacred
symbol at a site just outside Ise, home of the official shrine of the
Sun Goddess. On his authority, ground-breaking for the museum would
begin immediately. However, until such time as it was constructed and
consecrated, the Imperial Household would make the sacred relic
available under heavy guard for viewing by the Japanese people in a
temporary showplace located at the Meiji Shrine in Tokyo. . . .

By now shops had begun closing and the corridor outside was in tumult.
An excited young clerk from the flower stall next door burst through
the door and, bowing to everybody, lavished bouquets on all the girls.
From the streets above came a cacophony of sirens.

But it still wasn't over. The most crucial part of all, totally missed
by the Western news force, was yet to come. After His Majesty was bowed
away from the microphone, another official stepped forward to elaborate
on the Emperor's remarks (probably because His Majesty would not deign
to mention anything so crass as money). As reward for restoring the
sword to His Majesty, he said, Dai Nippon would be allowed to serve as
trustee of an official, honorary investment instrument, to be known as
the Eight-Hundred-Year Fund. Acting for His Majesty, DNI would direct
those monies into endeavors "commensurate with the nobility and ancient
lineage of the Japanese people, as symbolized by the sword." Then a
telephone number flashed across the bottom of the screen. The current
subscription would be closed after eight hundred billion yen were
pledged. The president of Dai Nippon had asked His Majesty for the
honor of contributing the first billion yen personally. Finally, in a
quick aside, he added that interest paid by the fund would of course be
tax-free, as was normally the case for savings accounts in Japan.

After a few closing formalities, interspersed with a photo session of
the Emperor and the president of Dai Nippon, the historic occasion
ended with a reverential shot of His Majesty being escorted to his
limo.

Who was that silver-haired executive, Tarn wondered. The man was
audacious, and a genius. He'd just turned the Imperial Household into
an accomplice in some kind of nationwide collection, using the Emperor
for his own ends much the way shoguns of old had done.

But she sensed he'd touched a nerve that went very deep. A fund in
honor of the Emperor (that's already how everybody around her in the
shop was describing it), something in which to take pride, not just a
numbered savings account at the post office. Suddenly the girls and
their Japanese customers were all talking money. Here was something
they could do to show their regard for His Majesty.

A line was already forming at the phone. The way she heard sums being
pledged, she calculated Dai Nippon would garner five million yen, more
than thirty thousand dollars, right there among the shampoos and
curlers. The typical Japanese, she recalled, banked over a quarter of
his or her disposable income. Little wonder most of them had at least a
year's salary in savings. At this rate Dai Nippon's "Imperial Fund"
would be over the top by nightfall.

That evening NHK newscasts claimed it had been fully subscribed in the
first fifty-six minutes. After all, eight hundred billion yen was only
about six billion dollars, scarcely more than loose change to a people
saving tens of millions every day. It was, in fact, merely the
beginning. The next day more "Eight-Hundred-Year" funds were opened, by
popular demand. Soon the pension funds started to feel the heat, and a
lot of institutions began calling up. Yen flowed in a great river. All
those homeless Japanese billions knocking around the world had at last
found a guiding ideal. Some rumors even claimed the Emperor himself was
actually going to manage the money.

Tam couldn't wait to get outside and see firsthand what was going on.
This was something Allan could never in his wildest dreams have
predicted. As soon as she could get her hair dry she headed out; the
girls didn't even bother to charge.

Tokyo, twelve million strong, was in the streets. Even in normal times
the city could be overwhelming, but now . . . It was in pandemonium, an
advanced state of shock. As she struggled through the crowds a lot of
men were waving sake flasks, already gleefully smashed. The sidewalks
had become one vast _matsuri_, festival.

Something else, too. She found herself feeling a little uncomfortable.
There were glares, and then as she passed a withered old man running a
noodle stand, she heard him mutter "_Gaijin_." What did it mean?

What it "meant," she reflected with alarm, was obvious. The world had
just become a brand-new ball game. Japan's long-silent Emperor had once
more spoken to his people, just as he had at the end of the War. Back
then he had broken two thousand years of silence to inform his
battered, starving subjects "the war situation has developed not
necessarily to Japan's advantage." This time around he had confirmed
Japan's long Imperial heritage. The "meaning" was clear as day.

This wasn't a new direction. This was just getting back on track. Even
though the Emperor had been humiliated and secularized after the Great
War against the threatening _gaijin_, his people still thought of
themselves as a single, pure family. For a time they merely had no
focus for that identity. Now they had it again.

Well, she thought, why not? National pride. Not so long ago we
Americans had the Soviets telling us we were second best, so we blew a
few billion in tax money to plant a man on the moon and straighten them
out. The space Super Bowl. Why should Japan be any different? For years
now they've heard half the world claim they're just a bunch of hard-
driving merchants with a bank-account soul, when they knew in their
hearts it wasn't true. Now here's the proof, straight from the Sun
Goddess. Time to get crazy awhile.

In the middle of all the bedlam and horns and sirens in the street, she
yearned for somebody to talk with, somebody levelheaded enough to put
this frightening turnaround into some kind of perspective. That's when
she thought of Ken.

Of course! He was Westernized; he took the longer view. Why hadn't she
thought of him right away?

So off she went for a quick surprise visit with Kenji Asano at the
Institute for New Generation Computer Technology, research headquarters
for the Fifth Generation Systems Project. He and his staff would
probably be in a holiday mood, just like everybody else. Maybe he'd
loosen his tie and give her a little off-the-record rundown of what
this was all about.

She knew the Institute operated out of the twenty-first floor of a
downtown Tokyo skyscraper. She'd been there before. She still had the
address, and the subways were clicking along right on time, though the
fare machines were off now in celebration. Half an hour later she was
there. She pushed her way through the milling lobby and grabbed an
elevator.

As she rode, watching the lights tick off the floors, she found herself
wondering again what Ken was really up to. And what had happened to Dr.
Yoshida? However, it was hard to think about something as boring as
MITI and American defense vulnerability when people were whooping it up
and passing around paper cups of sake right there on the elevator.

Well, don't jump to conclusions. This paranoia of Allan's is probably
just some grotesque misreading. Dr. Yoshida got promoted, and Ken's
merely filling in for a while till the Institute can recruit a new
director from some university. The work here's too important for
politics. Intelligent computers are Japan's lifeline--the "steam engine"
of the next century.

How would Ken react to her just showing up? After all, Kyoto was two
years ago. He'd claimed to be a widower, but was that merely conference
fast talk?

Best thing is just to play it straight, she told herself. Strictly
business. Let the rest fall out in time.

As she stepped off the elevator, she was relieved to see that the
offices were still open. Well, she thought, my first finding is that
Ken Asano runs this place with an iron hand, just the way Yoshida did.
Total dedication. Through floor-to-ceiling glass doors she could see
the receptionist at the desk, now excitedly chatting on the phone. Tam
waved, and the smiling woman immediately buzzed her through. Just like
that. No different from the last time.

Doesn't look to be any MITI conspiracy here, she thought. What exactly
had made Allan so worried?

She bowed and handed over her meishi, her business card.

"_Asano-san, onegai shimasu_."



CHAPTER SIX


"Matt, why don't you just send your action over to the 'bean pit' for
chrissake?" The phone line from Chicago crackled. "That's where the
crapshooters are."

"Jerry, I wouldn't know a soybean if I ate one."

"Hell, half of those loonies over there buying and selling 'bean
contracts wouldn't know one either. Come to think of it, I don't know
anybody over on the Merc who's ever even seen a pork belly. Do they
really exist?" He was yelling to make himself heard over the din of the
floor of the Board of Trade. Futures on commodities were being bought
and sold all around him. Just then he paused, followed by a louder
yell. "Right, I'll buy five, at the market. Yeah. I'm talkin' one and
thirteen bid. What? You've got to be kidding. No way." Pause. I could
almost see the blue-jacketed floor traders frantically hand-signaling
each other. Then he yelled again. "Christ, Frank, I'm already long
forty at sixteen. I'm getting murdered here. You guys are killing me. .
. . All right, all right, I'll pay fourteen for ten. Yeah . . . Shit.
Hang on, Matt. I gotta write this down on a ticket. . . . Jesus, I
should be selling Hondas like my brother-in-law down in Quincy. Sits on
his butt all day, screws his bookkeeper at lunch, and the man's making
a bundle." Pause. "Hell, Matt, what'd I just say?"

"If I heard right, you just bought ten thirty-year Treasury contracts
at one oh one and fourteen thirty-seconds. You just agreed to loan the
U.S. government a million dollars, Jerry. Very patriotic. Except you're
probably going to turn around and unload the contracts in the next five
minutes to somebody else."

"Oh, yeah. Right. I should be so lucky. Christ, where's my pencil? This
place is driving me nuts. I think my mind's going. I've gotta shorten
up some here before the close. Hang on."

        He yelled at a runner to take his buy slip, then came back to
the phone. "Matt, you're really shaking this place up, you know. Guys
are starting to back away. And the people upstairs are beginning to
wonder. You've gotta think about going off- exchange with some of this.
Hit the market-maker banks. We can't keep up with you here. I could try
to get the Exchange to waive their position limits, but don't hold your
breath."

"No problem, Jerry. My client's got plenty of other accounts. We'll
roll the next thousand contracts through a different one."

"Christ, whoever you're working for must have coconuts the size of King
Kong. You realize you guys're naked here? You're getting short
billions."

"I just handle the orders, Jerry."

"Your numbers scare the piss out of me just looking at them." He
sighed. "Listen, Matt, take care. Get back to you tomorrow at the
opening. Right now I've gotta find some greenhorn to take a few of
these puppies off my hands or I'm gonna get blown out. Jesus, how'd I
let myself get this long at sixteen? Forty fucking contracts. And I was
sure . . . Hey, gotta run. Think I see some idiot over there signaling
a seventeen bid. Kid must be from Mars."

"Good luck."

"Right. Maybe I'll try prayer." He was gone.

I'd known Jerry Brighton since we crossed professional swords once in
the late sixties, and I'd never seen the man actually sit down. He gave
up law early, and these days he elbowed the mob in the Treasury bond
futures pit with the grim determination of a horse addict shoving his
way to the two-dollar window. If the bonds were sluggish, he'd roam the
floor looking for action. Football, you name it. He'd make up bets.
Rumor has it, one slow day he even set up a wager pool taking odds on
which floor trader would be the next to go broke, "tap out" in Exchange
parlance. I'd guess Jerry's own number was pretty low. A reliable
source once told me Jerry'd averaged a million a year for the past
five, even while taking a hit year before last for over two million
when a certain famous "inside trader" sandbagged him with a phony
merger rumor. Maybe it was worth the ulcers. Thing is, I know for a
fact he'd have done it for nothing. A born market maker, right down to
his rubber-soled Reeboks.

So when Jerry Brighton started complaining that Matsuo

Noda's action was growing too rich for his blood, I knew we were in the
big time. It took a lot to impress a pro like him.

The thing was getting scary, but it was still perfectly legal. Let me
summarize roughly what had happened over the three weeks since I had
decided to play along with Matsuo Noda. First were the physical
arrangements. To accommodate my new calling, I'd enlarged my operating
space--the back room of the brownstone's parlor floor, looking out over
the garden-- into a makeshift brokerage office complete with a multi-
lined telephone and quote services from S-tron and Telerate. I'd also
installed a direct tie-line to the T-bill pit of the Chicago Mercantile
Exchange, ditto the Note and Bond action at the Chicago Board of Trade.
And because of all the computer hardware, I had to move Emma's desk out
into the parlor. Consequently she could no longer listen in on my
calls, which she did not take kindly. However, I was no longer forced
to listen in on hers. I figure that sort of made us even.

In addition, I'd set up accounts at every futures brokerage house in
the land, both coasts, to spread out the orders. We were moving a lot
of contracts, and the big-time outfits like Salomon Brothers were
scrambling to make a market for us. Once again, therefore, nagging
questions began to arise. Anybody who'd thought about it for more than
a minute would have realized you can't make a play like Noda's without
being noticed. There's no bigger rumor mill than the financial arena.
The very idea of shorting the bond market to the tune of billions and
remaining obscure and anonymous for any length of time was absurd.
After all, there're two sides to every bet. But since I was supposed to
be fronting his move specifically to throw sand in everybody's eyes,
all this attention presented something of a quandary. Although we were
trying to keep the lid on, buying small batches of Treasuries even as
we were shorting them, the price was softening and margin calls were
starting to loom on the horizon. None of this made any sense. Noda
wasn't hedging or even speculating in the normal sense; he was playing
a giant game of cat and mouse with the markets. This told me once again
he wasn't showing all the cards in his hand. He had something major,
and unexpected, in the pipeline.

Which brought forth the next insight: Matsuo Noda didn't hire me merely
because he wanted some innocent-seeming outsider to do his bidding in
the futures market; any number of players in this town could have
handled that action as well or better. No, he'd sucked me into his
operation for some entirely different purpose, at the moment known only
to him.

But what? More to the point, why?

Welcome to Friday, and my rather disturbed life. Want to know what
really disturbed me the most? Seeing my new employer on CNN's Prime
News, standing there right next to the Emperor of Japan. Seemed as
though I wasn't the only one now under Noda's spell. All of a sudden my
mild-mannered client had become a world-class Japanese mover and
shaker. And that made me very nervous.

Needing a little perspective, I decided to invite down Dr. William J.
Henderson, respected thinker and booze hound. As it happened, he had a
little time to kill that Friday before his "late date" with some
advertising exec who was flying in from an assignment on the coast.
Since three weeks had gone by since our talk up at Martell's, it seemed
like a good occasion to get together and compare notes.

True to his word, he had formally resigned from the President's Council
of Economic Advisers, though he'd reluctantly agreed to serve as a
forecasting consultant for Wharton Econometrics. He'd also caused some
unsettling rumors in the world markets by putting on some very heavy
"straddles" in December gold futures and oil. He called it insurance,
predicting he'd be covered no matter what happened. Looked at another
way, though, Bill Henderson was quietly shifting out of paper money and
into commodities. And when Henderson started hedging, you knew the
weather forecast was unsettled to stormy.

It turned out he'd also uncovered a few stray elements of what might
well be a much bigger game. Nothing solid at that point, but enough to
stir him up.

"Know who runs that outfit you've taken on as a client?" He leaned back
in one of the leather chairs in the upstairs parlor, new pair of
Gucci's glistening, and sampled his third drink. "Guy by the name of
Matsuo Noda."

"Henderson, who do you think I was talking to up at Sotheby's the other
night?"

"You check your wallet afterward? We're talking heavy guns, my friend."
He snubbed out what must have been his tenth Dunhill in the last hour.
"You didn't tell me he was the honcho behind all this."

"You didn't ask. Know anything about him?"

"Not till last week. I started to do a little checking and first thing
I know I'm stumbling across his name everywhere I look." He studied the
glass in his hand. "Tell you something about this Noda. The man drops a
quarter, you let him pick it up himself. He'll nail you where the sun
don't shine. Definitely a bad news mother."

"You mean that business with the sword?"

"Nah, what in hell do I know about swords? That's your toy box. I'm
talking about the real world, friend. Turns out Matsuo Noda was the
prime mover in one of the biggest takeover plays of the century."

"What takeover? They don't screw around with corporate takeovers in
Japan."

"They don't take each other over. They take other businesses over.
Washington may think that war back in the forties is over, but somebody
neglected to pass the word to MITI. Seems they've got the idea it was
just the opening skirmish--the only folks who surrendered were the army
and navy." Henderson grew ominously serious for a change. "Question is,
where's this thing headed? Is the idea of turning our industrial base
into a packaging operation for imports some kind of conspiracy, or is
it just nature takin' its course?"

Conspiracy? That wasn't a word Henderson threw around lightly. In fact,
he tended to scoff at conspiracy theories, claiming they were a
substitute for hardheaded analysis. I agreed. So what was he driving
at? I pressed him.

He paused to light a cigarette. "I bring up this unsavory possibility
because I'm beginning to detect a little operation code-named 'eat an
industry.'"

"Henderson, that's my game. I pitch in to help the little fish fend off
the big ones."

"No offense, friend, but you probably couldn't even get into the ball
park where Noda and his boys are playing. We're talking the very big
leagues here."

"Now hold on a second. Noda's not interested in companies. He's just
shooting a little craps. From what I've seen so far, the guy seems to
be completely on the up-and-up. In fact, looked at from the long view,
you might even say he's putting money into this country, never mind
it's just the Wall Street casino."

"Sure he is. It's like he first kicks the shit out of you, then hands
you a Coke so's you'll feel refreshed."

"What in hell are you talking about?"

"Well, let's back up a notch. Since I don't want to bad-mouth your new
client, why don't you let me give you what I'll call a purely
hypothetical case." He sipped at his Scotch. "Let's suppose you were a
Japanese guy, like Matsuo Noda for instance, and you wanted to take
over some strategic American industry and ship it to Japan. How'd you
go about it?"

"Well  . . ."

"Have a drink, counselor." He plunged forward. "And let me tell you a
little fairy tale. About how Matsuo Noda ate the American semiconductor
industry."

"Noda?"

"It was MITI actually. But Noda was running the Ministry when they did
it, and he was the guy who set up the play."

"Noda ran MITI?" This was news to me.

"Yep. Vice minister. Then he went on to greener pastures, being the
Japan Development Bank, and left the details to another MITI honcho by
the name of Kenji Asano. According to my sources, though, it was Noda
who handled the tricky part, the money, after he went over to the bank.
Got it together, laundered it, and dispensed it."

"Laundered it?"

"Can't think of a better word. MITI carefully made sure the kickoff
funding from the Japan Development Bank got passed through a shell
organization called the Japan Electronic Computer Company, hoping
nobody would trace it back to the government."

"I think you're starting to see things, but I'd like to hear this
little fantasy."

"Okay, off we go to the land of make-believe. Once upon a time not too
long ago and not too far away, a few guys at Intel or Bell Labs or some
damn place got the mind-boggling idea you could shrink down a
computer's memory and put it onto a little sliver of silicon no
bigger'n a horsefly's ass. Various outfits tinkered around with the
concept and eventually it got commercialized. Lo and behold, Silicon
Valley was born, where they start turning 'em out by the bucketful. By
'78 we're talking a five-billion-dollar industry. Kids barely old
enough to drink legal got so rich they just gave up counting the
money."

"The American dream, Herr Doktor."

"That it was. Now, they were making a memory chip called a 16K RAM,
that's sixteen thousand bits of Random Access Memory storage. Orders
are pouring in, and they can't buy the BMW's fast enough out in Silicon
Valley."

"I know all about that."

"Well, there's more. Seems Noda and Asano and their honchos at MITI had
been watching this and thinking over the situation. They decided,
probably rightly, that whoever's got the inside track on these computer
chips has the future by the balls. Twenty years from now there's
nothing gonna be made, except maybe wheelbarrows, that don't use these
gadgets. So round about '75 they concluded they ought to be the ones in
the driver's seat. MITI 'targeted' integrated circuits."

"Well, why not? We're the ones told them they were supposed to be
capitalists."

"In truth. But just like in fairyland, our princess had a problem. See,
these chips weren't as simple to copy as an internal combustion engine,
or even a transistor. They're a heck of a lot more complicated. And to
make things worse, back when America was inventin' these silicon
marvels, nobody in Japan would've known one if it'd bit him on the
butt. So it's a tall order." He crumpled an empty cigarette pack and
reached in his coat for another. "Now, imagine you're these guys in
MITI. You want to take over an industry you don't know the first thing
about. How're you gonna start?"

"I'd probably begin by licensing the patents."

"Nice try, but you don't want this job to be too straightforward. Then
everybody'll suspect what's happening, and besides, it wouldn't be as
much fun. So if you're this guy Noda, you decide to set up a sort of
Manhattan Project, like America had to make the first A-bomb. You go
over to see Nippon Telephone and Telegraph, their AT&T, and you say,
'Boys, we just decided you're gonna pitch in with all you got. After
that, you commandeer some labs at Toshiba and NEC. Then you get
yourself a batch of these little American gizmos and start trying to
figure out how the hell they work."

Henderson poured himself another drink, then turned back. "Now, since
you need to catch up fast, you do a little 'reverse engineering,' which
means you steal the other guy's R&D. You take a bunch apart and decide
you'll go with the 16K RAM chip made by Mostek--a big outfit here that's
since gone belly up, by the way, thanks to our friends at MITI. And by
1978 you've made yourself a Mostek clone. Bingo, you've got the
technology."

"I think I'm beginning to get the drift."

"Whoa, buddy. You're just starting to get rolling." He forged on. "By
this time everybody's wanting these chips, so all of a sudden Silicon
Valley can't keep up. Now you and your boys at MITI are ready to move.
You've got the know-how, so all you need to do is start turning them
out by the truckload. Of course that takes millions and millions in
plant investment, so you do what Asano did, bring your old pal Noda
back into the picture. Since he's now running the Japan Development
Bank, he obligingly lines up a whole shit-load of cheap money for these
outfits gearing up to chop America's nuts off. All in all, he gets
together what amounts to a subsidy of low interest bucks to the tune of
about two billion dollars. All carefully laundered. Ready, set, go.

"Silicon Valley glances up from countin' its receipts and all of a
sudden, from out of nowhere, here come your Japanese chips. Reeeal
cheap, since you've got all these cheapo 'loans' to capitalize your
plants. Inside a year you've got nearly half the market.

"Now, you figure somebody's surely going to blow the whistle, so you
can't believe your luck when Silicon Valley thinks you're some kind of
joke. Come on in, they say, and sell as many of those crappy 16K models
you can, since we've got ourselves a hot 64K version cooking, and
that's where we're gonna make our real killing. When you hear this, you
do a quick retool. And while the Valley is seeing how sexy and
expensive a design they can come up with, your thrifty gang back home
just sticks together a bigger version of that 16K chip you stole from
Mostek in the first place--and you're out front with a 64K. Now it's
time for hardball, so you flood America with these things. You drop the
price of your 64K RAM chips from thirty dollars down to half a buck
when they still cost over a dollar to make. Before you know it, you've
got seventy percent of the American market."

"You're selling at a loss. Dumping."

"Exactly. 'Cause at this stage you don't care beans about profit. What
you're going for is the big fish, market share." Henderson lit yet
another Dunhill. "And sure enough, when it comes to the next
generation, the 256K memory chip, you've got ninety percent of the
action. In very short order most of your American competition folds.
You ate them. Matter of fact, Intel, which started it all, dropped out
of RAM chips altogether--which is kind of like Xerox throwing in the
towel on copiers. This is less than a decade after MITI's start-up, in
an industry born in the USA. Hi ho, silicon, away."

"But it cost a bundle."

"Short term, sure, but now the future's wide open. You live happily
ever after, my friend, just like in fairyland, because big, bad
America's dead and gone in the high volume end of semiconductors."

"But MITI can't use dumping as a regular strategy. After all, it is
illegal."

"Well, now, ain't that a fact." He exhaled a lungful of smoke and
coughed. "So's selling your ass. But just take yourself a cruise down
Eleventh Avenue and you'll meet up with a lot of entrepreneurial ladies
who understand the reality of market forces. You've gotta get caught,
tried, convicted. If it ever does get that far, the most that's gonna
happen is a fine. A lot of folks claim MITI's dumped TVs, cars, steel,
textiles, you name it. So when they decided to move on memory chips,
Asano was given a free hand to do it the quickest way he knew how. And
your buddy Noda ain't exactly a pussycat either, the way he laundered
the Japanese taxpayer's money into them low-interest, _manana _loans."

As he returned to his Scotch, I sat there trying to think. What
Henderson had just described was a fundamental insight into how high-
tech industries operate.

"Henderson, do you realize what you're saying? That's a beautiful way
to knock out a country's high-tech research capability. Take away the
volume end of an operation and there goes your cash. Pretty soon you
can't afford to finance any more R&D. Which means that sooner or later
you're selling yesterday's news. You can kiss good-bye to your
technological edge, right across the board."

"Correct. America's semiconductor boys were figuring to use the profits
from memory chips to pay for research in logic chips, where you put a
whole computer's wiring on a chip. But now the money's gone. What it
really means is, end of ball game in information processing. Maybe it
won't happen tomorrow, but there's no doubt it's just a matter of time.
You dominate semiconductors, sooner or later you're just naturally
gonna control computer technology and all that goes with it. I even met
a guy a while back who claimed that whoever's ahead in computers is
eventually going to have the say-so about who has advanced weapons
technology."

Could be, I thought. But that last extrapolation was a stretch. "Bill,
I think you're talking a pretty long line of dominoes. For one thing,
we've still got plenty of computer research here. The U.S. has a big
lead in logic chips."

"True, true. Who the hell can crystal-ball this one? All I know is,
Intel was claiming exactly the same thing about memory chips a few
years back, just before Asano and Noda and their pals chewed them up
and spit them out. All I'm saying is, you'd better watch your
backside." He examined his drink and reached for the ice bucket.

About that time Ben came lumbering up the stairs to observe our maudlin
ruminations. I watched as he settled himself near my feet with a grunt,
then plopped his chin down on his paws.

"Well, your fairy tale about MITI may or may not be true. But that's
water over the dam. Besides, who are we to be pointing a finger? The
U.S. has done its share of tinkering with foreign governments, making
the world safe for American shareholders."

"Hey, I make a profession of separating pious pronouncements from
reality. I never take an official story at face value."

"Okay, so Noda says he's just playing the market. But if he's actually
planning something else, then what is it?"

"Don't have the foggiest. Wish I did." He glanced at his watch. "But I
do know duty's about to call. I'd better get uptown if I expect to have
any female companionship for the apocalypse."

"Take it easy. Nobody flies on schedule anymore." I settled back into
my chair and glanced up at the large Japanese screen I had mounted on
the wall opposite. It was Momoyama, around 1600, the time when the most
recent crowd of shoguns took over Japan. Against a gilded background
was a fierce eagle, perched menacingly on a pine branch. The thing was
so powerful I just kept the rest of the room bare; nothing else I owned
could stand up to it. "You know, Henderson, the trouble with your
pattern is that it doesn't quite fit this time. Shorting Treasury
futures is not exactly going after an industry. So what's the new
angle?"

"Damned good question." He stared at his glass, probably

wondering if one more for the road would impair his performance later
on. I guess he concluded yes because he didn't budge. "Speaking of
angles, what do you make of that sword business last week? Caused one
hell of a flap in Japan, so I hear."

"Major event. That sword should tell us a lot about early Japanese
metal technology. I've been trying to find out more about it, but
nobody's talking. No pictures, anything." I reached over and gave Ben a
pat. "Curious though. I think I remember Noda's mentioning that sword
the night I met him. Eight hundred years ago, the emperor gets caught
at sea and loses the imperial symbol. But he didn't breathe a word
about having a project underway to locate it."

"Well, you're my Japan expert. What's it all about?"

"Never assume you understand the Japanese mind." I pointed up at the
wall. "Take a good look at the eagle on that screen. You'd think it's
just a picture, but actually it's an important subliminal message. The
_daimyo_ who commissioned this piece had that eagle put on it to let
everybody know he was cock of the walk. Means you cross him and you're
dead. Symbols are important in Japan. Noda and this woman Mori talked a
lot about shoguns and emperors. Maybe they hope the sword will somehow
bring back the good old days."

"Well, he's got enough money to do it."

"Looks that way."

"Hope we're not about to get kamikazes with a checkbook. Thoughts like
that could make a man real nervous." Henderson rose and strolled to the
fireplace. He examined his reflection in the large mirror over the
fireplace, then set down his glass on the mantelpiece and turned back.
"You know, Walton, I think I'm starting to lose my touch. I don't
believe anything I hear and only half of what I see." He sighed. "Been
one hell of a day."

"Pretty standard Friday, far as I could tell."'

"Well, a damned strange thing happened this afternoon."

"Some woman turn you down? Maybe you ought to start working out,
Henderson, trim that little spare tire creeping in around the
waistline."

"Still no complaints in that department, friend. No, this actually goes
back a ways, to a few months ago down in Washington, when I bumped into
a long-haired professor coming out of a committee session. Guy I
mentioned a minute ago."

"The linkup between computers and weapons?"

"Him. We got to BS'ing in the men's room, and it turned out he was some
computer hotshot from Stanford. He'd been testifying, I think, and he
was still wound up. Probably I got to hear all the stuff he'd prepared
and nobody'd asked."

"What was the pitch?"

"Defense semiconductor dependency. Claimed that if we keep on the way
we're going, relying more and more on foreigners for advanced chip
technology, we may as well kiss the farm good-bye. I had a little time
to kill, so I invited him to have a drink. He good as chewed my ear
off. Finally had to fake a dinner date to get loose. Man had a bug six
feet up his ass about the U.S. buying half the latest chips for our
hot-dog military hardware from Japan. Next war we fight, says he, we'll
be buying high-tech weapons systems from the Far East. Problem with
that is, anybody else could buy them too. And we'd get replacement
parts whenever MITI feels like getting around to it. Today I happened
to remember him, so I decided to give him a call, ask him if he still
saw things the same wav."

"And?"

"No answer at his office, but since I had his home number, I decided to
give that a try. Best I can tell, a lot of academics goof off half the
time anyway."

"You get him?"

"Some police detective answered, wanting to know who I was, what the
hell I wanted, whole nine yards. Shook me up, don't mind telling you."

"So what'd your pal do? Rob a bank?"

"I was about to start wondering. Finally, though, I got to ask some
questions of my own, but it was a little hard to swallow the story.
What I mean is, I don't necessarily buy what I heard."

"Which was?"

"Well, seems he was supposed to meet with the Senate's internal
security committee this morning. Wife says she put him on the red-eye
to Washington last night around ten. He was carrying some document he
said he wanted to hand deliver. Something about it had him scared
shitless." Henderson paused. "Tell you, this is the kind of guy who
takes security seriously. When _he's_ worried, we all better be
worried."

"So what's the problem?"

"Cop claimed he's just disappeared. Not a trace."



CHAPTER SEVEN


Ken looked terrific. That was Tam's first thought when he walked
through the high-security inner doors to greet her. He was square
shouldered and sturdy, with high, full cheeks, expensively trimmed dark
hair, and a small, delicate mouth. She figured him for late forties,
early fifties. Funny, but he'd always reminded her of one of those
steely eyed, expensively dressed actors you saw playing executives on
the Japanese soaps.

"Tamara!" He paused abruptly, then bowed. "_Ikaga desu

ka_?"

"_Okagesama de genki desu. Anata wa_?'

"Doing well, thanks. You never cease to amaze me. What a marvelous
surprise." A smile attempted to break through his dark eyes. "You've
surfaced again, just like the Sword."

She'd forgotten how colloquial his English was. Then she recalled he'd
told her once about doing his doctorate at MIT. Possibly because of
that he could be either Japanese or Western, chameleon-like, as the
backdrop required. He was every bit the charmer she remembered from
Kyoto.

One thing was different, though. Kenji Asano was ill at ease. He was
trying to mask it, but it was there. And that was very different from
the old days.

As they passed the usual pleasantries, he led her down a hall, then
through a room where intense young men in open shirts were now opening
a case of Asahi beer. Computer terminals were in neat rows along the
walls, beneath gleaming white "blackboards" that sparkled with
equations and quips. The place was so informal, so . . . American.
There were plenty of jeans and frazzled sneakers among the forty or so
young researchers, most of them in their late twenties or early
thirties. Plastered across the low partitions were film posters and
American counterculture bumper stickers (Radio Already Stolen, Nuke a
Commie for Christ); above a row of printers a blond pin-up was
unveiling her gynecological mysteries to the movie still of a startled
Godzilla; and a couple of rusty California vanity plates were hanging
over one long-haired staffer's terminal like big-game trophies--one read
64K-1ST, the other EZ BKS. Probably commissioned by venture capitalists
in Silicon Valley whose Porsches had since been repossessed, she
thought. The rock and roll dissonance of Siouxsie & the Banshees
sounded from a tiny stereo assembled out of computer hardware and a new
Yamaha digital tape deck. Presumably as a stunt, the high end of the
audio was being used to drive a garishly tinted computer graphics
display that had been projected against one of the windows, creating a
virtual image that seemed to dance amidst the Tokyo skyscrapers like a
Martian _son et lumiere_.

But she wasn't fooled by the frat-house trimmings. She realized these
casually dressed young researchers were the pick of Japan's technical
graduates. Making the Fifth Generation team these days was one of the
highest honors in the land. After some initial skepticism the big
corporations were now competing for the prestige of loaning their young
stars to the project for a few years, since they hoped to reap enormous
benefits down the road.

In fact, the youthful atmosphere was entirely intentional. That, she
knew, had been the legacy of Ken's predecessor, Dr. Yoshida, who had
refused to let anyone over thirty-five on the project. Furthermore,
since he believed the stuffed-shirt layout of most Japanese offices and
labs stifled creativity, he had deliberately devised an un-Japanese
workspace to try and reproduce Western research environments.

Finally they reached a closed door. Metal. When she realized it was
Ken's office, she almost remarked on this departure from what she
remembered about Dr. Yoshida's well-known attitude. He liked to be out
on the floor, with just another low partition, right there interacting
with his young staffers.

Without a word Ken inserted a magnetic card into the slot beside the
door handle and then pushed it open. Not only a door, she thought, a
locked door. Are they finally starting to worry about industrial
espionage?

She wasn't surprised, however, to see that his office had a

monastic spareness, with only his desk, a small but expensive leather
couch, and a row of computer terminals along one wall. He was, she
knew, a big believer in Zen philosophy. Maybe pan of the reason for the
door was just to shut all the madness outside and keep his own world
serene.

Through the window behind him she could see Mt. Fuji, outlined against
a backdrop of autumn blue. He smiled and pointed it out, saying they
were lucky to have a rare smog-less day, then gestured her toward the
couch.

"Welcome to my refuge." He was cordial but entirely correct--right down
to his conservative charcoal gray suit. Not a glimmer of a hint about
their brief Kyoto episode. "Let me have tea sent in." He leaned forward
in his leather chair and punched the intercom on his desk.

"Ken, please, don't make a fuss. I know I hate it when people just drop
by." She glanced back at the locked door, wondering. "Tell me if this
is not a good time for you."

"Tam, for you any time is a good time." He buzzed again-- there had been
no response--then shrugged. "I guess things are getting hectic out front
just now." He laughed resignedly, then turned to her. "By the way, I
saw your new book. Fine piece of work. I do hope somebody over there
reads it. Are you still running your Center at NYU?"

"So far." She decided to spare him the details.

"Well, it's a good school. Getting better all the time. You've got some
first-rate supercomputer work at the Courant Institute, particularly
with your IBM connection, but you should keep an eye on Columbia. Now
that AT&T has joined with them to go after some of the Pentagon's AI
contracts, they may finally start putting together a major computer
science department up there too. In a few years Stanford and Carnegie-
Mellon will have to step lively to stay out front."

Hello, she thought. How come Ken suddenly knows so much scuttlebutt
about U.S. computer research? Nobody at home knows the first thing
about what's going on in Japan.

"I was surprised to hear about this new appointment, Ken." She settled
back on the couch. "I was guessing you had the inside track for MITI
vice minister in a few years."

"Ah, well, for now my work is here." He gestured uncomfortably about
the room. "Let me try once more for that tea."

She realized he'd slipped deftly around her quick probe

concerning MITI's new role in the lab. He knew how to be a team player,
she thought. Very Japanese.

This time he raised a response. A female voice dripping with long-vowel
honorifics announced his tea would be delivered immediately.

Next came a small, awkward lull as they both sat there remembering
Kyoto and not sure how to get around that memory. She wondered if it
was happening all over again.

Maybe it hadn't been just a fluke, a crazy one-night diversion. She was
about to switch to Japanese, thinking that might provide the jolt
needed to break the ice, but just as the silence swelled between them,
there came a knock on the door and tea.

She was half annoyed, half relieved.

He rose to walk over and began chatting as though they'd been
interrupted in the midst of some intense technical exchange.

"Are you scheduled to present a paper at that Kyoto conference coming
up?" He pushed a button beside the door, and it swung wide. "There's
sure to be quite a crowd. Everybody here's excited about supercomputers
these days."

"No, this is strictly a pleasure trip. With maybe a few interviews
thrown in to make it a tax write-off for a book I'm planning on
robots." She hesitated. "Though I actually might go down and try to see
a few people."

"Then this could turn out to be a pleasant coincidence." He took the
tea, and the bowing girl vanished. Again the door clicked shut. "I have
to go too, but I'm hoping to steal a few moments of freedom."

"You're chairing a session this year?"

"Absolutely not." He turned serious. "I'm not allowed time for anything
like that anymore, Tam. This new project is top priority." He poured
her a cup of the pale green liquid and passed it over, seemingly
relieved that the tension had abated. "There's a lot of work here at
the Fifth Generation lab now that we're coordinating this program with
the supercomputer effort."

"You mean with MlTl's supercomputer project?" Caught your little slip,
she told herself. You are still with MITI. Which means they have taken
over this lab.

He didn't blink. "As you probably know, MITI has the goal of creating a
machine capable of a hundred billion computations a second, targeted
just down the road. Which means we have to come up with entirely new
computer languages and architecture."

"Parallel processing."

"Exactly. Handling multiple streams of information at once. Now that we
finally understand what's required for a superfast computer, this work
in AI just happens to be very relevant. It turns out we humans are
already walking around with parallel processing in our heads, able to
handle words, images, ideas, all at the same time. So if we want to
create machines that operate as fast as possible, then it's crucial to
understand how our brain manages things like recognition, learning,
inference. Our hope is that by utilizing the studies here in those
areas, incorporating them into our supercomputer work, we might be able
to put ourselves a major step ahead. . . ."

Good God, Tam thought, it's elegantly simple. That's why MITI has taken
over the Fifth Generation Project. They're going to use this research
in artificial intelligence to come up with a computer more powerful
than anything the world has yet imagined. Their silicon monsters are
about to start replicating themselves, getting smarter as they go, like
in some bad fifties horror flick. The difference is, this isn't make-
believe.

"So you're here on behalf of MITI."

He paused. "For coordination. As I said, MITI needs the Fifth
Generation work to be accelerated." He still hadn't exactly answered
the question. "As part of our supercomputer effort."

Tam knew that Hitachi and NEC were both already claiming they had the
world's most powerful machines, faster even than Cray's entry, the best
American computer. What did MITI want?

He continued. "With 16-megabit chip production already going strong and
64 megabit commercialization in the wings, it did seem the right time
to pull all our work together. If you think about it, computer speed
and computer intelligence go hand in hand. I'll show you in a second
what I mean."

Not kilobit. Megabit. MITI was going for the kill. This was a crash
program. Why?

"Does this mean you plan to increase your funding for the Fifth
Generation effort?"

"Whatever it takes to do the job," he replied after a moment's
hesitation. "I suppose there's never enough money, is there?"

"Ken, why the rush? This sudden drive?"

"It depends on whom you ask." He leaned back and looked at the ceiling.
"Some call it survival, Tamara. Maybe it is that simple. Japan is at a
crossroads; we're rapidly losing our edge in the cost of labor. The
only possible way to counter that is to step up our use of smart
machines."

"Well, it looks as if I came to the right place. I'd like to add  your
name to my interview list."

His look darkened a moment. "Strictly off the record." Then he smiled.
"And only if we can do it over dinner."

"That sounds like a bribe."

"Call it an offering from an old admirer." He smiled, attempting to
ease the tension. "The most I can do, for now at least, is just give
you a small peek at a few of our experimental gadgets. Details are
strictly proprietary. At the moment we're concentrating on computer
vision and voice access. And on that last, by the way, I think we've
just about reached AI's Holy Grail, natural language comprehension."

"Good luck." That was one of the mythical dreams of AI research, a
computer that could understand the speech of anybody who happened
along. Even though millions had been invested in the U.S. nobody was
anywhere close yet.

"I think we're getting there. Enough so in fact that we're starting to
look at applications. Expect commercialization in, oh, say a year, two
at most."

Look out IBM, she found herself thinking.

"I probably shouldn't be showing you this, Tamara. So let's just keep
this informal. No notes. But here, have a look at one of MITI's new
toys. Can you guess what this is?" He passed over a small device that
had been sitting on his desk, his hand lingering on hers a moment
longer than absolutely necessary.

She stared down at what appeared to be some kind of calculator-watch,
except there was no watch face, merely a small speaker and two buttons.

"That uses advanced versions of MITI's new 64-megabit memory chips.
There's nothing like it anywhere in the world. Without ever having
heard the speaker's voice before, no calibration, it can translate
ordinary spoken English into Japanese." He pointed to one of the
buttons. "Just press there

and talk. When you finish, push the other button for the translation."

She did, testing it with the opening paragraph of Pride and Prejudice,
her favorite novel. A simulated voice emerged from the small speaker on
the face of the device and gave it back . . . in flawless Japanese.

"Not bad." She set it carefully onto the desk. The thing was actually
almost frightening.

"Using this, linked to our new high-definition video and satellite, you
could punch a button in your living room and bring up people on a wall-
size screen from anywhere in the world, then talk to them in your
language and be understood in theirs. It's a quantum advance over
current technology." He retrieved the device, dropping it into a desk
drawer.

"I must admit I'm very impressed."

"Truthfully, so am I. Where's this program of MITI's taking us?" He
looked up. "But let me show you something else, which I think is even
more astonishing. Of course you're aware that speech comprehension is
easy compared to the really tough nut, duplicating the human eye. Since
a visual image can contain billions of pieces of information, it can be
very time-consuming for a computer to analyze all those at once and
figure out what it's looking at. I've heard people at IBM claim that
for a computer to recognize something even as simple as an odd-shaped
coffee cup would still require almost an hour of processing, that to
match the human eye and brain could take a computer the size of a
building. But watch."

He walked over to a black metal installation attached to the wall and
held up three fingers before its small lens. Then he pushed a button
and spoke into a built-in microphone.

"What do you see?"

She started to reply herself, then realized he was talking to the lens.

This time the answer took about ten seconds. Finally a voice in
passable simulation of the Tokyo dialect emerged from a gray speaker
beneath the lens. "That is a human hand."

"How many fingers does this hand have?" he continued.

Again the eerie, disembodied voice. "The normal human hand has five
fingers. This appears to have only three."

"Thank you." He punched a button and turned back. "That came off the
mainframe here. Can you imagine the amount of memory and logic
processing required to achieve what you've just witnessed: the data
base and the computational power and speed? Not to mention the
recognition of my voice commands."

"How does it do it?"

He paused. "Tam, this is proprietary, top secret, but what you've just
witnessed is an example of parallel processing with MITI's new, still
classified 256-megabit dynamic RAM's."

"A quarter of a billion bits of data on a chip." She just stared. "Are
they writable?"

"Of course." He again settled himself behind his desk. "The test
versions have circuits only a hundred or so atoms wide. And this is
only the beginning. Within five years, maybe no more than three, MITI
fully expects to have a desktop machine that will pass the Turing
test."

"Three years?" It was almost unbelievable. Passing the "Turing test"
meant the computer's "thoughts" and "speech" would be so lifelike you'd
be able to talk with it and not realize it wasn't human. Al's end-of-
the-rainbow.

"As you can see, the project is getting close." He looked pensive, like
some Zen monk. "Strictly off the record--and I mean that--what MITI is
working toward is total automation. Factories run by machines with
human skills, intelligence, manual dexterity. In fact, several of the
robotics labs at Tsukuba Science City already have prototypes in
advanced stages of development."

She was stunned. This was the kind of futuristic talk you heard from
all the AI buffs, but it was still mostly speculation in the U.S. and
Europe. Japan, though, was taking it straight to commercialization.

"Why are you telling me all this?"

He sat silent for a moment. Then he looked at her. "Because it's time
the world understood something very important about this country. There
are people here . . . with an agenda. And resources."

"What do you mean?"

"Tam, there are people, important people, who are getting fed up. Know
what they're saying? Try this. Our country has a monarchy older than
Rome, a heritage of literature, art, aesthetics, equal to anything in
the West. We've never had any colonies, any raw materials besides air
and water. All we do have is a willingness to work and save--the one
natural resource running short in the West. In less than half a century
we've risen from the most total devastation any country has ever
experienced and achieved technological parity with both the U.S. and
the Soviets. We launch satellites, split atoms, splice genes. But still
a lot of foreigners claim all this country can do is copy from the
West, steal and commercialize other nations' inventions. Only a short
time back the leader of France called our prime minister a 'transistor
salesman.' That's right. A 'transistor salesman.'"

"Ken, that stupid crack was by de Gaulle. Years ago. It's--"

"Tam, look around you. This is an old country. And a lot of influential
people have long memories."

"You're getting melodramatic."

He shifted in his chair and studied the white peak of Fuji. "Think so?
Don't delude yourself. Believe me, the West is about to dig its own
grave."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

"Nothing you can't see with your own eyes." He turned back. "MITI is
now ready to move into the next phase. Finally here's a project that's
as strategic, in its own way, as the bomb. If Japan can succeed in
creating a machine capable of humanlike thinking, it will be the most
profound achievement in the history of mankind." And this project is
well on its way. There may be nothing that can stop the events that lie
ahead."

"Stop what? What events?"

"That's not a simple question." He caught himself and eased up, smiling
uncomfortably once again. "Forgive me. None of this is for
publication." He hesitated. "Your work is well-known here in Japan,
Tam. You are one of the few Americans our industrialists respect
unreservedly. Maybe you weren't aware of that. Your books are highly
regarded; in fact, I read the new one in manuscript." A long pause,
then, "Would you ever consider working with me for a while? Come back
home, so to speak? You can see the implications of this project."

"I see the implications, all right." She didn't know what to say. Why a
sudden job offer from Ken? Or was it from MITI? "But where is this
headed? If Japan achieves this technological supremacy, what then?"

"Before the flowers bloom, MITI must tend the garden." He rose and
poured more tea into her cup. "But enough. You know, I've thought about
you a lot. Tell me how you've been. What've you been doing?"

"Teaching, writing, you know. Everything and nothing."

He smiled, then brushed an imaginary fleck of lint off his tailored
woolen cuff. "Well, perhaps we'll have some time to talk."

What was he driving at? Was there more? Something going on he didn't
want to broach here in the lab?

"Tam, it is so good to see you once more." He looked up again. "Would
you be interested in going down to Kyoto with me day after tomorrow?
There are some things . . ." He sipped at his tea. "As I said, I'm
scheduled to look in on the conference and see a few people, but I
should have some free time."

"That conference doesn't start till next week."

"Actually I need to be down a few days early."

 "Oh. Why?"

He measured his words. "Oddly enough it has to do with the Sword.
Things have started moving pretty fast since those archeologists
working for Dai Nippon recovered the sacred Sword-of the Emperor
Antoku."

"I saw the Emperor on TV. Try going outside now."

"Well, I think I'll close here a little early and let my people go on
home. It sounds like their celebration has already started anyway." He
gestured toward the music and noise filtering through the door. "But
the reason I need to be in Kyoto a few days in advance is to see the
president of Dai Nippon."

"The firm that--"

"That's right. His name is Matsuo Noda. I've known him for some years
actually. He contacted me a couple of days ago about a meeting. I'm not
sure what he has in mind precisely, but I have to find out. He's just
become one of the most influential people in the country, not that he
wasn't already. And now with all the money he's about to have in this
new Imperial fund . . ."

"The one mentioned at the Emperor's news conference?"

"Exactly. As you might suspect, that was merely the formal
announcement. Some of us at MITI heard about it several days ago. My
private hunch is that in a few days Matsuo Noda could well have more
resources at his fingertips than any one man in the history of the
world." He looked at her. "It's almost frightening when you think of
the power he'll soon have."

"Ken, I think I would like to come along with you." What was going on?
MITI's plans already were pretty astonishing. And now this new national
hero, the president of Dai Nippon, was about to get involved.

More than that, she'd half forgotten how interesting Kenji Asano really
could be. Her trip was taking a lot of unexpected turns.

"Well, then, in that famous American phrase, 'Why not?'" He smiled, the
mask firmly back in place. "In fact, I'll try and arrange for you to
meet Matsuo Noda while we're there." A conspiratorial wink. "Maybe
he'll even give us a glimpse of the Sword."

Tokyo was one big party that night, the streets mobbed. They eventually
found themselves in Shinjuku, in a high-tech new restaurant all chrome
and glass and New Age prices. The tuna sashimi seemed only minutes from
the sea, and the aged sake was smooth as a flawless white Bordeaux.
Afterward they grabbed a taxi over to the Ginza, where Ken got seats on
the tatami straw mats down in the orchestra of the Kabukiza, and they
took in the last act of a Kabuki play (featuring the famous Ennosuke
III) that had been underway since late afternoon. The evening ended up
in the art deco mezzanine bar at the Imperial, the part salvaged from
the old Frank Lloyd Wright structure, where she kicked off her shoes,
ordered a twenty-dollar cognac, and nestled against his elegant
shoulder.

What was that he'd said about coming back home? Her books being
circulated here even in manuscript? What was he hinting at?

Finally around two A.M. he called for the check and neither said a word
as they headed for the elevator.

She thought one last time about Allan's warning as she watched the
floors flash above the door and searched for her key. But this was no
time to brood about conspiracies. Ken made her feel good. Which was a
hell of a lot more than Dave Mason had done. Besides, Ken had some
style; all Dave did was mope around in a pair of baggy chinos and whine
about his department. Ken was upbeat, alive, aware.

What's more, she enjoyed being with him, feeling the heat of his cheek
against hers. As the elevator doors opened, he slipped an arm about her
waist and nuzzled her hair. Then their lips met.

He was just as she remembered. His touch, his taste, his body. Still,
something about him was definitely changed.

Then he reached for her key and opened the door. The minute they
entered the sitting room of her suite, he took her in his arms.

"Tam, let's not talk anymore about business, no more Swords. I'm
already bored hearing about it. Just us. What do you say?"

"Agreed." She looked at him and suddenly realized something. Ken Asano
was beautiful, _kirei_. Not handsome, beautiful. _Anata wa kirei desu_,
Kenji Asano. "Want a nightcap? There's some airport Remy in my--"

"Who could even think about another cognac. I just want to think about
us." He stood back. "All right, maybe if you insist. For old times'
sake."

"'Old times' is right, Ken. It's been a very long time since Kyoto."
She located the dark Remy bottle, still packed in her leather flight
bag. A nice inauguration, she told herself. "What was that all about?
Was it real? Or did I just imagine it all?"

"The heart never lies." He settled on the couch. "Do you really
remember?"

"Vividly." She laughed as she poured an inch into each of two thin
hotel tumblers. "Including that dreadful bar you took us all to."

"A glimpse of the real Japan, Tam, for our tourist friends. Show them
it's not all _ikebana_ and _haiku_. Believe me, it's not." He clicked
her glass. "Do try to forgive me. And here's to us."

"To us."

"And to the slightly scary world we're stumbling into. Japan needs you
here." He pulled her next to him and brushed her cheek lightly with his
fingertips. Then he kissed her deeply on the mouth, and again. "/ need
you here, Tam. Somebody like you. There's . . . well, there's a lot we
could do together."

She reached up and loosened his tie, then began unbuttoning his shirt.
His chest was firm, smooth, scented. She wanted him. "Let's just
remember Kyoto for a while."

"I've never forgotten it."

Sometime around four A.M., more content than she had been in a long,
long time, Tam Richardson lay awake on the cool sheets, Ken's trim body
beside her, and wondered how it would end this time around.

Or possibly, just possibly, it wouldn't.



CHAPTER EIGHT


Back in New York, optimism was in increasingly short supply. What do
you do if you think you're being set up? One thing, you may have
occasion to muse long and hard about the consequences, personal and
otherwise. You also may choose to ponder the larger motives of the
individual behind it all.

So far, what had happened? Matsuo Noda had hired Matt Walton, corporate
attorney-at-law, to begin shorting the American Treasury market, then
proceeded to make himself a bona fide hero back home, in the process of
which he acquired access to the biggest chunk of savings in the world,
presumably the "financial arrangements" he once alluded to. Using that
money as margin, Noda was ready to shift his play into high gear. My
latest telexed instructions indicated he was poised to accelerate
dramatically, "borrowing" bonds and selling them for whatever the
market would pay. Of course if the price went down anytime soon, he
could then replace those borrowed instruments at some fraction of what
he'd sold them for. The man was gambling, for godsake. With the
"Emperor's" fund.

Or was he? Therein, as somebody once said, lies the rub. Short selling
has always been a reasonably good definition of gambling, except . . .
except you are gambling only if you are wagering money on an event
whose outcome is not precisely known. If you do know it, you are not
gambling. You are taking prudent steps that will allow you to benefit
from prior knowledge of said, etc.

Enough airy semantics. The big question: Why me? Now, I've been set up
a few times before in my life. Everybody has. I even wonder in darker
moments if the reason Joanna demanded a champagne lifestyle wasn't to
make sure I spent all my time supporting it, thereby rendering me
exactly what she eventually accused me of being--an absentee husband and
father. That is a no-win situation.

The undertaking at hand, however, could have a very obvious
beneficiary. Matsuo Noda. The only problem was that in order for Noda
to win, America had to lose. Massively. The old zero-sum game: for
every winner there has to be an equal and opposite sucker.

After that Friday evening with Henderson, I spent the next week mulling
over the complexities of the situation. The whole thing boiled down to
two very strong presumptions: one, I was indeed being set up, being
told one scenario while the truth lay in quite another direction; and
two, my employer had something very lethal to America's financial
health up his sleeve. Still, these were merely presumptions, nothing
more. The only thing I was sure about was that I had a very
unpredictable tiger by its posterior handle. Time to find out a little
more about my pussycat.

I hadn't actually seen Dai Nippon's midtown office, but I talked to the
manager almost every day on the phone, and he occasionally shipped
materials down to my place in the Village. I knew they'd taken over the
building, installed a new security staff, moved into the vacant floor,
and were doing something. However, I hadn't been invited up to see what
the something was. I concluded the time was at hand.

As I understood it, Dai Nippon's purpose in life was to oversee the use
of investment capital. Fair and good. As it happens, Japanese business
tends to be funded a little differently from our own. Instead of
selling off stock to the public, Japanese industry relies much more
heavily on bank financing. In fact, less than twenty percent of Japan's
industrial assets are publicly traded. Consequently the rules of the
game are changed. If your company is beholden to a financial
institution instead of a lot of nervous stockholders and fund managers,
you're in partners with somebody less interested in next quarter's
profits than in the larger matter of your still being around ten years
hence to pay off its paper. That lender naturally rides herd very
closely on your long-term planning.

As best I could tell, DNI was one of the herd-riders, a sort of hired
gun that monitored various companies' operations to make sure they were
managing their loans prudently. Again, since the prospectus emphasized
they were specialists in overseas investment, I assumed that maybe part
of the reason they were coming to the U.S. was to oversee the Japanese
companies doing business here with money borrowed from back home.

Nobody had actually told me this. In fact nobody had told me anything.
That was merely what I considered to be an educated guess. It was the
only thing I could think of that made the slightest sense.

The following Monday morning I told myself the guesswork was over. It
was high time I went up and saw for myself what they were doing. All I
needed was an excuse.

Then the phone rang. I was in the garden out back, skimming the Times
and working on a pot of fresh coffee while waiting for the Chicago
exchanges to open. Ben was cruising the fence line, sniffing for cats.

When I picked up the receiver, waiting at the other end was Mr.
Yasuhiro Tanaka, office manager for the New York operation. He chatted
a bit about the weather, how nice it was to be working in the U.S., the
usual. Finally he mentioned that he needed to meet with me to discuss,
among other matters, certain legal questions concerning one of the
other leases in their building. Would it be convenient if he came down
to my place and we went over the paperwork?

Not necessary, I replied. I just happened to be headed for midtown in
the next few minutes. I'd throw a copy of the leases into my briefcase
and drop by to see him. Then before he could protest, I mumbled
something about the doorbell and hung up. The phone rang again
immediately, but I didn't answer it. I was already putting on my
jacket.

I scribbled a few notes for Emma, taped them to her word processor, and
headed out the door. Minutes later I was in their Third Avenue lobby,
greeting the new security staff, several of whom, as a favor to Tanaka,
I'd interviewed for their jobs.

Then I took the elevator up to DNI's offices on the eleventh floor and
proceeded to have my argyle socks blown away.

First off, top security. The entryway just off the elevator bank had
been completely transformed. TV intercom, steel doors--it could have
been the vault at Chase. I told the camera's eye who I was and then
waited while a computer somewhere gave me a voice-ID check. How they
managed to have me in the system already I wasn't exactly sure . . .
maybe they'd taken it off the phone?

After I'd cleared that, the doors slid open and I entered the first
chamber of a two-room security check. An electronic voice ordered me to
put my briefcase into the X-ray machine while I proceeded through the
metal detector.

That cleared, the set of steel panels leading into the next room slid
open and I went in . . . to be confronted by two crew-cut guards who
could have been retired sumo wrestlers. As the doors clicked behind me,
I took one look at DNI's welcoming committee and realized they were
packing Uzis, those Israeli automatics that could probably cut down a
tree in about two seconds. No candy-ass .38's for Dai Nippon. Without
ceremony they commenced a body search. It was all very polite, but it
sure as hell wasn't perfunctory. I just stood there in astonishment
while this gorilla roughly twice my size felt me up.

That indignity completed, I was now in line for the real surprise. Yet
another set of steel doors opened, and there awaited the man I'd been
dealing with over the phone, Yasuhiro Tanaka. Medium build, late
forties, cropped hair, automatic smile--he was Noda's chief of
operations for New York. He didn't say much, just led me onto the
floor, heading for his office. But he was clearly the on-site daimyd:
lots of heavy bowing from the young, white-shirted Japanese staff as we
headed for the corner suite.

Which brings us to the real shocker. Dai Nippon's floor operation
looked like the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise. Let me attempt
a brief description. In the far back was a massive NEC augmented
supercomputer--a half dozen off-white octagonal units about head high,
one the mainframe and the others storage modules arranged alongside in
a neat row. Pure power. The whole thing was encased in a glassed room
with (I assumed) critical temperature and humidity control. Then out on
the floor were lines and lines of workstations. Computer screens
everywhere, printers running, stacks of color hard copy--pie charts, bar
graphs, spreads--plus terminals carrying every financial service offered
by cable or satellite.

This was just the first, five-second glance. Incredible, I thought.
There must be a heck of a lot more Japanese investment in the U.S. than
anybody realizes.

But something had to be wrong here. Why should . . . ? Finally I slowed
down--Tanaka was hurrying me along, clearly

annoyed that I'd appeared uninvited. That's when I noticed the rest.
Across one wall was a line of projection TVs, on which computer data
was being scrolled. As we walked past, I noticed that each screen
seemed to be under the scrutiny of a team of analysts, who were
intently studying the numbers, comparing notes, running calculations on
their individual terminals.

What's this all about?

I stopped before one screen and studied it a second. Beneath it a small
sign said simply "Electronics." The one next to it read
"Biotechnology." Then I glanced at a couple of others. Each one covered
a different industrial sector. Gee, I thought, you're really out of
touch, Walton. Who would have guessed Japan has so much investment in
manufacturing here. I didn't remember much going on besides a few joint
ventures. Sure, they've got a few auto assembly plants, that steel
plant they'd bought out on the coast, some TV-tube production, chips,
VCRs. But mostly it represented entries into sectors where they're
trying to get the jump on protectionism, start a token manufacturing
operation here before they get shut out.

"If you have any questions, I'm sure we can discuss them later." Tanaka
had taken my arm and was urging me politely toward his office. The
whines and hums of laser printers and the beep of computers made
conversation all but impossible.

"Well, I was merely interested . . ." Then I stopped.

Know that test psychologists have, the one where you look at a couple
of silhouettes and describe what you see? If you think you're supposed
to look at the white part in the middle, then you see one thing--I think
it's a vase. But if you concentrate on the black instead, you see
something else entirely, maybe the profiles of two human faces opposite
each other. Thus what you see is largely a product of your prior
assumptions concerning what you're supposed to be looking for. Or maybe
it measures whether you view the world as a positive or a negative
image, something like that. I don't recall exactly. I do remember
receiving a B- in Psych 101, which was generous.

The point is, what I first thought I saw was actually the inverse of
what was really there. I'd told myself what it was, rather than
believing my eyes.

Dai Nippon was running analyses, bet your ass, but the industries under
their silicon microscope weren't Japanese.

They'd computerized the financial report of every American company
traded publicly and were now in the process of taking those outfits
apart.

And I can assure you it was cold-eyed in the extreme, strictly hard
numbers: quarterly earnings, long-term debt, inventory, stock
outstanding, CEO bonuses. As any professional analyst would do, they'd
cut right through a company's glossed-over excuses, phrases such as
strategic retrenchment, aimed at the dividend-nervous retirees in Cedar
Rapids. They were putting together the real story.

Same with the financial markets. Screens were scrolling up- to-the-
second quotes on everything from three-month T-bills to thirty-year
Treasury bonds. Computers were running arbitrage spreads on every
issue. They knew exactly where they stood with all their futures
contracts. I realized my little telephone boiler room had merely been
the tip of some awesome iceberg.

"Mr. Walton, it is a pleasure to meet you in person." Tanaka was
ushering me into the corner office after our pass through the floor.
Unlike most executive suites in New York, its windows were sealed with
heavy drapes. Again, total security. "Let me order tea." He waved at
somebody out on the floor.

I nodded, still chewing over the setup and trying to understand what in
good Christ was underway.

"I'm sure you are a busy man, so perhaps we should proceed directly to
my concerns. As you may have guessed, we are almost ready to move into
a new phase of our operation."

"Oh." I guess it must have sounded dumb, but I honestly couldn't manage
a full sentence. Finally I recovered slightly. "I'm a little surprised
by the scope of all this. What's the purpose?"

"Our president, Noda-sama, should be arriving in a few days. I'm sure
he will be happy to address your questions in detail." Tanaka paused
for the green tea, delivered by a silent girl--the young, smiling,
uniformed Japanese "office lady"-- who scarcely looked up as she settled
the tray on the desk. After she was gone, he continued. "This, of
course, is only the financial nerve center for our operation. Our
technical staff will begin arriving soon."

Technical staff? Then who were those grim-faced minions out there
punching computers?

"You're bringing in more people?"

"Correct. Which is why I needed to see you. I understand that the lease
on the floor above us is due for renewal at the end of this month. We
would like to acquire that space. We will need to convert it as quickly
as possible."

"What about the current tenants?"

"There is a rider in their lease, Mr. Walton, that permits the owner of
the building to reclaim the space for his own use at the time of a
renewal. We fully intend to make use of it. Consequently as our
American attorney you are hereby authorized to inform them that their
lease will not be automatically extended, that they will be expected to
vacate. In accordance with the legal and binding terms of their lease.
Advise them also that there can be no grace period. We will require the
floor immediately."

I looked at him. So much for the current tenants. "What will these new
offices be used for?"

Tanaka sipped his tea. "That section will have another managing
director. Our range of operations here brings other responsibilities."

"What section, what range of operations?"

"I am regrettably not at liberty to discuss the specific extent of
DNI's interests."

"Well, let me break some news to you. I like to know who I'm working
for. So you'd better start discussing specifics and fast."

Tanaka seemed to be having trouble meeting my eye. The skull beneath
his short-cropped hair glistened under the harsh neon lighting.

"Mr. Walton, you are now part of the DNI team. That position includes
obligations I am sure you would not wish to take lightly."

"Hold on." The hell with politeness. "I'm not part of your 'team' or
anybody's. I came on board with the explicit understanding that--"

"Mr. Walton, kindly sit down." He pointed without ceremony to a chair.
I just looked at it, then back at him.

"As you are a scholar of Japan," he continued, "I'm sure you are aware
that an employee's loyalty to his company is considered to be a gauge
of his character. A company is a family, and one considers its
interests in that spirit."

"Maybe you didn't notice, but I'm not Japanese. '_Nihon-jin'_

as you'd probably put it. I'm a _gaijin_. We usually work for number
one."

"At the moment, Mr. Walton, you work for Dai Nippon. There is an
assigned role for you, one that Noda-san expects you to fulfill."

"Maybe I just handed in my resignation."

"I do not really think you would wish to do that." Deadpan. The
confidence with which he made that statement told me this guy could
make a killing at poker. Unless he had a few cards in the hole I didn't
know about. "It would hardly be in your best interest. We expect your
contribution to be crucial."

"What contribution?"

"That will become plain in due time, Mr. Walton." He was measuring his
words as he continued, maybe easing up a bit. "For now, let me merely
say we know you to be a man with substantial curiosity. Consequently we
believe that what lies ahead will be of considerable interest to you."

What was this samurai up to?

"Maybe it's time everybody put their cards on the table. And why don't
we begin with you." I thumbed at the floor outside. "What the hell's
going on out there?"

"At the moment nothing in this office need concern you. But perhaps I
can tell you this. Now that you are serving as our corporate attorney,
you are in a position to help us pursue other avenues."

I looked him over. Tanaka was beating about the bush. Why? Maybe it was
merely the Japanese style, but he also seemed to know exactly what not
to say.

"I'm still waiting to hear what's next."

"Very well. As long as you're here . . ." He sipped calmly from his
cup. "It is common knowledge that Japanese savers have become the
world's largest lenders, with overseas investment that now exceeds, by
the way, the greatest rate of lending by OPEC even at its peak. The
Japanese people will have over a trillion dollars in overseas assets
within the next few years."

"I'm familiar with the numbers." I also knew that with several trillion
dollars in spare change sloshing around back home, they were sending
abroad a mere dribble of what they had.

"Were you also aware that over four fifths of our overseas investment
is currently in dollar-denominated instruments?"

"No surprise. The dollar's still the name of the game, worldwide."

"True enough, but we at Dai Nippon are concerned that so many of our
institutions have such heavy exposure in a single currency.
Accordingly, in addition to our program with interest- rate futures, we
also feel it would be prudent to provide some protection for this
currency risk. In the same manner, I might add, that American investors
often do."

"You mean some downside protection? On the dollar?"

"That is correct. A devaluation or a sudden drop in exchange rates
would jeopardize much Japanese capital. Therefore we feel it would be
prudent to enter the currency-futures markets to cover at least some of
the dollar exposure of our investors."

Jesus! I suddenly needed a Valium. In addition to Treasuries, now Dai
Nippon was about to short the dollar, pre-sell it in advance of . . .
of what?

Had Noda been lying to me right down the line? Setting up a cockamamie
cover with interest futures while all along he was setting up an
international currency swindle?

Or were we about to get down to the real action? He'd scheduled his
curtain raiser, whatever it was, then realized he might accidentally
pull the plug on the U.S. greenback? So he'd decided to arrange a
little currency insurance for everybody back at the ranch, just in
case.

Don't ask me why, but I was drawn to this pending nightmare like a moth
to flame. This was a ringside seat at . . .

All right, who am I trying to kid? That was the moment when I finally,
finally grasped what our meeting was all about. It was to formally
announce the tidal wave that would soon engulf America. And now Matsuo
Noda--or maybe I should say Noah--was, in his oblique Japanese way,
handing me a pair of tickets good for one round-trip passage on his
ark. The only thing missing was the schedule.

By then I didn't care whether I was on board or not; I figured I'd just
as soon try swimming on my own. But I had one very good reason to play
along.

"Okay, what's the game? Want to sell some dollars for delivery down the
road?"

"We assume you are familiar with the markets."

"I stay in touch. How would you like to go? If you want

currency futures, there're the exchanges. Or you can buy forwards,
which are more or less the same thing, from any number of banks around
town. Futures only go out for a year, maximum, but I can probably get
you forwards out to three. Come to think of it, Citibank will quote you
ten-year forwards."

"We would be looking at shorter terms."

"No problem. Currency futures are quoted for March, June, September,
and December. That's on the Chicago Mercantile Exchange's IMM. But if
three months are too far out, then you can get options on spot currency
contracts down at the Philadelphia exchange, which allows early
exercise. Or if you want, I think you can get off-exchange bank quotes
as short as one month. Citibank has a big FOREX desk. And Bankers
Trust, and First Boston, or even Banque Indosuez. Of course, if you
really want to get serious, there's the currency trading floor at
Barclays Bank in London. . . ."

"We expect to be active in all markets, worldwide. That seems best."
Tanaka continued, "However, we are only interested in December futures
and one-month contracts in the forwards. After that, we may choose to .
. . make other arrangements."

Hang on, America.

"Right. And what are we talking here in terms of amount?"

He handed me a sheet of paper.

It was like he was ordering up sandwiches from the deli. Corned beef on
rye, lean, with extra mustard and a slice of pickle. How many? Let me
check. Oh, say a few hundred billion.

"This is going to take a few days." I passed it back, calmly as I could
manage. "Why don't you send a schedule down to my place late this
afternoon. My secretary will be there. I'll get started in the
morning." I rose. "In the meantime, you'll understand if I take today
off and catch up a little on other work."

"Of course." Tanaka bowed, head still glistening.

"Be in touch tomorrow." I nodded farewell.

"Until then, Mr. Walton." Another bow as I turned to leave.

I walked back through the floor, again trying to digest the spectacle.
This was undoubtedly the most comprehensive operation I'd ever
witnessed. What in hell did all this analysis of industrial sectors
have to do with currency hedging?

Not a lot of time to reflect on the question, however, since I was
summarily being ushered toward the steel security doors by one of
Tanaka's flunkies, a young tough who seemed to speak no English, but
who could strong-arm very eloquently.

In moments I was outside, facing the bank of elevators. That was when I
remembered the upstairs tenant, a big public relations outfit. Better
take a couple of minutes and give them the word.

Rausch, McKinley, and Stein were in the middle of proving conclusively
that our mayor knew nothing about contract kickbacks, that he was in
fact the closest equivalent New York had to driven snow. His Honor, in
the meantime, was hastily returning the campaign contributions of all
the real estate executives who, flanked by their lawyers, were now
being featured on the front page of the Daily News.

Since RM&S had their hands full and also had expected an automatic
renewal of their lease, there weren't too many politic smiles when I
broke the news. Fact is, it was a very unpleasant scene. Finally I
called for their lease and showed them the rider. They'd signed the
damn thing, not me.

"Sorry, fellows, all I can do is maybe drag this out a little for you,
mislay the paperwork or something. Have one of your attorneys give me a
call, off the record. But I'd also advise you to start looking for
space."

Then I headed downtown, a man with a mission.

Dai Nippon had to be getting ready to kick hell out of something or
somebody. Trouble was, I had no idea who or what. But I'd had plenty of
hints it wasn't going to do great things for the dollar. I briefly
toyed with alerting Jack O'Donnell and telling him to leak some
anonymous storm signals. But what storm? He wouldn't put his senate
reputation on the line to peddle guesswork, and all I had to offer was--
what?--circumstantial premonitions.

Where to begin? Henderson was in London and unreachable, meaning there
was no chance of getting him and his less reputable Washington
connections to start shouting "fire" from the rooftops. That left the
press. Right. What I needed was the media. Think. Somebody who, if the
whole thing proved to be smoke and mirrors, could shrug it off; but, a
comer who would be intrigued by the possible broadcasting coup of the
century. It had to be somebody with ready-made exposure, yet a
personality with little to lose and a lot to gain. That brought to mind
the perfect candidate, a former, well, acquaintance.

When I got home, I went straight to the office upstairs, looked up a
number I hadn't used in a long time, and dialed it. It felt very
familiar.

"Channel Eight. 'The freshest news in New York.' May we help you?"

I always loved the way they peddled information as though it were
Wonder Bread.

"Donna Austen please."

"One moment please." There was a click, then another voice. "Channel
Eight news desk."

"Donna Austen please."

"Who's calling please."

"Matthew Walton. Tell her it's business, not personal." Enough
please's.

"Thank you, Mr. Walcan."

"Walton."

"Thank you." On came the Muzak.

Would she do it? She used to complain how fed up she was interviewing
witnesses to car crashes. Her career needed a transfusion of hard news
so the station management would start taking her seriously. Well, here
was her shot. And since she was roughly tenth in line for the "anchor"
spot, she had no reputation of noticeable proportions to jeopardize by
leaking an anonymous rumor the U.S. was about to be shelled by an
offshore battery of financial guns.

"Ms. Austen said to tell you she's in a meeting and can't be
disturbed."

Why is it some women can't just let bygones be bygones? Give me a
break, Donna. I was ready for anything, except her little bedroom
games. "How about advising Ms. Austen I'm sorry I called at such an
important time, but I have some information that might just save her
and everybody else from total ruin."

"I'm very sorry, but--"

"Just tell her, goddamit."

"One moment." No please this time.

Another very long pause. Finally I heard Donna's broadcast-neutral
diphthongs, those lower-register reverberations she'd worked so long to
perfect.

"Matt, you've got your nerve. This damned well better be quick."

"Sorry I yelled at the messenger. I'm sorry about a lot of things, but
that's not the reason I called. Donna, how'd you like an exclusive? The
world as we know it is about to end. Inside a month."

"Matt, have you been drinking?"

"No, but that's not a bad idea."

"Well, what is it you want?"

"A small favor."

"You have got to be kidding."

"Not for me. It's the country I'm concerned about. That includes you.
How about doing the U.S. a favor and leak a heavy rumor from the world
of high finance. The American dollar, dear to us all, may be about to
go the way of Confederate mustard plasters. I'll even dictate the
statement for you."

"Matt, why don't you give this earth-shaking scoop to one of your big-
shot connections down at The Wall Street Journal, assuming it's such
hot news?"

Good question. The answer, sadly, was that nobody inside the system
would want to even hear this kind of talk, let alone spread it.
Everybody in the financial community was already whistling in the dark,
terrified those Latin American debt dominos might start to tumble,
taking a few of our flagship banks along with them. And now this? No
way.

"Donna, I need somebody willing to go out on a limb."

"You shit." She gave a snort. "I let you mortify me once. And believe
me that's the last--"

"Will you _listen_, for chrissake. I know it sounds crazy, but this is
dead serious. I've taken on a foreign investment firm as a client. I
can't tell you the name, but I'm absolutely sure the guy running it is
about to screw this country somehow. He's been shorting the bond
market, and now he's going to start dumping dollars. Billions and
billions. I want to blow the whistle. Get something on the air that'll
cause a few bankers and traders to look up from their computer
terminals and--"

"Matthew, darling, how about your doing me a favor?"

"Name it."

"Simple. Don't ever call me here again. And while you're at it, tell
that asshole friend of yours, Bill Henderson, I think he's the biggest--
"

"Look, I'm genuinely contrite about the scene he caused at your place.
If--"

"Good." Click, then the hum of a New York Tel dial tone.

Maybe she was right. Maybe I was seeing things. In any case, that
aborted Monday's attempted guerrilla war against Matsuo Noda. Now to
man my barricades.

Which moment coincided with the sound of Emma Epstein's key in the
front-door lock. The time, obviously, was exactly one-thirty P.M.
Exactly. I waited till she'd settled in before taking the fatal step.

"Emma, how about bringing me that file in your left-hand desk drawer.
The one marked 'Trust Account.'"

"The blue one?"

"Right. Amy's. You know it. You updated the thing about a month ago
when I switched all her money out of stocks and into money-market
funds." That move had been my one small attempt to ride Noda's horse in
the direction I suspected it was headed.

"I remember." She glanced at me disdainfully. "I also remember you
predicted interest rates were about to go up."

Which, she was tactful enough not to add, they hadn't. She also didn't
mention she had greeted my market prognosis with open skepticism. As
usual.

"Well, for what it's worth, I still think rates are headed up soon. And
Emma . . ."

"What?" She was grimly digging through the files.

"Ever think about some gold stocks for your retirement investments?
There're some mining issues I hear look good. Golden Sceptre, Golaith,
Vanderbilt . . ."

"That's Amy's portfolio you wanted, correct?" She didn't miss a beat.
"Right?"

She doted on Amy and always got very testy whenever I dabbled in the
management of my daughter's little nest egg. It's galling to admit
Emma's market instincts did at times seem superior to mine. John
Maynard Keynes once said there's nothing so disastrous as a rational
investment policy in an irrational world. Maybe he was right: could be
I was shackled by too much logical introspection. Never a problem for
Emma. All I know is, if her daughter-in-law in Jersey phoned in (on my
line) that she'd just baked a terrific cherry pie using "New Improved!"
Crisco, Emma marched out and loaded up on Procter & Gamble. And the
damn thing automatically went up ten points.

"Here it is." She placed it on my desk with a decidedly disapproving
sniff.

"Thanks."

Dear Lord, I thought, stand by us sinners now and at the hour of our
death. I went over it quickly with a hand calculator. About ninety-four
thousand. Which I figured would pay for roughly a year and a half of
college the way those already inflated costs were skyrocketing. But by
the time Noda got finished with the dollar, it probably wouldn't cover
a weekend seminar.

Maybe I couldn't save the U.S., but I was damned well going to get my
daughter through school. With fear and trembling I started calling
banks. Naturally I spread the action around town, BS'ing a lot of
currency traders and bank FOREX (foreign exchange) departments in the
process. I'd buy some pounds sterling, then . . . by the way, long as
we're on the phone, Mort, I think I might need a few million yen in,
oh, say about a month. Why don't we just save time and write some
contracts now? Besides, bird in the hand, you know. Then I'd take those
pounds I'd just acquired and use them to buy several million deutsche-
mark forwards from the next dealer I knew.

How much did I go out, total? Remember, currency forwards run around a
penny on the dollar, so I effectively "sold" something like ten million
greenbacks, deliverable in one month, when I figured they'd be worth .
. . it was hard even to imagine. Most likely zilch. Since I was flying
blind. Amy's college fund bought everything. You name it, I went long.
She ended up owning futures on Swiss francs, German marks, yen, lira,
pounds sterling, Canadian dollars, even French francs. I was actually
tempted, briefly, by the peso (well, she loved her trip to Mexico last
summer), a sentimental gesture I sternly resisted.

By the time I'd finished it was four forty-five, meaning my new, ninth-
grade owner of a United Nations basket of foreign currencies had just
arrived home from her West Side private school. She always charged in
at four-thirty. I called Joanna and asked to speak to my daughter. Jo's
response to the sound of my voice was only slightly less fulsome than
Donna Austen's. Finally Amy appeared at my ear.

"Dad, how come you're calling on the downstairs phone? You're supposed
to always use the one in my room. Mom hates it when--"

"Sweetie, that line is in constant and uninterrupted engagement between
the hours of four thirty-one and eight- fifteen. It's never possible to
reach you there at this time."

"Okay, so what's up?"

"Nothing much. How about if you and I caught up on things a bit? What
do you say to dinner tonight? Just the two of us? We might even
consider a real grown-up meal for a change, no alfalfa sprouts."

"Where?" She was immediately on guard. What if she ended up confronted
with a red-tinged steak, sliced off one of the living mammals of the
earth?

"Anywhere. Someplace you've always wanted to go. My treat."

"Wow! Anywhere?"

"Your pick."

Long pause, then, "How about Windows on the World?"

"Sounds good." I guessed one of her school friends had just been.
Meaning prestige was on the line. I was right.

"Sharon's dad took her there last weekend for her birthday and it
sounded really neat. She said you can see everything. It's probably a
lot nicer than Top of the Six's."

Where, in case you hadn't guessed, I'd taken her on _her _birthday.

"Food's standard, but I think we can piece together a spread that'll
meet your guidelines. Will your mother let you go?" Joanna had total
weekday custody, and she played it for all it was worth.

"She's got a big date tonight. That creepy real estate guy I told you
about. The one with the new silver Saab he thinks is so hot."

"Don't tell me about it. And don't call your mother's friends creeps.
I'm sure they're all very nice."

"Want to bet? This guy is total weirdness. But she'll let me go. No
sweat. What time?"

When I was a youth, I don't remember young ladies using phrases such as
"no sweat." Probably an imperfection of memory, one of many.

"Pick you up at seven-thirty sharp. Call me if there's a problem."

"Okay."

"And Amy .  . ."

"Yeah."

"Uh, think about wearing an actual dress. Not one of those experimental
East Village--"

"Daaad. I'm gonna look so straight. You'll see."

"Never doubted it for an instant."

That night I'd intended to explain that her college fund was currently
being hedged via a comparatively unorthodox investment scenario.
However, she was too busy marveling over the lights of Manhattan a
hundred stories down to give me much time to talk.

What I really wanted to tell her but somehow didn't was that I'd had
this spiritualist vision we'd been reincarnated as a couple of those
crazy sheiks at Monte Carlo--when I'm the guy who never ventures past
the quarter slots next to the door. It was as though I'd pillaged the
hundred grand carefully hoarded for her future and spread it over a
giant roulette play, stacking chips on every number on the board. Who
knew where Dai Nippon's wheel would stop, but when it did, one of them
had to pay off a hundred to one. Noda couldn't touch us. Right?

No sweat.



CHAPTER NINE


Tam was headed east in the black Nissan limo, listening to the talk.
And thinking. Seated alongside was Kenji Asano, wearing a light tan
suit and gold cufflinks, while the space opposite was occupied by two
individuals who made her very uneasy. One was the instantly famous
Matsuo Noda, the other his niece, talk-show economist Akira Mori. Noda
was wearing a black three-piece banker's suit, the perfect
accompaniment to his silver hair, and small wireless spectacles that
magnified his penetrating eyes. Mori, in designer beige, looked as if
she'd just stepped from the NHK studios, which in fact she had only a
few hours earlier.

Three days had passed since Noda's Imperial press conference, four
counting today, with this sudden trip being only the latest in a series
of unexpected events. The major new twist: getting her interviews
rolling was turning out to be a lot harder than it should have been.
Before leaving New York, she'd arranged for a day with Dr. Noburu
Matsugami of the Electrotechnical Institute at Tsukuba Science City to
go over the latest progress of MITI's Advanced Robot Technology
Project, now the world leader, the undisputed state of the art in
robotics. Matsugami had even volunteered to supply introductions to the
other MITI labs at Tsukuba. Everything was set.

Except now it wasn't. When she called Friday to confirm their meeting,
Dr. Matsugami advised her that some unexpected schedule conflicts had
come up. Most apologetic. Perhaps they could try again week after next.

What's more, that was her last call for the day, because immediately
afterward her hotel phone had gone dead for five hours. Management was
strangely evasive about the problem. When a temporary line was finally
installed, it had a curious whine that made conversation all but
impossible.

My luck, she thought. Japanese technology, the best in the world,
breaks down on me.

Consequently it was almost a relief to get out of town. Not the least
of reasons being Tokyo still had a hangover from all the sword
celebrations. Its streets were strewn with debris, and services
remained haphazard. As planned, she and Ken departed the next afternoon
on the Shinkansen bullet train-- first class, where the porters wear
white gloves and bow after making an announcement to the car. The only
way to travel. Finally some peace and quiet after the madness of Tokyo,
she'd told herself. It felt like the Concorde, except with legroom. She
leaned back to watch as the white peak of Mt. Fuji flashed by at a
hundred and forty miles per hour and chatted with Ken, who was sitting
next to her, glancing through some MITI memos he'd brought along.

The trip down, zipping through industrial Nagoya, had helped to settle
her mind. Kyoto. For her there was nowhere else quite like it in the
world. If you knew the byways, it could be a universe away from the
mania of Tokyo. Time to lighten up. At least she had no reason to
suspect Ken was giving her the runaround. He'd seemed genuinely
disturbed when she told him about Matsugami's polite refusal to talk.
Didn't say much: just frowned, was strangely silent for a moment, then
declared he'd make a few phone calls and check into it when there was
time.

Kenji Asano, she noticed, seemed to have a split personality: one for
her and one for the rest of the world. In public he was all Japanese,
striding ahead and ostentatiously barking opinions. But that, she knew,
was merely for appearances; he'd have been the object of silent
derision by elders if he'd displayed the slightest consideration for
his female companion. (She recalled that famous Japanese proverb: The
man who falls in love with his wife merely spoils his mother's
servant.) Okay, she told herself as she trailed along, when in Rome . .
. Japanese men need to strut and bully their women in public; it's the
only chance they get. Everybody knows the obedient little helpmate
dutifully pacing behind garnishees his paycheck and doles back whatever
she likes.

Ken's stern, traditional public face, however, was merely one of his
many personas. Alone with her he could be as Western as any Japanese
man would permit himself. For a Japanese, of course, "Western" doesn't
mean all the glad-handing bonhomie of an American; there's always an
element of reserve. Just the same, he was nothing like the typical
sexless, oblique Japanese businessman. He had a superb body, taut and
athletic, which he knew better than to bury in some cheap off-the-rack
Japanese suit. No polyester; strictly silk and finest wool. He had a
sense of style: the power look. And he really was a widower, whose wife
had died in a freak auto crash soon after their marriage.

In short, Kenji Asano was complex, not easy to categorize.

The same went for Matsuo Noda. As she and Ken were coming down on the
train, a porter had come through the car announcing "_denwa_," a call
for Dr. Asano. When he returned, he reported that Matsuo Noda needed to
make a quick trip down to the famous Shinto shrine at Ise tomorrow
morning, to review the site for the new museum Dai Nippon,
International would build to house the sword, and wanted him to come
along, a good time to discuss their mutual interests.

"He always seems to know everything that goes on." Ken smiled
wistfully. "He also 'suggested' that perhaps my visiting American
colleague would like to make the trip too."

Oh, Tam thought, why me? That's not the way Japanese executives go
about things. Women aren't part of their high-level conferences.

"I don't understand this, Ken." She'd been half dozing, but now she was
coming awake very rapidly. "Seems a little strange, don't you think?"

Asano shrugged. "He just said he'd like to meet you."

"But why? What did you tell him about me?"

"Nothing, really . . ." He glanced away.

"Curious." She was fully alert now. "Then how did he . . . ?"

"Tam, don't be naive. Matsuo Noda knows who you are, believe me." He
shot her an admiring glance. "Why are you frowning? It's true. He knows
all about your work. He practically demanded you come along. He called
you--what was it?--'that brilliant American professor.'"

"You know, something about this doesn't add up." She was having her
first experience of Matsuo Noda's long arm, and she found it
unsettling.

"Why not? Tamara, you of all people should know we Japanese have a
national tradition of honoring guests. Noda-san is old school, through
and through." He leaned back. "Besides, he's bringing somebody else
along to meet you. Could be very interesting."

"Who?"

He told her.

So here they were in the Dai Nippon limo, a stretch, with acres of room
and green tea that flowed till she thought she would burst. What was
that old line about the roomful of _zaibatsu _negotiators: the one with
the toughest bladder prevails.

Seeing Matsuo Noda in person confirmed everything she'd sensed about
him on the TV. He was a genius. Still, something about him told you
that when you sat down to cards with this man, you'd do well to cut the
deck. What really took her aback, though, was the woman alongside him,
Akira Mori.

Could be it was just her style. Tam was definitely overwhelmed. For the
trip she'd worn her softly tailored Calvin Klein suit (her only one),
in shades of pale, warm gray, and set it off with some simple, stark
silver picked up on a trip to Morocco. Perfect pitch. She looked
smashing, feminine yet all business, and Ken had told her so at least
three times. All the same she wasn't prepared for Mori's ostentatious
fashion statement.

When the DNI limo appeared at their hotel, the International, Japan's
favorite TV money guru was wearing one of her severe Rei Kawakubo
ensembles, a small ransom in gold accessories, and enough makeup for a
haute couture ramp model. It turned out she'd taped an early morning
interview show at NHK's Tokyo studios for broadcast that night, then
come down directly on the Shinkansen. She greeted Tam and Ken with
scarcely more than a frosty nod. Tam found this standoffish manner
puzzling.

On the other hand it did fit perfectly with Ken's quick morning
briefing on Noda's famous niece. Quite a story. According to him, her
father, Dr. Toshi Noda, had been a celebrated figure in years past. An
honors graduate of Tokyo University, he'd been the star mathematics
professor of Kyoto University when he was summarily conscripted by
Prime Minister Tojo to take charge of wartime cryptography, codes. Tojo
wanted the best, and he got it. Consequently mild-mannered Toshi Noda
had been one of the minds behind the famous Purple Machine, used for
Japanese ciphers during the early part of the war.

Eventually, however, the project became redundant. After a time Tojo
ceased to trust the Purple Machine and decided to replace it with that
famous Nazi invention, the Enigma Machine. (On that one, Ken had added
with a touch of irony, Toshi Noda was well vindicated. The Enigma
Machine code had already been cracked by the Allies long before Hitler--
declaring it unbreakable--delivered it to Tokyo.)

Toshi Noda resembled his older brother Matsuo physically, but he
differed radically in outlook, being a devout Buddhist and a pacifist.
After the stunning Japanese bloodbath at Saipan, which demonstrated the
war was clearly lost, he'd been one of those imprudent citizens who'd
spoken out publicly for peace. Not surprisingly, he was immediately
placed under surveillance by the Kempei Tai, Japan's secret police, and
shortly thereafter jailed.

After three months' internment he was released a broken man. A week
later he committed ritual _seppuku_, disemboweling himself for the
crime of having disgraced the family.

Toshi Noda's diaries, published posthumously and read widely in Japan,
revealed his deep repugnance for the wartime

government. He believed that Prime Minister Tojo had become, in effect,
a neo-shogun. Although the shogunate supposedly had been abolished when
Emperor Meiji took control and opened Japan in 1867, Toshi Noda saw it
restored with Tojo, another "shogun" who had come along and isolated
the country once again. Nonetheless, he'd been a man of few words. His
death poem, written only moments before he put the knife to his
stomach, was as simple and intense as his life.



_Darkness upon Yamato,

Land of the gods,

Awaits the new dawn--

Ten-no-Heika.

_

That last was a traditional phrase that, simply translated, meant "son
of heaven." For a Japanese, though, the overtones are more; they say
"the way of the emperor."

Subsequent history proved him prescient on several points--the main one
being that militarism was a disaster for Japan. Also, he had rightly
feared that the monarchy would become an empty symbol in the ruins of
Tojo's hopeless war. Although he hadn't lived to see Tojo tried and
hanged as a criminal, he had predicted the outcome of the war
unerringly--and he'd insisted that his infant daughter be evacuated to
Sasayama just before the Allies moved in for the kill. Because of his
foresight she escaped the first firebombing of Tokyo, which converted
the city into a giant death oven for eighty thousand innocent Japanese
civilians too old or young to escape. America's pragmatic "final
solution": Auschwitz with airborne incendiaries. The rest of Toshi
Noda's family was burned alive.

Afterward Matsuo Noda had complied with another of Toshi Noda's wishes
and made certain his daughter received a first-class education. Since
she had a natural instinct for economics he'd encouraged her, rightly
foreseeing it as a discipline vital to Japan in the twenty-first
century. She had excelled beyond his fondest expectations; she was in
fact brilliant. As a result he grew to dote on her, to an extent that
eventually grew almost obsessive. He'd even made her his heir, since he
had none of his own. His fortune was rumored to be in the tens of
millions.

Probably the most important thing to keep in mind about

Akira Mori, Ken had concluded, was that she merely looked _avant-
garde_. Inside she lived in another age. In fact he suspected the
reason she'd never married had something to do with the fact she was
already wed: to the vision of Japan's powerful, sacred Imperial past.

On the trip down to Ise, Mori had silently sipped her green tea while
Noda chatted with Asano about the costs and timing of commercializing
the intelligent machines that would come out of the Fifth Generation
Project. Although Noda stuck to generalities, it was clear he was
totally conversant with the latest developments in the field. In fact,
Tam found herself thinking, he seemed to know anything there was to
know about just about everything. He displayed the same obsession with
Japan's technological future that the old-time shoguns must have had
about the goings-on of their vassals.

She also sensed that he and Asano were doing a lot of their
communicating in a verbal shorthand, enough so that she began to
suspect they had worked together before: they were like father and son,
each anticipating the other's thoughts and conclusions.

By the time they reached Ise it was already late afternoon, but Noda's
driver had phoned ahead from the car and arranged rooms for the night
at the local spa, so they wouldn't have to go back late. She noticed
there hadn't been any talk about the famous Sword, but she figured
maybe he was saving that for dinner.

The museum Noda planned was to be built outside the shrine proper, just
before you crossed the wide, arched Uji Bridge spanning the Isuzu River
that separated Shinto's holy ground from the ordinary world. The shrine
itself, a collection of thatched-roof buildings in severe traditional
style, was hidden down a long trail among giant cryptomeria trees that
towered hundreds of feet into the pale afternoon sky.

Attesting to the speed with which things can happen in Japan when
there's the go-ahead from above, the location had already been staked
and the trees cleared. Excavation for the foundation merely awaited
Noda's approval. While everybody else stood around and waited, he
consulted with the site engineer, checked over the plans, and made a
few final changes. All the while, onlookers were bowing to him right
and left. He'd become, overnight, an authentic Japanese legend.

After finishing with the engineer, he suggested they stroll on down to
pay respects at the shrine itself, since they'd come all this way.
Their burly chauffeur suddenly became a bodyguard, clearing the path
ahead. Noda was expansive now, presumably confident his niche in
history was secure. As they were crossing the wooden bridge, he
casually asked Tam what she knew about the Sword.

A one-of-a-kind historical find, she replied. Important and
fascinating. She'd seen the Emperor on TV. . . .

"I assumed you would understand its significance." He was leading the
way down the path. "Perhaps then you'll indulge me a moment for an
ancient tale about it."

By now the entire shrine had been cleared of tourists and they were
surrounded only by bowing and smiling priests in white robes: the VIP
treatment. "The Imperial sword harkens back in a way to our version of
Adam and Eve. Except, according to our own creation story, they were
also the ones who created Japan; they were the original _kami_."

"The original Japanese gods."

"Well, perhaps 'god' is too strong a term, Dr. Richardson. I prefer to
think of our _kami_ as merely spirits of life." Noda shrugged, then
continued. "According to the myth, the first male and female _kami_
stirred the sea with a long spear, then lifted it, and the brine that
dropped from its tip piled up and became Japan."

She caught herself smiling. "I've always wondered what Freud would have
thought of that."

Mori glared at her in a way that suggested some offense at her
irreverence, while MIT-educated Ken merely stifled a grin. Noda,
however, took the quip in stride.

"Freud? Ah, yes, your philosopher. I seem to recall he's the one who
regarded almost everything as some manifestation of our sexual
appetite. Well, these are primitive stories, Dr. Richardson, that
describe the beginning of life. I suppose they should be somewhat
earthy, wouldn't you agree?" He chuckled. "Nonetheless, according to
our early tales, the Sun Goddess--whose shrine this is--was created out
of the left eye, the side of honor, of the first male _kami_, and the
Moon God was created out of his right. Then they ascended into the
skies."

She glanced up. The Sun Goddess appeared to be headed for bed, the sky
itself barely light through the cryptomeria. The air was beginning to
grow slightly crisp.

"Now we come to the sword. When the Sun Goddess finally sent her
grandson down to rule over the mortals below, he brought with him the
three items that became the emblems of Imperial rule. They were the
sacred mirror, signifying purity, a curved bead necklace, used to ward
off evil spirits, and the sword, standing for courage. The great
grandson of that first earthbound immortal extended his dominion over
all of Japan and became the first emperor. We are told his name was
Jimmu, and the legends say that was around 660 B.C."

"_So desu_," Miss Mori interjected abruptly, startling even Ken. She
seemed to be lecturing directly to Tam. "We all know our Emperor today
is directly descended from him. In fact, he is precisely the one
hundred and twenty-fourth emperor after Jimmu. Japan and the Imperial
line were born simultaneously, and every Japanese is related to him. We
are a monoracial state."

Tam glanced at her. By God, she wasn't kidding.

"Well, it's possible the traditional account has reworked historical
facts a trifle," Noda continued smoothly. "Actually the peoples who
became our modern Japanese seem to have made their way here to the main
island from somewhere in the South Pacific and settled in this area
around Ise. Near here we still find burial mounds that contain replicas
of their early symbols of Imperial authority--mirrors, gems, swords."

"But the sword you found? Did it really come down from on high?" Tam
asked, half hoping to rankle Akira Mori.

"You mean was it that very first one?" Noda shrugged. "Who could locate
the original Garden of Eden? Please, we all must allow for a certain
element of poetic license in our myths. But it is unquestionably the
sword referred to in the ancient chronicles such as the Heite
Monogatari, which dates from the Heian era, the ninth through twelfth
centuries. That sword was lost in 1185, and now it's been recovered.
That's all we know for sure."

Mori, walking along in her quick, Japanese-woman pace, obviously was
not satisfied with Noda's rationalist version of history.

"Dr. Richardson," she cut in again, "what the recovery of the sword has
achieved is to remind the Japanese people that we are unique. We
Japanese have a special soul, a Yamato _minzoku _of pure blood and
spiritual unity. All Japanese are related to each other and to the
Emperor, so there is a oneness of spirit, a blood-and-soul relation,
between the Emperor and his people. Yamatoists believe, rightly, that a
temporary eclipse of our Japanese _minzoku_ was brought about by the
American occupation, whose imposed constitution and educational system
were acts of racial revenge against Japan. Our postwar identity crisis,
our negative image of ourselves, was created by Americans. But that
time is over. Although we have no single God, as in the Judeo-Christian
tradition, we have something even more powerful. Through our Emperor we
have a line of descent that harkens back to the beginning of our world.
Perhaps we no longer choose to claim he is divine, but that makes him
no less an embodiment of Japan's special place."

Akira Mori, Tam suddenly realized, was a closet Yamatoist, those new
right-wing racist firebrands of modern Japan. Time to give her a little
heat.

"Surely nobody today seriously thinks the Emperor's forefather came
down from the skies?" She turned back to Noda. "You don't believe it,
do you?"

He shrugged. "Ours is a skeptical world, Dr. Richardson. Is your pope
really infallible, or did he acquire his right to be divine spokesman
by winning a small election? Nonetheless, popes and kings are like
ancient tribal leaders. Despite all our modern democracy, we still
yearn for a figure to embody our identity. For the Japanese to have an
emperor who, if only in legend, has blood kinship with the gods who
created our homeland--what could be more important?"

About that time Tam glanced up and realized they were passing under a
large _torii _gate, entryway to a place that seemingly had nothing to
do with the real world. Just beyond were the shrines, reminding her
somewhat of a sanitized tropical village as imagined by Hollywood. Each
of the cypress-wood buildings, set above the ground on stilts, was
architecture at its most primal, a study in simplicity. Their polished
wood was untouched by a speck of paint, while the foot-thick blanket of
woven straw comprising their roofs had a creamy texture that looked
like cheesecake. There was nothing in the world to compare.

What really made them unique, though, was something else entirely.
Although the shrines were merely straw and natural wood, possessing
none of the centuries-old authority of the cathedrals of Europe, in a
curious way they were actually

older, for they had been rebuilt anew every twenty years since time
immemorial.

Suddenly the real significance of that struck her. What other people
had kept alive such a powerful symbol of their common heritage for
centuries and centuries? Westerners had difficulty grasping the
continuity this shrine represented. Little wonder Noda could galvanize
his clan with some powerful new reminder of who they were. Shinto
wasn't a religion; there were few rules and no payoff in the sky.
Instead it was the mortar binding a race.

"The main shrines over there," he continued, pointing to a collection
of buildings in an area enclosed by a high wooden fence, "are off
limits to all save the Emperor himself and certain of the priests. That
ground is the sacred link between our Emperor living now and those of
times past. Even photographs are forbidden."

Tam noticed that many of the gables of the buildings were tipped in
gold, burning amber when an occasional shaft of late sunlight reflected
off them. Dusk was starting to settle in, and the evening birds and
crickets had begun to add their eerie sound effects. She found herself
deeply touched. What was it about the place that inspired such
reverence? Was it the serenity? The purity?

Yes, this Shinto holy of holies possessed a secret power, the
unassailable strength of nature. It moved her; how could it not?
Somewhere inside she felt envy of them all, felt a yearning to share
their absolute sense of' who they were.

While she reflected on that, surrounded by the white gravel and golden
woods, she found herself looking anew at Ken. Being here with him at
Ise made her question once again whether in his world, his austere yet
deeply passionate world, she could never be anything but a _gaijin_, an
outsider.



CHAPTER TEN


It was almost dark when they reached the spa, one of those vast
Japanese resort hotels catering to the middle class. It had a fake-
traditional exterior and hundreds of rooms inside, as though the Temple
of the Golden Pavilion had somehow been hollowed out and enlarged to
encompass a health club. Strangely, though, it had been completely
cleared, guests sent on their way; it was totally, absolutely empty.
The parking lot was cordoned off, and gardeners were busily clipping
and manicuring the grounds. Tam was impressed. Dai Nippon must have
plenty of clout, she told herself, to be able to commandeer an entire
hotel.

The manager came out to meet Noda, deferentially bowing and sucking in
his breath, after which their few bags were summarily swept away. When
Noda returned he said nothing, merely smiled and suggested they all
retire to the big public baths on the lower level. Since the hotel was
a vacation retreat, the basement was almost entirely devoted to the one
universal love of the Japanese public--scalding water.

Down they went through the concrete hallways, attendants and staff
bobbing. The sauna-like baths, like the hotel, seemed to be theirs
alone. While Noda and Ken retired to the men's section down the
corridor, Tam and Mori entered the women's side, a cavernous tile-
floored room with a steaming pool at one end. Local women in white
head-kerchiefs immediately appeared and began to fuss over their
guests, scrubbing and rinsing them while praising the famous Noda-sama.
Then, as Mori's towel dropped away, Tam looked her over.

Good figure. She had always believed that, judged by Western standards,
Japanese women tended to be somewhat flat-chested and to have shortish
calves, characteristics the high-waisted kimono was well designed to
disguise--which also explained why a Western woman wearing one could
easily look like a buxom stork. Mori, however, had a lithe, well-
proportioned shape, and her breasts were positively generous.

The intimacy of the bath didn't noticeably humanize her however. While
they soaked and steamed, she volunteered nothing beyond a few routine
pleasantries. No more tirades about Yamatoism and American treachery,
but no informal talk either. After a polite interval Tam excused
herself to go upstairs to her room and freshen up for dinner. Mori's
agenda clearly differed from Noda's; this woman, she concluded, had a
game plan all her own. But what?

Not long afterward she heard Ken tapping lightly on the door. Just as
she'd hoped. After the hot, steamy bath, he couldn't have been more
welcome. In fact she took one look at him, pristine and elegant in his
blue silk _yukata_, and briefly considered undressing him right there
in the doorway--with her teeth.

He was a wonderful lover, by turns gentle and forceful, as though their
being together was some exquisite ceremony. Their lovemaking always had
a particularly Japanese quality, a heightened appreciation of the
erotic, derived no doubt from a tradition that values subtlety and
sensual satisfaction. Afterward they shared a brief soak in the little
redwood tub there in her room, then he headed down the hall to change.

Well, she told herself, coming down to Ise has been well worth the
trip. Matsuo Noda is definitely eccentric, but all the same he's a
Renaissance man by any gauge. Still, why did he want to meet me? Just
to tell me ancient fables? No, that's some kind of prelude. The real
theme is yet to be announced.

As she started putting her hair up in some quick curlers to try and
recover from the steam, she pushed aside her misgivings. Although she
only had the suit she'd worn down, intended for business, she decided
it didn't matter. Surely tonight would be informal.

She was just finishing up with her hair when she heard a frantic
pounding on the door. Very un-Japanese. Puzzling, she cracked it open.

Ken was standing there, no slippers, still in his _yukata_, which he
hadn't bothered to tie, all the color gone from his face. Behind him
were two uniformed hotel maids, bearing what was surely the most
gorgeous kimono she had ever seen, heavy silk with a hand-painted
landscape, edged in gold brocade.

"Tamara, I had no idea, honestly. Noda-sama only found out when we got
here, and he couldn't say anything. It was all top secret, heavy
security. They only just arrived a few minutes ago, and he's asked Noda
to dine with him." He paused for breath. "We're invited too."

"Who's just arrived?"

Asano was so nonplussed he didn't hear her. "Apparently he wanted to
review the site plans personally, tomorrow, to see where the museum
will be. I hear the Imperial Household was set against it, but he
insisted."

"Who, for God's sake?" The impossible answer was rapidly dawning.

Abruptly he paused, embarrassed by his own mental disarray.

"His Majesty. Tam, we're about to meet the Emperor of Japan."

In marched the bowing maids, lots of long-vowel honorifics--they
apparently assumed the honorable Richardson-san must be America's First
Lady--and took over.

Tam knew full well that donning a formal kimono was no small
undertaking, but she'd forgotten what a major task it really could be.
First came the undergarments: cotton vest and silk under-kimono,
secured twice, once with a cord and then with an under-sash. Next was
the kimono itself, right side folded under the left and then bound at
the waist with a cord, the excess length being pulled up and folded
over so that the hem just cleared the toes. That fold was in turn
secured by another waist cord, after which came yet another under-sash.
Now it was ready for the all-important outer sash, the _obi_, a heavy
silk strip wound around the waist twice, cinched hard, and knotted at
the back, long end up, short end down. Then the long end was folded
into a sort of cloth _origami_, this one a butterfly, after which it
was rolled into a makeshift tube, into which the short end was stuffed.
Finally this _obi _sculpture was secured with yet another waist cord,
knotted in front.

It was all done with minute precision, including the rakish display of
a prescribed few millimeters of silk under kimono at the neck, an
erotic touch for traditionalists. Finally she put on special _tabi_
stockings, bifurcated at the big toe to accommodate her thonged
slippers.

Then they attacked her hair, brushing, spraying, adding

ornaments. The makeover took a good three quarters of an hour and even
so it was a rush job.

As the sashes and cords and cinches got ever tighter and more
suffocating, she remembered what wearing a kimono can do to your
psyche. The _obi _seemed designed to demolish breasts, the multiple
waist sashes and cords to totally immobilize the torso from rib cage to
thigh. When Ken finally escorted her onto the elevator she felt like a
walking mummy . . . this, she remembered, is why a lifelong kimono
wearer minces along in short, pigeon-toed steps that suggest she's been
shackled at the knees.

Downstairs the kitchen had been placed on war footing, and what awaited
when they entered the _tatami _banquet room was the tableau for a full-
scale feast. The lacquer table was dotted with delicate rice-straw
mats, on which was marshaled an array of ancient stoneware plates and
cups--rugged black Raku, creamy white Shino, green-tipped Oribe. The
_kakemono _picture-scroll hanging in the _tokonoma_ was a severe
monochrome landscape in the angular ink style of the great master
Sesshu. Was it authentic? she wondered. Where'd they get it?

After a few minutes' wait the stately man she'd first seen on TV
appeared in the doorway and began removing his shoes, surprisingly
relaxed and informal despite the Household guards standing just outside
for security. While everybody bowed to the floor, he greeted Noda--
apparently they'd met when Noda presented the sword--and exchanged a few
pleasantries. His speech was now ordinary Japanese, not the archaic
court dialect of the news conference. This was the real man. Noda bowed
politely from time to time, then turned and introduced his party.

The Emperor of Japan, Tam noticed, seemed to have an eye for the
ladies. When her turn came, he was all easy smiles, saying something
about how pleasant it was to meet such a charming American, since he
rarely had the honor. He then complimented her kimono.

After that, His Majesty took the place of highest status, his back to
the _tokonoma_ alcove (traditionally the safest spot to be, since it
was the one location in a room sure to be backed by a solid wall), and
motioned for Noda to sit next to him on the left, the second-highest
place of honor.

Then he nodded toward Tam, calling her his honorable foreign guest, and
asked if she would indulge him by sitting on

his right. She bowed back and took her place. Mori, whose own kimono
was a pattern of delicately shaded autumn leaves, was seated alongside
Noda, while Ken was placed next to Tam. As he was settling everybody,
an important ritual of prestige, the Emperor kept repeating how
delighted he was to meet a real American--his exposure to the outside
world these days apparently consisted mainly of television.

He started things off by toasting Dai Nippon, International with a
saucer of sake, after which he asked Noda to repeat for him again
exactly how the sword had been recovered. Since his late father had
been an ardent marine biologist, he loved the part about the
computerized magnetometer and pressed for all the details.

Finally the banquet got underway, course after course of a little
sliver of local seafood and an ornamental portion of seasonal
vegetable, everything on some unexpected serving piece. It was a feast
of sight as much as taste. A delicacy called _mukozuke _came in a black
lacquer bowl, _hassun_ on a bamboo tray, _hashiarai _in a brown Raku
cup, _konomono _in a weathered earthen dish, _yakimono_ on a gray Oribe
platter tipped with green. The sake pot was cast-iron, sixteenth-
century, with a pale turquoise porcelain top. They all drank from
saucers of crusty white Shino ware--the Emperor's tipped in gold.

By then Tam's legs had begun to ache. She knew that sitting in formal
Japanese style, on the heels, can eventually induce what seems like
semi-paralysis of the lower extremities. As she glanced around, she
decided that only Ken, who'd told her he was accustomed to kneeling
traditional style for hours practicing the tea ceremony, actually
seemed comfortable.

Finally the table was cleared for the famous specialty of the spa,
which His Majesty had specifically requested. It was an ornate
_yosenabe_, a lusty Japanese bouillabaisse of artfully sculptured
components, each of which signified some episode in the fateful battle
of Dan-no-ura--in fact, the very engagement in which the sword was lost.
That was eight hundred years ago, Tam reminded herself, yet you'd think
it was only last week.

They were just concluding the meal with the traditional serving of
_gohan_ or rice when the manager of the spa entered and announced that
their special entertainer was now ready. He apologized that, although
he could offer nothing truly worthy of His Majesty, his humble spa had
brought from Kyoto a performer he hoped would not be judged too
harshly. He then ordered more sake sent in.

Although drinking more sake after a banquet's closing round of _gohan_
is normally judged impolite, His Majesty just smiled and thanked their
flustered host. Around went the small flagons once more, maids scraping
the _tatami _with their foreheads as they refilled the Emperor's gold-
trimmed saucer.

Then the _fusuma_ parted and the evening's surprise swept into the
room, wearing an austere autumn kimono of finest silk and holding a
_shamisen_, a three-stringed instrument with a cat-skin face and gold
fittings. Her lips were vermilion, her lacquered wig coal-black, her
face chalk. As she bowed low before His Majesty, only one visage in the
room was paler than hers.

She was, Ken whispered to Tam with great delight, none other than
Matsuo Noda's former "protégée," Koriko.

After she had bowed low before the Emperor, she greeted the president
and CEO of Dai Nippon as though he were merely another guest. He nodded
and mumbled back a reply both curt and incomprehensible. Next she
tossed a mildly flirtatious acknowledgment to Ken, who returned her
wink and toasted her with his sake saucer.

That ended the formalities, since she treated the women in the room as
though they were composed of thin air. Their presence violated all
tradition, an embarrassment that could be papered over, Japanese style,
simply by pretending they didn't exist. Tam could have cared less,
while the pained face of Akira Mori indicated she was positively
relieved.

Koriko took immediate command of the room with an easy poise that
confirmed her professionalism. Tam guessed she was pushing forty but
knew that aficionados of geisha prefer talent over youth. Using a large
ivory plectrum, Koriko strummed her _shamisen_ twice, its wound-silk
strings piercing and whiny, then began a high-pitched song from her
ancient repertoire. Tam couldn't follow the words and doubted if
anybody else could either. However, she knew it was the convention that
counted. Then at a dramatic moment two more geisha entered with a
flourish and began a classical dance, all fans and rustling silk. It
was a stunning floor show for those who appreciate slow-motion poses
and flirtatiously exposed napes of neck. Between dances Koriko urged
more sake on the men, joked with His Majesty and with Ken, and induced
them both to sing a racy song. Noda, who sat there glaring, was
diplomatically ignored.

For her own part, Tam was finding this traditional "geisha party"
extremely juvenile and silly. Was this what supposedly intelligent
Japanese businessmen consider the height of refined amusement, all this
fake flattery and cajoling, mixed with not a few ribald double
entendres? How depressing.

After a few more songs and dances Koriko and her ensemble began
preparing to depart, whereupon His Majesty presented her with a small
gift, or perhaps an honorarium, wrapped in gold paper and tied with an
elaborate purple bow. In keeping with etiquette she didn't open it,
merely thanked him graciously and tucked it into her obi. She then
caressed the ivory pegs of her shamisen with reverence, saying she
would treasure it forever as the unworthy instrument that had solaced
the ears of His Imperial Majesty.

With a final bow to Noda, never hinting she knew him, she backed out
the door and was gone, followed by the others. His look of relief
reminded Tam of a man who'd just walked away from a collapsing
building.

Whatever may have been Tam's, or Matsuo Noda's, secret thoughts about
Koriko, the Emperor clearly had had a rollicking time. Presumably he
didn't have all that many occasions to flirt with geisha. Now slightly
the worse for sake, he began to wax pensive, turning to his American
guest and offering to provide an account of the battle of Dan-no-ura.
It was a definite switch of mood, but Koriko's traditional songs seemed
to have struck a nostalgic nerve. Or perhaps the sword had brought him
a new enthusiasm for the past he wanted to share. As he started
recounting the battle, Tam smiled to think it was like having the Queen
herself brief you on that family squabble of yesteryear called the War
of the Roses.

"That battle, Richardson-san, between the Heike and Genji clans, was a
turning point in the long history of our country; it represented the
rise to power of the warriors. The shogunate." He smiled politely. "I'm
afraid the monarchy never quite recovered.

"In fact, today the crabs in the Inland Sea have a mark on the back of
their shells that people say is like the insignia of the Heike, that
they represent the fallen banners of the Heike nobles." He paused while
a maid topped off his tiny cup with more hot sake. "I suppose you've
seen them?"

"_Hai, miraremashita_." Of course, she nodded, stretching

out her vowels to maximum politeness. She wasn't sure she had actually,
but this was no time to appear like a dumb _gaijin_.

"Well, after many years of fighting, the Heike nobles and the boy
emperor they were defending fled to an island across the Inland Sea.
But the Genji forces pursued them and eventually they were forced to
take to their boats once more. Finally the battle was joined. Since the
Heike were experienced sailors, they assumed they would prevail in a
naval encounter, and thus their commander unwisely elected to make his
stand in the straits, where the riptide was as quick and treacherous
then as it is today. At first he had the tide in his favor and they
held the enemy, but around noon the tide changed and was against them.
Gradually the forces of the Genji surrounded the ship bearing the
emperor and the court."

His voice faltered slightly, and she realized the story was still as
fresh for him as if it had happened yesterday. Finally he continued.

"As the sad story is told in the Heike Monogatari, the court nobles saw
a school of dolphins coming toward them. They said, 'If these turn
back, the Genji will be destroyed and we will triumph. If they proceed,
it will be a bad omen.' When the dolphins continued on, even diving
under their ships, the Heike realized they were lost. And sure enough,
at that moment the Genji ships began closing in.

"Now the tragic part. The nurse of the boy emperor-- Antoku was only
eight--resolved what she would do. She donned a double outer dress of
dark gray, the color of mourning, tucked up the long skirts of her
heavy silk _hakama _robe, and wrapped the sacred sword in her girdle.
Then, taking young Antoku in her arms, she moved to the gunwale of the
vessel and looked down at the waves. Finally she said to the men of the
court, Though I am only a woman, I will not surrender myself to our
enemies. I will accompany our Sovereign Emperor on his journey.'

"At that moment little Antoku looked up, his long black hair streaming
down his back, and asked, 'Where are you taking me?'

"Tears began to flow down her cheeks. She said to him, 'Bow to the east
and bid your farewell to the Great Shrine at Ise. Our capital will no
longer be Kyoto but a place beneath the seas, where there is no
sorrow.'

"So the young Antoku, his white robes the color of the

dove, bowed east to Ise--whereupon the nurse, holding him in one arm and
the sacred sword in the other, leapt into the waves.

"Next, another woman tried to jump overboard with the casket holding
the sacred mirror, but an arrow pinned her _hakama_ to the gunwales,
and the Genji soldiers retrieved it. All we know of what happened next
is the dispatch they sent back to the new rulers in Kyoto, which
declared, 'The former emperor is at the bottom of the sea, and the
sacred mirror has been recovered. But the sword is lost and a search is
being made.'" He turned and nodded toward Noda. "Only tonight, eight
centuries later, can the rest be told. At last, the sword has been
restored to Us."

Noda bowed low and offered a toast to the Imperial line.

It was then that Akira Mori first spoke. Although she addressed her
words to Tam, they were obviously meant for His Majesty. "Richardson-
san, recovering the sword is a more important historical event than
many realize. Its loss coincided with the end of Imperial power in
Japan. After that, the emperor became a figurehead, a captive of the
shoguns." She shot a quick glance at Noda. "If the sword means nothing
else, it should remind us all that no shogun must ever be allowed to
rise again."

What's she driving at? Tam wondered.

"Of course." His Majesty took up the theme. "Although there was a time
in this century when the militarists once again made a tool of the
emperor of Japan, I agree it was wrong." He looked at Mori with
admiration. "The respect your words show for the Imperial house of
Yamato touches me deeply."

While she bowed in acknowledgment, he turned to Noda. "In the same
manner, Noda-san, Japan's important place in the modern world brings
special respect to Us as well. For that We must thank you and all those
helping to fashion the new Japan,"

Tam watched Noda, puzzling. Something was going on, some kind of coded
cross-talk she didn't fully comprehend. Shogun. Emperor. What was
everybody's unspoken agenda?

At that point His Majesty rose unsteadily and announced he had a heavy
day ahead, whereupon he summarily bade everyone good evening and
exited, Imperial Household guards in attendance. Tam noticed that Mori
watched his departure with a wistful . . . worshipful, gaze.

After he was gone, a reverent stillness settled around them. Even Ken,
normally talkative, was subdued. What's going on here? she puzzled. One
thing was sure: Japan was like a magical onion, with layers to be
peeled away slowly. Each time you learn something new, yet you never
really get to the core.

When the last dishes had been cleared and nothing remained on their low
table except fresh kettles of sake, Noda leaned back and broke the
silence. She realized he was speaking to her. Matsuo Noda, it quickly
came to light, was fully familiar with her books.

But that was merely the beginning. Next, Akira Mori, who'd been quietly
waiting her turn, joined in.

"Were you moved by the story of the nurse who threw herself into the
waves, Richardson-san? The one who sacrificed her own life to honor her
ideals?"

"It was a very touching account." Tam looked at her, surprised by the
sudden friendliness. "I understand even more now why everybody's so
excited about the sword."

"Presumably you know," Mori continued evenly, "that the young emperor's
nurse was undoubtedly Fujiwara. Perhaps of low rank, but nonetheless a
member of the family that historically has been closest to the throne."

"Of course, the Fujiwara were always Imperial retainers--"

"Have you taken no interest in that family?" Mori continued, her face
still revealing nothing.

"I . . . no, not really?" Tam studied her.

"Perhaps you should, Dr. Richardson." She switched to flawless English.
"Are you aware that your own mother was Fujiwara? In fact, it is
possible that in your veins runs the same blood as the nurse who gave
her life for the emperor that April day eight hundred years ago."

Tam felt a numbness sweep over her. She'd never thought much about her
real mother, or father. Naturally there would have been no way of
tracing him, at least none she knew. But of course there'd be full
records of the woman who bore her, then put her up for adoption. For
some reason Mori--or was it Noda himself?--had had them looked up. They'd
uncovered something about her that she herself had never wanted, for
well-examined reasons, to explore. Her adoptive parents had been all
anybody could desire. Why stir up unknowns? Besides, she believed in
nurture, not nature.

"You both seem to know a great many things about me."

Her glance shifted back and forth between them. She was surprised, yes,
but if they'd assumed she'd be stunned, they were wrong. She'd decided
long ago not to let herself care.

"Although your true mother no longer lives, you are most certainly
Fujiwara," Mori went on. "You have blood ties with the family that once
stood ready to give its life for the emperor. Therefore you may even
have a connection with the sword itself."

Noda moved in. "We also believe, Dr. Richardson, that you, because of
your work, could have a vital role in the endeavor Dai Nippon will soon
undertake. That is the reason we want to speak with you tonight."

At last, Tam thought. I'm finally going to find out why Matsuo Noda
"accidentally" happened to ask me along.

"I've been waiting to hear this."

Since the _fusuma _sliding doors were drawn closed, shutting out the
serving women, Noda breached conventional etiquette and reached across
the table to pour more sake into Tam's tiny Shino dish himself. Ken
merely looked on silently as Mori took up Noda's theme.

"We would like you to be part of something that would do honor to your
Fujiwara heritage, Dr. Richardson, the noble family that so long served
the emperor."

"I may or may not be Fujiwara, Mori-san, but I already have my work."

"Dr. Richardson, do hear us out," Noda interjected, pressing. "We wish
to advise you that important, even potentially disruptive events, lie
ahead for America. Very soon. And we would like very much for someone
such as yourself, a pragmatist, to be involved. Especially since, in
addition to your professional skills, you are in a position to
understand the cultures, the attitudes, of both Americans and Japanese.
Your assistance could be invaluable."

"Invaluable for what purpose?"

"A worthy undertaking, we assure you. Think of it if you will as an
attempt to prevent Japan and the West from going to war with each other
again."

She looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to fathom
what they were driving at. Then Noda continued, revealing again that
nothing had happened by chance.

"We brought you here today to Ise to remind you of the importance of
your Japanese heritage. A heritage whose sole

purpose is, like Shinto itself, the peace and ordering of the world."

"What's this all about?" She looked at Ken, in a black silk kimono,
serenely sipping his sake and looking the essence of cultivated,
tantalizing otherness. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

He carefully set down his Shino dish and smoothed his long sleeve. "I
did have occasion to remind Noda-sama that you have a unique
combination of background and expertise, Tamara, that could be very
instrumental in the realization of his objectives."

"And what are his objectives?" She looked back at Noda. "Your
objectives?"

"You, Dr. Richardson, should appreciate this better than anyone." He
studied his sake saucer. "There are things the West excels at doing,
and there are areas, I trust it is not improper to say, in which we
Japanese have demonstrated aptitude. Why should we compete in each
other's spheres? It leads only to divisiveness. We open ourselves to
predators-- from the steppes of the Caucasus to the oil-rich deserts of
Araby. But if we join together, the peoples of Japan and America can
achieve insurmountable strength."

"You're talking about something that would more properly be in the
realm of diplomacy, Noda-san."

He laughed. "Pardon me, Dr. Richardson, but diplomacy is merely the
window dressing for reality. The world cares not a penny for diplomacy,
only for power. No one troubled about the Persian Gulf states until
they had OPEC and the rest of us had no petroleum. Then suddenly they
were toasted worldwide as men of great moment. That is the meaning of
'diplomacy.'

"The reason I knew you would understand the importance of Ise," he went
on, "is that, in your genes, you are part of us. You appreciate the
value of harmony, one of the first teachings of our philosophy. There
must be harmony between man and his world."

"What does that--?"

"Please, just allow me to finish. In like manner, there must also be
harmony between nations. Yet all we hear about today is friction.
Usually trade friction. Between our nations. But what can be done? The
solutions we hear talked of seem, for reasons political and otherwise,
impossible to implement. So what course does that leave? You speak of
diplomacy, but already diplomacy has been shown inadequate. Why, we
might ask, is that so? Because, as your Thomas Jefferson observed many
years ago, money is the principal exchange of civilized nations.
Diplomacy comes out of economic power. It was trade that estranged our
two nations once before in this century, leading to a conflict neither
of us desired, and it is money that creates these 'frictions' we hear
about so much today. Since diplomacy has failed, we must now find other
means to bring stability and thus harmony to both our nations."

She was tempted to ask him how all the right-wing, nationalistic fervor
he was churning up with the sword would contribute to this so-called
harmony, but instead she inquired what, specifically, he was proposing.

"The most pressing problem America has today, Dr. Richardson, is the
growing inability of your industries to compete. If I may be allowed to
generalize: America's strength has long been in innovation, but I think
it is reasonable to suggest that Japanese management has had a
commensurate share of success. So much so that we have been the subject
of a flurry of books in your country." He smiled. "Even, I should add,
several very insightful volumes written by you yourself. Also, Japanese
industry has already been part of a number of joint ventures,
instituting our management techniques in the service of America's
business."

"Well, unquestionably we do have problems in our industrial sector just
now," Tam interjected. "But Japan has plenty of difficulties of its
own."

"Most assuredly." He nodded. "However, as some might put it, 'the proof
is in the pudding.' I merely ask you to compare your, and our, balance
of trade, or productivity. Surely these both suggest there is truth in
what I say."

At that point Akira Mori abruptly seized the floor. "You know, Dr.
Richardson, there are those in your country who are now saying your
trade problems are caused by Japan. That we should work less, save
less, squander more, just as you do. Perhaps so we will self-destruct
economically as America is now doing and no longer be an embarrassment
to you."

"That is hardly--" Noda tried to break in, but she waved him aside.

"No, this needs to be said. I am tired of hearing Americans tell us to
follow their example." She turned back. "Your media

chastise us for our thrift and hard work, while your businessmen, who
are happy enough to grow rich retailing the superior goods we make,
refuse to invest their profits in modernizing their own factories.
Instead they give themselves bonuses and Japan lectures."

At that she wound down, to the obvious relief of Noda and Ken. The
outburst seemed to pass as quickly as it had come, but it succeeded in
reinforcing Tarn's reservations about Akira Mori.

"So what exactly do you have in mind?" She looked back at Noda.

"Dr. Richardson, no one in Japan desires to see America's industrial
base disintegrate. That is dangerous for the future, both yours and
ours. Yet joint ventures and management seminars are too little, too
late. We, and by 'we' I mean Dai Nippon, are determined to make a more
structured contribution."

As he laid out his plan, she realized that Matsuo Noda had decided to
play God. Still, in this world such things were possible; all it took
was enough financial clout. If anybody doubted that, just remember
OPEC.

But that was the last time around. Now Japan had the money. Maybe the
oil billionaires of years past had no good idea what to do with their
winnings, but Matsuo Noda had a very precise idea indeed.

The one remaining problem: he needed Tamara Richardson.



CHAPTER ELEVEN


In the aftermath of that evening down in Ise, Tam was convinced of only
one fact. Nobody was giving her the straight story. Not Noda, not Mori,
not Ken. And when she tried to talk supercomputers with MITI officials
at the Kyoto conference.

she again sensed she was hearing a runaround. Suddenly all she could
get was Japan's public face, that version of reality Japanese
executives call _tatemae_, superficial and soothing assurances,
intended to promote the _wa_, harmony, so desirable in human affairs.
When Japan doesn't care to give answers, _hai_ no longer translates as
"yes." It just means "I heard you."

Even more troublesome was the question of Ken. As best she could tell,
he was merely a reluctant accomplice in Noda's grand design. But why
was he going along with Dai Nippon if he was as apprehensive as he
seemed? Ken, she concluded, knew a lot more about Matsuo Noda than he
was saying.

So instead of giving them all an answer outright, she decided to spend
a few days analyzing what she'd managed to piece together so far. As
Noda had couched his proposition, it was simple: he was offering her a
chance to do more than merely write prescriptions for America's
economic recovery. She would guide it.

One thing, Matsuo Noda was no proponent of half measures. The way he
laid out his scenario, it was visionary . . . no, revolutionary. After
thinking over his proposal for a week, she still wasn't sure whether he
was brilliant or a megalomaniac. Dai Nippon's program could conceivably
change the course of world history, and the prospect of being at the
helm of its juggernaut was seductive. All the same, what if Ken's hints
were right? What if Noda did have something much grander in mind,
something impossible even to imagine. When you ride the whirlwind,
who's really in charge?

In between her visits to the conference she spent some time at DNI's
Kyoto offices getting acquainted with Noda's operation--the computers,
fiber-optic links, analysts. Very impressive. Although Dai Nippon was
technically only a shell corporation, all Matsuo Noda had to do was
pick up a phone to have at his disposal the expertise of any one of a
hundred Japanese corporate brain trusts. Half of Japan's new high-tech
movers, it seemed, owed him some kind of "obligation." Given that, and
all the money, he could well be unstoppable.

Also, the austerity of Dai Nippon's offices reminded her once again
that none of Japan's new power was accidental. The discipline of the
samurai. It was almost as though this country had been in training for
centuries, toughening itself through self-denial and work-as-duty to be
ready for an all-out economic blitz. Now, finally, Japan had an edge on
the entire world. More technology and more money.

Was Noda about to just give away that edge? The implausibility made her
certain something was missing.

Late that Friday, the conference over, she and Ken packed their bags
and checked out of the International. But after they'd shoved their way
through the usual pandemonium in the lobby and hailed a cab, he gave
the driver the name of a place on Shinmonzen Street, the antique
district. Not the train station. When she tried to correct him, he
waved his hand and said he'd arranged for a surprise.

"Tam, the International always leaves a bad taste in my mouth. It has
nothing to do with Japan. It could be anywhere, just like some Hilton
next to a freeway." He smiled and lightly patted her hand. "Let's not
go back to Tokyo just yet. Please. This weekend let's stay at a place
where nothing will exist but you and me, not even time."

"Just turn off the clocks?" Sounded like a great idea.

"Well, now and then it's nice to turn them down a bit, don't you
think?" He laughed self-consciously. "That's a contradiction about me
you'll someday have to get used to. I like a high-tech office, but when
I'm away I prefer to be surrounded by things that are very, very old."
He leaned back. "Indulge me. Let me show you my favorite spot in all of
Kyoto. A place time forgot."

This is going to be quite a trick, she told herself. Very little was
left from years past. Maybe the city hadn't been bombed out during the
war, but the blitz of urban renewal was rapidly accomplishing much the
same result. Through the light of dusk, construction cranes loomed
above the few remaining thatched roofs of neighborhoods about to be
overwhelmed by steel, glass, cinderblock.

Kenji Asano, it turned out, deplored this immensely. As they rode
along, he pointed out the latest construction sites with the sorrow of
a man documenting the end of civilization.

"This, we hear, is the price of progress. I'm always tempted to ask,
progress toward what?" He leaned back with a sigh and lit a Peace
cigarette, nonfilter. "Someday I think we may have to ask ourselves if
this modern world we've created for ourselves was actually worth the
toll it's taken on our sensibilities."

Eventually their taxi pulled into a narrow side street, edging past a
few women carrying small bundles of groceries bound in scarves, then
easing to a stop before the ramshackle bamboo gates of a place that
seemed abandoned to foliage and vines.

The driver helped carry their bags in through the gates and up the
rocky, hedge-lined pathway leading to a wooden veranda. Ahead was a
thatch-roofed, weathered house shrouded by towering elms. As they
approached, an elderly woman in a dark kimono emerged from the recesses
of the interior. She sang out a welcome, bowed deeply, and produced two
pairs of leather slippers with an air of ritual solemnity. They were
expected.

Off went the street shoes, on went the slippers as they melted into a
world that would have been perfectly natural four centuries ago. When
they passed the "lobby"--off to the side, _tatami_-floored, with a few
ancient screens scattered about--Tam noticed that there appeared to be
no "desk." But there was also no "check in"; the proprietress clearly
knew the honorable Asano-san. She also must have known he was with
MITI, since her honorifics soared into the upper reaches of politeness
as she guided them along the interior hallway.

Tam realized they were in a traditional Japanese inn, a _ryokan_,
surely the last vestige of classical Japan. As they moved out onto
another veranda, this one circling a central garden and pond, the place
appeared to be totally empty. The woodland vista in the center hinted
of infinity, with stone paths and a wide pool dotted with shapely
rocks. Although there were a dozen or so closed doors along the wooden
platform, the inn seemed to be there solely for them. In the cool dusk
clumps of willows across the pond masked the view of the other side,
furthering the illusion that they had the place all to themselves. It
couldn't be true, though, since chambermaids in kimono darted here and
there balancing lacquered dinner trays.

When they reached the end of the veranda, their hostess paused before a
set of _shoji _screens, knelt, and pushed aside the rice-paper covered
frames to reveal a room entirely bare except for a low lacquer table.
Well, not quite: on the back wall was the traditional picture alcove,
_tokonoma_, in which a seventeenth-century ink-wash scroll hung above a
weathered vase holding three spare blossoms. Their room had no keys, no
clocks, no television. It was a cocoon for the spirit, a place of
textured woods, crisp _tatami_, lacquer, and rice-paper.

The woman deposited their bags on the black-bordered _tatami_,
consulted briefly with Ken concerning dinner, then backed, bowing, out
of the room, leaving them alone together in another time.

"Ken, this is perfect. I needed someplace like this."

"We both did." He embraced her. "They're running our tub now. Afterward
I have another surprise for you."

"What?"

"Allow me some mystery."

Whatever he had planned, she couldn't wait to throw off her clothes,
don a loose cotton yukata robe, and pad with him down to the little
wood-lined room where their steaming bath awaited. The floor was red
tile, the walls scented Chinese black pine, the massive tub cedar with
rivulets of steam escaping through cracks in its cypress cover.

While they perched on little stools beside the tub, he soaped her back,
occasionally dousing her with the bucket of lukewarm water. Then she
did the same for him, watching half mesmerized as the soapy bubbles
flowed off his shoulders, broad and strong. Almost like an athlete's.
Finally they climbed in, and amidst the cloud of vapor her last
remaining tensions melted away.

"You know, I think of you every time I come to Kyoto, wanting to lure
you back." He reached for the brush and began to gently massage her
neck. "I honestly never dreamed Matsuo Noda would come along and try to
hire you." He paused. "I wish I could help you make your decision. But
the most I can do is warn you to be careful."

What are you telling me? she wondered.

"Ken, you seem troubled about something. What is it?"

"Tamara, powerful forces are at play here, beyond the control of either
of us. Things may not always be what they seem. Just be aware of that.
But please don't ask me any more. Just look out for yourself."

"I've had a lifetime of looking out for myself. I can handle Matsuo
Noda."

"Just don't ever underestimate him. He's not like anyone you've ever
known before. The man is pure genius, probably the most visionary,
powerful mind in the history of this country. You've met your match."

"That remains to be seen." She leaned back. Ken was challenging her
now. On purpose? Maybe he figured that was

the only bait she would rise to. He wanted her to play along with Noda,
but he wouldn't tell her why.

After they'd simmered to medium rare, heading for well done, they
climbed out, toweled each other off, slipped back into their yukatas
once again, and glided back to the room. She noticed that an interior
screen had been pushed aside, opening onto another _tatami_ room where
a thin futon mattress had already been unrolled and prepared with white
sheets and a thick brocade coverlet. Hot tea waited on their little
lacquer table, but their bags had disappeared. She checked behind a
pair of sliding doors and saw that all her things had been neatly
shelved by some invisible caretaker. Even the clothes she'd been
wearing were already hung in the closet.

"Now for my surprise." He was slipping on a black silk kimono. "They
have a special little garden here that only a few people know about.
I've arranged everything."

"Shouldn't I change too for whatever it is we're doing?"

"Theoretically, yes. But formality doesn't suit you." He cinched his
_obi_. "Come on. You can be formally informal."

He led the way to the end of the veranda where they each put on the
wooden clogs that were waiting. Then they passed through a bamboo gate
into yet another landscape, this one lit by candles set in stone
lanterns. At the back stood a small one-room structure of thatch, reed,
and unfinished wood. A teahouse.

"Tam, can you sit here for a second, in the waiting shelter?" He
indicated a bench just inside the gate under a thatch overhang. "I'll
only need a few minutes to prepare."

Off he went, clogs clicking along a string of stones nestled in among
the mossy floor of the garden. He was following the _roji_, the "dewy
path" that led to the teahouse half hidden among the trees at the back.

Unlike the _ryokan' s _larger garden, this one had no water; it was
meant to recall a mountain walk. The space was small, with natural
trees, offering no illusion of being more than it was. But it was a
classic setting for tea, a kind of deliberate "poverty." While she
watched the flickering stone lanterns and listened to the night
crickets, the cacophony of Kyoto could have been eons away.

Finally Ken appeared beside the doorway of the teahouse and signaled
her forward. As she moved along the stepping stones, she noticed that
the pathway had been swept clean of

falling leaves, after which the gardener had strewn a few back to give
it _wabi_, an unaffected natural look. The art of artlessness, she
thought, as she paused at a stone water basin to rinse her mouth from
its bamboo dipper, part of the preparatory ritual.

The _cha-no-yu _or "tea ceremony," she knew, required almost a lifetime
to master completely. It was a seated ballet of nuance and perfect
clarity of motion. One awkward gesture and its carefully orchestrated
perfection could be spoiled. She hoped she could remember the rules
well enough to get it right.

Ken was already seated across from her, tending a small charcoal
brazier sunk into the _tatami_-matted floor. From its light she could
just make out the room's rough-hewn timbers, the straw and mud walls,
bark and bamboo ceiling. A small calligraphy scroll hung in the
_tokonoma_ alcove. As he beckoned her formally to sit, the room was
caught in an unearthly silence, the only sound the sonorous boiling of
the kettle.

Ken was profoundly transformed, almost like another being. Warm and
attentive only minutes before, now he was part of a different world,
solemn and remote. The black silk of his kimono seemed to enforce the
seriousness in his dark eyes.

She watched as he ritually wiped a thin, delicately curved bamboo scoop
with a folded cloth, first touching the handle, then the uptilted end,
after which he balanced it atop the lacquer tea caddy. Next he lifted
the tea bowl, an earth-tone glaze that shifted from mauve to brown as
he rotated it in his hand and wiped the rim. Finally he swabbed the
bottom and positioned the bowl on the _tatami_ in front of him. Now the
utensils had been formally cleansed. He was ready. From the tea caddy
he spooned a mound of jade-green powdered tea and tapped it into the
bowl. Then another, this last with a carefully prescribed twist of the
scoop.

Next he extracted a dipperful of boiling water from the iron kettle and
measured a portion into the bowl, lifted the bamboo whisk sitting
inverted beside the bowl, and commenced a vigorous blending. The tea
immediately began to resemble a pale green lather. Still no words, no
sound save the whir of his whisk intruded upon the quiet of the room.
It was a moment hundreds of years old, framed in silence.

The economy of ideal form. That, she found herself thinking, was what
this was all about: how flawlessly could you perform what seemed the
most simple, humble act. And he was good. Whereas the mastery in his
hands revealed itself by the control with which he whipped the tea, the
rest of his body remained taut as a spring. Total discipline. Each tiny
motion was distilled to its crystalline essence.

At last, when the green froth was ready, he gave the whisk a final
half-turn, then set it aside. Next he lifted the bowl, rotated it in
his hand, and placed it on the mat beside the open charcoal fire.

His part was over. It was as though the authority had been passed. Ken
had prepared the work; now it was her turn to take up and finish it.
Her role was different yet required its own kind of skill.

She bent forward and ceremonially shifted the bowl a short distance
toward her. Then she scooted backward on the tatami and again moved the
bowl closer. Was she doing it right? The flicker in Ken's eyes said
yes.

Finally, with a bow of acknowledgment, she raised the bowl in both
hands and brought it to her lips. After her first sip she bowed again,
then drank it down as he watched in silent approval. The powdered green
tea was harsh and bitter, just as she remembered from times past. Even
for a Japanese it was difficult to feign appreciation of the musky
beverage produced in the _cha-no-yu_.

She recalled what was next. With deliberate dignity she extracted a
small napkin from the _obi _of her loose _yukata_, wiped the rim of the
bowl, and placed it carefully onto the _tatami_ in front of her. The
motion had to be quick, spare. Ken didn't try to disguise his pleasure;
she had passed some sort of crucial test.

And she told herself, he had too.

Together they had joined in one of the most demanding yet exquisite
bonds two people can share. At that moment she felt--was it
imagination?--like an ancient Fujiwara, celebrating some age-old
tradition. . . .

The ceremony was over now. She bowed again, then lifted the bowl to
admire the light crackle in the glaze, the slightly inturned lip.

"It's Raku. I think it's the finest I've ever seen."

"From my collection. It's by the hand of Chojiro, the seventeenth-
century Korean who was in the employ of the Shogun Hideyoshi." He
smiled. "I had it brought down to Kyoto especially for tonight. For
you."

"I'm honored." She was.

After she had admired the rest of the utensils--the remaining formality
of _cha-no-yu_--they both relaxed, their minds purged, their spirits
attuned. Like the ceremony itself, the moment was esthetic and sensual.

"Tam, this has been a wonderful rebirth for me, being with you again.
You've helped revive in me so many feelings I'd almost forgotten. The
joy of it all. Who could have known?" He leaned back and reached for a
flask of plum wine. Formalities were definitely over. "As someone once
wrote, 'Love. Its roots are deep. Its source unknowable.'" He was
pouring two small glasses.

"That's from the Tsurezuregusa, fourteenth century. Right?"

"Again you amaze me. You really are Japanese."

"I like the poetry."

"Then you know, Tam, our poets excel in feeling. We've always
celebrated emotion over logic." He smiled. "Which one said, 'Love is
the passion in the heart of man--those who will not listen to reason'?"

"What does reason have to do with love?" She took a glass. "Didn't
Shakespeare say 'love and reason keep little company together'?"

"My turn. That's from Midsummer Night's Dream, which was . . .
sixteenth century. You're pulling out the moderns on me." He laughed
with delight. "You know, in Heian times, eight hundred years ago here
in Kyoto, I'd be expected to make a linked verse about the night now."
He looked out the doorway, then back. "How about . . .



_The moon in veil,

Perfumed with night,

Who can deny love

At a time like this?"

_

Then his visage quickened, another mood switch. His eyes mellowed as he
turned and carefully lifted the bud from the vase behind him. It was a
camellia, purest white. He held it before him as he turned back, its
long stem still dripping.

"You know, there's a haiku by Basho I love very much. Let me give it in
Japanese . . . a haiku only sounds right in the original.



_time ga ka ni

notto hi no deru

yama ji kana."



_She paused to let the meaning sink in, to feel that open- ended
sensation a good haiku always sends your imagination spinning off into.
"How's this for the English?



With the scent of plums

on the mountain road--suddenly,

sunrise comes."



"Not bad." He glanced at the blossom in his hand. "I don't know why,
but the camellia makes me think of you." He rotated it carefully, then
looked back. "Let's dedicate tonight to our own sunrise."

He inspected the flower again, then impulsively leaned forward and
placed it onto the _tatami _in front of her. Next, with the same
control in his powerful hands that had touched the glaze of the tea
bowl, he gently gripped the shoulders of her loose _yukata_. She felt
her body flush with warmth as slowly, gently, his strength once more
held in check, he carefully slid back the cloth off her shoulders until
her breasts were free. Then plucking a petal from the bud, he
reverently brushed one nipple, then the other.

It was an erotic game she knew he loved, one of many. Games. Sometimes
she had imagined them inhabiting an eighteenth-century _shunga_, those
woodblock prints picturing lovers in what she had once thought
impossible embraces.

He'd once declared that the kimono was actually the most sensual
garment in the world. Take a look at some of the _shunga_, he said, and
the possibilities become obvious. Though it seems cumbersome,
entangling, yet it lifts away like a stage curtain to invite all sorts
of dramatic possibilities. The human nude is only interesting when half
concealed.

Games. She reached and took the petal from him, then ran it along the
silk of his own _kimono_, over his muscular thighs as he sat, Japanese-
style, feet back. Next she lifted away the silk from the flawless ivory
skin she knew so well. She drew it along his thighs to tease him.

"Tam . . ." He reached to slip away her _yukata_, but she

caught his hand. Then she touched his lips with her fingers, silencing
his protest. She pushed away his kimono and trailed the petal upward,
lightly brushing his own nipples. Finally she pushed him gently
backward and smoothed her cheek against his thigh, drawing back his
kimono even more.

The glow of the coals was dying now. As the last shadows played against
his face, she laid the petal on the _tatami _and moved across him. . .
.

They lingered till the moon was up, then strolled back through the
garden wearing their antique wooden clogs. The air was scented, musical
with the sounds of night. Later that evening they downed an eight-
course meal off antique stoneware plates, drank steaming sake on the
veranda, then made love for hours on the _futon_.

Around midnight he ordered one more small bottle of sake, a _go_, and
suggested they move out onto the veranda again, this time to watch the
moon break over the trees. She slipped on her _yukata_ and padded out.
She'd just decided.

"Tamara, I want to tell you something." He poured her small porcelain
cup to the brim. "You are everything Matsuo Noda is seeking. The way
you held the tea bowl tonight, tasted the tea. The _cha-no-yu _doesn't
lie. You have discipline, our discipline. That's very, very rare."

"You mean, 'for a _gaijin'_?"

"For anyone. Besides, I don't think of you that way. You are one of us
now."

She looked into his eyes, dark in the moonlight. Then she remembered
the _tokonoma_ alcove in the teahouse where a rugged vase had held the
single white bud, its few petals moist as though from dew. Not a
bouquet, a single bud--all the flowers in the world distilled into that
one now poised to burst open.

Kenji Asano lived that special intensity, that passion, which set Japan
apart from the rest of the world.

"Ken." Her voice was quiet. "I'll do it."

"You mean Noda?"

"Noda."

He said nothing for a moment, then finally he spoke.

"The game begins."



CHAPTER TWELVE


Over the last three weeks I'd spent long hours on the phone handling
Matsuo Noda's new hedging in the currency markets. The play started out
modestly, but as his Eight Hundred Year funds became bloated with cash,
it grew into an avalanche of speculative positions.

His guiding principle was to keep a low profile in order not to spook
the markets, same as any good trader would do. Whenever the FOREX desk
of one market-maker bank on his list would start getting nervous, I'd
just hit the next place in line. Finally after everybody on this side
of the ocean began backing away, he went international. Zurich, in
particular, loved the action and took everything he threw in its
direction. I guess the Swiss are used to high rollers, since their
financial casino never got cold feet and invented a house limit.

Somewhere along the way I also came to realize I couldn't possibly be
the only agent in his employ; there was far too much money to move.
Also my list of contracts eventually got pared to manageable levels, so
somebody else had to be picking up the slack. It appeared that just as
I was spreading the action he'd assigned to me all over the globe, he
was spreading his own assignments worldwide. The man had to be covering
a major chunk of the world market in interest-rate futures and currency
forwards, but not a penny of it was traceable to Japan. Or to Matsuo
Noda.

How, I kept marveling, could this be happening right under the nose of
all our supposed geniuses of world finance? One thing, Noda had all his
moves down pat. My hunch was he'd started routing a lot of short
selling through Sydney and Hong Kong, and also was hitting the off-
exchange "third market," anyplace he could find somebody to take his
bets. If you remember how the dollar plunged in the mid-eighties,
you'll also recall that anybody who'd had the foresight to dump it in
advance would have been sitting pretty. Plenty of traders did, but none
of them received any particular attention, since the pond is so huge.
In cumulative totals the currency exchanges worldwide easily handle as
much as two hundred billion dollars a day. Although DNI's massive short
position clearly signaled that somebody major was anticipating a crash
of the dollar, Noda realized that all he had to do was keep moving and
nobody would put it together.

Need I add that my own little dollar hedge for Amy was peanuts compared
to what was going on now. Dai Nippon through its anonymous agents was
dumping American currency in the multi-billions worldwide, but since
Noda kept the action spread out, nobody bothered to notice the pattern.
Ditto his awesome "naked" shorting of Treasury futures. I mean, anybody
who'd troubled to assemble the numbers could have predicted somebody up
on the bridge must have sighted a reef dead ahead. I kept trying to
warn traders I knew, both on and off the exchanges, but nobody wanted
to hear downbeat speculation from some Cassandra. They were all too
busy pocketing commissions and ordering more champagne.

And then it happened. In broad daylight. I'll explain the operative
details shortly, but if you were there, that could be a little like
reviewing the theory underlying nuclear fission for somebody standing
at ground zero when the bomb hit. So first let me recollect how it felt
down in the trenches.

I was breakfasting at the dining room table downstairs that particular
Monday morning--November 7, as we all remember so vividly--when Matsuo
Noda dropped the first shoe, or maybe it's more accurate to say he
began loosening the laces. I'd just finished squeezing some orange
juice when I punched in the number of a financial update service on my
trusty cordless phone, mainly to hear the (recorded) sound of a human
voice. I'd totally forgotten the U.S. Treasury was holding its
quarterly refunding that day.

Newsbreak. Dealer banks were reporting that demand for the long bond,
the thirty-year, was extremely soft to nonexistent. Equally unnerving,
there wasn't any noticeable interest in Treasury's ten-year notes
either. The reason seemed to be that the usual heavy participation by
major Japanese investment houses (typically twenty to forty percent of
the total) had inexplicably evaporated. In fact, a rumor currently
flying across

the floor of the Chicago Board of Trade said a number of Japanese
securities houses and banks in New York had begun what appeared to be a
program to divest their current Treasury holdings massively. Since
spokespersons at Japanese outfits like Nomura and Daiwa Securities had
clammed up, refusing to deny that rumor, the usual institutional buyers
like Oppenheimer and Goldman, Sachs were holding back, nervous.

Hang on, I said to myself. Can this mean we're about to test out
Henderson's "worst case" scenario, that Japanese pullout all the
analysts say could never happen? But there's no reason. No sudden
icebergs out ahead. . . .

Noda. I said the word out loud. Noda's kicked off his play.

I almost laughed at the thought of his naivete. Was this going to be
his game? Who was he planning to fool? For once you've got a little
surprise in store, chum. Treasury may have to sweeten the pot, but
there's a lot of money in the world. The United States of America can't
be blackmailed.

Then I glanced out at the blue morning sky, empty except for a single
swooping sparrow, and had a strange premonition, one of those mystical
moments when everything sparkles with crystalline clarity. I had this
feeling I can't explain. Still in a reverie I carefully set down my
orange-juice glass, walked upstairs to the "office," and dialed one of
the computers into Reuters's Wall Street service. How were the
securities markets taking the news? It was already ten-thirty, time
enough for some initial response.

Dear God. For a second or so I just stared at the numbers in disbelief.
What was happening? Noda hadn't gone near the stock market.

I quickly switched on the TV and located CNN, which was already
carrying a special report live from the floor of the New York Stock
Exchange. There stood a badly shaken Lou Dobbs, minus his tie. Minus,
in fact, his jacket. The scene around him was pandemonium.

". . . and the Dow Jones Average . . ."--he glanced down at a monitor--".
. . has dropped six hundred and eighty points in the last twenty
minutes. . . ." At that moment somebody jostled against the cameraman,
giving us a momentary view of the ocean of paper buy-and-sell slips
littering the floor. "A hundred and ninety million shares have already
changed hands in the first half hour of trading this morning. ..."

My God, I thought, the market is in free-fall. Was Meltdown Monday in
'87 just the warm-up?

"As yet unconfirmed rumors concerning a slow foreign response to
today's Treasury auction . . ."--although he was weighing his words
carefully to give the appearance of calm, the hasty makeup on his
forehead was already beginning to bubble with perspiration-- ". . . seem
to be responsible for what most analysts are describing as an entirely
inappropriate overreaction in securities prices here this morning. ..."

What else could he say? It was as though everybody's gnawing, primal
fear had just been confirmed. There really was a hairy beast lurking in
the bedroom closet, waiting to jump out and eat us in our sleep. The
market was running to mommy: safe and soothing cash.

Next he made the tactical error of buttonholing a couple of floor
traders and specialists for comments. They didn't bother to mince
words. Their one, terrified question: Had Japan finally decided to let
the U.S. and its towering debt just twist slowly in the wind? If that
happened, U.S. capital would simply dry up, sucked in by Treasury's
massive money-sponge: interest rates would soar, murdering the U.S.
economy. The Great Depression of the nineties.

As I watched, a bulletin started running across the bottom of the
screen: bids on the new issue of thirty-year bonds had now dropped an
amount equivalent to raising their return almost two full interest
points. I zeroed in as the text continued. Worse news. The "coverage
ratio," which measures how many more bidders there are than necessary,
had plummeted from 2.7 to 1.3. And still dropping. More and more
potential buyers were running for cover.

Lou, who was now surrounded by traders in blue jackets and couldn't see
his own monitor, was assuring his viewers that experienced market
analysts were all saying the slowdown in Treasury action did not
accurately reflect worldwide demand, that deutsche marks and pounds
sterling undoubtedly were already winging westward to take advantage of
the new higher rates.

Sweating there in his melting pancake, the poor guy had no inkling the
patient was slipping into a coma just as he'd forecast full recovery.

Well, I thought, there's always prayer. Anything's possible. But . . .
as Henderson used to say, if frogs had wings, they wouldn't bump their
ass.

I got up to go downstairs and pour another cup of coffee. Coming back,
I decided to forget about the stock market for a moment and just focus
on Treasury, so I clicked on my Telerate service and scrolled through
the financial quotes.

Friends, by that time there was no, repeat no, market out there for
Treasury paper. Now that the Japanese dealers appeared to be dumping
everything, European banks had hit the sidelines, waiting to see what
transpired. Would rates continue to move up? Would Treasury be forced
to withdraw the issue? Should everybody be bailing out now before bond
prices went through the deck and demolished years of interest earnings?
Looming over it all was that standing terror of the bond markets: no
liquidity.

Back to Cable News Network. An officer from one of the dealer banks
(which bid on big chunks of Treasury paper, then retail it) had rushed
over to CNN's midtown studios and was explaining to us all it was
clearly nothing more than some minor trans-Pacific communications
snarl. The problem, obviously, was simple: Japanese securities firms
here just hadn't received authorization from their head offices in
Tokyo, where it was after business hours. A clarification would be
forthcoming any minute now.

Well, if you've ever been turned down for a mortgage and you fantasized
a day when you'd see that high-and-mighty clerk behind the desk have to
ask _you _for a loan, I hope you caught that one. This paper-shuffler
whose secretary had a secretary had agreed a week earlier to take on
three billion dollars of Treasury's new debt issues--paper he now
couldn't give away, let alone resell--and he was practically on his
knees begging America to save his bank.

What the hell was going on? My mild-mannered friend Matsuo Noda had
inadvertently (I assumed) kicked off a major financial panic.

I clicked the dial over to Financial News Network, FNN, which had
momentarily interrupted its heavy midday fare of California snake-oil-
and-options hucksters. Now a decidedly pale investment banker, this one
an unindicted employee of Drexel Burnham, was declaring it was all
merely a little "tempest in a teapot." His precise words. The Japanese
securities houses wouldn't dare pull out their funds and kill the
market, he explained. It was absurd. If they did that, their investors
would lose a fortune, since any big sell-off would automatically drive
down the value of their own massive portfolio. Ergo, Japan's funds had
no choice but to stay invested. No problem.

My friend, I thought, where have America's bankers been? Out
repossessing some widow's Chevy? As a matter of fact the Japanese
outfits here don't give a flying fig what happens to our debt market.
If you'd been doing your job, you'd know that Matsuo Noda had already
sold Treasury futures far in excess of Japan's portfolio back when
values were still high. Now he can go out and pick up all the notes and
bonds he wants, cost approximately nothing, and turn around and deliver
them at yesterday's full price. The man must feel like a riverboat
cardsharp who's lucked into a saloon full of Huck Finns on payday.
Don't you realize he's just cleaned you out, right down to the fillings
in your teeth? And now he's got his team on the bus ready to roll.

Over to CBS, a Special Report underway. It featured a stream of well-
meaning and incoherent Treasury officials, none of whom had the
slightest inkling what to say. Then Jack O'Donnell came on from the
Senate pressroom, breathing fire. The administration's "light at the
end of the deficit tunnel" had turned out to be a freight train heading
our way, just as he'd predicted. America's debt chickens were coming
home to roost. He was demanding that the Speaker call a joint session
of Congress this very day and by God do something.

Right, Jack. What? Looks like our pal Matsuo Noda is about to have the
U.S. of A. exactly where he wants us. By the balls.

I guess I must have been operating solely on instinct by then, because
a phone number popped into my head that I hadn't recalled in years. Sam
Kline, my old broker at Merrill Lynch. I hadn't talked to Sam in ages,
but his number used to come to my fingers whenever the market started
acting up. Maybe he was sort of a father figure. Truth is, I'd first
learned what little I know about the market watching that giant ticker
ML had up at one end of the office just above Sam's desk--and long gone
in this age of computers. I remembered how heavy trades--over ten
thousand shares--were marked with stars, always fun to watch.

Forget the "financial experts." They were reduced to spouting pure
gibberish. Time to check in at the real front line. Sam Kline.

Maybe I just wanted to have Sam to soothe me like in the old days, pour
some of that dreadful coffee he had in his Thermos, tug down the cuffs
of his trousers, and say not to worry, there's always tomorrow, the
disaster in my portfolio merely reflected a long-overdue and healthy
"correction" in the market. (Only years later did I finally realize
that "correction" was a special Wall Street expression meaning all the
stocks you own just tanked.)

When Sam finally got around to my call, he was barely coherent but
still trying.

"Matt, what's new?" There was turmoil and yelling behind him, as though
the office was about to go under a wrecking ball.

"You tell me."

"Well, at the moment it's something of a downside morning, but--"

"Sam," I snapped, "this is me, Matt, save the Pollyanna."

A short pause, and then he crumbled. "Matthew, want the truth? The
Monday Massacre of '87 was a rally compared to this. That crash was
just stocks. This time it's U.S. bonds, the dollar, everything. The
market's falling apart. Right this minute the trust departments at
First Boston and Morgan are dumping entire sectors like they were some
nervous greenhorn in Oshkosh. Pension fund managers I've known for
years are liquidating whole blocks 'at the market,' for whatever they
can get. One specialist downtown just told me he had to eat a hundred
thousand shares of, Christ, General Dynamics. You can't give away
Northrop. And Lockheed, forget it. . . ." Another pause. "God Almighty,
Matt, we need a market up here. How about--"

"Not now, Sam." It was like hanging up on my own father. A knife in my
heart. "Look, I'll get back to you. Best to Naomi."

Good God. I wanted to hire an airplane and skywrite a big sign over
downtown: WAIT. Trouble was, I wasn't sure myself what it was all
about.

However, there was one thing I could do. I punched in the contact
number for Dai Nippon, uptown, and told the polite little lady who
answered the phone to get Tanaka on the line this goddam minute. About
ten seconds later he was there.

"Are you guys nuts?" I yelled. "Doesn't anybody up there know what's
happening?"

"We are well aware of the situation, Mr. Walton."

"Well, then, do something, for chrissake!"

"Our securities dealers here are in contact with the appropriate
officials. Nothing is to be done without explicit instructions from
Noda-san. He has not yet been in communication."

"Well, get him in communication."

"There is no cause for alarm, Mr. Walton." He continued calmly. "Noda-
san has made sure that our dealers' exposure in Treasuries is covered
by the futures contracts DNI has acquired. Japanese investors are
sheltered from price fluctuations. Noda-san is most grateful for your--"

"Listen carefully," I said. "Fuck Noda."

I hung up.

The rest of the morning I just sat there and watched the market crater.
After bond futures prices on the Chicago exchanges had sunk the daily
limit, as far as they could drop in a single session, the action merely
moved elsewhere. A cash market developed off-exchange worldwide and was
going crazy, with spot quotes nose-diving. Prices now were only rumors,
but the satellite services were still trying to track them. At exactly
12:37 P.M. the President finally got around to issuing an Executive
Order suspending all trading at the exchanges in government bills,
notes, and bonds, including futures contracts, until further notice. It
turned out to have been about as effective as Prohibition. Besides, by
that time I figured Noda had already cleared at least fifty billion.

Enough. I couldn't watch anymore. All of a sudden I felt like a guy
who'd bailed out of his flaming F-16 only to see it total a
schoolhouse. I kicked off the computer, slipped on a suede jacket, and
headed for Bleecker Street to fortify myself with mussels marinara and
a stiff Bloody Mary. The early Post at the corner newsstand proclaimed
with characteristic understatement the imminent passing of the
civilized world.

Over cappuccino I finally started to think rationally. Nothing anybody
was saying added up to a full picture. There had to be more, or less,
to the story. . . .

Then the truth glimmered before my eyes, yet another transcendental
moment. What Noda was planning was obvious. At last I realized why he'd
hired me. Like a great chess player, he could see about ten moves
ahead. The question now was no longer what his next move would be. It
was when.

You want to win World War III with a quick blitzkrieg, knock America to
its knees? Simple. Go for the blind side. First you short a piece of
the debt market, then for fun you dump the currency in advance (since
it's just naturally gonna go the way of the peso when you make your
opening move, and you might as well squeeze the orange if it's just
lying there anyway). Next you kick things off by giving everybody the
impression you're divesting all Treasury paper, which causes the dollar
to predictably plummet. . . .

Christ! What about Amy's currency hedge! Three weeks ago I'd contracted
to sell the banks of New York ten million dollars she didn't own. In
all the pandemonium, I'd completely forgotten.

I threw down a twenty for the lunch and literally raced around the
corner to look for a pay phone on MacDougal. When I finally found one
that worked, I shoved in a quarter and dialed the FOREX desk at
Citibank for a dollar quote.

Henderson was right. Paper money is predicated on trust. It seems that
when the second largest industrial nation in the world apparently
doesn't think enough of the credit rating of the first largest
industrial nation in the world to loan it two cents, then talk about
the full faith and credit of said first largest, etc., doesn't cut much
ice. The Fed was out there buying dollars and dumping marks and yen and
pounds in the billions to try and keep the dollar afloat, but nobody
else in the Group of Five--those countries supposed to step in and buy
each other's faltering currencies to prop them up--was lifting a finger.
In spite of our treasury secretary yelling fire and damnation, all
they'd done was announce an evening meeting in Paris. Period. What,
they inquired, had the U.S. done lately to help out France, West
Germany, Britain, or Japan?

Behind our allies' diplomatic and not-so-diplomatic posturing lay a
simple, rhetorical question: Who needed passage on a sinking ship? At
the moment the only thing governments around the world wanted less than
U.S. Treasury debt was U.S. greenbacks. I'd contracted to swap ten
million of them for other currencies back when they were worth a
dollar. That afternoon I settled with bills worth eighty cents and
sinking. That's right. Amy's college-fund hedge cleared two mil.

And if you think Miss Amy Walton survived the dollar's crash intact,
what about Matsuo Noda, now holding tens and tens of billions in world
currency forwards?

What didn't prosper that Monday was a state of mind called Wall Street.
By mid-afternoon all the market indexes were down by half; exchange
trading had been halted in a good two- thirds of the Dow stocks; a
major brokerage house had frozen accounts and announced Chapter 11; and
gold futures were soaring. The October crash of '87 was now a nostalgia
item, remembered as a few sessions of light trading with a hint of
downside bias.

A lot of investors went to cash, but most switched into money funds
(what else could they do?). While sophisticated players were shorting
the stock indexes and futures, the newsletter gurus--who charged two
hundred dollars a year for hot tips about equal in worth to those of a
New York cabbie--were calling their major clients. A big sell signal was
emblazoned in the streets of lower Manhattan. Everybody assumed the
situation was temporary, but nobody needed to ride the ship down. By
the closing bell the Dow had sunk over eleven hundred and fifty points.
And don't forget, the DJ Average represents blue chips; prices for
over-the-counter outfits like Widget-tronics Inc. just packed up and
headed south for the winter.

The way I figured it, Noda was probably more or less on schedule. By
nightfall the stock exchanges had blood on the floor, a dollar was
worth roughly two-thirds what it had been at sunup, and the U.S.
Treasury couldn't have panhandled a nickel anywhere in the Free World.

I've mentioned Jack O'Donnell a time or so previously, the Columbia
University professor turned politico. Jack was the junior senator from
New York: Irish idealism goes to Washington. I'd gotten to know him
reasonably well, thanks mainly to a series of rubber-chicken dinners
I'd pitched in to help him with.

Needless to say, O'Donnell's well-known attitude toward fiscal sleight-
of-hand in the corporate sector had made raising money on Wall Street a
decidedly uphill endeavor. His Insider of the Month award was
especially unpopular. That was a large gold-plated screw, suitable for
mounting, which he regularly bestowed on any corporate board members
who'd just happened to dump big blocks of their personal holdings about
a week before a disappointing quarterly report sent their company's
stock price through the floor. For some reason Jack never seemed to buy
their collective "Gee, we had no idea" explanation.

Jack always assumed that corporate managements would walk off with
anything not securely riveted to the floor. He also believed most of
the corporate takeovers these days were about as helpful to America's
competitiveness as masturbation was to population growth, a viewpoint I
tended to share--which is one reason why I helped him raise money from
time to time. More than that, though, I admired him immensely. The man
was a real samurai. Unfortunately, however, he was his own worst enemy
half the time when it came to soliciting campaign checks; he could
never understand why executive dining rooms weren't necessarily the
optimum terrain to start raising hell about shareholders' rights. I
once sent him a dog muzzle for Christmas after he pulled just that
trick at a CEO fundraiser I'd carefully set up in one of those private
suites atop the World Trade Center.

He'd been especially busy this session. When he did come to New York,
he spent most of his time up at the West Side apartment of a female
aide of his, where they reportedly were polishing a lot of position
papers these days. Monday, however, he had only one thing on his mind:
how to keep the U.S. monetary system from going belly up. Trouble was,
he had no idea what to do. Naturally he immediately canceled his
subcommittee hearings for the day--an inquiry into how charge cards and
the banks touting them (loving those wonderful loan-shark rates) were
lofting consumer debt to dizzying heights. That afternoon he began
working on a speech for the Senate floor, a hellfire preachment
intended to shame the administration into some kind of action.

After thinking about it awhile, he'd decided that, since all the
nervousness in the market was traceable to an apparently total Japanese
loss of confidence in U.S. government obligations, he'd have his staff
call around concerning what other Japanese moves were underway. He had
questions such as: If they're pulling out of Treasuries, are they
dumping corporate bonds too? Real estate? Where in blazes is it going
to stop?

Simple questions, maybe, but tough ones to attack on short notice,
given the clampdown at the source. So his people started making calls,
and finally one of them got hold of Charlie Mercer, an Executive VP at
Shearson. Purely chance. Did Charlie happen to know any big Japanese
players in town?

Well, yes and no, replied Charlie. Strictly off the record, one of his
biggest personal clients lately was an attorney here in New York, who
always paid with corporate checks bearing the logo of a Japanese-
sounding outfit. But it was a purely private arrangement and he was
sure . . .

The staffer immediately told him to please hold while she switched the
call to Senator O'Donnell.

Actually I'd known Charlie for years, and I also knew the poor guy's
wife had some kind of esoteric bone cancer that meant ten thou a month
in radiation therapy. So I'd let him set up an account on the side and
do some full commission churning in the name of one of Dai Nippon's
dummy fronts. Why not?

Then Jack came on the line. "Mr. Mercer, am I to understand you've been
handling heavy trades for a Japanese firm?"

"Nothing illegal about that, is there, Senator?" Charlie was growing
nervous, suddenly seeing himself under the hot glare of TV lights in
Jack's finance committee. "Truthfully, the man I actually deal with is
an American attorney here named Walton."

"Matt Walton?" roared Jack.

"You know Matthew, Senator?" inquired Charlie, stunned by the sound of
the august public figure abruptly bellowing in his ear.

"Know him? I may kill the prick for not talking to me sooner."

Approximately five seconds after this conversation my phone erupted.

"Tell me, Judas," he yelled, "is it true you're helping them out? I
want the goddamn truth and I want it now."

"Jack?" I finally recognized the voice. "Helping who?"

"You know who, you fucker. Our good friends the goddam Japs, that's
who. They're--"

"Jack, calm down a second," I interrupted. "It's just possible this
whole thing is some kind of scam. Not at all what it seems."

"Talk to me."

"Not over the phone. Client confidentiality. But if you're coming up
anytime soon, I'm mad enough to give you a full rundown of all I know,
strictly off the record."

"I'm scheduled in on the six o'clock shuttle. Where can we meet?"

"How about the club? I promise you an earful."

"The Centurion?" He inquired sourly. I knew how he hated it.

"Jack, wouldn't kill you to rub elbows now and then with an actual
capitalist. Don't worry. There won't be any photos to sully your
reputation."

I suggested the place partly to pay my respects to a wounded ward after
the day's carnage and partly for Jack's convenience. It was a combined
press hangout and "new money" convocation, located just around the
corner from his New York office in one of those old mansions right off
Fifth, midtown. They'd just begun allowing the fair sex to cross their
hallowed doorstep (after a lawsuit), a move certain diehards felt
signaled the curtain raiser on the West's Decline. For my own part I'd
actually put up Donna for membership as pan of the test case. We
eventually established that the Centurion's unwritten membership
criteria were actually pretty simple: in addition to being white and
male, you also needed to be either rich or well-known. Being all four
made you a shoo-in.

A couple of us fortunate enough to have friends on the circuit bench
called in a few favors and arranged for a black, female judge to hear
the case. The proceeding was over in time for lunch.

"Is eight okay?"

"Done," he said. "I'll be there on the dot."

He was late as usual, but I managed to pass the time. It was enough
just to sip a Perrier and observe the shell-shocked faces of golden boy
brokers presently mainlining martinis down the bar. Fortunately the
place was on the ground floor so nobody could take a dive out a high
window, but the crowd had all the insouciance of hookers working a
Salvation Army convention. I checked over the room--lots of designer
suits topped off by long faces--and wondered how many millions had been
dropped that day by those present. Booze was flowing across the
mahogany bar as if there were no tomorrow. Maybe there wasn't.

At a quarter to nine Jack O'Donnell marched up the blue marble steps, a
man in from the war front.

O'Donnell was a big guy who looked every inch a senator, right down to
the thirty-dollar haircut and the eight-hundred-dollar suit. I think it
was his overcompensation for being Irish and being crapped on by the
Columbia University administration most of his days. A so-so academic,
he'd blossomed as a politician--firm handshake and steel eye--and had
easily devastated the smooth-talking Long Island party hack the big
money had thrown against him. The man was a straight shooter who
believed the purpose of capitalism was to make a better place for all
Americans, not merely enrich the unscrupulous or crafty few. As a
result, his Senate harangues were a lonesome cry in the
takeover/arbitrage/leveraging/executive-perk wilderness. His contempt
for overpaid investment bankers was exceeded only by his disdain for
overpaid corporate CEOs.

Anyway, we settled into the leather chairs of the back room while he
ordered a medicinal Scotch, double. After his nerves stabilized a bit,
I suggested he let me give him an informal rundown of what little I
knew.

"High goddam time." He grimly extracted a notebook.

"Jack, here's the _mea culpa_. I now confess before God and you that
I've been a very uneasy point man for an outfit that calls itself Dai
Nippon, International. They have been playing a little game with
interest-rate futures and currency forwards in quantities that stagger
the mind. Thus far, however, their activity has been strictly legal and
right out there for everybody to watch. I also tried to warn anybody
who would listen. Consequently any of our financial analysts who didn't
see this brouhaha coming a mile away has been suffering a severe
rectal-cranial inversion."

He snorted and pulled at his drink. "Okay, since you seem to know so
much about this Dai Nippon outfit, care to clue me in on what's down
the road?"

"Jack, I think the answer is one nobody's figured." Then I delivered my
brand-new theory.

He stared at me skeptically, sipping at his drink. "Good God, you've
gone off the deep end, Walton. I always assumed it would happen
someday."

"Jack, from what I hear, none of the big Japanese securities dealers
here will even pick up their phone. What does that tell you? They're
softening us up using the weapon the market dreads the most.
Uncertainty. What better way to terrify the Street? Christ, let
somebody start a rumor the President has a toothache, and they
practically have to shut down trading."

"Matt, nobody's going to believe your crazy scenario.

Matter of fact, I don't either. It's too wild. I'll tell you what most
people are saying. All the news shows tonight hauled out our doomsday
economists, Lester Thurow and his ilk, to declare we had this one
coming. The consensus going around is the Japanese are finally fed up
hearing us bellyache about trade barriers; so they've decided to treat
us to a pointed demonstration concerning exactly who needs who. That's
all. Japan now controls America's destiny. But since a few people here
still have the idea we won the last war, Tokyo just wants to make sure
we get our history straightened out."

Could be, I answered. But I still thought everybody was missing the
forest for the trees. Then I went on to describe Noda's building, his
high-security computer setup. Nobody would install an elaborate
headquarters like that merely to get your attention.

He listened in uncharacteristic silence, beginning to appear a little
more convinced. "Well, let's run with your cockamamie theory a second."
He rattled his ice cubes, a habit of his I always found distracting.
"Say something bigger is coming up, and this is just the pre-game warm-
up. What can we do?"

My suggestion, that the President close down all our financial markets
immediately to keep Noda's hands off them, was not received
enthusiastically.

"You want me to stand up in the Senate and propose that?" His already
ruddy cheeks were beginning to redden even more as he glared around the
paneled room. "Matt, I'd be tarred and feathered by every stockholder
in the country."

Maybe so, I said. But what about Noda's vast Third Avenue nerve center?
His supercomputer? The Uzis? It had ominous portent. "Tell you the
truth, Jack, I'm not even sure I should be talking to you. After what
happened today, that guy scares hell out of me."

We ran through the known facts a couple of times more, not getting any
closer to agreeing on the big picture. Finally he summed up his own
fears: "In my view, we weathered the October '87 crash because the Fed
still had some control over liquidity. When money started disappearing
out of the market, they just printed more. They countered deflation
with inflation, kept the dollar in balance. This time, though, we've
lost all three pillars under our financial house--stocks, bonds, and the
dollar. There's nothing the government can do to stop this one."

At that moment there was a tap on my shoulder, and I looked up to see
Eduardo, the club's recent attempt at Hispanic affirmative action,
handing me a cordless phone. Then I remembered I'd set up things
downtown to forward calls to the bar. The next sounds in my ear were
the mellifluous profanities of Dr. William Henderson.

Bill had just gotten off a plane after spending a few days loosening up
at the Sandy Lane in Barbados, assaulting its reserves of Sugar Cane
Brandy, and he was mad as hell. His "Georgia Mafia" had been caught
flat-footed. Why hadn't I warned him that the Japs had scheduled this
move? Surely I must have had an inkling. He would have shorted the
market and scored a pile.

I suggested he calm down, that nobody, me included, had seen it coming.
What's more, I had a strong feeling it was all--

"What the hell's next?" Bill continued, oblivious. "What's Noda
saying?"

"Nothing here but speculation. He's probably getting his beauty sleep
at the moment. But take some of your own advice, friend, and stand
clear. I've got a feeling there's less here, and more, than meets the
eye. Don't, repeat, don't get the idea you can outguess Matsuo Noda. I
think he's pulling a number, but--"	"

Bill interjected something brief and unrepeatable and rang off,
undoubtedly headed for consolation.

"Was that Henderson?" Jack asked, then watched me nod. Bill had pitched
in to help Jack out of a few tight spots on the money front, in
appreciation of which O'Donnell had proposed him for the Council of
Economic Advisers--and shortly thereafter forfeited all credibility with
the administration. These days he couldn't have gotten into the White
House on a VFW tour. "Well, the man's got no idea when to keep his
mouth shut with the press, but he's nobody's idea of a fool. What does
he think this is all about?"

"Sounds like he's just studying the tea leaves like everybody else."

Jack sighed, then rattled his cubes some more. "Well, if Henderson
can't figure out what's going on, then nobody can. That in itself ought
to tell us there's a patch of slippery ice down the road. My own guess
is the Japanese have decided to play a little poker with the American
markets without having the damnedest idea of the consequences."

"Jack, what if they _do_?"

After we sat there gazing at the gilded plasterwork ceiling for a
while, we started getting caught up on old times. He inquired what I
thought the press would do to him if he married one of his staffers. My
guess was that a photo of Washington's most eligible divorce veteran at
the altar once more would probably make the cover of People. Everybody
loves a lover. That possibility seemed to cheer him up a bit.

It was round about then, probably close to ten-thirty P.M., that
another call came through. This time I already had a feeling who it
was, and I momentarily considered not taking it. But then, why not let
O'Donnell have the story straight from the source.

The caller was, of course, Matsuo Noda. It must have been late morning,
Japan time, after a very long night.

What, he inquired, was my on-the-spot reading of the scene?

"I don't know." The phone had that same funny whine I remembered, as
though he had a private phone system worldwide. "Maybe you should be
telling me."

Noda-san, no surprise, didn't seem particularly unsettled by the
developments.

"I assure you there is no cause for alarm, Mr. Walton. The situation
may seem temporarily unfortunate, but I have long believed all things
turn out for the best."

"Could have fooled me. But while we're all waiting for the silver
lining to this cloud, you could do everybody a favor and get your
goddam securities dealers here to issue a statement clarifying their
intentions."

"Mr. Walton"---he chuckled--"you ascribe far too much influence to me. I
am merely a banker, one of many in Japan. I have no control over what
our institutions choose to do or not do."

"I wish I could believe that."

"Well, I suppose there are many things about Dai Nippon that need to be
explained more fully. I look forward to seeing you next week. We can
talk then."

Upon which he advised me just to sit tight. All further communications
would be routed through their office uptown. And with that dictum in
place, he suddenly had better things to do and said thanks for all my
help. There was the sound of some satellite bleeps, then silence.

Welcome to the Brave New World, I thought. Again I had this definite
feeling the DNI rodeo had just begun.

By then Jack was nearing terminal exhaustion. I passed along Noda's
cryptic refusal to lift a hand, advised him to make a statement
tomorrow that the U.S. financial markets could be dangerous to
everybody's health, and helped him into a cab for his aide's place
uptown. The evening was fizzling out with nobody left at the bar but
regulars. Thus I went home alone to check in with Amy and then drift
off into a very unsettling dream.

My nightmare was over by morning. America's was just beginning.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Funny thing about investor confidence: often as not it relies more on
faith than facts. Give it a little unsettling heat, and it can just
melt away. Belief turns to fear, then blind panic.

Insight number two: the bigger you are, the more scared you tend to
get. So what appeared to be a sudden Japanese loss of conviction
regarding the U.S. Treasury's ability to meet its standing obligations
received close attention from the world's bankers, from Zurich to Hong
Kong. The Japanese securities outfits just kept dumping, and nervous
phone inquirers from locales as diverse as the White House and Red
Square were all advised that everybody was "in a meeting and will get
back to you." As a natural consequence the world's major financial
players succumbed to a terminal case of nerves.

When the bond markets finally reopened on Wednesday, Treasury's thirty-
year issue had scooted up four full interest points. There was still a
market for Uncle Sam's IOUs--everything on this planet will move for a
price--but buyers were wary. They wanted their newly perceived risk
sweetened considerably.

Predictably rates on corporate and municipal bonds did a similar tango
north, leaving America's conservative investors wondering what hit
them. In fact, a lot of scheduled corporate debt offerings were
scuttled to await more settled times and lower rates.

The dollar also stayed on the critical list. Everybody was worried the
U.S. Treasury might just rev up the printing presses to produce enough
greenbacks to pay off all the foreigners who wanted their money back.
Since Paul "tight money" Volcker--who probably would have thrown his
robust torso onto the ink to prevent that from happening--was now gone,
there was nobody at the Fed with a real commitment to holding back the
flood.

And the stock market. People weren't starting to call this Black
November for nothing. A lot of players feared that the higher rates
would hobble the economy, a perfect excuse to head for the exits while
the getting was good. As Henderson liked to observe: psychology is a
fundamental too. The next day the Dow sank another two hundred points;
the day after that a hundred more. (Where had those sellers been two
days before?) The fourth and fifth days it slowed, heaved an audible
sigh of exhaustion, and sort of peered up out of the bunker to see if
the bombing runs had let up. The downward pressure was still evident,
but it was finally losing some of its steam.

Yours truly did a lot of thinking as the week wore on, while the
country appeared to wobble on the brink of unprecedented disaster. I
also conferred now and then with Jack O'Donnell and with Henderson in
between their appearances on TV chat shows. Although Bill's bearish
reading of the nation's estate had been vindicated well beyond what
even he had envisioned, I can report he took small pleasure in his
newfound celebrity; he was increasingly miserable over his own missed
opportunities in the financial casino. Jack, for his part, had gained a
profound appreciation of the helplessness of government to intervene
when fear and greed seize the marketplace.

My personal ruminations on the situation turned out to be too
Machiavellian for anybody to entertain seriously. Question: If you
wanted to pull all your money out of the U.S., is this how you'd do it?
Answer: No way. Instead you'd go about it gradually, a little at a
time, in order not to stampede the markets and cause exactly what was
happening now.

Ergo, I concluded, this isn't real. Noda just wants every

investor in the world to assume there's a Japanese pullout underway.

But why the grandstand play? Sure, he'd made a pile, but he didn't seem
like a guy who had to sweat his mortgage payments. Nor did this kind of
market manipulation require a building in midtown Manhattan and a
computer setup to rival NORAD headquarters. Something more had to be
coming. And the only thing I could think of was that Noda's something
had a lot to do with my profession.

This was not a welcome piece of prognostication to loose upon the
world. Since the financial markets already had plenty of problems on
their plate, there wasn't all that much interest in speculating about
the next course. Consequently nobody made the slightest attempt to man
the ramparts for what was ahead. Our financial battleship had been
stopped dead in the water and its engines disabled, but nobody was even
bothering to prime the guns. This couldn't be an all-out attack. Right?

Wrong. The stage was now set for Noda's real move. The following
Saturday I was summoned to Dai Nippon's midtown fortress where I
watched my crazy theory become reality. Before anybody in our shell-
shocked financial centers had time to digest what had happened, Matsuo
Noda--his Dai Nippon Eight-Hundred-Year funds underwritten through a
syndicate of Japanese banks and insurance companies led by the Dai-Ichi
Credit Corporation, Ltd. of Tokyo--hit the beach.

In the days to come I did manage to assemble a rough outline of how
Noda pulled off his brilliant opening feint. It was elegant, and to
savor it fully requires a quick peek at his reserves--Japan's bankbook.

Start with personal savings, the hundreds of billions being squirreled
away by individual Japanese. Then add to those monies the assets of
Japanese pension funds, private savings organizations with several
hundred billion dollars to lend out. Next come insurance companies and
corporations, similarly awash in loose cash. Taken together, the total
amount of excess capital in Japan is now well over five trillion
dollars.

If all those zeros befuddle you as much as they do me, try thinking of
it like this: a trillion dollars is the size of the annual U.S. budget.
So if the Japanese regulators opened the floodgates and let all that
money roll, its citizens have the ready bucks to finance our
government's entire budget--Lockheed, stockpiles, and pork barrel--for at
least five years using just what's in their mattresses.

As it happens, all this Japanese cash has become an important, nay,
indispensable, component of the American financial scene. We and the
Japanese are like an old married couple: they're the wife who scrimps
and saves, we're the husband who borrows and squanders. The middlemen
who rifle her purse and ship the proceeds to us are, increasingly,
Japanese investment firms.

At least half a dozen major Japanese securities dealers with offices in
New York run big bond departments. The foremost of these is, of course,
Nomura Securities International, the world's largest brokerage house
(having aced out Merrill Lynch). With over two hundred billion dollars
in customer accounts, Nomura is now a primary dealer in U.S. Treasury
issues, meaning they can buy directly from the government and sell to
their clients. And since Treasuries pay several interest points better
in return than Japan's miserly savings accounts, their customers back
home think they're getting a terrific deal. Little wonder Japanese
investors finance a full third of America's budget overdrafts these
days.

Another major player is Daiwa Securities America, which also
underwrites federal paper on its own. Nor should we overlook Nikko
Securities and Yamaichi Securities, both handling money in the tens of
billions. These outfits and others are well past the beachhead stage of
entry into the world capital markets. They're entrenched; they're big;
and they know how to play hardball. Were they involved in Noda's
assault? Nobody ever knew for sure. But you figure it out.

Banks. As it happens, the biggest one in the world is Japanese. The
Dai-Ichi Kangyo Bank, Ltd. of Tokyo has unceremoniously reduced
Citicorp to second banana. Rounding out the top five worldwide are
Fuji, Sumitomo, and Mitsubishi. And worldwide means everywhere. Japan
controls ten percent of the U.S. banking business, a quarter of all
British banking. Of the ten largest banks in the sovereign state of
California, four are Japanese. Japan in brief has become banker to the
world, with more ready money than anybody else, and it also has a
battalion of financial samurai who know the game.

What makes these Japanese players especially powerful is the kind of
bucks they represent. It's called hot money--cash lent out short-term
and therefore subject to immediate withdrawal. Instead of tying up
their overseas bankroll for years, they stick to offshore investments
that can be called in tomorrow. At home Japan invests for the long
horizon, but abroad the bulk of the money is short. Hot money.

Since foreign investors normally pick up well over half of a given
Treasury refunding, the paralysis when Japan began recalling its hot
money, thereby spooking buyers worldwide, was as predictable as the
sunrise. Matsuo Noda didn't have to be a Rhodes Scholar to realize how
much mileage there'd be in a big Japanese sell-off program and a "no
comment" from his dealers.

Here's how he orchestrated the details. Apparently it had all been very
Japanese, very consensus. A few phone calls, then a lot of meetings
over green tea. Later on, some late nights with sake. Noda, thanks to
his new clout, had been in the driver's seat from the start. The money
managers in Tokyo were all feeling the heat over demands by investors
that they participate in the multiple Eight-Hundred-Year funds he'd
floated. All across Japan people were starting to ask whether their
savings were out there waving the flag too. A lot of those managers
were starting to get edgy, so Noda thoughtfully struck a deal, a little
consensus.

Okay, hold your monies, but let's get organized. When the next Treasury
collection plate comes by, don't roll over any more short-term U.S. T-
bills and don't take a piece of the next sale of long bonds. In fact,
that's the day you begin to divest. Staggering losses? No problem. I
just happen to have everybody's portfolio insulated with futures
contracts. Sell away, and even when the price plummets, nobody's gonna
lose a yen. In fact, you can have a piece of the currency windfall I've
set up. Apparently everybody shook hands on it, or whatever they do in
Japan nowadays.

Consequently none of the big Japanese houses in New York had to take a
lot of risk. The sellers were covered by Noda's rate contracts, which I
later discovered he'd passed along (at cost) to anybody who needed
them. The rest he sold himself for a hefty profit. So in the course of
his play, he incidentally raised several billions in additional
operating capital for Dai Nippon while fully protecting the home team.

When the dust had finally settled, it turned out he didn't actually
liquidate very much Treasury paper after all. He didn't need to. In
fact Japan dumped only about eight percent of its

holdings. If you think about it a minute you realize they couldn't
possibly have hoped to divest everything they had in dollars. What
would they do with all that cash? Loan it to Brazil?

Veterans of world finance will tell you there were already precedents
for this kind of Japanese muscle. Back in the mid- eighties, Nomura
Securities had unsheathed its financial sword and totally controlled
the Eurobond markets for about a fortnight. They were just letting
everybody know they were in town. So there was nothing particularly
unprecedented about a little number whereby a handful of Japanese banks
and securities firms could, by concerted action, bring the U.S.
financial system to its knees.

Although I'd been convinced from the very first that Matsuo Noda had
engineered the whole move, I had no hard proof. Besides, what was I
supposed to do? No laws were broken. He was playing strictly by the
rules. So I just took cover like everybody else and watched the
marketplace disintegrate. My main preoccupation was a growing suspicion
that Noda was now moving up his battery of guns for the next round of
shelling.

I was right. His Treasury sell-off had merely been a demonstration of
firepower. Its effectiveness must have given confidence that his
beachhead was secured, since he came ashore at the end of the week to
take personal command of the real landing.

He and his general staff hit town quietly and with no fanfare on
Thursday, spent Friday in a strategy session, and on Saturday took over
the computerized command HQ on Third Avenue. That afternoon Tanaka
called and ordered me (very politely but curtly) to assemble my records
and come uptown. The operation was being consolidated and Noda-san
wanted me coordinated. From now on I would be working out of their
offices.

This was it. Just what I'd been waiting for. At last I could confront
the bastard, one-on-one. No way was I going to be part of the big
assault I saw directly ahead.

My first look at the revised operation uptown confirmed my worst fears.
The technical analysts had been replaced by a new set of troops: money
men. Open collars were gone, supplanted by a lot of business-school
types wearing thin black ties. Tanaka's office had been moved off to
the side; the corner office now belonged to Dai Nippon's four-star
commanding general: Matsuo Noda. After I'd cleared security, that's
where I was led.

"Mr. Walton, how good to see you again." He looked up from a printout,
his silver hair perfectly groomed. "I do hope today is convenient for
you."

"This is going to be brief." I ignored the chair he rose to adjust for
me. "I'm only here to advise you that my participation is officially
terminated as of this moment. I'll be sending you a final invoice next
week. You can find yourself another attorney."

"But your work has scarcely begun." He appeared to be mildly puzzled,
as though I'd just made a small misstatement about the weather or some
such. "We expect your participation to be crucial."

"Surely you're joking." I was turning to leave.

"Mr. Walton." He shifted the printout around and shoved it across the
desk. "Contrary to what you may presume, we are here to help this
country. You might wish to look over our program for the near term."

"This I've got to see." I came back and studied it for a few seconds .
. . then stared back at him.

"Impossible." I finally realized he was serious. "Whatever you're
thinking, I'll tell you right now you don't have a chance. These
outfits have lawyers. Hundreds of them."

"Ah, but that's why you are on our staff. This is your specialty." He
smiled. "Remember the Book of Five Rings by the swordsman Miyamoto
Musashi? In it he describes the three kinds of attack. There is the Ken
no Sen, where you move first and catch your opponent unprepared; next
is the Tai no Sen, whereby your initial move occurs a split second
after your opponent's; and finally there is the Taitai no Sen, in which
you and he attack at the same instant. What has happened up until today
might be likened to the Ken no Sen. We have made sure that nothing was
anticipated. Very soon, however, we will have to move to the Tai no
Sen, responding with lightning speed to the moves of those who would
thwart us. Miyamoto Musashi declared correctly that if you are attacked
with force, you must counterattack with even greater force and thereby
upset momentarily your opponent's rhythm. That moment can mean victory,
but only if you are totally prepared." He leaned back. "We must be
totally prepared."

"Why in hell would I want to help you? I guess you didn't hear me. I've
just resigned." I turned for the door. "Besides, nobody could pull off
what you're planning. You're going to have battalions of attorneys
moving against you."

"I expect that." He stopped smiling. "But that area is your
responsibility now, Mr. Walton. A good swordsman does not think, he
acts. Intuitively."

"And if I refuse?"

"You cannot possibly."

"Try me."

"Only you can handle this, Mr. Walton. Betray us, and you may well
witness the disappearance of America as an industrial nation. The time
is now or never."

That zinger gave me pause. He meant it. But before I had a chance to
tell him he was completely crazy, he went on to sketch out what he
claimed was his objective. How he planned to address the American
"crisis" and resolve it.

Let me tell you my first impression of Matsuo Noda's scenario. It was
legal, it was legit, and it was--as Joanna's teenage niece used to
describe notable phenomena--totally fucking awesome.

What's more, he wanted me to stay on as tail-gunner. The truth? I felt
the disorientation of a kid who'd been fooling around in the Soap Box
Derby suddenly being handed a slot in the Indianapolis 500.

The most astonishing part of all was, I had the feeling he just might
pull it off.

You're right. I should have said no, not on your life, this is way out
of my league, never in a million years. . . .

Instead I said I'd think about it.

Good, he said. Why didn't I stick around till Monday and get a feeling
for the operation?

I didn't shake his hand. I just walked out and poured myself a cup of
green tea from the huge urn there in the middle of the floor. Walton,
you idiot, how did you get yourself into this?

Which is when I spotted a sporty looking lady way across on the other
side of the floor, over by the climate-controlled NEC mainframe.
Something about her seemed vaguely familiar. Definitely not DNI staff.
Wearing jeans, dark hair in a nice designer cut, handled herself like a
mover. Not to mention a world-class bottom inside those tight, shapely
Calvins. From all appearances she actually seemed to be second-in-
command. She was reading the riot act to Tanaka about something to do
with the computer, had the self-important little fucker bobbing and
weaving. Who was that? Hadn't seen her around here before.

Well, now, no time like the present to head on over and check into
this. A fellow _gaijin_. Could be she'll explain what in hell's going
on. Is Noda real?

Suddenly she turned around, saw me, and stopped. I stopped. We both
just stood there trying to remember. She hit pay dirt first, but I was
only microseconds behind.

Want to know my first thought, my very first thought? Matsuo Noda, you
son of a bitch, you're even smarter than I'd given you credit for.
You've hired the best, the very best.

"Is this how you pick up your women these days, Matt? Given up on
vegetable stands?" She was walking toward me wearing a smile. I tried
to grin back. "How are you, Matthew? Good to see you've still got your
hair. Well, most of it."

"Tam Richardson, I don't believe this. Now I know it all is a dream.
Please tell me you were kidnapped. None of this is really happening,
right? It's just a very big, very bad dream. We'll all wake up tomorrow
and go to the beach."

"Welcome aboard, partner." She stuck out her hand. "It's going to be a
wild trip."

"No kidding." I looked her over as I took her hand. Nice and warm. Time
had treated her well. Very well. "How long have you known Noda?"

"Less than a month." She was checking me over too. Wonder how I was
doing. "How long have you been helping him?"

It occurred to me that we both should have been using that classic
hooker response when the guy asks his young companion how long she's
been in her particular field of endeavor and she replies, "Long enough
to know better."

"Few months now. Noda is pretty impressive." I tried to sound casual.
"Not to mention persuasive."

"That he is."

"Well, let's have a toast to winning this." I turned to the urn. "How
about some tea, Professor?"

"Love it."

"Tam, let's just hope these guys don't suddenly decide to eat us
alive." I passed it over. "What do you think our chances of survival
are?"

That one startled her. I got the impression she was half thinking the
same thing. Then she managed a thin laugh.

"We'll eat them first if they try."

"You still talk tough. I always told you you should have been a
lawyer."

But she was right. Once the cards are dealt, you play to win.

Which is exactly what I planned to do. Since my own part was still down
the road, that weekend I just sat in their offices watching spellbound
as Noda and Dr. Tamara Richardson reviewed the data and put together
the financial details. Next, a lot of coded telexes were sent out to
pile up somewhere in Tokyo with instructions for routing of the funds.

After I'd digested his opening move, I did have occasion to ask the
boss a few pointed questions. Such as, wasn't he at all nervous that
Wall Street might rebound before he could get rolling? He replied,
correctly as usual, that the total collapse in the financial markets
would last for a while. Even though the dollar was still down for the
count (over forty percent), he figured only the most intrepid foreign
speculators would go plunging into the American stock market looking
for bargains. As for American investors, most of them, including the
institutions, were still in shock. He rightly forecast that the herd
mentality of the Street hadn't been repealed. War stories of '87 were
going around and nobody wanted to make the textbooks as a fool. Better
a little profit forgone than more money lost. The mutual fund managers,
most of whom had been caught with their pants at half-mast, were
devoting their energies that weekend to composing creative
explanations.

Events Monday proved him to be essentially on target. There was an
eerie quiet over the financial landscape. Everybody was waiting for
somebody else to try breathing life back into the corpse.

Then a few analysts noticed something peculiar. Anonymous buy orders
were coming in, more and more, for stocks in the sector hardest hit,
high tech. Maybe it was bargain hunters, but the buyers weren't any of
the "growth" mutual funds that might have been expected to lead the
action. In fact, many of those hotshot managers were relieved to part
with some of the dogs they'd ridden down that long, lonesome decline of
the week before.

Gradually the prices of certain securities began to edge up

in this early thin trading, enticing more and more holders to "sell on
strength." What issues? First off, anything to do with computers. Of
course there weren't all that many hardware manufacturers left around
by then, after the shakeout and mergers of the mid-eighties, but
somebody was buying heavily into the few that remained. They were also
actively purchasing little software outfits. Those stocks had taken a
heavy beating over the past week, so prices were at an all-time low for
most.

Other industries they started to nibble at were telecommunications,
aerospace, biotechnology. They seemed to be looking for outfits with
substantial R&D operations: the focus was on creativity, growth
sectors, the sunrise industries.

Of course, what this mysterious new buyer was really doing was snapping
up outfits loaded with labs and Ph.D.'s. Dr. Richardson and my new
client Matsuo Noda had DNI acquiring companies short on competent
management and market share but long on research, innovation--the one
thing we were still halfway good at. Looked at differently, what Dai
Nippon was really buying was underused brainpower, the American smarts
currently going to waste thanks to inept corporate management.

Explanations began to sprout all over the place--from the "Heard on the
Street" column in the Journal to Dan Dorfman, a guy with a bloodhound's
nose for Wall Street shenanigans. But the hard truth was nobody could
put it together. Who could have? The play was too ambitious even to
imagine.

You guessed it. With the trillions and trillions now at its disposal,
Japan was about to take charge of America's future.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN


The task ahead can be described very simply. I was going to help Dai
Nippon acquire controlling stock positions in a bevy of ineptly managed
American high-tech companies, and she was going to be in charge of
turning them around. I was DNI's takeover artist; Tam was the fix-it
expert. That probably sounds a bit ambitious on everybody's part, but
after watching the Dai Nippon juggernaut for a couple of days I knew
one thing for sure: we'd have plenty of heavy backup.

Why did I agree to ride shotgun for Matsuo Noda's "Save America"
project? Because, if he meant what he said, such a program was long
overdue. American industry was in trouble, and it was hurting a lot of
good, hardworking people who didn't deserve to be hurt. Worse still,
this wasn't some random act of God. It was largely the result of self-
serving corporate management. Most occupiers of the executive suites
these days were too busy merging and acquiring and leveraging to do
what stockholders thought they were paying them for: building industry
and creating American jobs. (Well, maybe that's an overstatement; they
had kept Drexel Burnham's junk-bond cowboys working overtime.) In the
mid-eighties, American corporations were spending two and three times
more on mergers and acquisitions than on research and development. Most
industrialists here no longer cared to try making anything as old-
fashioned as competitive products; they preferred to make deals and
sell imports. The net result was that America, the world's major
economic locomotive, was veering off the track and seriously in danger
of taking everybody else in the world along with it.

That's where Matsuo Noda came in. Part of the arrangement he'd made
with the Japanese institutions putting up the funds was that he would
be given proxy to exercise all voting rights. Face it, he had a pretty
impressive performance record overseeing the long-range planning and
investment of well-run corporations. So after I'd helped Dai Nippon
acquire control of a long list of poorly managed companies, he and Tam
Richardson were planning to move in, clear out the deadwood, and lay
down priorities for restructuring. She was Dai Nippon's technical
director for all U.S. operations, which meant she was going to head up
the team on the newly evacuated floor just above the financial section--
Noda's management samurai.

Enough theory. Here's how it actually went. On Friday the story was
finally broken by The Wall Street Journal, a little squib in "What's
News," with a short two-column analysis on page 3. The piece revealed
that all the heavy new activity building in the high-tech sector of the
market represented buys being coordinated by a new Japanese investment
concern.

This sudden, unexpected program of foreign investment was heralded at
first as a salubrious omen, refuting those doomsayers who were claiming
the world had lost confidence in the U.S. In fact, if anything it was
proof that overseas enthusiasm was actually increasing. Japan's
previous practice of focusing on debt instruments was at best passive
investment. But buying heavily into a sector of the economy that
appeared weak was something else entirely. It was a rousing endorsement
of America's prospects.

To be fair, there was still a modest case to be made in that direction.
Our high-tech sector wasn't all struggling high fliers operating out of
some one-story cinder block on Route 128 or the Washington Beltway.
America had plenty of solid industry in high tech--computers, aerospace,
office machinery--and American laboratories and universities were the
envy of the world. The problem lay with the downside. We'd lost our
lead in electronics, drugs, scientific instruments, plastics,
communications equipment . . . it's a long list. In fact, America's
overall trade balance in high-tech products had actually gone negative,
shrunk from a twenty-five billion dollar surplus as recently as 1980.
The ignored question, therefore: Given the direction things were
headed, why were the Japanese suddenly supposed to be so impressed?

The market's initial euphoria didn't last long however. By the end of
the second week the SEC was sniffing the air and the lunch talk
downtown, from the AMEX traders at Harry's to the expense-account crowd
at historic Fraunces Tavern, was

focused on what appeared to be a major shift in Japan's investment
strategy. Now that the stock market was in shambles, they weren't just
dabbling anymore; they were cashing in on the fire sale hand over fist.

Thus the Street's early cheering melted into apprehension. Japan had
already taken apart our debt and currency markets, turned them upside
down, and scored a bundle. Now Noda had Wall Street looking over its
shoulder and reminiscing about the good old days when all it had to
worry about was rich, crazy Arabs. When it became clear that Dai Nippon
was assaulting the U.S. securities markets with high-speed computers
and a checkbook that just kept coming, there weren't all that many
wisecracks about camels and tents.

Wall Street, however, merely counts; it doesn't think. The real
disquiet was reserved for corporate boardrooms. Take it as a given that
when the Securities and Exchange Commission reports some ten, twenty,
or thirty percent of your company's stock has just been swallowed by a
cash-rich Japanese raider, your attention can focus most exquisitely.
In a word, Matsuo Noda was the talk of industrial America. More to the
point, and exactly what he had expected, the boards and CEOs of the
companies being bought were beginning to be scared shitless. A major
player with seemingly bottomless pockets was gobbling up heavy blocks
of their publicly traded shares. Worse still, nobody had the slightest
inkling why.

What all those entrenched CEOs didn't realize, in their wildest
paranoia, was that seven-figure salaries and cushy executive perks were
about to go the way of Cadillac tail fins. World competition, not
executive compensation, would be the new game. Playtime was over;
America was about to get serious again.

My early suspicions concerning my role in Noda's design had been
precisely on the mark. I was indeed the freelance gunslinger he wanted
by his side when the companies he was aiming at started to shoot back,
which they surely would. Needless to say, if his plan was ever allowed
to reach the courts, it would create a virtual "living trust" for half
the corporate lawyers in the land. He'd be in litigation through the
twenty-first century as managements fought to the last stockholder's
dollar to keep their jobs.

Enter Matt Walton. Time for some samurai-style legal swordsmanship.

The rules: If you're CEO of a company and somebody starts buying up a
major chunk of your stock with the intent of taking you over, you've
got roughly four basic ways to stop him. The first is to try and bribe
that buyer to go away, paying him a ransom--politely called greenmail--to
sell his holdings and disappear. (More than one corporate raider you've
read about in the papers has made millions in a couple of weeks using
that very play.) The drawbacks of trying to buy off a potential
acquirer are, (1) it's expensive, and (2) maybe he really does plan to
eat you, in which case it won't work anyway. Matsuo Noda was in that
category.

A second popular means to thwart a hostile takeover is to go out and
find somebody else to buy you first, the proverbial "white knight."
Ideally this friendly buyer should be, (1) too big to be taken over
himself, and (2) willing to let you keep your playpen.

A third technique to stop somebody from acquiring a controlling chunk
of your stock is to jack up the price, usually by offering to buy it
yourself. Float some junk bonds, sell off a few divisions, do anything
that will raise cash and then offer the shareholders more than the
raider is willing to bid. This can be very expensive, but if you're a
CEO with millions in compensation every year, why should you care if
your stockholders' company is leveraged to the brink of ruin? You've
still got your job and your goodies. It's used a lot.

The fourth and most fashionable way these days to stop hostile mergers
is to try and make yourself unmergeable. To do that, you get your board
of directors to vote a poison pill. What this does is make sure that
any company that swallows you is going to be ingesting a piranha that
will eat said company's own guts instead. The newest twist on this is
to use phony bonds with a so-called flip-over provision, a killer pill
invented by a clever New York law operation I won't name but whose
initials might be WLR&K. Their game is as follows. In order to protect
yourself you invent some convertible bonds and stash them away
somewhere, ready. Then, should a raiding company start acquiring your
stock or make an unauthorized tender offer to your shareholders, you
hand out these little bombs to everybody who owns your shares. If this
unfriendly company is then unlucky enough to actually acquire you,
those convertibles "flip over" into the stock of that buyer. Your
stockholders suddenly have the right to exchange their funny paper for
huge, discounted chunks of real stock in the acquiring company--which
would, naturally, be ruined should that happen. And usually, just for
good measure, you also vote through a few "golden parachutes" for you
and all your cronies, giving everybody in the executive suite severance
pay in the tens of millions.

Those were the stakes. Now, a lot of outfits suddenly found themselves
being bought by a mysterious Japanese entity named Dai Nippon,
International. What were they going to do? At first of course everybody
just assumed NDI was merely angling for a little greenmail. No such
luck. After a couple of days went by and we hadn't returned anybody's
phone call, they knew that wasn't it. Next, a few went looking for a
white knight with more money than DNI (a tough assignment). Not
surprisingly, however, most corporate managers very quickly decided to
call a board meeting and ram through a poison pill.

I got more than a few phone calls at my downtown office from CEOs
wanting to know if I could pitch in and help them stave off what looked
like an unfriendly Japanese buy-up. I had to say, sorry fellows, I'm
unavailable. But why not give it your best shot and try the old "pill"?

Most of them did. They had no option really.

Which suited me fine.

The time was late Friday--the afternoon was gorgeous, sunny and crisp--
and the place was Noda's office. Naturally he understood all about
poison pills, so he knew the problem. What he wanted to hear was our
solution.

"I'd like to try something that's never been done before. A different
battle plan." I glanced out at the blue sky and wished I was already in
St. Croix on holiday with Amy. "However, I think it's possibly just
unconventional enough to fly."

"It has to be legal, Mr. Walton." Noda leaned back in his chair,
waiting.

"It is. But in order to lay the groundwork, we'll first need to set up
a string of dummy corporations."

"Any particular state?" He was listening closely now, his mind clicking
away. I was never sure what the man was thinking, but I figured he'd
probably seen it all before.

"That old standby Delaware should do fine, though you might want to
consider going for some offshore tax-haven places, if only because the
paperwork is minimal. In the Caribbean I'd recommend the Turks and
Caicos Islands, maybe the Cayman Islands. Then there's Bermuda or the
Bahamas or the Channel Islands. If you really want to get esoteric, why
not Vanuatu--used to be the New Hebrides--in the South Pacific."

"I'm familiar with world geography, Mr. Walton." He was deadpan. A
joke?

"Fair enough. These dummy corporations of course will have no assets."

"I understand." He smiled and ran his fingers through his silver hair,
doubtless already miles ahead of me. "Absolutely no problem. Please
proceed."

"While those corporations are being set up, you continue buying stock
in whatever companies you need to control, making sure in all cases
that you acquire just enough to deliberately trigger their poison-pill
mechanism. We force them to issue their flip-over bonds. They can't
stop the process, since it's always set up to be automatic after a
certain percentage of stock has been acquired. Not even the boards of
directors can revoke it."

"Yes, Mr. Walton. I'm aware of that." He didn't seem the slightest bit
ruffled by my unorthodox opener.

"Well, let me elaborate. The reason we want to trigger their poison
pill first is so that nobody can later come in as a white knight and
save them. They're totally isolated. They'll have made themselves into
sitting ducks."

"Very good." He leaned back. Was he really that far ahead of me?

"While that's happening, you 'sell' the stock acquired thus far to one
of the dummy outfits we've set up, in return for debt paper. Which puts
DNl at arm's length and untouchable. After that, you lend that dummy
corporation the rest of the millions or billions necessary to acquire a
controlling interest in the company, taking back as collateral more
junk bonds at absurdly usurious rates. That makes it a financial leper,
but you don't care: you're merely lending yourself the money. This
paper corporation is all that can be touched when the acquired
company's poison bonds flip over. So instead of being convertible into
the stock of some cash-rich corporation, the way they were intended,
those flip-bonds are going to give their holders a piece of some
offshore phone booth with zero assets and enough debt to choke a horse.
They're worthless paper. And you're in the clear."

He smiled. "Which means our program can proceed on schedule?"

"Dai Nippon will be totally insulated from their poison pills. Like the
guy who sells his house and boat to his company and then lets it file
Chapter 11 bankruptcy in order to protect his personal assets from
creditors. Nobody can lay a glove on you."

"Mr. Walton"--he leaned back, a twinkle in his dark eyes--"that's exactly
why I knew you were right for us. You have an intuitive grasp of
tactics."

"If you do this, there're going to be a lot of unhappy, unemployed
lawyers in this town."

"Most regrettable. Some of them might even have to go out and find
productive work." He rose and shook my hand. "You've destroyed the
prospect of years of legal roadblocks in a single stroke. It's
elegant."

It was. Sun Tzu and Miyamoto Musashi would definitely have approved.
But there still had to be more. An unexpected opening is not enough in
itself; it needs an equally deft follow-up. Bushido, the Way of the
Sword, teaches that you should first surprise your antagonist, and then
you must confound him. Both the initial attack and the carry-through
are crucial to success. Among other things, that meant Noda's mechanism
for calling a board meeting of the companies he'd be acquiring had to
be instantaneous, without the usual niceties.

"This setup should do the job, but only if it's used with finesse.
Otherwise the whole system gets buried in paperwork."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to be fast, and flexible. Once you've taken ownership of a
company, you've got to gain immediate control over its board of
directors, in order to block any and all countermoves."

"I understand."

"Do you? I'm talking about the ability to call an executive session out
of the blue. The _kesa_ stroke of the sword. The power to cut a CEO in
half before he can blink. No time for consensus and the usual Japanese
niceties."

He stood quietly, thinking. At last he spoke.

"In other words, I must be able to convene the board at a moment's
notice. Is that the essence of what you are saying?"

"Nothing else is going to work."

"Very well. After we have a commanding stock position, we can institute
the necessary changes."

"Good. Remember though, that's still merely half the battle. Besides
being able to call board meetings, you need full authority to institute
a shareholders' vote, which in this case will consist of nothing more
than you signing your name."

"Perfectly reasonable."

"It is. But it also means you've got to be available to me at all
times. Can I rely on that?"

He turned and strolled to the window, pensively. "That may not always
be possible."

"Then you've got a potential problem."

He revolved back and studied me a second, finally taking the bait.
"There is, of course, one very simple solution. I can merely assign you
power of attorney, allowing you to act in my name if I cannot be
reached."

"That would do it. But you'd be handing over a lot of authority."

"I envision no difficulty." He looked me over with the self- assurance
of a tiger contemplating a haunch of beef. "I have every reason to
believe you would always act in DNI's best interest, Mr. Walton."

It was possible he knew a few things I didn't. On the other hand, maybe
Matsuo Noda had just overreached, taken too much for granted. Whichever
it was, the maneuvering just completed had been one small step for Tam,
and Matthew Walton. Should we ever need them, I'd just conned Matsuo
Noda into giving me duplicates of the keys to his Kingdom. It was our
protection and, in a way, my secret price for putting our heads into
Dai Nippon's noose.

"Then it looks like we have everything we need to move forward." I
nodded.

"Excellent."

Upon which I absented his office, safety net in place. The play was on.

Which brings us to Tam Richardson. If my approach to this new job was a
little unconventional, what about the college prof who showed up in
jeans as she readied to renovate corporate America? One thing, we
suited each other. It was a tag team made in heaven. After I'd pried
open the door to the companies DNI was buying, she was going to roll
in, guns blazing, and shove everybody against the wall.

Let me add one important distinction, however. Whereas I may have been
wary, even slightly skeptical, Tam was definitely the idealist. She
was, by God, going to get this country moving again. America was once
more going to lead, she declared, not follow. No defensive Fortress
America claptrap. Hers would be nothing less than a full-scale assault,
intended to win back and keep a solid manufacturing base here, toe-to-
toe with the world.

Since no overall American program existed to rescue industries now
being killed by foreign competition, she was going to do it herself,
create a coordinated battle plan for our strategic sectors. Backed by
Noda's Japanese billions, she was about to try and redeem this
country's future, leading us back to number one. She also was quick to
add she had no intention of merely copying Japan's famous management
techniques. Japanese industry, she insisted, hadn't invented long-term
planning, sound capital investment, dedication. What they did over
there these days was what the U.S. used to do. The American work ethic
was alive and well; it was just temporarily on the wrong side of the
globe. She was about to bring it home again.

Maybe she could. One major impediment at least would be out of the way.
Since the companies Dai Nippon was taking over would no longer have to
answer to a lot of fickle fund managers every three months, they could
start investing for the longer term. Also a lot of unnecessary fat was
going to be sliced out of upper management. If things went as planned,
Dr. Tamara Richardson and Dai Nippon were about to become the ruthless
architects of a new corporate America.

Unless . . . well, there seemed no reason not to take things at face
value, at least for now. DNI's new Industrial Management Section on the
twelfth floor had already begun filling up with young Tokyo University
graduates, guys who embodied the work ethic in human guise. They meant
business. Nobody was sipping coffee and critiquing last night's rerun
of Dynasty. I got the definite impression one of the unsmiling whiz
kids in Noda's handpicked cadre could chew up about five American MBAs
for breakfast. Tam currently had them working overtime, putting
together a reorganization plan for an outfit in Boston, one of their
new acquisitions, which I guess I'd better just call XYZ. The previous
week Dai Nippon had purchased some twenty-four percent of its stock,
presently at a historic low, and she was planning to make the company
her showcase turnaround.

Stock in hand, she'd buckled down with her new staff and using DNI's
analytical machinery confirmed some alarming suspicions. It turned out
XYZ was practically a terminal case, living at the moment off its real
estate assets, which were being systematically dribbled away to mask
heavy losses. Layoffs would be next.

By Thursday of the second week, however, she'd put together a
restructuring, including some painful austerity that might just salvage
the company and its American jobs. She went home that night feeling
quite proud of herself, and Friday she flew up to Boston for her first
official conference with XYZ's chief executive officer.

Since a quarter of a company's shares gives the holder reasonably high
recognition, the CEO was understandably nervous about who exactly had
acquired a fourth of his company inside of a week and a half. He
appeared at Logan with his Rolls limo to receive Dr. Richardson
personally.

She explained right off that she was there merely to pass along a few
of DNI's "recommendations." She took one look at the Rolls and added
that, for example, one of the first was going to be to divest all limos
forthwith, along with the new fifteen-million-dollar Gulfstream IV he'd
bought for weekend fishing trips down in the Keys, and direct the
proceeds toward capital investment.

From there on things progressed pretty much as might be expected. By
the time they reached his paneled office she had been obliged to
explain that his options were either (1) to get in line, or (2) to
watch DNI pick up another thirty percent of his company's O-T-C shares,
then march him and his "golden parachute" past a stockholders' vote
they would call to review his career options. After that she had claim
to his unalloyed attention.

It was a tough Friday. After she flew back late, she dropped by the
office to pick up a few things and fill me in on how it went.

"Good. You're still here." She popped her head around my office door.

"Who won? The Christians or the lions?"

"Want to hear about it?" She came on in and dropped her briefcase on
the desk.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Matt, you should have seen the look on that man's face." She clicked
open the case and pulled out the action plan she'd developed for XYZ.
She was exhausted but still wired. "These CEOs forget it's shareholders
who own the companies and pay their salaries. They start thinking
they're little Caesars."

"Hey, those are the kinds of operators who used to be my clients.
Believe me, I know the type."

She then proceeded to give me the rundown. Outfit XYZ specialized in
high-tech widgets it sold in the U.S., Latin America, and Europe.
Problem: their widgets cost too much, broke down more than they should,
and consequently folks didn't tend to buy them the way they once did.
As a result XYZ had dropped about five million last quarter and
(unbeknownst to its workers) was currently on the verge of closing two
of its three U.S. plants and exporting the assembly operation someplace
where it could exploit two-dollar labor, a move that would tank just
over a thousand American jobs. Management says, gee, that's tragic, and
awards itself another year-end financial tribute.

Dr. Richardson had just dropped a bomb in the playpen. First off, she
told them, XYZ's damned widgets cost too much not because American
workers are overpaid, but because its assembly plants were a candidate
for the Smithsonian. Therefore, starting immediately, short-term
profits as well as dividends and all management compensation would be
slashed and the resulting capital, together with a new offering of
long- term corporate equities, would be invested in automating its
facilities and retraining workers. There would, in fact, only be
workers in future, since all freeloading middle managers, attorneys,
and drones with titles such as 'administrative assistant' were to be
terminated. She gave them a list.

Henceforth, she went on, management would begin planning ten years
ahead, not three months. XYZ would concern itself with world
competition then, not now, and it would develop a substantially more
diversified product line to cushion slumps. As part of that shift, it
would double the budget for R&D immediately and expand the lab.
Innovation would once again be brought to the product stage fast and
adapted quickly to world markets. XYZ's new focus would be on making
its market share grow in the decade ahead, which also meant cracking
down on quality and halving the current customer-be-damned response
time on deliveries and service. Concerning those last items, product
managers would now be required to address customers' complaints
personally. She figured that in itself would turn around XYZ's
substantial quality control debacle overnight.

Finally, there would be an immediate crash program to rectify XYZ's
costly illusion that English was the worldwide language of business.
These days, she explained, the language of business is the one your
customer speaks. Accordingly all XYZ's overseas operatives would be
required to enroll in intensive language training now, including formal
study of the history and social customs of their territory.

"Sounds like you let him have it with both barrels. Keep on like this,
and the U.S. of A. may never be the same."

"That's the idea. One company down and about three thousand to go."

What's that saying about a journey of miles and miles starting with the
first step? Well, she'd taken the step. The future lay ahead.

"Hey, can I buy you a drink?" I was winding up the day, the week.
"You've earned it."

"Like nothing better." She was repacking her briefcase. "Matt, I'm
having the time of my life. All the things I've always wanted to do.
This is like a fantasy come true. We're going to pull this off, wait
and see."

"Could be." I was switching off the lights in my office. "Tell you
something though, Doctor. I keep wondering what will happen when Noda
gets through with us."

"Thoughts?" She glanced back.

"Well, after Japan takes over half the companies in this country and
starts running them right, then what?" We were headed for the security
doors. "But maybe we ought to talk about that some other time. And
place."

"I'll think about it tomorrow. Just now I'm bushed."

"Tomorrow, in case you've lost count, is Saturday. Don't know about
you, but I'm taking the day off. The hell with Japanese business hours.
My daughter comes this weekend." We were saluted by heavies in the
security airlock, then the doors opened. "Matter of fact, we're going
to eat somewhere down in SoHo tonight. Care to join us? Be warned it'll
be mostly soy by-products and brown rice."

"I'd love to meet her." She looked at me. "Matthew Walton with a
daughter. My God." She laughed. "Sorry, Matt, but you really don't seem
the father type."

"Amy's mother said approximately the same thing as she was packing her
bags. But I'm now undergoing intensive on-the-job father training. Fact
is, I'd planned to knock off around Christmas and take her down to our
place in the islands, though now I'm not sure there'll be time."

"Sounds very fatherly. You should go."

"I'm still hoping to." I looked her over again. "Well, the hell with
it, why mince words. Tell me, Tam, how's your love life these days?"

She burst out laughing again. "You haven't changed a bit. Not at all."

"Spare the commentary, okay? Just stick to the question."

"Excuse me, counselor. The honest answer is it's nonexistent, which you
surely must know, since I'm here every night till midnight just as you
are." She examined me pointedly. "Matthew, could this conceivably be
construed as a proposition? To a horny, bone-tired woman in her moment
of mental fatigue?"

"It might be a tentative gesture in that direction. I'm a slow mover."

"You always were." She finished buttoning her coat. "What time's
dinner?"

"I'll pick up Amy and buzz you. Give us an hour."

"Think she'll like me? Some stranger competing for Dad's attention?"

"If she does, it'll be a first." I pushed the down button on the
elevator.

Guess what. Matthew Walton barely got a word in edgewise the entire
night. Then around eleven, in the cab headed home, Amy whispered to me
she thought Dr. Richardson was "kinda neat." Was she gonna be my new
girlfriend?

Tell you, it's not always simple learning to be a father.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN


Over the next couple of weeks I began to wonder if the scenario wasn't
going a little too smoothly. Everything about Noda's setup seemed
surprisingly pat. The answers came too easily. Was it all really what
it seemed?

I should also add that in the fortnight since Tarn's first contact with
America's shell-shocked industrialists, the situation had not gone
unnoticed in Washington. Tuesday of the second week Jack O'Donnell
called and left a message downtown with Emma, asking if I could arrange
a meeting for him with the elusive Matsuo Noda. Although I'd tried to
keep Jack informed as to developments, he still wanted to confront
America's New Age maker face-to-face.

"Walton," he said when I got back to him, "I just heard your guy's too
'busy' to meet the press, but maybe he'd chat with a close, longtime
friend of his American attorney. That's me, in case you don't recognize
the description. Why not try and get me in to see him?"

"You're dreaming, Jack." I told him that a U.S. senator was about the
last person Matsuo Noda would be interested in meeting just now. "Don't
hold your breath, but I'll bring it up and see what he says."

And what do you know! Noda declared that nothing would please him more.
Naturally there had to be a few ground rules about confidentiality--this
was after all a delicate corporate situation--but otherwise he'd be
delighted to chat. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Thus around two P.M. Thursday, Jack O'Donnell arrived at the new
twelfth-floor operation, ready to get the truth or by God know the
reason why. After he made his way past our Uzi- outfitted reception, I
brought him on through the floor and introduced him to Dr. Richardson.
Jack knew of her writings

and hit the ground running, asking who, why, when, where, etc., but
before he could get any real answers, Noda appeared and took over.

O'Donnell confided later that his first impression of Matsuo Noda
matched perfectly my description of the man--every bit central casting's
image of the in-charge Japanese honcho. After the usual routine
pleasantries, Jack said he'd like to record their talk. Noda politely
demurred, saying recording instruments stifled his spontaneity, then
proceeded to laud Jack's own articles and speeches urging American
industry to get its house in order. Senator Jack O'Donnell, he
declared, was a visionary American statesman.

Jack accepted this praise warily, then asked if he could maybe have a
peek at the computer operation on the floor below, the analytical
armory I'd told him about. Again Noda begged off, claiming he'd be
honored to guide the esteemed senator's tour personally, but surely
they'd both prefer to postpone that until such time as they had the
leisure to review the operation in detail.

Jack sensed, and I did too, that he was getting a polite runaround, so
he decided to get down to business. He clicked open his briefcase and
took out a notebook.

"Mr. Noda," he began, "there's been considerable speculation in
Washington this past couple of weeks regarding the specific intent of
Japan's sudden heavy involvement in America's high-tech sector. My
subcommittee has monitored foreign investment here for a number of
years, and frankly I've never seen anything remotely like what's now
underway. I'd appreciate an informal briefing, unless you wish to open
the regrettable possibility of a formal subpoena to appear before our
subcommittee."

Whereupon Jack received the first whoosh of what soon blossomed into a
roomful of aerosol bullshit. Noda started with some malarkey about the
great tradition of economic cooperation between our peoples, advanced
to balderdash about Japan's desire to share her resources with the
world's less fortunate, then outdid himself with triple-distilled
crapola about the timeless trust and regard his country's ordinary
citizens cherished in their hearts for our Christian nation (which had
merely torch-bombed and nuked them a few decades past). Worst of all,
Jack had to sit there and listen. I've never seen the guy so
uncomfortable.

Clearly Noda intended to give him pure _tatemae _- soothing
generalities that added up to zip. The man was, by God, going to do
exactly what he wanted, all of which was perfectly legal, so he didn't
really see any point in drawing a picture for the U.S. Senate.

Finally Jack just closed his notebook. "Let me put this differently. I
understand that your objectives are not merely acquisition, but also an
attempt to rejuvenate U.S. business. Beginning, I take it, with the
lackluster segments of our high-tech sector?"

"We hope to offer suggestions from time to time that may prove
helpful." Noda just sat there like a sphinx. "Perhaps I can offer an
example. As you doubtless know, Senator, Japanese firms build plants
overseas these days primarily to be more competitive in those foreign
markets. You Americans, however, are moving your manufacturing abroad
now mainly to compete with foreign goods here it home in your own
market. You appear to think it as comparable, but of course it is not.
What you are doing is exporting your own jobs. Your strategy is
defensive, ours is offensive."

Jack looked him squarely in the eye. "Quite frankly I must tell you
that not everyone in Washington these days trusts Japan's 'offensive'
in international trade. I for one would be very interested in knowing
exactly why Japan has chosen to invest billions of dollars in keeping
America's manufacturing alive. Particularly when so much of it is
competitive with your own."

"Yes, Senator, I realize you Americans prize frankness." He wasn't
giving an inch. "Very well. Quite honestly, no one in Japan believes it
is in the interest of the Free World to allow your industrial base to
continue its current decline. Our economic condition is linked to
yours, like the vital organs of Siamese twins. We cannot afford to let
you atrophy. For one thing, you are our only defense shield, since we
have none of our own. I might also add, though it is a comparatively
lesser concern, you are Japan's primary customer."

"So what you're proposing--if you'll permit me to paraphrase--is to take
certain of our strategic industries, the ones in trouble, by the neck
and institute the management, investment, and research necessary to
keep them competitive."

Noda just smiled. "Dai Nippon expects to offer occasional

advice in the spirit of friendly cooperation. Which is why," he went
on, "I am so happy to have this opportunity to review our program with
someone such as yourself. Your understanding of America's industrial
malaise has not gone unnoticed by those Japanese who take the longer
view, who worry about world economic stability."

Jack tugged at his silk tie and nodded his thanks. Then Noda continued.

"You will be pleased to know I have been in contact with the Japanese
trade organizations that have political action committees, or PACs as
you call them, in Washington. Last year we distributed over fifty
million dollars . . . at least if you believe the Senate Foreign
Relations Committee's staffers . . . in an effort to clarify
misunderstandings about Japan's trade and investment position here." He
smiled. "That averages out to about a million dollars per state, to
take a somewhat clinical view. Of course I will try to use my influence
to see what our PACs can do to help you next fall."

"Mr. Noda, your expression of support is, naturally, appreciated." Jack
was turning politician again. "However, you should be aware of Section
441(e) of the Federal Election Campaign Act, which states that 'no
foreign national shall make a contribution, or an implied promise to
make a contribution, in connection with any federal public office.' I
don't think this discussion is proper."

"That law says nothing about PACs of duly incorporated American
subsidiaries of foreign-owned organizations, Senator. For example, Sony
of America and a coalition of Japanese investors recently contributed
hundreds of thousands to legislators of Florida and California to
encourage the defeat of those states' unfair unitary taxes on foreign-
owned companies. Sometimes it's necessary to remind your federal and
state governments that Japanese investment can be very problematical in
an uncongenial environment." He smiled. "Americans investing overseas
have a long history of making their interests known to those
governments; why should Japanese businessmen be expected to do
otherwise?" All of a sudden Noda glanced at his watch, rose abruptly,
and bowed. "Well, the afternoon seems to have gotten away from us. I
wish you to know I am extremely honored you've taken time from your
undoubtedly busy schedule to visit with us, Senator. It has been most
pleasant."

He shook hands with Jack as he continued. "Of course I have not yet had
the opportunity to review the thinking of the man expected to oppose
you in next fall's senate contest. I believe he is Representative Mark
Reynolds, is he not?"

Jack's polite smile sort of froze on his face.

"But, I'm sure I will," Noda proceeded blandly. "Again let me stress
that voices such as yours are important. There are so few opinion-
makers in America, individuals such as Dr. Richardson and yourself, who
have the receptivity to appreciate the importance of Dai Nippon's
program and its objectives."

I quickly offered to show the distinguished senator to the door, hoping
I wouldn't need that Christmas-gift dog muzzle. He was still closing
his briefcase as we passed the guards, a couple of guys who looked like
the heavies in an old Bruce Lee karate epic. Click, we were on the
elevator, click, we were headed down.

"Good Christ!" He exploded. Before he could say anything else, I waved
for silence. Around here the walls probably had ears. (Shortly
thereafter I discovered I'd underestimated even that.)

In minutes we were on Third Avenue, autumn wind in our hair, with
O'Donnell positively awestruck by Matsuo Noda's balls.

"Matt, did I hear what I thought I did?" His eyes were grim.

"That he's got X million bucks that say you get retired if you fuck
with him?"

"My reading was, I play ball with him and his crowd and he'll write a
blank check for my campaign next year. I cross him and I'll be watching
the Mark Reynolds show every night on prime time right through election
day." He was livid. "Matt, take my advice and get out of this thing.
That bastard thinks this country's for sale. If he expects me to run
interference for him on the Hill while he gears up for World War Three,
he's making a big mistake."

"Jack, I can't quit now. Who else is going to keep an eye on this guy?
Besides, he'd never let me. I know too much."

"So what? He's got to be stopped."

"Look, if you're so worried, then deliver a major speech on the Senate
floor. About all these Japanese billions rolling in, absorbing
companies, with a lot of samurai fanning out to take

names and kick ass across the boardrooms of America. It ought to get
picked up by the Nightly News. Then we'll see what the country wants to
do about it."

The problem, obviously, was what _could_ the country do about it. And
more than that, where would it eventually lead? Did anybody--Tam
Richardson included--seriously believe this was merely a temporary
helping hand? History had a practice of going in one direction--forward.
So after Noda had acquired a lot of our high-tech outfits, maybe even
kept them from going the way of Mostek and others, what next? More and
more I was beginning to wonder if this was really preferable to our
blundering along as best we could on our own.

After gazing at the sky a minute, he declared he was going to do
exactly what I'd said. Blow the whistle. He was about to write a speech
that would be read the length of America, maybe even in the White
House--unless, as Henderson claimed, nobody there these days read
anything but TelePrompTers. Nobody was going to buy off Jack O'Donnell.

I watched as he bulldozed a matron and her fur-collared pooch out of
the way to grab the next cab for his midtown office. On the way back
through the lobby I stopped off and grabbed a copy of _Time_. Had we
made the weeklies yet?

Yep. Lead article, all about how the Japanese loved investing here.
Going up in the elevator, though, I happened to flip past a profile of
some recently disappeared luminary in the academic world, the guy who
was supposed to have been the father of artificial intelligence. It
occurred to me the piece might be of interest to Tam. She'd been so
busy she was probably out of touch.

When I got back up to twelve, Noda was gone. Vanished almost as though
he hadn't been there. I wanted to huddle with Tam about his evasive new
song and dance, but since I was holding the magazine, I showed her the
item. The rest of what happened you can probably guess. She had been
out of touch.

"Oh, my God, Allan!"

"Friend of yours? I'm sorry."

"Nobody told me." She grabbed it and quickly skimmed the article.
Finally she headed for her office. "I've got to call Sarah."

"Tam." I caught her arm. I'd finally made the connection.

"I think I already know the story." Then I recounted Henderson's
bizarre tale.

That was the first time though not the last that I saw Tam Richardson
look scared. She obviously knew something I didn't.

"Matthew, something is very, very wrong."

"Just repeating what I heard." I looked at her, now twisting the
magazine in her hands, and decided to press. "Is there more to this
than you're telling me?"

"I don't know." She glanced around. "I really don't want to talk about
it here."

"Whatever you say." I paused. "How well did you know him?"

"He had dinner at my apartment not more than a couple of months ago."
She tossed down the magazine. "And he asked me to do something for
him."

"Did you?" Don't know why I asked. It just seemed relevant.

"No. I guess you could say I did just the opposite. Now it all makes me
wonder if . . . if maybe it has some connection with . . ." Her voice
trailed off.

"What? What connection?"

"Nothing." She was starting to clam up.

She didn't say anything more. And, so far as I know, that phone call
never got made.

Besides, something else occurred that night to occupy her mind. When
she got home, she picked up her mail and decided to crash. She'd been
so busy she still hadn't finished with all the odds and ends that had
stacked up during the Tokyo trip, but that night she was too knocked-
out to bother. She poured herself a glass of white wine, quickly
checked the mail, and was getting ready for bed when she first noticed
the light flashing on her answering machine. For a minute she
considered just letting it wait. There was nobody she wanted to talk
with who wouldn't still be there in the morning. But finally curiosity
got the upper hand, and she pushed "Play."

There was only one message. In Japanese.

Ms. Akira Mori wanted to see her Friday morning, at the DNI offices. It
wasn't a request; it was a summons.

Wait one minute! Mori? When did she get into town? And more to the
point, where did Mori-san come off summoning Tam Richardson for a
command appearance? She had another

glass of wine and finally went to bed wondering who exactly was now
running the show at DNI.

Friday late she awoke still thinking about Allan. What was going on?
She was beginning to get worried, and maybe a little frightened.
Finally, just before lunchtime, she got her briefcase and hailed a cab
for uptown.

After she cleared the checkpoint at the twelfth-floor elevators, she
spotted Mori-san, right there in the midst of the action. This woman
wastes no time, she told herself. Mori, an incongruous peacock of
designer elegance in the midst of the bustling, short-haired staff, was
poring over a stack of printouts assembled on a desk in the center of
the floor. Meanwhile, the office was going full tilt: the green print
of CRT screens glowed; printers hummed all around; data bleeped between
terminals; and staffers were hurrying over selected documents for Mori
to review. Also, since heavy buys were underway, the latest SEC filings
(required when one entity acquires more than five percent of the stock
of a given company) were being readied.

As it happens, I was already on hand too, over in Noda's office where
we were going over some paperwork. The day's news as far as I was
concerned also was Mori-san. She'd appeared bright and early, held a
closed-door confab with Noda, proceeded to do some photocopying, then
commandeered an office.

By purest coincidence I was doing some copying of my own round about
then and ended up on the copy line right behind her, inhaling her
perfume. Next an odd thing happened. As we all sometimes do when
rushed, she'd snatched up her copies while the last original was still
on the machine. Then she asked me if I wanted regular size or legal.
Legal, I said, and she reached to flip the switch. As she did, though,
she accidentally clicked the "print" button with those long
fingernails, whereupon she stalked off, rummaging through her copies
and forgetting the original.

Not for long. Two seconds later she was back to claim it, but by that
time an unauthorized copy was lying in the output bin. I didn't even
see it. However, when I scooped up my own pages a minute later, mixed
in with them was a sheet listing some names and numbers with REVISIONS
lettered across the top. I started to toss it, then paused to glance
over the names for a moment.

Hang on, everybody, this is very out of line. That's when I decided to
slip it into my briefcase.

When Mori saw Tam come in, she quickly stacked the printouts she was
reviewing into a neat pile, then beckoned her toward the far corner of
the floor. Tam noticed that Mori's new office was at the opposite end
of the building from Noda's.

"I understand Noda-san has appointed you director of this division."
Mori was ushering Tam into the office, all the while running her
fingers nervously through her sculptured black hair. "Congratulations."

Not exactly a great opener. It sounded even harsher in Japanese, since
it was so at odds with the usual polite greetings.

"I've been hired to do a job, Mori-san, and I intend to do

it."

"_So desu ne_," Mori concurred in Japanese, her voice a trifle
strained. Tam thought she looked a bit bleary-eyed after her flight in
from Tokyo, but there were no half measures about the woman. She was
all business in a prim silk suit shading to gray with a bright blue
scarf tied at the neck. She wore high heels, but they didn't slow her
brisk stride as she paced around her desk. "I am sure you will do it
well. I would like you to know I am prepared to assist you at every
step."

Well, Tam had a pretty clear idea of how she intended to proceed, which
didn't really include a lot of assistance from Akira Mori. What exactly
had Noda been telling this woman? Maybe, she mused, Mori-san just
hadn't been fully brought up to speed.

"I noticed that you're reviewing our analytical sheets." Tam continued,
"Those are the firms we're going to start restructuring first."

"And if you do not receive the desired cooperation? What will you do
then?" Mori asked evenly, as though she didn't already know the answer.

"We'll just keep up stock acquisition till we have whatever we need.
Also, I intend to appoint a representative to sit on the board of
directors, to monitor performance and make sure our program is
implemented."

"That is my understanding as well." Mori went on, "And concerning the
matter of who will be assigned--"

"I've just finished putting together a list of management experts.
They're dedicated people. Most of them will probably help us for a
small honorarium instead of their usual consulting fees."

"These personnel are an area I wish to discuss with you," Mori pushed
ahead, almost as though not listening. That was when Tam realized she
was finally getting around to the real agenda of the meeting. "It is
our opinion that, at this stage, the heavy involvement of Americans in
that capacity would be counterproductive."

"'Our opinion'?" Tam didn't like the sound of this. "Who exactly is
'our'?"

"I have reviewed Dai Nippon's program in some detail with . . . the
interested parties in Tokyo." Mori appeared to be making an
announcement. "They have concurred that at this stage it would be more
efficient if we assigned our own specialists to assist in the
management of these companies."

"Your own specialists?" Now Tam was starting to bristle. "Just whom do
you have in mind?"

"Industrial experts such as Kenji Asano, for example, may be involved."
She continued, "We have a great reservoir of talent to choose from,
particularly within the Ministry of International Trade and Industry."

"MITI?" Tarn stared at her, dumbfounded. She couldn't believe her own
ears. That was like calling in a fox to fortify your henhouse. "You've
got to be joking."

"The decision was made last week." Mori fixed her coldly. "Noda-san has
been informed, and he finds the suggestion . . . acceptable."

"Well, I don't," Tam flared. "It's outrageous."

"There is something you must understand, Dr. Richardson," Mori
continued in Japanese. "The management of a company should represent
its ownership. Since Dai Nippon will be holding what amounts to a
controlling interest in these firms, we are obliged to assist them
using whatever international specialists we feel are most qualified to
contribute. For now we believe that the expertise in our Ministry of
International Trade and Industry is most appropriate since it has
guided corporate growth in Japan for many years with undeniable
success."

"That's irrelevant." Tam steamed. "First, most MITI executives don't
necessarily understand American business. And second, MITI has no right
involving itself in the operation of our industry. It's a flagrant
conflict of interest."

"There I must disagree with you. On your first point, many Japanese
firms have been manufacturing here and have an excellent record of
labor relations and management success. As to your second point, using
specialists trained by MITI is simply the most efficient way to
transfer Japanese expertise."

"It won't be allowed."

"Why shouldn't it be? Any people we bring here will be on leave of
absence. Hence they will no longer have any official ties to the
Japanese government. No law prevents us from appointing whomever we
wish."

Ouch, Tam thought. She's right. Nothing could stop Dai Nippon from
restructuring the boards of directors of the companies in which it held
a voting majority of shares. In fact, several Japanese firms had
already taken over and reopened the manufacturing facilities of some of
the very companies MITI's "targeting" had decked only a few years
before, bringing in Japanese board members as part of the deal. What's
more, Americans loved it. Governors were falling over themselves to
attract Japanese joint ventures to their states.

"Does Noda-san understand the significance of bringing in MITI
personnel?"

"There are many interests to be addressed . . ."

At this point I wandered in, together with Noda, to talk about setting
up a meeting that afternoon. We'd been reviewing DNI's plans for a new
program of real estate investment and construction, part of expanding
the research or manufacturing facilities of the firms it was now in the
process of absorbing.

I passed a pleasantry with Tam, then studied her, puzzled. "You look a
little distressed this morning."

"I'm receiving an update on a change in our program." Tam glared back
at Mori, then turned to Noda. "What's this about bringing in people
from MITI?"

Noda smiled, but he looked a trifle uncomfortable. "Think of it as a
temporary measure." He nodded toward Mori, then looked back at Tam. "We
always like to operate by consensus. And that consensus among the fund
managers who have joined us appears to be that our investments should
initially be monitored by our own people."

"I thought this office was going to be in charge of determining who our
people would be, not somebody in MITI." Tam fixed him coldly, then
turned on me. "Did you know anything about this?"

"Bringing in honchos from MITI? News to me." I examined Noda. "I
understood the management end of this was going to be directed by Dr.
Richardson."

He was smiling again. "But it will be. She will continue to meet with
the CEOs of the firms we intend to assist to provide our preliminary
analysis of their operations, and she will be with us every step we
take."

"It hardly sounds that way." Tam was boiling. "The way it looks now, I
set up a reorganization plan, then MITI's people come in and take
over."

"Merely for consultation, Dr. Richardson. I assure you." He glanced
uncomfortably at Mori-san. Both Tam and I had the same hunch at that
point: Noda's backers had started to get a little edgy about his
investments, so they'd decided to send in some brass from the Delta
Force to keep an eye on things. But you'd never have suspected that as
he continued, "Dr. Richardson, surely you must be aware that MITI
personnel are not in the habit of, as you phrase it, 'taking over.' At
most MITI merely recommends policies to enhance competitiveness.
Furthermore, the individuals we will engage will no longer be
associated with MITI. They will merely be specialists in our hire.
Their participation will be extremely beneficial, please believe me."

"If making decisions like this is your idea of consensus, then I don't
think much of it." Tam was getting increasingly wound up. "And I'll
tell you something else. I intend to review the government connections
of anyone you bring in. I'm going to have final say."

"We all want to work together," Noda continued smoothly. "Our plans are
continuing to evolve. Of course I will insist on full American-Japanese
coordination and cooperation at every stage." He looked squarely at
Tam. "You have my word."

She glanced over at me, trying her best to keep cool. I was toying with
my papers, still posing as a neutral observer, but I was equally
puzzled. Why would Japan's Ministry of International Trade and Industry
let its people be used to assist American companies? Okay, MITI's elite
technocrats were probably the cream of Japan's management talent, but
they already had their hands full.

More to the point, given MITI's sorry history of rule bending and
economic guerrilla warfare, why would it now cooperate in Dai Nippon's
plan to restructure the high-tech segment of U.S. manufacturing? I
asked Noda point-blank.

"Mr. Walton, if you choose to see Japan and the U.S. as competitors,
then I suppose you could regard this as our ancient tradition of
'giving salt to the enemy.'" He smiled awkwardly.

Bullshit. That's what I thought, not what I said, which was nothing.

Tam in the meantime had her own question to chew on. Mori had mentioned
Ken Asano. Was he involved too? Since Mori had specifically named him
as being on the MITI team that she or somebody now planned to enlist,
was this a tip-off that Ken was in with them up to his neck? Was this
the "trust" he'd talked about?

Since Tam looked as if she was getting ready to resign on the spot, I
figured a little cooling-off time for everybody might be in order.

"Dr. Richardson, if we're about through here, could you help me a
minute?" I thumbed toward the open door. "Tanaka wants you to approve
the final setup for the partitions."

I quickly discovered I was wrong about the idea she would quit. As we
worked our way past the computer terminals and stacks of printouts,
retreating toward the center of the floor, she declared war. "MITI or
Mori or whoever's behind this is going to have a fight on their hands.
We don't need them involved."

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think we're being kept in the
dark about a lot of what's cooking." I kept my voice low, scarcely
above a whisper, as the Japanese staff milled in and out. "There's a
sheet of paper in my briefcase that I'd like to go over with you. Yet
another example of the curious new developments around this place."

She poured herself a cup of green tea from the large urn stationed in
the middle of the floor. "What do you mean?"

"We'll talk about it later." I poured some tea for myself. "I think
something's gone haywire."

That startled her, and she began to tune in. "Things are pretty haywire
now."

"This may be even worse. I came across something a while ago that
doesn't add up." I looked at her. "I think we ought to talk about it."

"Now?"

"Not here. How about tonight?"

"Can't. There's a damned faculty dinner I have to attend."

"Then tomorrow night?"

"Where?"

"What would you say to my place downtown? I think you live right around
the corner from me."

"This has to be strictly business, Matt."

"Guaranteed." I raised my palm.

"Well, I've got a lot of work--"

"Shall we make it for seven?" I was handing her my card, address and
number thereon. "The cocktail hour?"

She was still glaring at Mori's office as she absently took it. "Well .
. . all right." She glanced back. "Seven."

"See you there."

. . . Jack O'Donnell's speech, to be delivered to the Senate that
Tuesday, sort of slipped to the back of my mind. Maybe it shouldn't
have. After getting back to his office that afternoon he dictated about
three versions before he had it the way he wanted it. Friday morning he
messengered a copy down to my office, and I can tell you it was a
beauty. He'd got it all, and he'd got it right.

Later Friday, however, he received a phone call from Matsuo Noda. After
the usual preliminaries, saying how much he'd enjoyed their meeting,
Mr. Noda confided he was calling as a personal favor to the senator,
since they'd hit it off so well the previous day. Turns out he'd just
been talking to the CEOs of various Japanese outfits scheduled to set
up manufacturing operations in some of the "rust-belt" mill towns in
upstate New York. Here was the distressing development: seems they were
all of a sudden taking another look at sunny Tennessee. The problem
was, they were upset by the anti-Japanese tone a lot of New York
publications were taking these days--Japan bashing in the Times
editorial pages, things like that. Noda, however, felt all this was
very shortsighted of those Japanese investors; and he wondered if
Senator O'Donnell would like him to put in a word for the Empire State.
Pause. He hated to mention this, but people were even talking of
closing certain Japanese-operated factories already in place, such as
that big one in Elmira, Jack's hometown, and moving them south. But he
thought threats such as that were very impolite and he was hoping he
could find time to straighten the whole thing out.

Like I said, it would have been a hell of a speech.



CHAPTER SIXTEEN


That Saturday turned out to be the day when winter descended abruptly
and with rare vengeance. Remember we're only talking mid-December,
still a dozen full shopping days till you know what, but it could have
been the depths of January. After things kicked off with what seemed a
foot of snow around three, the elements really started to unload.
Everything from sleet in historic proportions to a wind-chill that
would have frosted the horns off a Bexar County billy goat.

While I waited for Tam, I battened down the garden, covered the outdoor
furniture, and prudently provisioned the larder with a flagon of Remy
antifreeze. Ben in the meantime was lumbering around downstairs, eyeing
the snow-covered garden with an air of disgruntlement. The universe had
turned unacceptable, something he never greeted with equanimity. I
decided to try and divert his misery by hauling him up on the long
Country French dining table and combing some of the knots out of his
shag. When that merely reinforced his overall gloom, however, I called
it quits, located a consoling rawhide stick for him to gnaw, and poured
a brandy. It was along about then, shortly after nightfall, that Tam
finally appeared.

A cab with snow chains dropped her off (she'd come directly from the
office, which Noda had just shut down for the weekend), and I helped
her navigate the sleet-covered steps. I got the immediate sense that
her first impression of my living quarters was unchanged from the old
days. In spite of all the art, armor, and antiques, the place had a
poignant rootlessness about it. Boys like toys; they just get more
expensive as the bank account grows. Also, since she'd been in the man
game long enough to spot a divorce-rebound case a mile off, she
probably had me figured from the start: part of that army of emotional
paraplegics in our feckless day and age.

After the MITI twist, however, I suppose she was ready to consult with
somebody concerning the direction things were headed. I warmly invited
her downstairs to the sisal-carpeted den just off the garden and dumped
some logs in the fireplace. Next I pulled out a few discs--Mendelssohn
seemed about right for some reason--and offered to whip up a batch of
margaritas. 'Twould be, I dared to hope, a long winter's eve. Alas, she
said no thanks, a club soda and lime would do fine. Looked as if I
would be working barehanded, without aid of that universal socializer,
distilled spirit, so I rustled up a Perrier, then poured another
snifter of brandy for myself.

Since she appeared exhausted, my first suggestion was she kick off her
shoes and get comfortable. No argument.

After settling in, shoes off and feet to the fire, she announced she
was ready to hear what I'd come up with.

Before an awkward silence could grow, I snapped open my briefcase.

"Dr. Richardson, in keeping with the ground rule that this is a formal
business meeting, let me introduce my first agenda item." I flashed her
my best smile, then pulled out the purloined page. "This is part of the
paperwork Mori seems to have brought with her. I don't understand too
well what it's all about, but my first impression is that somebody has
decided to do some major tinkering with your program. Take a look at
this and give me an opinion." I passed it over.

She glanced down, then back at me. "Are you supposed to be bringing DNI
documents home?"

That was her first reaction, swear to God.

"Look, this just accidentally got in with some of my photocopies. All
it is is a list of companies. And I didn't want to talk about it there
in the office." I reached over and ran my finger down the string of
firms, then to several columns of numbers off to the right. "The
question is, what are these outfits suddenly doing on DNI's buy list?"

She studied it a second, looked around the room, and said exactly
nothing.

"Doesn't that seem at all strange to you?" I finally spoke up. "As I
understand the plan, you want to shift more corporate funding into
research in the companies you're buying into? I do have it right, don't
I?"

She nodded.

"Okay, then you're with me so far. But take a look at this." I
indicated the column of numbers. "That's the current research budget
for these firms--it says so right up there on the top. Presumably these
figures came out of the analytical setup down on eleven. Does anything
about those figures seem out of line?"

She looked at it, her eyes widening, then narrowing.

"Well, I don't know what this sheet is all about." She glanced up.
"These companies aren't part of our buys."

"Got news for you. I think they just made the team." I pointed to the
heading. "See that--'ACQUISITION SCHEDULE: REVISIONS.'"

When she said nothing, nada, I continued, "But you're right; they
weren't on the original list. The reason being, I would surmise, that
they didn't need any of this so-called management Rx you guys are
supposed to be cooking up. Look at that one, and that one. Even I know
enough to realize those outfits are operating with a real cash surplus
right now, have plenty of R&D funding already, and hence are doing just
fine, thank you. The figures, in fact, are right over there in that
column on the right."

"Matt, we don't know what this is for."

"True, true. So let's just play pretend. And to make it fun, let me
show you something else." I rummaged through my briefcase some more,
finally extracting another paper. "I copied a corresponding page from
the file on current buys."

I laid it alongside the first.

She picked up the second sheet, checked it over. "I helped compile this
list."

"Then maybe you'll see what I'm saying? Format's the same. The only
difference is, some of the dogs have been dropped and replaced by some
very well run corporations."

"You're right about that. All high-tech, heavy research investment."

Progress? The first scale to fall from her eyes?

"Then let's play another round of this 'pretend' game. As I understand
it, you and yours put together this original list of companies for one
main reason: lousy management. But all of a sudden the outfits in the
worst shape on list number one have disappeared on list number two.
Meaning, I would assume, that they're no longer part of the program, at
least as it's laid out on this revised version Mori must have brought
in from Tokyo."

"What are you trying to say?"

For chrissake, what did she think I was trying to say?

"Oh, nothing much, I suppose. Except that it looks to me like
somebody's just knifed your program in the back. All of a sudden DNI's
going to start buying outfits that already have good management, not to
mention heavy research commitments. So what exactly is anybody supposed
to be doing to help them along?" I paused. "Maybe a better question is,
who removed those others, the ones now winging it on a hope and a
prayer."

She laid down the two pages side by side and began to compare them in
more detail, a finger here, a finger there. But strictly no comment.

Along about then Ben got up and checked out the sleet- covered garden,
then lumbered back and plopped down beside us, clearly expecting a pat
for diligence in the line of duty. She remarked that English sheepdogs
always reminded her of a big flotaki rug. After that put-down she
returned to the lists. I hoped the poor guy's sensitive ego wasn't
mortally fractured.

Well, she announced finally, my so-called discovery didn't add up to
much.

"Matt, I officially have no opinion about this. It could mean
anything." She shrugged. "Maybe the new twist is to start with the
companies that can benefit the most from coordination. Take on the easy
job first where the payoff will be greatest. Save the tough ones for
later."

"Oh, sure. Who knows? It could all be very innocent, right? I mean, for
all we can tell, the moon might really be green cheese." I wondered
what had gotten into her all of a sudden. It was plain as day what was
happening. But instead of congratulating me on my sleuthing, she was
turning obtuse.

"Tell me exactly how you got this sheet."

"Like I said, more or less by accident." I told her the story again. "I
was about to chuck it, then I took a second to mull it over. That's
when I got to wondering why the numbers seemed so inconsistent. Next
thing I noticed was the new list of players. All of a sudden the
heavens opened. A vision." I got up to freshen my brandy, then came
back. She was still sitting there, maybe too exhausted to think
straight. "But I take it you don't believe my little epiphany means
anything?"

"Since I don't know what it means, I'm not going to engage in a lot of
uninformed speculation."

Good Christ, I thought, what's happened to all her reputed brilliance?

"You know," she went on, "I don't think you should be taking any more
documents out of the office. There's a reason for all the security."

"Hey, back off. I just have boundless curiosity." I still couldn't
fathom her lack of interest . . . no, make that hostility. "Look, I
don't claim to understand how birds fly, how fish swim, or how this
whole damned picture fits together. However, my new, albeit uninformed,
observation is that Noda and Company are not exactly giving us the fine
print on their scenario. Exhibit A: this strange new list."

"I think some fresh air would be nice." She rose to her feet, located
her shoes, and strolled over to look out at the garden. The sleet and
snow was about a foot and a half deep. "Why don't we go into the back?"

"What?" I stumbled to my feet. "Do you have any idea . . ."

She looked at me a bit funny, then made some hand signals.

Huh?

Finally I realized she was telling me she didn't want to say anything
more inside the house.

Talk about paranoid! Suddenly the reason for all her hemming and hawing
over my little theft came clear. She actually thought we might be
bugged!  Get serious, lady.

Anyway, she gave me the cool-it sign, then calmly started putting on
her coat. Astounded by the possible dimensions of human mistrust, I dug
out a sweater from behind the couch and opened the door. She was still
nursing that damned designer water.

Ben snapped to alertness and galloped to the door, whereupon he
confronted the weather. His strategic decision, executed with lightning
speed, was to switch into his patented "zone defense" surveillance mode
against backyard trespassers, which required staying inside where it
was warm. I gave him a pat, freshened his water bowl, and followed her
out into the snow.

There was a brief lull in the weather. The sky glowed red from all the
streetlights, at least what you could see of it through the surrounding
brownstones and the leafless ailanthus tree at the back. I looked
around as Ben gave the fence one last survey, then plopped down and
settled his chin onto his paws with a grunt.

Tam, I suppose, had finally concluded I wasn't pulling some kind of
loyalty check for Noda, so that was when she opened the real can of
worms.

"How long was she making copies? I mean, you were standing right behind
her."

"Mori? I don't know. Less than a minute." I examined her, a trifle
puzzled. "Why?"

"How many pages?"

"Probably half a dozen or so."

She just stood there a moment, gazing up at the sky, then she went back
inside, stepping around Ben, and returned with the sheet. "Did you
notice this?" She pointed to the upper right-hand corner.

I took it and strained in the faint light from the back windows. "It
says '129/147.'" I looked up. "You think that means . . . ?"

"I think your episode suggests at least two things." She took back the
page. "The first one is, this is part of a much larger document."

"With you so far. A hundred and forty-seven pages. And the second?"

"You said she only made half a dozen copies, then overlooked this?" She
paused. "Don't you think Akira Mori can count?"

At that moment the snowy night grew silent as a tomb.

"What are you suggesting?" I finally blurted it out. "That she left
this on purpose?"

"Maybe. But I don't have the slightest idea why."

"Christ, you have a very mistrusting mind." I slogged on through the
snow for a few steps, then turned back. "I'm convinced it was
accidental."

"All right, let's just say that's a possibility for now. But what we do
know for sure is we'd better get our hands on the rest of this."

"Hey, don't look at me. I'm already in this scam deeper than I ever
intended to be. I say we either play their way or cut and run. We start
getting too nosy and we could end up on the wrong end of one of those
Uzis."

"Matt, there's something else I noticed about the list. It's ominous."

"Care to elaborate?" I kicked at the snow.

"Well, not out here. I'm freezing." She pulled her coat a bit tighter.
"Is there someplace inside where we can talk?"

"I've got an idea. But let's warm up first." I led the way back in. The
fire had died a bit, so she settled on the floor next to the hearth,
the smooth contours of her cheeks golden in the flickering light.

"Sure you won't have a brandy after all. To combat the chill?" The
quartet Opus 44, No. 1, was enveloping us, both violins emerging out of
the shadows.

She looked up and smiled. "Maybe it would be nice."

I fetched it, slid onto the floor next to her, and stretched to stir
the coals. Ben sauntered over to keep me honest, plunked down, and was
immediately out like a light.

"How're we doing for warmth?" I propped the poker against the side of
the mantel, then reached over and touched her tangled hair lightly with
my fingertips. To my everlasting surprise, she leaned next to me.

"Much better."

"Maybe we should both bail out right now. Tonight. Why not just go down
to my place in the islands and monitor the apocalypse off the satellite
dish? Watch MITI eat America."

Was I joking? Only partially. Down home we have a saying about folks
with a certain . . . _je ne sais quoi_. They'd do to ride the river
with. In my book Tam was definitely one of the riders.

The fire snapped and startled Ben, who glanced up, checked out the
sleet-covered garden, then grimly resumed his snooze. She reached over
and gave him a pat. The first time. "You know, I can't believe MITI is
behind all this. I know at least one MITI person myself."

"You know somebody in MITI?" I was a trifle taken aback. "Who?"

She stared at the fire. "His name is Kenji Asano. You wouldn't have
heard of him."

I lay there for a moment listening to the quartet, my memory registers
running a quick sort. Then it came to me. Kenji Asano was the MITI guy
Henderson said had masterminded Japan's rape of the U.S. semiconductor
industry.

"You actually know him?"

"Sure do." She smiled. "Very well."

Shit. I didn't really need to hear this. "That sounds like a little
more than a professional acquaintance." I looked at her for
confirmation.

"A little."

Okay, I thought. Guess we're getting down to the straight story here.
Press on. "Well, I have some news you may not like. This Asano genius
personally engineered the destruction of the U.S. industry in RAM
chips. Probably the most devastating sneak attack on America since
Pearl Harbor."

She stiffened. "Who told you that?"

"Let's just say I heard it. So what's this guy doing all of a sudden
saving U.S. high-tech industry? He's already cost this country tens of
thousands of jobs and literally billions of dollars."

"I don't believe it. I know Ken. Sure, he works for MITI, but his job
is overseeing Japan's own research in supercomputers. He's very proud
of their progress."

Oops. I swirled my snifter. "Whatever you say. If that's really true,
then excuse me. I take it all back."

She looked up--probably not believing my diplomatic reversal--and watched
as I casually slipped my arm around her waist. I couldn't tell if she
wanted it to happen or not.

Thinking I might have some momentum going, I reached back and pulled a
couple of wide cushions off the couch, stationed them by the fire, then
eased us both against them. I tried to do it with naturalness, finesse.

It wasn't happening.

"Matthew, underneath all that unnecessary bluster, which is just as I
remember, you're still a half-decent guy, which I also remember. But I
don't really think this is a good idea." She looked at me, her face
highlighted in the orange glow of the embers.

"I hope it's not because you have other commitments." I heard my voice
harden. "Like maybe in Japan."

"I'm just a little distracted tonight, that's all." She watched as I
trailed a finger around the hard tip of a nipple beneath her shirt.
Gently she moved my hand away. "Don't start."

"Maybe I can at least get a rain check." I retired from the field.

"Possibly." She smiled, then gave me a telling glance. "A while ago you
said something about another place."

My soundproof chamber?

"Right." I rose. "We're always open around here for travelers on a
frosty night." I helped her up. "And for this evening's special
introductory offer, there's a hot tub down the hall. Why don't you let
me fill it, and you can unwind those muscles for a while, Japanese-
style or California-style or whatever. Do you good."

She looked me over a second, then smiled. "Lots of nice, loud running
water?"

"Exactly."

Off we went to the Italian-marble bathroom there off the downstairs
bedroom. I'd installed that little indulgence for Joanna back during
happier times; these days I used it as the world's largest laundry
hamper--ripping it out would have cost a fortune. Jo's revenge, I called
the thing.

She marched in, took a look about the room, which had one of those big
tubs trimmed in redwood, and said it reminded her of a place near Ise.
She did at least have the discretion to omit the circumstances of that
occasion.

What happened next sort of shook my cool, my being a good Texas lapsed-
Baptist. You see, I'd never bought into the nudity-is-wholesome ethic
of the Age of Aquarius. Passed me right by. I mean, where's the fun in
life without a little forbidden fruit? But Tam just began shucking her
clothes. Everything. Kept going till she'd even doffed her little beige
knickers, piling everything one piece at a time in a neat heap on the
counter. Just like that. While bold corporate raider Matt Walton stood
there in terminal astonishment, grasping the edge of the sink as if it
were a life preserver. My nonchalance was an Oscar-winning performance.

Now in the attire God gave her, she calmly inquired if I had any bubble
bath.

"Well, ah, sure, I mean, I suppose so, probably somewhere around here.
If not, there's probably a box of Tide in the basement." I groped
blindly in the cabinet and my hand fell upon a pink bottle whose label
read "Mr. Bubble." What's this? Then I realized it must be some suds
stashed there by Amy. Bet she saw somebody soaking on TV and concluded
that's the way grown-up women behaved. My God, it's in their genes.

Then I turned around.

Tell you one thing, Dr. Tamara Richardson was still in great

shape. All of her. Was she pulling a tease number on me, or just doing
what comes naturally? Sad to say, I fear it was the latter. I guess
she'd somehow internalized this Japanese idea that nudity is no big
deal.

"Tam"--I finally found my voice--"you're something else. I know you're
smart, and I'm beginning to remember you never were all that retiring.
How about refreshing me on a few of the other things I seem to have
forgot."

"I think I wanted to be a boy." She laughed as she sampled the water
with her toe. "I thought they had all the fun." Now she was pouring in
a test portion of Amy's Mr. Bubble. "Then I found out girls could do
anything boys could, but usually better. So I stopped worrying about
it." She stepped in.

"Easy. You're talking to an unreconstructed male chauvinist."

"What else is new? You all are at heart. At least you have the decency
to admit it." She dumped in the remainder of the pink gunk. Will
somebody please tell me why women, all women, go for that stuff? An
exaggeration, you say? Ever see one turn it down?

"Hey, I'm trying to deprogram myself, but it's uphill work." I watched
as a perfectly formed breast disappeared beneath the foam. "I tend to
be old-fashioned."

"I recall all too well."

"Well, give me a chance." I leaned back against the sink. "You know,
this striptease isn't helping repress my primal male instincts a whole
heck of a lot."

"Matt, for somebody who's supposed to be an expert on Japan, you've
understood very little about us."

"Us?"

"You know. I'm half and half." She flashed me a Mona Lisa smile as she
was wrapping her hair in a towel. I found myself thinking that at least
she shaves her underarms, a minor concession to conventional propriety.

"Well, so what. I'm an equal-opportunity seductionist. That is, when I
get the opportunity."

"Not making much headway tonight, I fear." Another tricky smile. She
was starting to drive me distracted.

"Thought you'd never notice."

"Matt, you're an emotional basket case. I've seen plenty." She looked
me over sympathetically. "Sorry, but I've got enough problems of my
very own. You'll have to manage your own salvation."

"Could be you're just deceived by my sensitive nature." I leaned
against the counter, playing peek-a-boo with a tan nipple now half-
concealed in the bubbles. "Mistaking it for brain damage."

"Uh, uh." She shook her head in the negative. "I read your gender
pretty well."

I was beginning to get a little annoyed. Who needed this? "Tell you
what, Dr. Richardson, for all my putative failings, I do happen to
possess a modest allotment of native wit. And my male intuition tells
me your dance card is full right now. That same right-brain perception
also suggests it has something to do with this MlTl honcho Asano."

 "So?"

"So that upsets me for a couple of reasons, only one of which will
probably be of any interest to you. I don't think you have an entirely
open mind on the possibility MITI or somebody may be about to try and
nail this country to the wall. Because if you admitted that, you would
also have to admit something you apparently find distasteful to concede
about your Prince Charming." I watched her eyes grow sad. "Stop me if I
cross the line from preaching to meddling--to use a little expression
from my youth."

"Matthew, you've just ceased being nice." She looked down. "What do you
do if you think you trust somebody and then you find out maybe that
trust is . . . misplaced?"

"Old Ecclesiasticus, back in Bible times, told us, 'In the time of
adversity, consider.' As advice goes, that's still probably sound value
for the dollar. Like for example, you might want to back off and do a
little thinking on whether Noda and his crowd have been using you, and
me for that matter, like a couple of patsies."

When she said nothing, I pressed on. "I walk into the office yesterday,
the first thing I hear about is some MITI connection, then tonight I
hear about your MITI connection, and it's starting to sound like the
same tune. Like maybe these guys have been playing you like a violin."

"But why me?"

"Credibility. And low profile for MITI's grab. By sending you out to
meet the victims, they've thrown the hounds off the scent. Dr. Save-
American-Industry has come to help. You're so goddam clean, Tam.
Impeccable credentials. You're gold to those guys." I was set to give
her a blast, but I decided to try keeping the lid on for once. "Maybe a
better question than why they chose you is why you went for it. How did
they brainwash you?"

"Nobody brainwashed me. I still think Noda's being straight. He can
think in global terms. That's a rarity."

"And how about this Asano character? You sure gave me the message to
back off when I questioned his intentions."

"Maybe I've been thinking with something besides my head." She sighed
and leaned back. "But then, maybe not. I have no reason to believe he'd
mislead me."

"Look, I don't know anything about the situation. But I respectfully
suggest you ought to reflect on that possibility." I looked at her. "By
the way, I seem to remember you said there was something else about the
list that struck you as odd."

"It has to do with the kind of research being done by those new firms
on the list. A pattern." She paused.

"What pattern?"

"I'd rather not say just yet. Until I'm sure. It's probably just my
imagination."

Something snapped inside me about then. Anger. Tam Richardson, I was
rapidly concluding, was being used by those bastards. And as best I
could tell, this idealistic woman couldn't let herself believe it. The
situation royally pissed me off. Even more when I also suspected this
Asano operator had somehow been playing fast and loose with her
heartstrings. I decided then and there I wasn't going to let them get
away with it.

A strange psychology takes hold of you when you sense you've been
temporarily outflanked; I think it's that primal human response
somebody once dubbed flight or fight. You realize you've got two
choices: you can either stand your ground, or you can make a run for
the sidelines. So what to do about Dai Nippon and Noda and Mori and
Asano? Right then and there I made a tactical decision. I decided that--
like the caveman facing the saber-toothed tiger--the best defense would
be to try and make the beast back off.

More to the point, it wasn't merely Tam that was imperiled. Maybe
Henderson's suspicions were right; maybe this was the handshake that
turned into a karate flip, the beginning of World War II, Part B. So I
figured I owed it to myself and everybody else to at least uncover the
truth.

No entity, I've always believed, is unstoppable, no matter how massive.
There's always a soft underbelly somewhere. After a while any big
organization gets cocky and makes a blunder. Sometimes, in fact, you
can lure them into it. I concluded there was only one way to go, head-
to-head with Dai Nippon. You want peaches, you shake the tree.

"Okay, you've got your theories, I've got mine. But for both our sakes,
I think it's time we moved on them."

"What do you mean?" She looked up.

"I suggest we start with a little information gathering." I turned on
the hot water again, nice and noisy, then continued. "What do you say
we go up and take a little private look around the offices."

"Tonight?"

"What better time. Weather alert, right? Nobody's there. It's perfect.
We can fast-talk the security, get in, and check the place over."

"And where, exactly, do you propose we look?" She examined me
skeptically. "I'm there every day."

"How about that new office Mori commandeered for herself. I think we
ought to poke around and see what she's got. Maybe try and locate the
rest of that document, if nothing else."

"I'm not sure we ought to be doing anything quite that drastic, at
least not just yet."

"I didn't claim it was approved by Amy Vanderbilt. I just say we ought
to give it a shot. If we don't look into this, who will? Maybe we'll
find something to explain the so-called pattern you think you see."

"Matt, for all I know, that may be nothing more than a coincidence. If
Noda found out we'd done something like this, the whole ball game would
be over."

"That's the chance we take. Let's just see what we can come up with,
okay? Personally, I'm beginning to think Noda and your pal Asano are
both world-class con artists." I poured a little more cognac for us
both. "But whoever's right, we should at least try to find out. Who
knows? What if it's becoming a MITI show now, for some purpose neither
of us can imagine?"

"All right." She looked apprehensive for a second, only a second, and
then her eyes hardened. "You know, Noda and Mori claim I'm Fujiwara ...
on my mother's side naturally." She laughed. "And you know something
else? I feel in my bones that it's true. I believe it. I'm Japanese,
Matthew, and I'm proud of that."

I glanced over at a set of samurai armor stationed just outside the
bathroom door, glistening enameled steel. '"Tell you the truth, I'm
second to nobody when it comes to admiring Japan's ethic and their
guts. But I tend to draw the line at 'master race' talk. As a matter of
fact, I wouldn't object too strenuously if they did manage to beat us
in a fair contest. Hell, we won round one and they were remarkably
sporting about it. But what I want is to make sure round two is fought
on level ground. No inventing new rules, no rabbit punches or below-
the-belt stuff. That's all I ask."

"How about showing me some of those swords you claim you collect?" She
came out with it, just like that.

"My pleasure. Like nothing better."

Besides, it seemed a good time for a change of pace. I straightened up
and headed for the back parlor upstairs, then around the corner to the
sword room, its door now fully repaired from the strange break-in. I
fished out the key and snapped open the lock.

Funny thing, but walking around fully dressed / had started feeling out
of place. Maybe it is merely a state of mind.

All right now, where to start? This was a crucial moment. My first
impulse was to go all the way to gold, that marvelous _katana _dating
from the early Kamakura, or even before, said to have come from the
forge of the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto's personal swordsmith. But wait a
minute. After that, what? Maybe the absolute tops should be saved for a
more auspicious moment. That sword was, to my mind, an almost sacred
work. Maybe instead we ought to start with something a little offbeat,
then gradually work up to the best and sharpest.

The obvious choice, in fact, was a piece I considered a real curiosity,
racked there on the left, top slot. As I lifted it off and slipped it
out of its scabbard, the metal glistened like a mirror, reminding me
how long it's been since I'd oiled and pampered my playthings.

"I'm afraid nothing here was handed down by the Sun Goddess." I was
coming back down the stairs a little unsteadily, like a half-drunk
samurai. "But this one's kind of like the old style, at least the
metallurgy is. Unusual. Heavy on copper and tin. In a way almost closer
to bronze than steel."

Then I proceeded to point out a few interesting features--the nice curve
of the face line, the burl grain, the Shinto deities on the elliptical
_tsuba_ hand guard, that kind of thing-- taking care to keep it out of
the damned bubbles. I was starting to get wound up, as all enthusiasts
do with a captive audience, when she tactfully cut me off.

"How's the handle attached, or the grip, or whatever it's called?"

"That's the hilt, the _tsuka_. Held on with a little wooden peg stuck
through a hole in the metal. Here, let me show you." I had a small
brass punch on my key ring that was specially designed to push it out.
"Under the grip there's a wrapping of silk braid, and then a layer of
the belly skin of a stingray, to protect the steel. But you just remove
this peg and the whole ensemble slides right off." I removed the handle
and laid it on the sink. "Now you can see the untempered end of the
sword, the tang or _nakago _as it's called." I passed the weapon to
her, blunt end first. "That's where a swordsmith engraved his
signature, his title, the place it was forged. So you always should
check. On a really important piece, there may be cutting tests noted
there. Like maybe they tried out the blade on a criminal or two just to
see if it worked. Quality control."

"God." She shuddered. "Really?"

"Licensed testers did it and certified it in gold engraving on the
nakago. Some of the ones upstairs have it. But this one's an ubu,
virgin." I watched her turn it in the dim light. "Careful now. That
edge is very sharp."

"How can you tell if it's really old?"

"Lots of ways. The grain, the signature, and then too a good one should
have some rust there on the _nakago_, black not red."

She held it up a second and examined it.

"Virgin, huh? No signature?" She had a funny, almost embarrassed,
expression on her face.

"Correct. But like I said, this one's not--"

"Then who was 'Nihon Steelworks: Nagoya'? Somebody you bought it from?"

"Anybody ever tell you you've got a crummy sense of humor." I wasn't
smiling as I reached to take it back. Her crack annoyed me and I'm
afraid I showed it. Some things you don't kid around about. "That's a
modern foundry that turns out crappy--"

"Don't get testy. I'm only reading. Right there." She pointed to some
very faint English engraved into the metal.

"_Christ_!"

I grabbed it back and held it under the light to look. No mistaking.
There it was, plain as could be.

That's when I finally realized the thing was a copy. A goddam replica
of the original. Okay, a remarkably good one, but a fake nonetheless.

How did this get in my closet?

Could somebody have broken in and . . . ?

Suddenly it hit me. The robbery. Whoever had lifted my records must
have also pulled a switcheroo on this _katana_, leaving this piece of
Nagoya junk and disguising the deed by replacing the original grip and
tsuba hand guard. I'd been too loaded to notice.

I wanted to crack the goddam fraud over my knee like in the movies, but
you don't do that with a samurai sword, even a phony modern one. So
instead I flung it down on Jo's Italian-marble floor and headed back
upstairs to check the others. What in hell had happened? Had they
cleaned me out after all. My God, thousands . . .

I began yanking down swords, starting with the aforementioned
centerpiece of the collection, scrutinizing them in the light. But
after about half a dozen proved to be all right, I started calming
down. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. Well, what the heck, I
thought. It wasn't exactly a crippling loss. Finally I grew a little
ashamed of myself and sheepishly wandered back down, collecting the
ringer off the floor.

"Tam, I'm sorry. Somebody broke in a while back, and they must have
stuck this fraud in my collection. It's not the one I thought it was."

"Sure." She just looked at me, with some sympathy. "Matthew, it's all
right. Really. Lots of people own replicas of art. I have a few prints
myself. It's not a crime." She touched my hand. "Don't worry. It
doesn't matter--"

"You--" I bit my tongue to squelch the unpleasant word forming on my
lips, stomped back upstairs, and returned with a real sword. Then I
gave my lecture all over again, dwelling on every insignificant detail.
I was going to bore the woman till she cried uncle. Finally I
succeeded.

"Okay, you win. I apologize." She leaned back in the bubbles. "You
really love this hardware, don't you?"

"Tam, I love the samurai ideals. I admire craftsmanship. I revere
courage. The guys who made and used these blades had it all. If I'm
going to collect art, why not something that inspires me."

She just looked at me and nodded. I think she really understood.

"Then let's make a pact, Matt, you and me." She finally spoke up.
"We'll face Dai Nippon or MITI or whomever honorably. And we'll keep
them honest."

"Samurai." I smiled. "Lineage to lineage. And may the best . . . person
win."

I returned the sword and locked up, then lounged in the bedroom and
chatted through the open door while she finished her soak. It didn't
seem proper to lug a chair into the bath, and there was something too
undignified about perching atop the loo. Why, I kept wondering, had
somebody taken such elaborate pains to lift a single antique and plant
a fake? So I wouldn't miss it? But why bother?

Finally she got into a robe and came out, whereupon we went downstairs
and proceeded to put away more brandy, sleet slamming against the
windows. That was when she refreshed my recollections of her early
life, the peripatetic half-breed army brat. I think, truth be told, she
was currently about as adrift as I was. She was too wary to admit it; I
was too incapable of touching my own fractured emotions. So we talked
around things, saying everything except that maybe we needed somebody.
All the while the storm outside continued to rage. But once again I was
feeling those stirrings that I'd kept on ice for way too long.

Alas, though, it had to end. About one A.M. we geared up. She retrieved
her coat; I banked the fire; and we straggled out into the sleet. After
finally managing a cab, we headed uptown. We'd agreed on the rules; now
we were off to face the beast.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


As we rode, I tried to get into mental fighting trim. It wasn't easy.
Walton, I kept telling myself, you're too old for this kind of
intrigue. And why drag this innocent woman in. You're not shuffling
paper and cutting deals and then going out for a drink with the other
side's counsel after you've both finished impressing your clients by
shoving each other against the wall. You're about to start fooling
around with guys who carry submachine guns. When you wouldn't know what
to do with an Uzi if somebody handed you one. If these boys start
shooting, there won't be a lot of polite inquiries concerning due
process.

Tam was leaning against my shoulder, still perfumed from the bubble
bath, and totally relaxed. She seemed to know what she was doing. Or
maybe she didn't want to think about the risk we were taking. As for
me, this Sam Spade number was definitely not part of my legal arsenal.

My thoughts, however, kept coming back to her. Tam Richardson was the
first woman I'd felt this comfortable with for a long, long time. She
was a mixture of tough and soft, and she was smart. What I'd always
been looking for. Exit Donna, enter Tam. Maybe life was going to give
me another inning.

If we both lived that long.

We'd headed uptown on Sixth Avenue, rutted with slush; at Fourteenth
Street we hung a right, east toward Third. The snowplows were out,
together with the salt machines, while abandoned cars were lodged in
furrows of ice all along the curb. This was definitely shaping up as
the storm of the year. Since most of Tanaka's staff lived in the
Japanese "ghetto" up in Hartsdale and Eastchester (where there's even a
Japanese PTA these days), they surely must have caught the "Orient
Express" out of Grand Central before the trains got stopped dead by the
weather. Certainly tonight of all nights the DNI offices would be
empty. This had to be our shot. So shape up, Walton, and go for it.

While we listened to the sleet bounce off the back window, our Jamaican
driver proceeded to compare New York City unfavorably with every armpit
he'd ever known, as well as a few arctic locales he doubtless was
acquainted with only by reputation. I finally tuned him out and began
asking myself one question over and over. What exactly are we going to
do if we figure out there's some kind of skullduggery afoot? Is there
any way to stop them, even if we wanted to?

Probably nothing short of Congress's cracking down could keep Noda's
money out of the country, and who's going to support that kind of
legislation? Most solons, in fact, were hailing DNI and its Japanese
billions as the salvation of America. No lawmaker was staring at the
cameras and "viewing with concern" this new godsend of cash. Ditto the
stock exchange. They were nervous downtown, sure, but given the avowed
purpose of Wall Street--attracting money--there wasn't exactly a
groundswell of sentiment against Dai Nippon's massive investments. Noda
had come into the market at its darkest moment and begun shoveling in
capital. How could this be anything but positive? So every time another
Japanese billion rolled in and prices ticked up some more, everybody
merely leapt for joy. The Japanese were coming to rejuvenate our land,
cheered the Journal. Billions from the cash-rich Japanese capital
markets were voting with their feet to be part of America's resurgence.

Maybe they're right, I told myself. About the only discordant voices in
this chorus of hesitant hallelujahs belonged to a few   op-ed sour-
grape academics. I recalled one piece in particular from late last
week. Who was it: Robert Reich, Lester Thurow, "Adam Smith"?

This must be how it felt all those years in Europe as they helplessly
watched the invasion of American money. Has the U.S. now joined the
Third World, capitalized by rich "Yankees" from the East? Now at last
we realize that setting up plants here for "co-production" was merely
the foot in the door. Does it matter if U.S. industry is owned by
American pension funds or Japanese insurance companies? Guess not,
unless you happen to care whether we still control our own destiny.
America, soon to be the wholly owned subsidiary . . .

The writer was just blowing smoke and knew it. These days a harangue in
the Times and a token will get you on the subway. Even Henderson was
taking a new look at Noda-- astounded by his market savvy. The Georgia
po' boy who once summarized his own trading style as the four F's
("find 'em, fleece 'em, fuck 'em, and forget 'em") had met his match.
What a play Noda had made! To Bill, my new client had acquired the aura
of some omnipotent invader from the depths of space--The Creature That
Ate Wall Street. His eyes glazed over whenever he reflected on Noda's
masterful one-two punch. Billions skimmed inside a week.

"Tam, take a good, long look." I was pointing up into the night as we
emerged onto the slippery sidewalk. "The house that Noda built. Did all
of this happen since only late September?"

"Time flies when you're having fun." She slammed the door and headed
for the lobby, calm as could be. Okay, Walton, you'd better toughen up
too.

I rewarded our grumbling cabbie with a vulgar tip and watched the
vehicle slowly roll off into the sleet, tires crunching, to end another
of those passing New York intimacies so vivid yet so forgettable.

As it turned out, lobby security was a breeze, since yours truly had
approved the application of the night guard personally right after DNI
took over. Eddie Mazzola, blue uniform and grasping a Styrofoam cup of
coffee, glanced up from the Sunday Daily News, his face generic Staten
Island.

"What brings you out on a night like this, Mr. Walton? Nothing wrong, I
hope?"

"Do me a favor, Eddie. Burn this place down. We'll split the insurance
and both retire to Miami Beach. Who needs New York?"

He concurred the idea had merit. I then went on to mention that we'd
just come from uptown; Dr. Richardson here had forgotten some kind of
gobbledygook up on twelve, and we wouldn't be a minute.

"Tell you the truth, Eddie, my fingers are too damned numb to bother
signing the visitor's book."

He saluted and returned his concentration to the Knicks' perennial
slump.

We took the night elevator up, and somewhere around the time we passed
the ninth floor, we managed to settle on a story. Noda, we would say,
had called Tam and asked her to hurry up a special report on one of the
firms for Monday. We'd just left a dinner party on the East Side,
thought we'd drop by and pick up some printouts since she wanted to
work at home tomorrow. Shouldn't be more than a minute.

As the number above the door hit twelve, I tried to remember how to
pray.

In the hallway we waved at the TV eye and the steel door opened.
Standing there was Shiro Yamada: cropped hair, trifle burly, gray
uniform. One of the regulars. He shifted his Uzi as we came through.
Then he recognized Tam and bowed low.

By the wildest of good fortune Yamada only spoke Japanese, a linguistic
limitation that turned out to be crucial. Tam began by observing the
niceties: she commiserated with him about the weather, the late hour,
would the next shift be able to get through and relieve him. He was all
bows and deference and _hai, hai_.

Finally she worked around to why we were there, almost as though that
were a nuisance and the real reason had been to drop by for a chat. By
the way, she added, there were a couple of things she needed from her
office. She gave him the story.

Yamada listened, bowing, _hai, hai_, then sucked in his breath to
demonstrate we'd presented him with a serious conflict of obligations--
which for a Japanese is the most disturbing prospect imaginable. This
situation entails great difficulty, he said, drawing in more air
through his front teeth. _Honto ni muzukashii desu_.

_Muzukashii deshoo ka_? Enquired Tam. Difficulty?

_Hai, so desu_. Yes, and he was deeply apologetic. Lots of _sumimasen_,
very sorry.

At first I thought he just hadn't bought the story. But then it turned
out that there were these rules, you see. No one was allowed on the
floor weekends without a pass signed personally by Tanaka-san. He
glanced at his watch. It was nearly two A.M. More heavy intakes of air
and _muzukashii's_. Of course the honorable Dr. Richardson-san, being
an honorable director herself, should be able to come and go as she
pleased, but the rules . . .

He seemed to be pleading with Tarn to help him find a resolution for
this towering dilemma.

"What's the problem, Tam?" I enquired, sotto voce.

"No fucking pass."

After an extremely awkward pause a light bulb clicked on in my simple
mind. With great theatrics I suddenly slapped my own forehead, gave Tam
a tip-off in English, and began rummaging my pockets. When we left the
house I'd grabbed an old topcoat, not worn since that rainy night I met
Noda, and in it somewhere was . . .

She started explaining that Walton-san may have brought the pass with
him and merely let that fact slip his mind.

Then I felt what I was looking for, in the bottom of the inside pocket.
Noda's _meishi_, his business card, complete with the English note
scribbled across the back.

"How stupid of me," I apologized. "Had it all along. Noda- san's 'top
priority' pass. He gave it to me only yesterday."

Yamada took the business card and studied it with a puzzled look. What
did this have to do with anything?

That's when I impatiently turned it over and pointed to the English
scribbling on the back. Noda's initials, I groused, right there at the
bottom.

"_Hai, wakarimasu_." He understood that Noda-sama surely had written
this, but so what? It wasn't the official form that the rules
specified. More _muzukashii_.

Noda-san was in a rush, I apologized again. Didn't have time to locate
the regular form. Tam passed that along in better Japanese.

"_Soo desu . . ._" Yamada thoughtfully agreed that such oversights
sometimes happened. Everybody knew the big _daimyo _had a tendency to
override official channels. He shifted his Uzi uncertainly.

"Noda-sama insisted I finish this report by Monday," Tam stressed. "We
should only be a minute."

Yamada scrutinized the back of the card a moment longer, holding it up
to the light. What was he going to do?

Finally he handed it back, bowed reluctantly, and looked the other way.
It was a go.

"God, that was close." Tam closed the door behind us and clicked on the
lights. "You don't know how lucky we were. If Morikawa had been on duty
tonight, forget it. He'd never have bought that cock-and-bull routine."

About a dozen computer workstations had been installed

on twelve to link up with the mainframe and data center on eleven. As
we moved quickly past the sleeping screens, blind eyes staring vacantly
into space, there was an eerie, ghostlike abandonment to the place, all
the more so because of its hectic motion during regular hours. The
phantoms of regimented analysts seemed to haunt the rows of empty
desks. Tam remarked she'd never seen it like this: the nerve center off
duty. Only the storm of the decade, together with two A.M. Sunday
morning, could create such solitude. It took God to shut down Dai
Nippon.

"Okay, time to move fast. Let's hit Mori's lair." I was whispering as
we neared the corner office. Ahead was the closed door, solid oak. I
took a deep breath and reached for the knob.

It was locked.

"No dice." I looked around at Tam, who was still wearing her lamb coat,
gray against her dark hair, sleet melting on the shoulders.

"Let me try." She gave it a twist. Nothing. "I don't suppose we'd be
very smart just to kick it in. Though that's what I feel like right
now, after all our trouble." She turned to me. "Maybe there's a key
somewhere in Noda's office? Think there's a chance?"

"Could be." I was rummaging my pockets. "First, though, let me check
something."

I pulled out a ring and began to flip through it. "I ended up with a
master, courtesy of the RM&S floor manager that day they turned in
their keys. Now, if this internal door lock hasn't been changed yet,
maybe . . ."I selected one and kissed it for luck. "Here goes."

The key, a large silver model, was resistant, the way masters always
are. Undeterred, I wiggled it forcefully, and slowly it slipped into
the knob. A couple of jiggles more and the thing began to revolve under
my hand.

We emitted matching sighs of relief as Tam shoved the door wide and
reached for the light switch. "Now I've got to regress into the past. A
lot of their reports are in Japanese." She went on to explain that
although she could read the _kana _syllabaries easily enough, she'd
forgotten a lot of the _kanji_ ideograms. She could piece together
enough to work through a simple newspaper story, but heavy technical
prose was always tough.

She quickly sorted through the papers piled in neat stacks

atop Mori's desk, but who knew what most of them said? Nothing looked
like my stolen list. Next she checked the drawers of the desk. One
contained a heavily marked printout; the others, nothing.

Time was ticking. If Yamada decided to make the rounds, no quantity of
creative fiction would save us.

She quickly grabbed the printout. At least we had one item that might
give us something. What, though, we still weren't sure. Nothing
resembled the page I'd lifted, but locating that document now appeared
increasingly like a long shot anyhow. Guess everything seems easy till
you actually try doing it.

Where else to look?

I glanced around the room, wondering about the file cabinet. Probably
locked, and besides . . .

That's when I saw it. On a side table next to some technical books was
an item we'd both failed entirely to notice. A large leather attache
case.

"Tam, I think we've hit pay dirt. Check that out. Do you suppose she
could have forgotten it last night when they shut the place down?"

"Maybe she didn't need it. Anything's possible. I remember seeing her
carrying it around yesterday afternoon."

"Well, could be this is our find." I lifted it . . . and realized it
was empty.

"Shit." I slammed it down, and just then detected a faint rattle
inside. Hold on a minute.

I carefully shook it again and listened. "Tam, there's something in
here."

"I vote we take a peek."

Which is what we did. No harm, right? I mean, the darned thing was just
lying there. No "break and entry."

Guess what was inside. Not paper. Not a MITI report. Not lunch. Nothing
in fact except for a shiny little compact disk, a CD.

"What the hell is this doing in here? Did she bring along some Beach
Boys?"

"Matt, that's an optical disk, a CD-ROM." She suddenly seemed very
pleased.

"Huh?"

"Compact disk, read-only memory. Except this one looks to be erasable
and writable. This is the latest thing in computer storage technology."
She held it up to the light, which reflected a rainbow of colors off
its iridescent surface. "Maybe we've found what we came for. Let's take
it and go."

"Is this like the CDs in record stores? The ones you play back using
some kind of laser gizmo?"

"Same technology, only this is for text and data, not music. These can
hold five-hundred megabytes, about one hundred and fifty thousand
pages."

"Then I have some disquieting information to impart. I saw somebody
come in here one day after shopping at Tower Records, and a CD he'd
bought tripped the metal detector out there in Yamada's anteroom like
he was wearing sleigh bells. Down inside this shiny plastic must be
aluminum or something. We can't take it out." I turned it in my hand.
"And besides, what would we do with it anyway? Stick it in a Walkman
and listen to all the little digits spin by? In hi-fi?"

"I've got a reader at home . . . but wait, there's a better way." She
lifted it from my grasp and headed out onto the floor. "Ever hear of
computer crime?"

"In passing."

"Good. Then what you're about to witness won't shock you."

I watched as she kicked on one of the NEC desk stations and loaded in a
program. Next she walked over, flipped a switch on a little box, and a
drawer glided out. In went Mori's shiny disk. Another button was
pushed, the drawer receded, and the disk was spinning silently.

Well, I thought. You want peaches, you shake the tree, right? Maybe
she's about to kick hell out of the orchard.

"I'm going to dump this into the memory of the mother ship downstairs."
She did some fiddling, then typed in her password to sign on the
mainframe on eleven. "Beam us down, Scottie." In moments she and all
those silicon cells below us were beeping away at each other. She
didn't look up, just kept typing away, the hollow click-clack that's
become the signature sound of our computer age. Finally she leaned back
and breathed. "Okay, it's reading the disk. After it's in memory down
there, we can pull up the contents here on the screen and see what
we've got."

I don't know how long it took to read the thing. Probably no more than
a minute or so, though it seemed forever. Finally something flashed on
the screen and told us the disk had been dumped. Tam took it out of its
little player and passed it to me.

"Here, put this back in her case. While I start pulling up the file."

I'd just finished snapping it shut when I heard an expletive from out
on the floor that would not be judged suitable for family audiences.

"Watch your language."

She was sitting there staring at the screen. Finally she turned and
looked at me. "So close, yet so far. It's encrypted'."

"It's what?"

"Come and look."

I did. On the screen was a mass of numeric garbage. What was this all
about?

"Matt, when this disk was written, whatever went on it was scrambled
using some key, probably the DES system, the 'data-encryption
standard.' It keeps unauthorized intruders like us from snooping."

"How does anybody read it?"

"A decrypting key must be in the hardware down on eleven. But we can't
get through to that level of the machine without an 'access code.'
Which we don't have."

"Very smart. The electronic keys to the kingdom." I watched, wondering
all the while what Yamada was doing out there. Should I blunder out and
chat him up with my Berlitz Japanese, just to keep him occupied? The
clock above the door was ticking away.

"Tam, why not just try activating the key using your own password as
the access code? Maybe it'll get you into that level on the mainframe."

She gave it a go, without much enthusiasm. Predictably the message came
back, 'ACCESS CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.'

"Well, try some others." I was grasping. "Hit it with 'NODA' or
'MORI.'"

She did, but after both were rejected the workstation suddenly signed
off. Click, out of the system.

"What's happened now?"

"More bad news. I forgot the mainframe is programmed so that you get
three tries at a protected code and then it breaks the connection.
That's to keep crackers like us from sitting here all day and running
passwords at random. Another security precaution."

"Three chances to guess the secret word and then you're

out. Sounds like a game show." I just stood there and scratched my
head. Seemed we were, to be blunt, shit out of luck. "What now,
Professor? I assume there are about a hundred million alphanumeric
combinations they could use."

"Close." She was clicking away at the keyboard. "So let's think a
minute." She glanced back at me. "Why don't we assume for a minute that
this is a MITI disk."

"Safe bet."

"So the decryptor key in the machine here would be from MITI, right,
since Mori obviously brought the disk to be read?"

"Sounds good."

"You know, I was in Ken's office once, and I recall watching some of
his staff playing around with the information on one of these disks.
Don't know why I still remember this, but the password they used was
... I think MX something, three letters, followed by six digits. The
digits were always changing, but the prefix was the same."

"So if your wild guess about this being a MITI disk is right, and the
first two letters of the three-letter alpha part are still MX, that
means there are exactly, what--twenty-six letters in the alphabet times
a million numbers--twenty-six million combinations. We're looking for
one number in twenty-six million? So if it takes, say, five seconds to
type one in and try it, we're talking roughly a hundred and thirty
million seconds to go the course." I glanced again at the door.
"Besides which, we get kicked off after every third try. Working around
the clock, we ought to have it sometime about, what, 2001?"

She glanced back at the screen, then suddenly whirled around, a funny
look on her face. "What do you have in your office?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a PC downtown?"

"Just a little IBM AT, 512K. And also a Mac, a toy I use to draw
cutsey-poo pictures now and then and do covers for reports."

"How about a telephone modem?"

"Built in. How else could I handle all that trading?"

"And it's up?"

"The IBM? Never turn it off. Little twitch left over from playing the
Hong Kong exchanges. Habits die hard."

"Okay, I'm going to try and use it to crack the code in DNI's
mainframe."

Honestly, for a second there I thought my hearing had gone. "My little
IBM against that monster? How, forchrissake? There're twenty-six
million--"

"We'll have to do something not very nice. Since the Japanese aren't
used to hackers, those bearded malcontents in firms who screw up
business computers for spite, these workstations aren't buffered off
sensitive parts of the system. We are now going to exploit that trust
in Japanese culture. We're going to organize these terminals, hook them
to your computer, and then direct that network against the mainframe
downstairs. Something no Japanese would ever dream of doing." She got
up and went down the row clicking on machines. "There's a list of names
in my office, there by the phone. Can you bring it?"

"Coming up." I fetched it. It was a temporary "phone book" of the staff
on the floor. She took the list and went back down the line of
stations, typing something on each keyboard.

"What are you doing, Tam? This is crazy."

"It'll just take a second. Everybody here has a password to sign on to
the mainframe, but it's just the name of the person." She came back to
the first workstation. "Now the mainframe thinks ten people just signed
on to the system. We'll use these terminals to try access codes on the
main computer. Your PC will control them so that each terminal hits it
with two codes and then the next one goes on line. That way we'll never
get kicked off. It should get around the 'three times and you're out'
filter downstairs." She began frantically typing again.

"What are you doing now?"

"We could try alphanumerics sequentially or randomly. I think randomly
is probably better. It'll be faster. So I'm writing a little program
for the mainframe, a random-number generator. It'll start making up
random access codes of MX followed by a letter and six digits and
sending them to your PC downtown, which will immediately feed them back
in pairs to these terminals. Out one door, in another. Maybe that will
fool it."

"Christ, woman, you've got a criminal mind. Is this the kind of stuff
you teach at NYU?"

"What's your number downtown?" She was typing away again.

I wrote it down and handed it to her. "I don't have the foggiest idea
how you're going to be able to swing this."

"That's all right. I do. Just let me get your IBM networked into these
terminals here. Fortunately it's compatible, and all it's going to be
doing for now is bouncing back numbers generated by the mainframe." She
flipped some switches, then typed my number onto the screen. I
momentarily wondered if the sleet had knocked out the phone system. It
hadn't.

Again the seconds crawled by, but as soon as she'd finished her chat
with my IBM downtown, the row of terminals suddenly started beeping
away. Two shots, beep, the next one came alive; two shots, beep, right
down the row.

"Okay, your computer is running the show now. Sooner or later maybe
something will click." She punched a couple more keys, then got up.

"It's done?"

"Ready to rock and roll." She was putting on her coat. "We'll be
running millions of numbers."

"Isn't anybody going to know you've pulled this?" I was, I confess,
totally dumbfounded.

"Not unless they discover my little program in the mainframe
downstairs. But it's just a random-number generator, something any
sophomore could write. The trick is, we're hitting it with so many
terminals it won't be programmed to keep track of all these little
elves trying to sneak in. And when we're through we'll turn them all
off using your modem downtown."

"Good God, whatever happened to pen and pencil?" I was still dazed.
She'd done it all so fast. "If you can find the decryptor key and get
into the files, then what? You going to dump all the info on Mori's
sexy little CD down at my place?"

"I hope you've got lots of paper. Who knows what's on it." She was
shutting off the lights. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Aye, aye, Professor." I walked back, clicked off the light in Mori's
office, then paused to double-check the lock.

"We came for printouts, remember. We only have Mori's." I was joining
her. She glanced at the stack on her desk, then grabbed a pile and
handed them to me.

"You'd better carry these. And don't be put off by my 'ugly American'
routine at the door. It'll be for a purpose."

After she'd doused the rest of the overheads, we passed

through the first security door and greeted Yamada. While I fiddled
with Tam's printouts, she proceeded to give him a very Japanese-style
dressing down, disguised as a series of pale compliments. She reviewed
all her work for Dai Nippon, just happening to mention Noda-sama this
and Noda-sama that every other breath. The hapless guy sucked in his
breath and bowed a lot and _hai, so_-ed about once a second and then
_sumimasen_-ed some more. By the time the elevator appeared, she'd
destroyed him. He'd lost so much face he'd never dare mention our visit
to Noda or anybody.

About two minutes later we were out on the sleet-covered sidewalk,
looking for a cab. It was a heroic effort, but eventually we were
headed back downtown. Secure and holding.

Although my upstairs office was freezing, I was mesmerized watching the
flashing green numbers spin on my little IBM screen. It was like
playing one of those "fruit machines" at the local bars, except we were
sitting there witnessing a gigantic intelligence turned against itself,
searching for the crack in its own armor. There was something ironic
about the fact that the Japanese were such a homogenous, disciplined
people they didn't need vast arrays of American-style safeguards to
keep crazies off their computers. Unfortunately for them, they weren't
expecting a couple of American criminals with no such scruples.

By four A.M. we had watched three million random numbers tried; by
first light we were up to six.

"Tam, I'm beginning to get this sinking feeling MITI must have changed
the prefix." I was bringing a new pot of coffee, half staggering up the
carpeted stairs. "Or maybe we should have done it sequentially."

"Maybe, but that would mean wasting a lot of time on numbers that are
improbable. This is our best chance." She poured another cup of java
while I just stretched out on the floor. "Damn. I wish I could remember
what the other alpha was. MX what? That could save us days."

"We don't have days." I closed my eyes. "Try hypnosis."

She sat staring at the screen for a few moments, then slowly wheeled
around. "I know why I couldn't remember it. It was a repeat. Matt, it
was X."

"Go with it."

"Hang on." She did some quick typing and hit the play

button. Her face was showing the strain, but I loved her looks. What a
champ. We were together; us against the beast. Unfortunately, though,
the beast was still ahead.

At seven-thirty Ben roused himself and lumbered expectantly up the
stairs. With a silent curse I put on my boots and took him out for a
stroll on the ice. He hated it. When we came back, I decided to give up
and crash. Come on, this was insane, a billion-to-one shot and we
didn't even know what the prize was at the bottom of the box. We were
getting nowhere. MITI had changed the code and screwed us. Fortunately,
however, I heroically vowed to try and stay awake till eight A.M. That
was it. The end.

At exactly 7:49 the numbers abruptly stopped. "ACCESS CODE MXX909090
CONFIRMED--DECRYPTOR KEY ACTIVATED." Confidential MITI memos started
scrolling in orderly green clumps up the screen.

"My God, Matt, turn on your printer."



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


"Jack, doing anything today?"

"Walton, what in hell . . .?"

Jack O'Donnell and Joyce Hanson had been working through the ten-pound
Christmas catalog known as the Sunday Times--she was up to Arts &
Leisure and he'd advanced as far as Business--when my call interrupted
their mutually agreed-upon vow of silence. Now that her apartment in
the West Seventies had become Jack's weekend hideaway, his escape from
phones and conferences, the number was as carefully guarded as a
Minuteman launch code.

The time was shortly after noon. He'd just braved a foot of snow and
sleet to retrieve the paper and a couple of fresh croissants, while
Joyce was still recovering from a two A.M. session editing a speech one
of his staffers had drafted for some

ILGWU holiday blowout the following week. Since he was still chewing
over Noda's ominous phone call, wondering what to do, the last person
on earth he wanted to hear from right now was Dai Nippon's lawyer, even
if it was me.

"Feel like coming down for a Bloody Mary? An academic lady we both know
is here, and we've happened across something you might find
interesting. Very interesting."

"Care to elaborate?"

"It's a little complicated, Jack. How about coming down?"

He glanced out the frosted kitchen windows, puzzling what in blazes was
up, then finally agreed.

"Keep the coffee hot."

"You've got it."

Joyce claimed to be unamused, though in truth maybe she wasn't all that
heartbroken to have the place to herself for the afternoon. He grabbed
his coat and said don't throw out The Week in Review.

The streets were now at a standstill, so the prospect of finding, let
alone traveling in, a taxi was implausible in the extreme. As a result
Senator Jack O'Donnell shared the Broadway local with several hundred
of his lesser-heeled constituents and finally managed to get down to
Sheridan Square, from which it was only a few mushy blocks over to my
place.

Ben greeted him at the door with me not far behind, doubtless looking
as if I'd just stumbled in from a three-day forced march. Without a
word he passed over his coat, then followed me downstairs where Tam was
still going through the line of printouts spread across the dining room
table, translating onto one of my yellow legal pads.

I pointed him in the direction of the coffee urn stationed in the
kitchen. He poured a cup, then came around and plopped down on the
couch.

"Walton"--he sampled his brew, then set it down--"you're not going to
believe what your goddam client did Friday. Swear to God, your man
actually threatened me, the bastard, a not-too-subtle warning to back
off."

"Jack, that's small potatoes." I straddled one of the dining room
chairs. "What would you say to a possible play by our friend Matsuo
Noda that makes Pearl Harbor look like a gesture of Japanese-American
solidarity?"

"Two days ago I might have thought you'd been smoking a controlled
substance. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Well, we're still piecing it together. I don't think anybody could
even imagine what's really afoot. One thing's for sure, though--this is
big." I paused. "It might even be that Noda is somehow fronting for
MITI, though I'm still not totally convinced."

I'd been turning that possibility over, but I somehow couldn't buy it
all the way. Wasn't Matsuo Noda's style. He was a loner.

"MITI?" He looked at me. "That's government, right? The Ministry of . .
."

"International Trade and Industry. Japan's 'War Department' for trade."

"Yeah? Go on."

"Listen. All Noda's talk about helping American industry? Of course
it's bullshit. But I think it's just half the bullshit. What we suspect
is, he's buying a little of everything so nobody will figure out their
real agenda."

"You'd better back up and take this from the beginning."

"Wait a minute." Tam got up and started the turntable. Mendelssohn was
still on the platter. Maybe we were taking too many precautions, but
she still nursed the idea we might be bugged.

With the music cranked up to "8," we proceeded to give Jack a quick
summary of how the stack of memos on the table had come into our hands.
In a way, though, they raised as many questions as they answered.

"Jack, nothing here is spelled out in detail. We have to take
everything and sort of rotate it by ninety degrees to see how Noda fits
in." I walked over to the table. "Tam, where's your translation of that
one by what's-his-name . . . Ikeda?"

"Right here." She handed it to me.

"Here, Jack, start with this. Just to get up to speed on the
background."

He fumbled in his pocket, retrieved his bifocals, and began to read the
yellow sheet.



_OPERATION MARKETSHARE - 90

Internal Memo No. 22

From: Hiromu Ikeda, Deputy Minister of Industrial Technology Sector,
Ministry of International Trade and Industry

(MITI)

Subject: SUPERCHIPS

World dominance in semiconductors will provide the basis for Japan's
control of the global information industry by the turn of the century,
which will be the key to our economic leadership and military strength.
The critical path to achieving this lies with the coming generations of
semiconductor technology--the submicron, giga-scale superchip.
Accordingly, the objectives of Operation Market- share - 90 in the
semiconductor sector should receive the highest possible priority.
Areas of research should include semiconductor-grade polysilicon,
silicon wafer production, ceramic packaging, quartz photomasks, X-ray
lithography, supercooled Josephson junction circuits, and
optoelectronic chips for optical switching. R&D should also be focused
on digital signal processing, application-specific integrated circuits
(ASICs), specialized dynamic random access memories (DRAMs), very
large-scale integrations (VLSIs) for supercomputers . . .



_"Walton, I can't make heads or tails of this gobbledygook." He tossed
down the sheet. "What's this all about?"

"What it means"--Tam spoke up--"is that Ikeda has targeted every emerging
area of semiconductor research. Everything. A clean sweep. If he
succeeds, sooner or later nobody else will even be able to make the
really advanced chips. A few more years and America joins the Third
World."

Jack looked a little skeptical. Truthfully I found her extrapolation
somewhat fanciful myself. But then, who knew?

"Tam, how about showing Jack that other memo? You know the one."

She didn't say anything, just turned back and sorted through the stack
of yellow pages till she had it. Out came Jack's glasses again.



_OPERATION MARKETSHARE - 90

Internal Memo No. 37

From: Kenji Asano, Deputy Minister for Research and Planning, Ministry
of International Trade and Industry (MITI)

Subject: CURRENT STATUS OF R&D

This office has now completed its review of the recent survey of
research and development (R&D) by Japanese firms compiled by the
Science and Technology Agency, the results of which are the subject of
this memorandum. Of the companies surveyed, 70% maintain that their
research is equal or superior to that of leading firms in the U.S. and
Europe, although only 18.2% consider themselves in unchallenged top
position. Furthermore, the remaining 30% believe their research is
inferior or lagging behind the West (ref. to Table 1). Of those who
reported inadequate R&D in high technology areas, the following reasons
were given . . .



_"Whoever wrote this is just poor-mouthing." He flipped on through the
sheets, then looked up. "Saying he needs more money for basic research.
I hear this kind of stuff all the time. Hell, Japan already spends
nearly twice what we do per capita on nonmilitary R&D. What does he
want?"

"Keep reading, Jack, and you'll see that the main R&D he's pushing is
in computers and semiconductors. It ties in exactly with Ikeda's
targets. This is backup consensus for the big drive."

"You still haven't told me anything I didn't already suspect." He
tossed the pages onto a side table. "So how about answering a few less-
obvious questions?" "Shoot."

"First off, what's this Operation Marketshare - 90 all about?" He took
off his glasses and pocketed them.

"Jack, remember the famous Hitachi directive that got loose a while
back, the one on how to market their 256K memory chips, ordering their
salesmen just to keep underpricing American manufacturers till they had
the sale, loss no object. According to Henderson, by the time the
International Trade Commission got around to convicting them of
dumping, they'd demolished America's domestic industry and nailed down
ninety percent of the market."

"Ninety, you say. Well, that's getting to be a familiar number." He
slumped back against the sofa. "Out of curiosity, what's included in
this MITI Marketshare - 90 operation?"

"Computers, of course. But also pretty much everything in high tech
where the U.S. still has a leading position--from biotech to aerospace.
These guys don't think small."

I gave Ben a pat, then pulled Mori's printout around, going on to
explain that we'd come across it in the drawer of her desk. It was, I
added, obviously some kind of special computer sorting of the firms DNI
was targeting. The categories in the sort were a breakdown of high-tech
areas, with individual firms listed underneath, together with a summary
of their research expenditures.

"Take a look. First, notice that this printout has been sorted and
converted into this list here." I placed it alongside the page I'd
found in the Xerox machine. "Voila, they're identical."

"So?"

"Okay, now compare that list with the R&D areas targeted in Ikeda's
memo." I laid Tarn's translation down next to Mori's pages. "See?
Everything on Ikeda's MITI wish list for research in semiconductors is
now being done by the American outfits named here in Mori's sorting,
which is the latest revision in DNI's acquisition program."

"What are you getting at?" He looked it over.

"It's a pattern." Tam spoke up. "These new buy-ups cover Japan's last
remaining shortfalls in R&D. I spotted it right away. But what I didn't
realize till we got these memos was that the areas covered by Mori's
companies exactly dovetail with MITI's goals. I probably wouldn't have
noticed it without her sorting. Mixed in with all the other companies
Noda's buying, he's targeted those that fill the gaps in MlTI's
semiconductor push."

Jack looked at us quizzically. "Are you telling me MITI's behind Noda's
program?"

That's where Tam and I parted company. She argued it was obviously a
MITI play: why start from scratch when you can just buy what you need?
Sound business investment. For some reason, though, I wasn't so sure.
Somehow that explanation seemed too simplistic. Unfortunately, however,
there's a law in science or somewhere that says you should always pick
the least-complicated theory that fits all your data. Hers appeared on
the face of it to address the facts perfectly. Except for one unknown:
if Mori did "accidentally" feed me the sorting that blew the whistle on
Noda's design, why?

"I think this has to be what the buying program on this list is all
about," Tam answered. "He's taking over firms whose R&D coincides with
MITI's targets. Matsuo Noda has been put to work simply acquiring what
they need, but to make sure nobody suspects the real agenda, he's
worked up this elaborate 'management assistance' story, buying all
kinds of companies." Her voice was bitter. "The next step will be to
set up joint ventures between these firms he's bought and their
counterparts in Japan. Then all American R&D would be shared."

"Which means"--Jack's face began to redden--"that since we always seem to
lose out when it comes to commercializing what we invent, the U.S. ends
up becoming one big think tank for Japan in the twenty-first century.
We do the research, and they manufacture and market. They pick our
brains and then cash in on it." He turned back to Tam. "Do you really
think it was Noda who planned all this?"

"I wish I knew what to think." Her voice grew hesitant as she continued
to stare down at the memo. "It's hard to believe Ken would do something
so unethical--especially a grab like this--when I'm sure he's convinced
Japan ought to be advancing its own R&D."

"Ken? Who's--"

"Did you see who authored that second memo?" She pointed to the name.

"Kenji Asano is apparently a close friend of Dr. Richardson's," I broke
in, my tone unnecessarily sharp. "Unfortunately, he seems to be an even
closer friend of his cronies at MITI."

Tam didn't respond, just sat there looking betrayed.

"Matt, let's be constructive here." Jack walked over and shook the
coffee pot, then sloshed the last dregs into his cup. "We damn well
ought to take some kind of action."

"That's why we wanted to talk to you." Tam came back to life. "Do you
think you could leak something about this? Maybe to the Times?"

"And say what?" He laughed, a little sadly. "That I've happened across
a set of secret MITI memos that bear a coincidental similarity to some
stolen DNI printout? Don't think that's exactly 'Fit to Print.'" He
frowned. "But I'm glad our Mr. Noda has finally let slip his true
intentions. I never believed all that pious malarkey about propping up
American industry." He snorted. "The man gets a few suckers like you to
help him destabilize our bond markets, in the process of which he turns
the high-tech sector of American industry into a bargain basement for
MITI."

Tam sipped her coffee, maybe trying to act as if Jack's comment hadn't
stung her the way I suspected it did. I decided to try and handle her
defense.

"Jack, hold on a second. You've got to admit that a lot of these
outfits Dai Nippon is buying are currently on pretty thin ice. If
somebody doesn't come in here and help run them right, they're probably
headed offshore anyway."

"We're not talking about first aid now, Walton. We're talking about
Matsuo Noda taking over the most strategic segment of our economy after
pulling the biggest scam in the history of world finance."

"That looks to be the story." I watched his cheeks redden with
frustration. "So what do you propose we do? There's no law against
foreign investment. Securities exist to be bought."

"Well, dammit, Matt, we've both seen enough by now to realize this Noda
genius is up to no good. We've got to stop him."

"Couldn't agree more. So why don't you just arrange to have the SEC
shut down trading in every stock DNI has in its gunsights."

"You know that's out of the question."

"Exactly. So what legal remedies are there? How do you squelch a
takeover program that's not even against the law?"

"That's your specialty, counselor, or so I hear."

"Jack, be realistic. We can expose this thing, maybe even try and lean
on Tokyo to back off, but aside from shutting down trading there's no
legal way to actually stop Matsuo Noda from buying whatever he likes.
You can't shut Japanese investors out of Wall Street. There'd be a riot
downtown. We're talking about the open market here, not some inside
deal."

"Forget legalities." He scowled. "Tell me how your damned corporate
raiders go about  shenanigans that don't quite match the letter of the
law."

"Jack, I've officially quit the business. Retired. Guess you hadn't
heard."

"That's what you think. You just got un-retired. As of this moment. Now
give me one of those high-priced consultations you're so famous for."

"For you, Jack." I looked him over. "One last play. Trouble is, there's
not much that's do-able, at least on short notice."

"You say 'not much.' Which means there's something."

"Well, one possibility might be to try and slow him down

some, make him think twice, say, by punching up the prices of the
stocks he's aiming at. Make them less of a bargain."

"That's a start."

"Not much of one."

"Well, how could it be done?"

"Since you're such a Boy Scout, Jack, you probably won't like what I
have in mind. This one's not exactly in the rule book."

"Try me."

"Okay, it's a long shot, and we'll definitely need some help. If we're
going to tinker with the market, then we have to have somebody Wall
Street trusts. And also somebody who's got a lot of money to play with,
short term."

"Sounds like our mutual friend from Georgia."

"Well, Henderson can play the Street like a symphony. What I'm thinking
of involves tricking the smartest guys around, the 'risk arbs.' We'd
need to suck them in. If anybody can do it, he's the man."

"Then I say let's give him a buzz."

"Fine. Why don't I get him on the squawk box so we can all listen in."
There beside the couch was an old conference phone some client once
gave me as a Hanukkah gift. At long last it might be good for
something.

The risk arbs, by the way, are the risk arbitrageurs, those speculators
who live with one ear to the ground. The minute they hear word, inside
or otherwise, that a company is "in play," meaning it's a candidate for
a possible takeover or merger, they immediately grab up and stockpile
huge blocks of its publicly traded shares. Then they sit back and pray
for a bidding war. Since company A has offered so much a share for
company Z, maybe company B will step in and offer more. Or maybe
company Z itself will outbid them both and offer even more in a stock
buyback. They're the hyenas of the hunt, getting plenty of leftovers no
matter who ends up buying Z. Besides, they don't really care anyway.
They're not investing in American industry, they're laying side bets.

Tam and Jack settled back while I punched in Bill's number.

The doctor was in, and after a few profane formalities-- tempered when
we informed him of a female presence--he listened with uncharacteristic
attentiveness. I gave him an

update, concluding with the view that we ought to try heading off
MITI's presumed play.

Henderson, despite his admiration for Noda's style, didn't take kindly
to the possible buy-up of America's remaining R&D in semiconductors, a
specter that coincided all too closely to his own fable about how MITI
had already eaten one segment, memory chips. I decided to start by
seeing if he and I were on the same wavelength concerning
countermeasures. Without tipping him to my own idea, I asked what he
thought could be done.

"Tell you, it won't be easy. One thing, though, we could maybe try and
scare 'em off with a little brushfire."

"Try that in English, Bill," Jack interrupted.

"Don't know, maybe a few hot rumors could hit the Street . . . mergers,
takeovers, your usual quick-buck action. Say a few of the CEOs of these
outfits on Noda's Christmas list had a little powwow, a 'secret'
meeting everybody manages to hear about, and supposedly talked about
gettin' themselves bought out. Naturally they'd deny everything on the
Evening News, which in itself will tell the Street we're talkin'
wedding bells."

"Is that really going to do us any good?" Tam was talking to the box.

"Afternoon, ma'am. Liked that last book of yours a whole lot. Hope
you're keeping them boys sober." I could almost see Henderson turn up
the charm, sculpting a voluptuous, horny divorcee in his ardent
imagination. Tam, to my surprise, was not totally immune to his Georgia
sweet talk. She sort of smiled to herself as he continued, "But to
answer your question, a takeover rumor can do marvels for your stock
price. What happens is the 'arbs' come in, snapping up blocks of stock
and holding them, just in case. It can take a lot of securities out of
circulation, at least short term. So if we could get the arbs to
chasing those companies on Noda's list, they'd give the Japs a little
competition. At the very least it'd kite the market, hurt their
pocketbook."

"Bill, that's why we wanted to call you. How about putting your
finances where your flag-waving is? Be an arb yourself for a few weeks.
Lead the herd. Start picking up some blocks of stock and shooting off
your mouth a lot about your 'inside' information. I'll even kick in my
modest retirement fund to help the action."

"What if somebody pulls the rug out from under us? Shoots the whole
thing down? We'd be left holding all that stock we'd bid up. We could
lose our shirt."

"Then protect the downside by buying puts. I have full faith you'll
think of something. Come on, Henderson, be a market maker. You've got
the credibility. All you have to do is set a spark to this, then we'll
quietly head for the sidelines to make way for all those investment-
house yuppies who love to shoot craps with their clients' money."

"Have to be a quick in and out for damned sure. This hot-air balloon
won't stay up for long." He paused, clearly not wild about the idea.
"Tell you what, though, maybe if we had a real good story."

"Ideas?"

"Well, how about this? Maybe we've just heard on the grapevine that
those outfits on Noda's play list have started a little 'white knight'
talking. And since this is just speculation, we might as well think
big. Know who I mean?"

"The pride of Armonk."

"Give that man a gold star. We both know IBM headquarters ain't talked
to nobody but God since Watson outgrew his short pants, so it'd be
weeks before they'd stomp on some horse-pucky rumor about how they were
looking into saving whatever's left of the chip business here. Just
covering their ass, we'll say. Friendly mergers. No poison pill stuff."

"That's exactly the kind of specious 'supporting detail' that always
triggers the Street's greed." I concurred. "Offhand I'd say that sounds
just about perfect for tomorrow's hot tip on the Exchange floor."

In truth it did seem like a workable first draft of an idea. No law
against deep background sources that turn out to be 24-carat bullshit
down the road. The antitrust implications would be front page for a
couple of days, but since the administration adhered to the 'see no
evil' school of regulation, that angle wouldn't impress the smart
money. America starts thinking big, chucks the myth of garage
entrepreneurs, and staves off Japan using a dose of MITI's own
medicine. IBM rides in to rescue what's left of Silicon Valley. It
might just make Matsuo Noda back away. He'd learn America could play
hardball too.

We told Bill to take the rest of the day off. Jack was, I can report,
noticeably encouraged. Tam also. For my own part I just crashed, with a
few wistful reflections on my rocky

non-seduction. But if we pulled off our little scam, she might be more
inclined to take me seriously.

As Shakespeare said, Lord, what fools these mortals be. I realized the
true extent of Matsuo Noda's reach on Monday, just after noon. I was
still home when Tam called from the office uptown to inform me of the
latest developments. I was so busy on the phone just then, planting
merger rumors with a few friendly columnists, that I was almost annoyed
to take time out for her call. However, she quickly captured my
attention.

First, the revisions on DNI's acquisition program were in full swing.
Noda had started purchasing those healthy semiconductor outfits on the
new list.

Then she went on to say that an additional set of buy orders had just
gone out over the wire. Noda had been on his satellite hookup to Tokyo
all morning, and he'd now finalized official authorization for a minor
expansion, so to speak, in DNI's program. Apparently Tokyo had agreed
with him that his portfolio should include a certain high-grade issue
to achieve better overall "balance."

She didn't say much more, for obvious reasons, but we both had a strong
hunch what must have happened. If anything was bugged, for chrissake,
it wasn't my apartment. That's B-movie stuff. It had to be my phone.

Matsuo Noda had just kicked off a new buy program to the tune of three
and a half billion. For what? More high-tech stragglers? Not precisely.
One company, and in an amount intended to stay safely just below the
Securities and Exchange Commission's Form 13-D mandatory reporting.
Twenty-five million shares of IBM, roughly a full four percent of Big
Blue.

It was a massive variation of the "Pac-Man" takeover defense: you eat
anybody you think wants to eat you. Noda's message to us was loud and
clear: he could buy the USA anytime he wanted. Dai Nippon was
unstoppable.



CHAPTER NINETEEN


I hung up the phone very slowly.

"We've 'moved the shadow.'" I spoke the words to myself hesitantly,
maybe even a little apprehensively. That was the name for a famous
strategy of the seventeenth-century swordsman Miyamoto Mushashi, using
a feint to lure your opponent into prematurely disclosing his battle
plan.

The way I saw it, Matsuo Noda now stood revealed. It had all been a
setup. The financial scam, the help-American-industry cover, the MITI
"guidance." This was a takeover, all the way. A global takeover. What
else could it be?

And the only people on this side of the Pacific who knew were Matt
Walton and Tam Richardson.

For some reason that thought brought to mind the professor at Stanford,
the AI guy who'd disappeared. What was it Tam had said? He'd had dinner
at her apartment? Asked her to do something for him in Japan? And her
MITI friend, whose name was all over that stack of memos on the table
downstairs? Asano. Where did he fit in?

One thing, he'd helped Noda recruit her. They'd worked together, and
their play had been flawless.

But now our friend Matsuo Noda had a small headache. Tam Richardson and
Matt Walton had exposed the underside of his game. The shadow had
moved. Which meant it would only be a matter of time before he struck.

Where was our weakness, hers and mine? What would cause us to lose our
rhythm, to blunder? He'd already outmaneuvered Jack O'Donnell with
ease. He had a master swordsman's unerring instinct for his opponent's
weakness. So where was mine? I had to know it before he found it.

He'd realized Jack could be blackmailed, if the stakes were

his constituents' jobs and lives. But I didn't need a job. And the only
life . . .

Of course! It was obvious. Amy.

Could it be I was dealing with a madman who made people disappear?

If I was about to take on a pro like Noda, I had to cover every
possibility. Which meant I had to get her out, away, beyond his reach.
Today.

Still, though, there were so many questions. Who was really behind all
the moves, the master puppeteer? Was it only Matsuo Noda, or was this
possibly, just possibly, something that wound its way even higher. If
so, who was the point man on that? Akira Mori?

The only rational countermove now was to back off and "survey
prevailing conditions." Miyamoto Mushashi's _keiki o shiru to iu koto_.
But to do that we had to remove ourselves beyond the reach of Dai
Nippon's sword. How long did we have?

I glanced at the clock on my desk, the little Sony digital. The number
12:18 stared back, the two dots in the middle flashing every second.
Amy was still at school, and for the moment I couldn't think of a safer
place. They wouldn't even let me in without a pass. She didn't get out
till four P.M.

So now what?

Simple. In swordsmanship, vigilance is everything. And there are two
things you always have to keep in view. The first is called _ken_, the
surface actions, the moves your opponent wants you to see. The second,
and more important, is _kan_, the essence of things, the real truth.
_Ken _covers the superficial moves; _kan _gives you the big picture.

Instinctively I still believed we had only been witness to _ken_, the
distractions, the insignificant feints of our opponent. The deeper
wisdom of _kan_ still lay beyond us. Time to probe.

We had three and a half hours.

I got up and headed downstairs to retrieve a couple of very important
memos. If we needed them, we'd have them. The rest of the pile I
brought back upstairs and locked in the sword room (the closest thing I
had to a safe). Finally, I reflected a second and paused to scribble
Emma a note, asking her to feed and walk Ben in case I wasn't around
for a while. That taken care of, I retrieved my heavy topcoat from the
front closet, walked out into the street, and grabbed a cab for the
offices of Dai Nippon, International.

Maybe our opening move should be _uromekasu to iu koto_, to feint a
thrust that would induce a state of confusion in Noda's mind. Then we
could stage a tactical retreat to plan the final, all-out attack.

Retreat to where? Well, that part at least was easy: the obvious
hideaway was my place down in the islands. The thing to do was to
quietly catch American 291 and head for the Caribbean. If Noda did
manage to track us down, he'd be in for a surprise. Let me explain.

Back when the world was young and Amy was still a gleam in our eye,
Joanna and I acquired a rambling white fortress, complete with pool,
that was being offered to the first tourist appearing on St. Croix that
day with ready cash. Seemed its Cosa Nostra owner back in Sicily (so
the story went) suddenly needed a transfusion of a hundred grand in
bail money. Fortunately I'd had a good year and happened to have the
necessary liquidity. It was luxurious beyond vulgarity. Hardwood
parquet floors, heavy tile roof (to withstand an Interpol bombing run?
Who knows?), manicured grounds, satellite dish, a bar worthy of Caesars
Palace, three bedrooms, and music in every room. It was oversize and
garish and pretentious and . . . who cares, I loved the place. Sort of
a Roman villa in the middle of paradise. However, because of the
peculiar requirements of its former tenant, it also had a security
setup to shame Fort Knox, including a six-foot fence, two-inch-thick
doors, and TV monitors all over the grounds.

If we could locate a little hardware to match Noda's Uzis, he'd be in
for a surprise should he try and send down a Dai Nippon hit squad for
an unscheduled visit.

But first things first. Right now we needed to somehow lure Matsuo Noda
into revealing more of his overall strategy.

After the cab dropped me off, I rode the elevator up to twelve and
passed through security. The complement of guards, I noticed in
passing, had just been expanded. Instead of two, now there were four.
And when I walked out onto the floor, nobody said anything, but there
was an almost palpable air of tension. Stony silence, analysts nervous.
Bad vibes, very bad vibes.

I just ignored the stares and headed straight for Tarn's office. She
was waiting, and she had an identical reading of the

situation. The minute I walked in, she got up and shut the door. Her
first words . . .

"He just brought in more security. That, and the IBM thing. Matt, he's
getting worried."

"Bet your ass he is. We're moving in too close. But I think Noda
figures he's just toying with us now. Having some fun before he cuts us
in half."

"I'm not afraid of him. No matter what he tries." She glanced at the
door. "Did you bring the memos?"

"Here in my briefcase. But I think it's too soon to show him everything
we have. Right now he doesn't know what we've got. That's better."

"Well, I've just begun to fight. I'm going to Tokyo to get the truth
out of Ken." She paused, and her voice trembled slightly with anger.
"He's got some heavy explaining to do."

"You're incredible." I just looked at her. "I almost believe you still
can't accept that your friend Asano is in on Noda's play. Since he's
such a terrific guy."

"Matt, I don't believe it. He wouldn't be part of this. You don't know
him."

"That I don't."

"All I'm saying is, this doesn't feel right. He wouldn't involve MITI
in whatever Noda's planning." She sat down, running her hands through
her tousled dark hair. "You know, the fact is we still don't know for
sure who's really behind what."

"Exactly. How does everybody fit in, including us? We've got pieces of
a puzzle lying around--a section here, a section there--but something
fundamental is missing."

"So what do we do next?"

"How about a little joust with our friend downstairs? Try and feel him
out. Maybe we can lure him into making another move, something that'll
give away more of his game."

"You don't think he's actually going to talk."

"Not really. He'll feint, parry. But if we watch carefully, maybe we'll
glimpse more of the outline of his strategy. Then we'll know what our
counter scenario has to be." I decided to hold off on telling her the
getaway plan. Assuming the walls had ears, we'd already said too much.
"Look, make you a deal. First let's see what happens with Noda, then we
decide what to do about your friend Asano."

"All right. But let's stay cool." She was locking her desk.

"You read my mind."

With that settled, we strolled out, past the doubled security, and
headed down to eleven. The way people looked at us, I felt as naked as
Tam had been in the bath Saturday night. How much did they know?

Matsuo Noda was in his office. His secretary buzzed us right through,
almost as though he'd been waiting for our appearance.

"Dr. Richardson. Mr. Walton." He rose to greet us. "How timely. There
is an urgent matter we have to discuss."

"We want to talk about MITI." I decided to try and break his rhythm as
quickly as possible. Take the action to him.

"Then this is a coincidence." An easy smile as he resumed his seat.
"That happens to be the very matter I wanted to explore--"

"What we want to know," Tam interrupted, "here and now, is whether our
program is being run by the ministry."

"Dr. Richardson, you . . . and Mr. Walton, are in the employ of Dai
Nippon, International, not MITI." He leaned back in his chair. "Though
of course nothing in this world is entirely simple.  Certain . . .
interests of the ministry are germane to our programs here."

"Then we'd like to hear about it." She glanced at the leather chairs
but decided to remain on her feet. I did the same.

His face was like granite. "Well, you are aware we've occasionally
received input from MITI's Industrial Technology arm.

"How about Research and Planning, Ken's section?"

"Only a few informal--"

"Nothing to do with Marketshare - 90?"

He betrayed a hint of confusion, quickly masked. "Dr. Richardson, with
all due respect, I fear you may not be entirely aware of the various
forces at play here." He leaned back. "This program of ours must
succeed. There are many avenues of responsibility, but all difficulties
will be overcome."

"What do you mean?"

"All in time, please believe me." He smiled once more. "I'll readily
grant you our acquisition program may have evolved slightly as of late
in the direction of more-solid securities, but you can be assured that
is merely a response to the concerns of certain conservative
institutional investors in Tokyo." He continued, a silver tongue to
match his silver hair. "Risk is involved. Not to mention an enormous
quantity of funds. There is pressure on us just now to try and maintain
a prudent balance in our portfolio." He glanced at his watch
impatiently. As if he was anxious to move ahead. "Which brings us to
the matter we have to address."

"Just to set the record straight"--I decided to do a little parrying of
my own--"you have nothing to say about any kind of MITI involvement?
Including Marketshare - 90?"

"Well, this Marketshare - 90 proposition you refer to probably should
be thought of as merely one of the ministry's more ambitious trial
balloons, nothing more. It has the quality of--how do you say it?--
woolgathering. Whatever its purpose, it should in no way be confused
with Dai Nippon's objectives." Such was Noda's reply. Then in a
remarkably convincing tone he added, "How could the ministry's planning
possibly have anything to do with our program here?"

Tam wasn't buying. "Looks to me like it has a lot to do with

it."

"Dr. Richardson, since I am no longer directly affiliated with MITI, I
am not in a position to speak for every proposition arising there.
However, we both know that the ministry's responsibility is to provide
long-range industrial planning. They often circulate scenarios for
comment. It's part of their job."

We were rapidly losing our footing. Noda was top-ranked swordsman. He'd
kept his discipline and revealed nothing. He was telling us we hadn't
found an opening. He was right. It was a classic standoff.

Or it should have been. Strategically, we should have taken that moment
to back away and analyze Noda's style, searching for his weakness. But
instead Tam made what turned out to be a fatal move. She struck,
exposing herself.

"Since according to you MITI is not involved in this program, there
should be no problem if I contacted them directly and talked this over.
In Japan."

I wanted to yell no, don't tell him anything.

But it was too late.

"An excellent idea." He nodded gravely, then turned to me. "Do you
intend to be part of this expedition as well, Mr. Walton?"

What to do? The only moves left now were defensive. No way was I going
to let Tam face the beast alone. Also, if Noda had me, he wouldn't need
Amy.

"I assume you can spare me here for a few days."

"But we will all be in Japan together." He removed his thin, wireless
spectacles. "That is in fact the very matter I needed to discuss with
you. It is time you both were brought more closely into the matters at
hand. Beginning today. I've already made reservations on New York
Helicopter, departing for Kennedy in two hours. From the East Thirty-
fourth Street heliport."

He had us. He'd seized the initiative, feinted us off balance, and
defined the terms.

She tried to recover. "When and where we go is something we intend to--"

"Ah, Dr. Richardson, one must seize the moment. It is past time you and
Mr. Walton understood more fully the many levels of concern involved
here. There are a number of things you need to see." He smiled as he
replaced his glasses. "Because of the expected frequency of my travels
in the coming months, I have just leased a Concorde. We refuel in
Bahrain. I've been looking forward to having you both as my guests."

"The answer is no."

"Mr. Walton, I urge you not to forgo this opportunity too rashly." He
looked me over. "In fact, since you are known to be an authority on
Japanese arms, I could even arrange for you to have a firsthand look at
the Imperial sword."

"Forget it."

"But the timing couldn't be more ideal. At the moment the sword has
just been transferred to one of the metallurgy labs at Tsukuba Science
City for minor repair work. Since Tsukuba is to be our destination as
well, I can just telex the Imperial Household and instruct them to
arrange a viewing date." He smiled again. "For a connoisseur such as
yourself, nothing would please me more."

There was something about the way he said it. I don't know. Maybe a
strange glimmer flashed through his eyes. Looking back, I think that
was the moment I first should have realized Matsuo Noda had decided he
was God.

"You didn't hear me. We're not leaving now. At least not on your
terms."

"Mr. Walton, I really must insist." He glanced over at Tam. "What I
intend to show you should be of extreme interest to you both."

"I'll go when I'm ready." She turned and headed for the door.

"Dr. Richardson, I'm afraid we all have no alternative." He spoke
quietly, his tone masking the harshness as he continued. "These offices
have been sealed. As a temporary security measure. There appears to
have been an unauthorized access to the NEC mainframe here. However,
I've decided to postpone criminal charges for the moment." He smiled
again. "Besides, the time has come for you both to know everything."



We were on our way. I looked out of the window on my side, down through
the haze covering New York's East River just below us, and took Tam's
hand. The NY chopper was a Sikorski S58T, twin engine, two pilots.
Events were moving so fast it was hard even to think. No doubt about
one thing, though: we'd been outmaneuvered, outplanned, outfought. The
only good part was, he had me as hostage, not Amy. In a final face-off
with Noda, whatever he had in mind, I still figured I could take care
of myself, MITI and all. The battle had just begun.

When we walked out of Noda's office, there was no longer any mistaking
the new security arrangements. Dai Nippon was on red alert.

"Well, Matthew, looks like we're about to get the big picture, like it
or not."

"On Noda's terms. Which wasn't the way it was supposed to happen."

"I just need to confront Ken."

For whatever good it may do, I found myself thinking. We were knee-deep
in confrontations and we still didn't know a damned thing. What did
Noda have planned for us? Whatever it was, I had a strong feeling I
didn't want it.

Back in my own office at Dai Nippon, there was only time for one phone
call. The first name that came to mind was Joanna. I wanted to say,
Look, if I don't make it through this, you and Amy are well provided
for. She's got a trust fund that's seven figures, and you can have the
house, the bank account, the whole damn works. Just don't ever let a
man named Matsuo Noda anywhere near you or her.

But I couldn't force myself to dial the number. It wasn't Joanna who
was in over her head now; it was me. The subtle or

not-so-subtle difference was enough to stop me cold. I'd vowed to
manage life on my own, and this was no moment to waffle.

So, instead I did the next best thing and called The West Side Free
School--which, I might add, may have been free in its disdain for
classical curriculum, but it had very non-free tuition practices. I
identified myself, announced an emergency, and asked to speak to Ms.
Amy Walton. In about a minute she was there.

"Dad, we're in the middle of our Monday Geo-2 exam." She lowered her
voice. "What's the capital of Somalia?"

"Honey, haven't a clue. Just try and do the best you can. Employ that
exceptional brain of yours."

"Thanks."

"Adults don't have to know the capitals of Third World countries.
That's a small perk we get for putting up with old age." I paused.
"Amy, about this weekend."

"Uh, oh." She sighed. "Betcha I know what's next."

"Well, a problem's come up. I've got to take care of a few things."

"Dad, the snow leopards. This weekend is when they're supposed to--"

"Honey, we'll hit the Bronx Zoo the minute I get back. I absolutely
promise."

"You going off somewhere?"

"Just a quick trip."

"Where?" She perked up.

"We'll talk about it when I get back." I wanted to say "if I get back."

"Big secret, huh?"

"Amy, I just wanted to . . . darling, be careful."

"What's the matter? Dad, are you in some kind of trouble?"

How could I answer? Damned right I was, but that wasn't the point of
the call.

"Sweetie, just . . . just be especially careful. That's all. I'll try
my best to make it up to you at Christmas. Maybe we can still get down
to the islands somehow. And Amy . . ."

"Yeah."

"I love you, honey."

"Love you too, Dad. Look, I gotta get back."

"I'm sure Ms. Winters will give you some extra time."

"Don't bet on it. She's an old grouch. She's twenty-eight and an old
maid."

Twenty-eight. Old? Good God. I keep forgetting what it's like to be
thirteen and think of the future as the next three weeks, followed by a
gaping void.

"Sweetheart, that's not exactly ancient. Believe me. She's probably
still got half a dozen good years left."

"Tell her. Look, I've gotta run."

"All right. Just advise your mother something unexpected came up. Maybe
you and I can make it next weekend. We'll do the snow leopards, that's
an absolute guarantee."

"Great. So long, Dad. Have fun."

I almost said "good-bye." Bad luck, I thought. So instead I said, "Take
care."

Shortly thereafter Matsuo Noda, Tam Richardson, and yours truly were
headed over to New York Helicopter's midtown pad, one of Noda's
bodyguards in the limo with us. The battle was drawn.

Now as I looked down at the boroughs of New York gliding below, all
those little strings of metallic beads lined up on the ribbons of
asphalt, the backyards of New York's solid middle class glimmering with
remnants of snow, I found myself wondering what Noda had planned for
them.

Another imponderable still nagged at me as well: what about Akira Mori?
Tam reported that by the time she'd arrived at the DNI offices this
morning our friend had vanished. Ditto her information-packed attache
case. As quickly as the lady had come, she'd disappeared back to Tokyo.
But not with Noda. She'd gone on her own terms. Was he now using his
new Concorde to try and head her off. What had she been doing here?
Just hand-delivering MITI's latest "guidance"?

Maybe we were finally about to uncover everybody's real agenda.

Again my mind went back to ken and kan, Miyamoto Musashi's famous
discourse on mental attitude in The Way of the Warrior, which he called
_heiho kokoro mochi no koto_. What was merely appearances, _ken_, and
what was _kan_, the global picture, the essence?

Noda had temporarily gained the upper hand, but now I realized that was
almost to be expected. After all, he was a swordsman with decades of
experience. So much for _ken_, my superficial observation. The real
truth, _kan_, lay much deeper. And like all such truths it had to be
elementary, elegantly simple.

Which left only two possibilities. Either Matsuo Noda was merely an
insane genius about to show us the inner workings of the massive
organization he now controlled, or he planned to kill us.

Or both.



CHAPTER TWENTY


Dr. Kenji Asano gazed out the window of his office at the Institute,
the last shafts of sun casting long shadows in the canyons below. It
was late Tuesday afternoon, and gales of December wind tunneled around
the skyscrapers of Tokyo, chilling the gray steel and glass. The blank
computer screens reflected back his smooth, trim face, his glum eyes.
Technology. It was divorcing man from all sensibility. What Kenji Asano
found himself wanting at that moment was not high-tech but high-touch,
to be seated on the _tatami _of his Tokyo teahouse, smelling the fresh
straw, gazing out over the manicured evergreen shrubs of his garden,
the clumps of leafless black bamboo. He recalled again the tea ceremony
in Kyoto and the sight of Tamara approaching down the stepping stones
of the "dewy path." She was a rare American, one who understood the
essence of _cha-no-yu_--inner power shows itself in outer restraint.

As he lit a Peace cigarette with a wooden match and continued to
examine the cheerless skyline of Tokyo, a thought flickered past--
Bodhidharma, the first Zen master, who had plucked away his eyelids to
prevent sleep as he meditated. That reflection led naturally to
ruminations on the master's disciple, Hui-ko, who sat _zazen _for days
in the snows outside Shao-lin monastery, then finally severed his own
arm and offered it to the master as testament of his devotion.

_Bushido_, the code of the samurai. Who today would cut off an arm to
prove determination? Or be Benkei at the Bridge, the servant who breaks
the rules of society and cudgels his own master to protect their
disguise and deceive their foes. That famous episode, he told himself,
would be his model. Sometimes _bushido _required you to circumvent
tradition and honor for the greater good.

What was happening in Japan? These days many thoughtful Japanese were
expressing open concern, even fear, over their country's rising
nationalism. Although high officials still couched their flag-waving in
coded language intended to elude foreign notice, many prominent voices
were now suggesting "it's wrong to think prewar Japan was all bad." The
latest school textbooks spoke glowingly of the country's Imperial
traditions. Encouraged by this jingoism, in truth veiled racism, many
superpatriots were beginning to emerge from obscurity. Now, with the
Imperial sword as symbol, the Japanese right was openly on the march.
Surely Noda had known it would happen, had counted on it.

He recalled the line by Yeats, "And what rough beast, its hour come
round at last . . ."

The "beast," Kenji Asano feared, had arisen in Japan. And its monstrous
head was none other than Matsuo Noda. Who could have suspected the dark
side of Noda's grand design or the extent of his determination?
Violence, money in the billions, and accomplices where they were least
suspected. Perhaps even inside MITI.

This last disturbing prospect had convinced Kenji Asano that the time
for operating within the rules was past. He had already taken a first
step, aided unwittingly by a bureaucrat of immense ambition within the
ministry. His first counterploy against Noda had bought time--how much
he didn't know-- but the next move must be decisive.

He glanced around his office, then at the MITI reports stacked high on
his desk. Benkei at the Bridge. For Kenji Asano only one course was
left. He would now have to use his own master, MITI, to destroy Matsuo
Noda.

His mind went back to the meeting at his MITI office Monday of the
previous week. Although he was on temporary assignment at the
Institute, he still checked in daily at the ministry. Filing into his
office at nine-thirty sharp had been the three men whose "consensus"
was crucial. The difficulty was, they must never know what he planned.

Michio Watanabe, International Trade Policy Bureau,

Trade Research Section: heavyset, early fifties, a professional
bureaucrat with powerful eyes and a permanent expression of skepticism.
He had been a close colleague of Noda's for decades.

Tanzan Kitano, Industrial Policy Bureau, International Enterprises
Section: gray hair tinged with silver, immaculate dresser, spoke five
languages. He had been in MITI over twenty years and had maintained the
same mistress for fifteen: a man respected for his long-range thinking.

Hiromu Ikeda, Industrial Technology Agency: late thirties, thrived on
expediency, doing the job no matter the consequences. Part of a hard
new breed, he was Japan's future. And MlTI was his future.

While the men moved toward the wide couch across from his desk, Kenji
Asano opened with offhand pleasantries, directed mainly toward
Watanabe, partly because he was eldest and partly to sound out his
mind-state. Next he welcomed Kitano with a few inquiries concerning his
wife and son, a transparent formality since he was known far and wide
to despise them both. Finally he greeted Ikeda and indicated the
meeting would be short, knowing the younger man liked to move directly
to matters at hand and regarded the usual preliminaries as an old-
fashioned waste of time.

Agenda: The American companies Matsuo Noda was acquiring. A proposition
had surfaced (in Japanese bureaucracies, all ideas are anonymous and
thus devoid of repercussions) that certain MITI personnel be put on
leave of absence to serve on the boards of those U.S. concerns. Given
the heavy participation of Japanese monies in Noda's American program,
perhaps a more formal monitoring mechanism would be helpful to head off
potential anxiety in Tokyo's financial community.

The idea, of course, was Kenji Asano's. He had first laid the
groundwork with a few oblique hints to several of Dai Nippon's major
institutional backers, particularly the Dai-Ichi Credit Corporation,
Ltd. That move had borne fruit. Within days they had begun wondering
aloud whether the ministry might wish to consider helping oversee
Noda's American investments. So far, so good. Now MITI itself had to be
convinced. This meeting would undoubtedly be the first of many,
resulting eventually in a consensus. Would the ministry go along?

Having set forth the topic, Kenji Asano surrendered the floor to
Watanabe, the senior man present--and therefore the one whose views, in
keeping with convention, would be listened to and applauded by everyone
else in the room whether they agreed or not.

"In my judgment, the original objectives of Matsuo Noda and Dai Nippon
are the most desirable means of maintaining the long-term security of
Japan," Watanabe declared. "It is in our strategic interest that he be
allowed to succeed. Which is why MITI should stay 'hands-off,' should
limit its participation to an advisory capacity, nothing more. Anything
further could well prove extremely counterproductive in our relations
with the United States. We do not need more friction."

"So deshoo, Watanabe-san." Kitano, the man second in seniority, nodded
after a moment's pause. "I totally concur with the basic aspects of the
viewpoint you have expressed." He was telling everybody he hadn't made
up his mind.

"I also support fully Watanabe-san's insightful summary of the relevant
issues." Ikeda spoke up, his honorifics far more polite than necessary,
a signal. "_Keredomo _(however) . . . it might possibly be prudent to
examine briefly the considerations advanced by those who differ with
this wise assessment in order that we may counter their concerns more
thoughtfully."

That was it. Kenji Asano had a head count. Watanabe was against sending
MITI personnel. Kitano was waffling. Hiromu Ikeda was foursquare and
hell-bent in favor of the idea. He had just announced it to the room.

Was Watanabe in league with Noda, willing to give him free rein? Was he
one of Noda's operatives inside the ministry? Or was he merely
advancing his own ideas, genuinely fearful an influx of MITI personnel
into the U.S. could precipitate a severe diplomatic flap?

On the other hand, why was Ikeda so in favor of having MITI move in on
Noda? The answer to that was hardly a puzzle. MITI's young prince of
ambition, Hiromu Ikeda, scented the possibility of grabbing a part of
Matsuo Noda's new American empire for his own. Handled skillfully, it
might well catapult him directly to vice minister inside a decade.

"Perhaps it would be useful to review once more the main elements of
the situation." Kitano knew he had the middle ground and thus was
offering to arbitrate. "The condition of America now is very troubling.
The question is, how can we best aid them, and ourselves. We in Japan
realize that a nation's true strength is ultimately not in armaments
but in the health of its economy, its industry. Yet the Americans, by
making themselves a military state, have paradoxically imperiled their
real security. How long can we continue to rely on an ally so blind to
the main threat to its own strategic well- being? Matsuo Noda is
correct. Our very safety may soon be imperiled. Something must be done.
The only question is how best to proceed."

"_So desu ne_." Watanabe pressed, realizing he would have to force his
point. "The Pentagon is, ironically, America's most insidious enemy.
Japan's greatest benefit from America's defense umbrella has not been
the billions we've saved on sterile arms; it has been the technical
manpower we have free to support competitive industries. But the price
has been the industrial decline of our foremost ally. This cannot, must
not, be permitted to continue." He paused. "Matsuo Noda, a man I've
known and respected for years, who guided this ministry to greatness,
should be allowed to assist the Americans rebuild their civilian sector
unhindered by us. If MITI involves itself at this time, the American
government may well grow alarmed and step in to stop him. Then their
industrial stagnation will merely accelerate."

"_So deshoo_," Ikeda finally spoke. "I agree. Unfortunately, however,
there are some who believe the task Noda-sama has undertaken cannot
succeed without direct MITI assistance. Again it is a matter of our own
security. The question has arisen concerning whether we should continue
to rely on the Americans to rescue their industrial base unassisted by
any formal direction. Of course I disagree with such pessimistic views,
but some would say we ourselves must now step forward and assume global
leadership in technology to prevent a vacuum from developing in the
Free World. By taking charge of America's floundering high-tech sector,
we could rescue it from continued mismanagement, while--incidentally--
satisfying our own R&D needs in a way that is extremely cost-
effective. However, this can only be achieved if we are in a position
to provide hands-on guidance. Which means direct MITI involvement." He
paused. "These opinions of course are not my own, merely ones I have
heard voiced. I am told, though it is difficult to comprehend, that
this viewpoint has

been entertained by Nakayama-sama of the Secretariat, and even
discussed in his weekly conference with the Parliamentary Vice
Minister."

The hand of fate! Asano exulted. Hiromu Ikeda has already done my work
for me. He's gone over everybody's head. He swallowed the idea like a
carp snapping a hovering dragonfly, then went off and peddled it to the
Vice Minister as though it were his own.

A man to watch out for in the future, he thought. But a perfect ally at
the moment.

Watanabe said nothing. His ancient face was in shock. Everybody
realized the meeting was over. It was clear Ikeda had trampled on
consensus and seniority in order to further his own fortunes.

"Watanabe-san, I think we all agree your understanding of the situation
is entirely proper," Kenji Asano said soothingly. "But solely in the
interest of continued theoretical discussion at some later time, it
might be prudent if all sections prepared a contingency list of staff,
fluent in English, who would be suitable for reassignment to an
American sector."

"It is always wise to cover contingencies, Asano-san," Watanabe said
dryly.

None of them realized it, of course, but Hiromu Ikeda's ambition could
well turn out to be the salvation of MITI itself. But for now, Asano
mused, that was something none of them needed to know.

Looking out the window at the freezing streets below, glimmering from
headlights and neon, Kenji Asano told himself that a dangerous game lay
ahead. Noda's first gambit had been countered, but there would be more.
What he needed was a preemptive strike.

He had made the plans for that strike, a play of pure, absolute genius.
The catch was, Tamara would have to cooperate.

With that thought he reached down and unlocked the top right-hand
drawer of his metal desk, then drew out a large red and blue envelope.
It was air express from a university address in California. As he
fingered the stripes along its side, he recalled how it had arrived
here at his office at The Institute for New Generation Computer
Technology while he'd been in Kyoto with Tamara.

Finally he opened it again and slipped out the contents.

Inside was a confidential memo on the old Nippon, Inc. letterhead,
unsigned but obviously authored by Matsuo Noda, a top-security document
that had been clocked in at a document station at Tsukuba Science City.
How had Allan Stern stumbled onto this? Had he stolen it? Picked it up
by accident? It was in Japanese, so how could he have sensed its real
import?

American ingenuity, he told himself, defied all understanding. The
memo, which outlined the timetable for a massive scenario, had been the
first step of a long path of discovery leading Kenji Asano to
indisputable proof of Matsuo Noda's real objective. Allan Stern must
have had this translated or somehow intuitively guessed Noda's plan.
And then . . . Allan Stem had tried to warn MITI. Why? Out of past
regard for Dr. Yoshida, former head of the Institute and a close
friend?

Stern reportedly had vanished the same day this envelope was
postmarked. Noda had acted, but not swiftly enough.

Who at MITI had been the original recipient of this memo? Maybe, he
thought, it no longer mattered. There was only one real way to stop Dai
Nippon. . . .

At that moment his phone buzzed. As he punched the button, his
flustered secretary announced that an in-flight call was waiting,
channeled through MITI's satellite security link. It was the president
of Dai Nippon, International.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE


Tsukuba Science City can be awe-inspiring or a specter, depending on
how you choose to look at it. The time was Wednesday morning, and Tam
and I were viewing the place through the tinted windows of Matsuo
Noda's personal DNI limo, the black Nissan she knew so well. From the
vantage of an elevated freeway packed with rows of sleek Hondas and
Toyotas sparkling in the cold December sunshine, we could see the
silhouettes of cluster after cluster of modernistic concrete towers, an
urban complex of a hundred and fifty thousand souls rising above what
was, only a few short years ago, mostly farms. Be that as it may, take
my word for it that nobody's growing radishes there today. Science
City, nestled in the foothills of Mt. Tsukuba some fifty kilometers
northeast of downtown Tokyo, represents a government investment,
including the industrial park once the site of Expo '85, of over thirty
billion dollars.

Tsukuba is holy ground, the place of heroes, where kamikazes once
trained for their suicide missions against the American fleet. Now it
is one of the largest research centers in the world, with almost ten
thousand scientists and fifty separate laboratories and scientific
institutes. As we neared the first complex, I tried to make sense of
all the Dali-esque curved buildings that housed Japan's new brain
trust. From the outside you can tell something is going on, but it
seems secretive and proprietary. It is. The thing I had to keep
reminding myself, though, was that none of this was for military
boondoggles. It was aimed dead-on at industrial technology. E.g.,
there's research here on high-energy lasers all right, but they're not
intended for zapping some hypothetical Soviet satellite; they're part
of the world's largest laser-radar telescope, which can project beams
out more than thirty miles to analyze air quality. In short, the work
here was applications-oriented, practical, and--get a firm grip on your
wallet-- commercial.

Together with Noda and his bodyguard/chauffeur we were headed for the
Electrotechnical Institute, where he was about to give us our first
glimpse of Japan's new high-tech empire. That lab just so happened to
be the place where heavy work was underway on applications of the
artificial intelligence effort of Kenji Asano's Fifth Generation shop.
It was merely the first stop, however, in an odyssey Noda claimed would
take us through the hidden heart of Japan's industrial future.

Noda reported he had spoken with Kenji Asano, who was unfortunately
tied up in meetings and couldn't join us until tomorrow. Thus Tam had
not yet had her chance to hear his account of MITI's sudden new
interest in Dai Nippon's program. All the same, Noda claimed to welcome
Ken's arrival.

"Whatever concerns you may have, I'm sure he will be more than happy to
address them," declared the president of Dai Nippon.

Tam had tried on her own to reach Ken at his office, without success.
Maybe, I thought to myself, he just didn't want to talk. In any case
that quandary remained unresolved.

The way I saw the situation, though, we had enough to deal with merely
getting through today. Noda's game was no longer a game. He was going
to take us to the top of the mountain, show us the other side, and then
. . . what? Whatever it was, that part would have to be handled in due
time. For now his intentions seemed to be to drive home a singular
point: if you think Dai Nippon has been playing hardball with money,
wait till you see Japan's real action. He was going to lay bare the
empire, the awesome machine he now had at his command. The payoff of
Tsukuba, he explained, was intended to be nothing less than total
technological supremacy.

The limo was slowing to a stop in front of an oddly shaped concrete
building, brand-new, that covered several acres with cones and hexagons
and various geometries. We'd arrived.

"This is the Electrotechnical Institute, research center for Japan's
Advanced Robot Technology Project." He pointed. The laboratory appeared
to be somebody's idea of what architecture would be in the twenty-first
century, a sort of Japanese spaceship splattered across a vast acreage.
"The work underway here and over at the Mechanical Engineering lab is
intended to coordinate all government and private research on
industrial robots."

He stepped out and motioned for us to join him. Our top- secret tour
had begun. As we walked toward the main entryway, he delivered an
opening summary.

"Here we have allocated twenty billion yen, about a hundred and fifty
million dollars, for an eight-year research program to perfect a range
of industrial robots." He continued while we walked past the small gray
metallic sign, in both Japanese and English, that identified the
Institute. "It is being closely coordinated with the spin-offs of the
Fifth Generation AI work."

I noticed that no guards were posted, though the metal doors were
tightly sealed. Noda didn't bother to take out a key as he proceeded.
"The Advanced Robot Technology Project coordinates the research of over
twenty corporations as well as R&D at various universities, and this
lab is where we integrate all the results of that work."

"You mean different parts or robots are being created at separate
research operations, then brought together here?" I probably shouldn't
have been surprised by the tight, nationwide coordination. Typical
Japan.

"Precisely. Robots have a multiplicity of elements. There are
manipulators, the mechanical versions of our hands; then there are the
senses of vision and touch; and finally there is movement, locomotion.
Each of these is being developed individually, then combined here. For
example, if a robot is to understand voice commands--in effect making
its operator a programmer--then it must incorporate the speech
recognition work of the Fifth Generation Project, which will supply the
eyes, the ears, the brain."

Maybe that's where Asano comes in, I thought. Could it be he's the
point man here for artificial intelligence, on board to oversee
creating the computerized brains for all these babies. Was he yet
another DNI operative, witting or unwitting, just as Tam and I had
been?

Noda's lecture was still underway. "The first generation of robots does
things by rote, the same motion repeated dumbly over and over again.
What we call the second generation are those with crude sensing
abilities, perhaps touch pads or video, though they are still
stationary." He placed his hand over a small screen by the door. A
light flashed under his palm---presumably allowing a computer somewhere
to analyze his handprint--and a second later the door slid open. Then he
continued, "The goal of the work here is a third-generation robot. You
might almost call it a functional 'android,' since it will be able to
move, see, and think much as we do. Whether it will actually look like
a human is another matter, but that's not necessarily even a useful
objective."

Intelligent monsters in silicon and steel, I found myself thinking. All
our fantasies, or nightmares, come to life.

I didn't have to look far to see that they were already in the womb. We
were entering the main laboratory floor now, surrounded by what seemed
a Martian landscape of mechanical creatures. The place was bustling,
yet spotless as a hospital ward. Noda acknowledged the deep bows of
several of the shirt-sleeved staff, then continued.

"Although visitors are not normally permitted in the sensitive areas
here, I have arranged total-access priority for you both. I consider
you among the few Americans today who can understand the strategic
significance of this program."

If Matsuo Noda was really saying that he intended to give us a sobering
dose of Japan's impending high-tech clout, he was off to a bang-up
start.

Then he turned and greeted a short, white-uniformed man. "Allow me to
introduce Dr. Noburu Matsugami, who is senior staff specialist for the
program here. Dr. Matsugami will be your guide today."

Matsugami was close to fifty and balding, with short- cropped hair that
seemed to stand out on the sides of his head like the bristles of a
metal brush. He was bowing to Noda every other second, as though he'd
just been summoned by God. He attempted a smile, then greeted us in
Japanese, followed by accented English.

I surveyed the floor--steel and aluminum and computers-- feeling as if I
could have been on another planet. Tam, strangely, had said scarcely a
word the whole time. She probably knew about a lot of this, but surely
not the proprietary, advanced devices.

Noda's glimpse of Japan's industrial "Manhattan Project" was one of the
most memorable experiences of my life. Although I suspect the devices
he let Matsugami show us were just the toys, they still were enough to
leave no doubt where things were headed.

Without going into the classified details, let me attempt to describe a
few of the items I still remember. I was particularly impressed by the
Waseda University/Hitachi walking robot WHL-II, which uses advanced
machine technology and computer control to move just as a human does,
two-legged style. Its hydraulic steel joints and carbon-fiber muscles,
together with its computerized foot sensors, give it walking skills
better than most young humans'. Its brain of course is a
microprocessor, programmed to let it walk in different styles, just as
we do. Other mobile robots had four legs, even six--such as the Titan
III, which we saw climb up a set of stairs like a metallic sci-fi
spider.

As for robot hands, the most advanced also were from Hitachi's
mechanical engineering research lab. Unlike most robot grippers, little
more than glorified vises, this one had three fingers (which Matsugami
claimed were more agile than a version at MIT) whose "muscles" were a
heat-sensitive metal (invented in the U.S.) that would contract when an
electric current passed through.

Vision research was also well advanced. A Matsushita robot equipped
with a computerized "eye" was able to analyze the lines and shadows of
a human face and then draw a black-and- white sketch like a sidewalk
artist. Even more amazing, a robot with a TV-camera eye--developed
jointly by Waseda University and Sumitomo Electric--could read sheet
music and play it on a keyboard using mechanical fingers. This android
pianist employed recent advances in artificial intelligence to
determine the best fingering for each phrase and even took requests for
tunes in spoken Japanese. Play it again, HAL. Other robots with "voice
recognition" capability allowed a human operator simply to sit in one
spot and command the mobile machine where to go and what to do.

At one point Tam asked Matsugami for a candid opinion on how far along
he thought the Advanced Robot-Technology Program had progressed. Well,
he replied, sucking in his breath pensively, the manual dexterity
problem was about licked: the robot arms now being perfected could pick
up anything and move it anywhere. Vision and programmable intelligence
were harder, but he felt their research was getting close. Already he
had robots that could analyze and interpret 3-D objects and scenes,
enabling them to maneuver around a factory floor and make decisions of
almost human complexity. The ultimate objective was factory-wide
systems for Computer-Integrated Manufacturing (CIM) that would allow
every operation of a company, from design to engineering to
manufacturing, to be controlled by computer via a single data base. It
was cheap, and it elevated quality control to a hundred percent. No
doubt about it, he said, as Japan moved to automate manufacturing and
get on with an information- industry future, these smart robots would
be their secret weapon.

The Institute's mechanical menagerie, I realized, was what the next
century was going to look like. Except it was here now. As Matsugami
took us through lab after lab, it became clear that the Japanese
"third-generation" functionoid robot was all but a reality.

Noda's message was clear. Already Japan was spending twice as much on
new manufacturing technology as America was. They led the world in
robotics and that lead was growing. With the coming of that third
generation--robots that could

see, move, and think--world industrial leadership would be up for grabs.
These were the stakes Japan was betting on the twenty-first century.
Anybody who planned to play against them better have something on the
table too.

At the end of the tour as dusk was beginning to settle in, Noda
reappeared and escorted us back to the limo. And that's when he laid it
out.

"Dr. Richardson, what you and Mr. Walton have just seen is merely a
glimpse of the real peril to America's future." He was closing the door
of the car. "There is much, much more . . . projects such as the rapid
commercialization of superconductivity. America's world supremacy is at
a crossroads."

"Why are you showing us this?" Tam was still troubled by the same
question that was eating at me.

"Very simple, really. Thus far we have, together, attempted to address
some of the more egregious ineptitudes in America's corporate
management. Our success in that, if I may say, has already been
substantial. However, the best-managed organization cannot flourish
without the tools required to take it the next step. That translates as
technology." He paused, then looked at us both. "Do you understand what
I'm saying?"

"Japan now has the technology, just as it has the money," Tam answered.

"You are correct. Thus far Dai Nippon has merely provided a conduit to
infuse capital into the American industrial scene. That was the easy
part. The task remaining will be much more difficult." He looked at us.
"Difficult because, for this, America must share in return."

"You want to make a deal, I take it." I finally spoke. Funny, but I
thought I sounded a little like Faust beginning negotiations with the
devil.

He smiled. "That is a blunt way of describing what I am about to
suggest, Mr. Walton, but it does capture the spirit of my proposal.
America excels in basic research, Japan in applied research, in
engineering. The time has come to join forces."

"How?"

"As you have seen, the monetary resources at Dai Nippon's disposal make
it possible for us to wield significant influence." He smiled.
"Japanese capital has been brought to America; Japanese technology can
be brought as well."

"At a price."

"At a price, yes. But a modest one really." He smiled again, then
buzzed for his driver to start the car. "Let me put it like this. If
you choose to proceed with me in the next step of Dai Nippon's program,
I will arrange for everything you have seen today to be my gift to
America. All I ask from you both is complete cooperation in the days
ahead. Together we can forge an informal alliance between Japan and
America that could alter the course of world history. But it must be
done in an atmosphere of complete trust."

Tam was astonished. "You'd make this manufacturing technology available
to American industry? Why?"

"As part of a quid pro quo, Dr. Richardson. It's quite simple. In
return I would expect complete access to the R&D in the firms Dai
Nippon has acquired." He stared back through his rimless glasses.
"Which, I gather, is a notion you find a trifle unsettling."

You bastard, I thought. You did have my phone tapped. How else could
you have known what she was thinking?

She shot me a telling glance. "How does all this fit in with the new
MITI guidance we're suddenly getting?"

"That is a separate matter, Dr. Richardson, which we will address in
due course. What I am concerned with now is something else entirely--the
final step in restoring America to economic health. The first
requirement was long-term capital and better management, which Dai
Nippon has now begun to provide. The next is technology, a small
foretaste of which I have shown you today."

Was this, I wondered, the big picture, the _kan _we'd been trying to
get a handle on?

"What I'm proposing," Noda continued, "is that together we become
partners in the creation of a massive Japanese- American consortium.
Perhaps we could call it Nipponica."

"Nipponica?" She kept her tone even.

"The name has an interesting ring to it, does it not? As I envision the
organization, you would be its American CEO." He paused. "I would chair
the board." Then he turned to me. "And you, Mr. Walton, could be
invaluable as chief corporate counsel."

The man had gone totally mad. Or had he?

"I still don't understand how this venture could be brought together.
You'd be dealing with hundreds of companies, a worldwide management
headache."

"Mr. Walton, what other choice do we have? Given the precipitous
decline of America's global leadership, together with Japan's economic
and technological rise, there can be only two possible outcomes of the
inevitable direction affairs are headed: bankruptcy for us both, or
war. The time has come for risk-taking, for a belief in the human
spirit. We each need the other more than our political leaders can
allow themselves to admit, and thus steps must be taken outside normal
diplomatic channels to bring us closer together." He continued, in
perfect form, "Both America and Japan would benefit from a commingling
of our industry and research. We would learn from each other, find
strength in unity, realize a common perspective on global concerns. Our
economies would be joined, our peoples united. Instead of friction and
the saber rattling of trade disputes, we would have the harmony of a
single enterprise."

"Who exactly is going to finance and operate this undertaking?" I was
listening to him describe his planned-for Utopia with increasing
skepticism. But he had already rocked America, and Japan, to the core.
Not a man to underestimate.

"As you might suppose, Dai Nippon would, by virtue of its present
situation, be ideally suited to lay the groundwork." He glanced out the
tinted windows. "Afterward the political processes of both countries
would naturally have no choice but to follow our lead, ratifying--as
they always do--conditions that have already become a _fait accompli_."

It had all the easy resonance of a grand historical venture, except . .
. except what if this was still _ken_, superficialities, not _kan_, the
real truth?

"Before we go any further, I think Dr. Richardson and I should talk
this over." I looked up to see the Tsukuba Hotel, where we were
scheduled to stay overnight. Noda had made other accommodations for
himself, saying he also needed to drop by the Metallurgy Lab and check
to see how work was going on the sword. My scheduled viewing was to be
tomorrow.

"I agree." Tam looked at me sharply. "We can discuss this more in the
morning."

"As you wish." The limo was pulling to a stop. "Tomorrow should be an
interesting day for you both. We can continue our discussions then." He
smiled. "However, be aware that time is of the essence."

With that parting shot, the long black Nissan sped away.

"Tam, let's see if this place has a bar. I need a drink."

"Double." She was carrying the small overnight bag Noda's New York
staff had handed her as we left. I had one too, just a shirt and
essentials.

The hotel saloon was modernistic, vinyl, and leaned heavily toward
Japanese beer and Suntory whiskey. By now some middle-level executives
were getting off work at the labs and dropping in to start their usual
evening round of drinking, but at this early hour it was still sparsely
occupied.

We headed for a comer table and ordered a couple of draft Kirin. After
the beers arrived, we got down to brass tacks.

What the hell was Noda's real agenda?

Two heads, so the saying goes, are better than one. I don't know, could
be they're worse. Because as Tam and I sat there, Noda's offer to head
up some kind of new world consortium dangling before us, what our two
heads came up with was the scariest thing that'd ever crossed my path.

Maybe it was the thought of America's working stiffs, whose jobs Noda
supposedly was so determined to save. Trouble was, I didn't buy that in
the slightest anymore. So what made any sense?

Simple. Why not the most obvious answer of all? Noda wasn't doing this
for them. Or for Japan. That wasn't his game. Noda was planning this
grand design for Noda.

"Tam." I sipped at my beer. "Did you believe a word of what he said?"

"Of course not. At least not the United Nations speech. It's pure
hogwash."

"Totally agree. But he's about to do something big, I'm convinced."

"Got any ideas."

Luckily the place was getting noisier now, so nobody could have been
listening even if they'd tried. Which was the very reason I wanted to
talk in the bar and not in either of our rooms. Who knew the reach of
Noda's electronic ears?

"Not really. But what if we stepped back a second and tried looking at
this latest move from a longer view. Maybe we've been tangled up in the
trees, missing the forest."

"We've seen plenty of forest lately."

"But what if it's the wrong one? Let's try the _teki ni naru to iu koto
_strategy, become the enemy. Pretend for a minute we're Noda, a guy
who's got it all--money, clout, everything. So why

does he all of a sudden want to come across the Pacific and buy himself
a load of industrial headaches, then hand them Japan's technology?"

"It's MITI somehow. I'm convinced that's the key. Which is why I'm
going to nail Ken."

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions. I'm wondering. What if Dai Nippon
is taking over American industry not because it's strategic to MITI as
those memos we found would lead us to think. What if the reason is
because it's strategic to Noda?"

"But why?"

"What if his relationship to that ministry is something totally
different from what it seems?"

"Well, if MITI's not behind the buy-ups, then who're they for?"

I sat a minute, again trying to think like Noda. "What if this scenario
is actually aimed at . . . what if it's a global power play?"

She looked at me skeptically. "I don't get it."

"Okay, granted it sounds crazy, but let's chase that for a minute. I
think we agree this whole scenario is not what he wants it to seem. So
what are some of the other things in all this that aren't what they
appear to be? Does anything dovetail?" I sat musing a second, searching
for an opening. "What are some of the twists about Japan that're
obviously misleading?"

"Well, acceptance of _gaijin_, for one. It goes only so far, then stops
like a brick wall." She was obviously speaking from personal
experience.

"Maybe that's because they've always been isolated. Some things never
change," I pondered aloud. "Which is probably the secret of their
success. Take the ruling clique. Sure, Japan is a democracy, but is it
really? Not the way we understand the word. What they actually have,
after you get past all the slogans, is just a retread of the old
system. The truth is it's still run as it was a thousand years ago. By
the old families, the old money. Elections never decide issues. They're
handled by the power structure. Half the seats in the Diet are
practically hereditary, going back generations in the same family.
There's only one real political party. The ministries are fiefdoms. I
mean, the goddam country is still feudal. They don't even have a word
for democracy. They had to borrow it. _Demokurasu_."

"Well, Japan's a pragmatic place. The old ways work. Remember the
_zaibatsu_, those industrial conglomerates that ran the war machine?
MacArthur dismantled them, but they reappeared almost as soon as he
left."

"Right, the power structure restored those right away. The zaibatsu are
back and chewing up world commerce. But the _demokurasu_ eyewash is
still around. The job's not finished."

She stared around the room. "Matt, I don't like where I think you're
headed."

"I agree it's sick, but let's push it a little more. What is it about
Japan that's made it such a dynamo the last couple of decades?"

"Hard work, organization, drive."

"Exactly. But where did that come from?"

"They had to have it. Over the centuries most Japanese were dirt poor.
They had to hustle just to survive. Matthew, Japan is a collectivist
society driven by capitalism, an idea so alien to the West nobody can
even see it."

"Perfect description. Only problem is, all this _demokurasu _is sooner
or later going to start cutting away the very thing that's made Japan
so successful--a country powered by obedient, collective action and
glued together by hierarchy and tradition."

"You're saying Noda wants to turn back the clock?"

"Don't know. But what if these industrialists, these _zaibatsu
_honchos, are fed up with having to deal with all the cumbersome
_demokurasu_ machinery. And they're especially fed up with a certain
ministry making them jump the hoop. Tam, what if Noda's real agenda is
to go to America and buy himself a gun to hold to MITI's head."

"You don't think he's buying America's companies to help MITI?" She
looked unconvinced.

"If I had money to bet, I'd almost be willing to put it on the
possibility he's buying leverage to use against MITI and through them
the whole inefficient government setup. How come MITI's suddenly
sending staff over to look in on Noda's play? Could it be somebody
there's figured out what he's up to and they want to head him off? They
realize Matsuo Noda is the only man on the planet who could conceivably
beat MITI at its own game? Bring it to its knees? First he acquired
control of half the capital in Japan, then he came to the U.S. and
started grabbing up all the R&D that'll be competing with MITI through
the end of the century. When he's got it, he'll have a power base to
match theirs. He's set to call the new tune."

"Which is?"

"Who knows? But try this for an agenda: time to cut the crap, Noda's
thinking, get rid of all the clumsy Western-style _demokurasu_ charade,
tighten up, lean and mean. Go back to the only system that's ever
really clicked for Japan. Imperial rule. Make the 'Land of the Gods'
sacred and invincible."

"This is getting wild." She lowered her voice. "But maybe . . . maybe
you could be right. He just happens to locate the Imperial sword, and
suddenly the emperor is resurrected from a discredited figurehead back
to a symbol of Japan's greatness."

"Here comes that old-time religion. Everybody goes traditional, right
on cue, and the nutty Japan Firsters are thriving again, just like the
thirties."

"Good Lord."

"Doesn't it all fit somehow? Matsuo Noda started off by creating this
shadow outfit, Dai Nippon, in order to get his hands on all his
countrymen's money. Now the next step will be to start phasing out the
_demokurasu _frills and the powerless prime minister and the MITI
bureaucrats and turning the place into a kick-ass machine again. Look
out world."

"One small problem. The emperor can't rule Japan. Not really. He's a
living god. Which means . . ."

"See? That difficulty's nothing new. For a thousand years the emperor's
had no real clout anyway. The nitty-gritty of running Japan was always
the job of his stand-in."

There was a long pause. We both avoided speaking the word, but there it
was. Finally she leaned back and closed her eyes, her voice barely
audible above the din of the bar.

"Shogun."



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


_"Komban wa_, Tamara." The voice emerged from the dark as her key
turned in the door of room 328. "How are you?"

"Ken!"

"Good to see you again."

"How did you . . .?"

He chuckled as he switched on the light by the chair. "Rank in MITI has
its moments."

"I thought you were coming tomorrow."

"I am, officially." He rose and moved toward her. "But tonight I'd
hoped we could be together." He smiled. "Alone."

She stood in the open doorway, unmoving.

"Ken, we have a lot to talk about, all right." She closed the door.
"And I don't mean in bed."

Truthfully, she wasn't even sure she wanted to see him at all. The Dai
Nippon scenario was getting too complicated, too insidious. Noda's play
was turning into something with worldwide implications.

"Tamara, I came because we need to talk. I think you're in danger.
Maybe we both are."

"From Noda? Just because he's a megalomaniac--"

"You think it's that simple?" he interrupted. "Don't be so sure. For
now let's just say he's very, very clever, and very powerful." He
reached out to welcome her. "But whatever he is, the time has come to
stop him."

"I think Matt and I just figured out why. He's a threat to MITI, isn't
he, Ken? A peril to your power base."

"He's a threat to everybody. But yes, MITI is definitely in his way at
this point. Or at least I'm in his way. Somebody has to be."

"So what do you expect me to do about it? As a matter of fact, what has
MITI done for me lately except try and move in on my work?"

"Tam, you can't stand up to Noda alone. But maybe together we can, at
least for a while."

"What makes you think . . .?"

"I have a weapon at my disposal. A powerful weapon. The ministry. If we
can use it to focus attention on what he's--"

"How?"

"I want to speed up the ministry's involvement. Bring in lots more
people. We do that and we'll---"

"I see." She slipped past him and headed for the second chair. 'That's
a terrific idea. Give it all to MITI." For a moment there she'd almost
been ready to start trusting him again.

"Tam, we only have to make it seem that's what is happening." He turned
to face her. "It'll be like waving a red flag under the nose of your
Congress. Surely that'll wake everybody up to what he's doing. They'd
move in and stop him cold. Guaranteed."

"Ken, Matsuo Noda made me a very intriguing proposition today. Matter
of fact, it sounds better than yours." She got up and walked over to
the small refrigerator fitted under the sink. "Want a beer? I'm going
to have one."

"All right." He looked at her. "What were you saying just now? About a
proposition?"

"Noda asked me to head up a Japanese-American consortium run as a
single industry. It's almost as if he wants to put together an American
version of MITI, an organization that can oversee and coordinate
American R&D nationwide."

"Do you believe he means what he says?"

She turned and stared at him for a moment. "I guess the honest answer
is no. I think it's just a smokescreen to get his hands on everything
he wants in the U.S., disguised under the rubric of assistance." She
retrieved two cans of cold Asahi and popped the tops. "On the other
hand, you're suggesting we have to give America's industry to MITI in
order to save it from Matsuo Noda." She extended a can of beer and a
glass. "Right now, I don't trust MITI any more than I trust him."

"Tamara, this is a high-stakes game. Against a man with more money and
power than the world has ever seen in one place. It's not going to be
easy to stop him. It's also going to be risky. For us both."

"And you think a MITI takeover is the answer."

"It's the only thing that's left." He sobered. "Unfortunately it'll
also damage MITI's political credibility badly worldwide. But that's
the price I'm willing to pay to stop Noda. What other choice is there?"

"Hurt MITI? I'm not so sure. Taking over all of DNI's American research
labs should give quite a boost to your Marketshare - 90 program,
wouldn't it. You'd be acquiring America's high-tech sector for Japan
all nicely wrapped up in a bundle." She poured from her can. "Ought to
trim years off your timetable."

"I don't know where you heard about that, Tam." Vague surprise in his
voice. "But that's not a real program. Market- share - 90 is just a
planning exercise over in the General Affairs Section. Part of some
training for their new people."

"When we asked Noda about it, he seemed to think it was real enough."

"Then he was just bluffing. He had to be."

"Ken, what do you take me for . . .?" She wasn't sure how much more
double-talk she could stand.

He waved his hand to stop her. "Please. Just trust me for this once.
That's all I ask."

"You're sure as hell not making it easy. I think it's time you told me
what's really going on."

"All right. I'll show you the bottom line. Maybe then you'll accept the
truth." He got up and went over to his briefcase. "I have something in
here you ought to see."

"What?"

"It's an advance text of the speech His Majesty delivers on January
second."

"That's his annual New Year's appearance at the Imperial palace, right?
When he bestows his blessings upon the land."

"Exactly." He pulled out the sheet. "I think this sheds light on a lot
of things. Here. I made a rough English translation, just to hear how
it sounds."

She took the paper, torn from a yellow legal pad, and began to read.

The speech began with a long-winded celebration of the famous Yasukuni
Shrine, home of the spirits of all Japanese warriors. That shrine, His
Majesty then went on to declare, was increasingly misconstrued by the
world as a symbol of Japanese militarism, a misapprehension both
unfortunate and untrue, since Japan had indeed renounced martial force
forever. However, to reinforce that commitment in the eyes of a nervous
world, he was now announcing the dedication of a new national shrine to
Japan's spirit that would have no such misleading overtones. This new
shrine, at Tsukuba Science City, would be a memorial to the peaceful
use of technology, to man's mastery of the physical world sanctified so
long ago by the Shinto gods.

She looked up. "A new national shrine? Nice political move."

"Better read the rest before you jump to conclusions."

She glanced down and continued on.

It had further been decided, the Emperor would say, that the newly
recovered Imperial sword would not be housed at Ise after all. It would
instead be the centerpiece of this new memorial to Japanese technology.

Well, she thought, it still sounds okay. Theme shrines are perfectly
within tradition. After all, the Meiji Shrine in Tokyo commemorated the
nineteenth-century emperor who began Japan's modernization. However,
the thing to remember was that new shrines can have a philosophical
subtext. The Meiji told the Japanese that their country had accepted
Westernization. So, given that the creation of a new shrine can embody
a message to everybody, she found herself wondering what word was being
sent out this time.

The Emperor would go on to spell this out, lest any of his subjects
were too dense to get the picture. Unlike the Yasukuni Shrine, he would
say, this new memorial at Tsukuba would not commemorate Japan's warrior
past; rather it would celebrate a modern Japan whose world eminence
would be fashioned not with arms but through economic struggle. In so
doing, it would symbolize the regeneration of Japan's ancient spirit,
_Yamato damashi_, of which the _bushido _of the samurai was merely one
manifestation, only a stage. Grander things were on the way. Japan's
rightful place in the new world order was only now coming into its own.
The new Tsukuba _damashi _would harness modern technology to Japan's
ancient traditions, would put the new at the service of the old.

What he was really telling his people, she realized, in oblique
language only they would comprehend, was that Japan was now prepared to
wage open confrontation through commerce--their trading state pitted
against the world's military states, whose economic base and martial
ascendancy they would now proceed to challenge through technological
superiority and cutthroat trade.

"Ken, does this mean what I think it means?" She passed back the yellow
page.

"If you think it means Noda's got him now, then the answer is yes. He's
co-opted the Imperial house." He took the sheet and returned it to his
briefcase. "I'd bet you anything Noda himself wrote that speech. He's
begun, Tamara. His total takeover, of America and Japan."

She sat a moment in silence, a strange sensation in her stomach. Did
she believe it? She wasn't sure.

"Ken, there's something you should know. A colleague came with me on
this trip. An American lawyer. Knowing him, he's probably still down in
the bar. I'd like him to read this. Why don't we go down and I'll
introduce you."

"Who is he? Can he be trusted?"

"As a matter of fact, he's an old friend. From a long time past. But
we've been through a lot together lately."

He leaned back and sipped his beer. "Am I to assume this traveling
companion is more than a casual friend?"

"That's not exactly your worry, is it? I don't pry into your life when
I'm away." She got up to retrieve another can of beer.

"You can't blame me for being curious, Tam. It's a simple, reasonable
question."

Nothing Kenji Asano does is ever simple, she told herself. There's
always a subtext.

"Don't try to change the subject. One thing at a time." She sipped from
her glass. "And regarding your plan, as far as I'm concerned, there's
been too much MITI dabbling already. Frankly it pisses me off."

"I'm sorry if you choose to feel that way, Tam." His eyes darkened.
"Please believe me when I assure you we're on the same side. I've told
you what I propose doing about Noda. But I haven't heard any of your
ideas."

She sighed and sipped her beer. "I don't have any. Yet."

"Then why not trust me?"

Trust. There was that word again. Trouble was, she wasn't sure she
trusted anybody anymore. She rose, strolled to the window, and reached
for the curtain. Should she let him stay the night? Maybe that was just
asking for more heartaches. Letting Japan screw America two ways. With
that dismal thought she pulled open the curtains.

It had begun to snow, a swirl of drifting white.

"Ken, come and take a look." She beckoned him. "I think I'd like to go
outside for a while. I'm weary to death of arguing."

He rose and came over to the window, standing next to her. "It's just
started." He glanced around the room. "Did you bring any boots?"

"No, and I don't care. I just want some fresh air to help clear my
head."

"All right, but we'll have to use the service elevator. I can't be seen
walking through the lobby, not till tomorrow."

"We can take the stairs. Come on."

By the time they emerged onto the driveway leading out toward the road,
traffic had slowed to a crawl and the futuristic shapes of Tsukuba's
labs seemed like a fairyland. She noticed that the hotel had its own
helicopter pad, undoubtedly to accommodate MITI officials who needed to
pop up for a quick consultation. The place was high-tech, powerful,
frightening.

Just like Kenji Asano.

"Ken, I'm afraid maybe we've lost it, you and me."

"Lost what?"

"Whatever we had there in Kyoto." She sighed.

"Maybe you've lost it, Tamara." They were striding through the first
thin film of white that now blanketed the sidewalk paralleling the
road, leaving a trail of flattened footprints. "Nothing has changed for
me. You're welcome to come back and be part of my life anytime you
choose."

"Well, right now I just want to walk in the snow." She glanced at him,
wondering if she still felt anything at all. "You know, it's a funny
thing, but the snow tonight reminds me of a trip I once took, years
ago, up north to Hokkaido. The innocence, the simplicity, it was all
captured in that pure, endless white." She looked around them. "How
could Tsukuba Science City even be part of the same country?"

He smiled. "As the tour books always say, 'Japan: land of contrasts.'
Well, the old ways are going fast, Tam, except in our hearts. Some
things will always be the same."

"Tell you the truth, that's what scares me the most. Things like the
sword, which can cause this whole country to go crazy overnight."

"Ah yes, the sword. Matsuo Noda's magic talisman. You know, that's the
real reason he'll be so hard to stop. What a

genius. He delivers it to the Emperor, almost the same way the Sun
Goddess supposedly once did, and in the process makes himself a living
god."

"Speaking of the sword, by the way, Matt is going over to the
Metallurgy Lab tomorrow to see it. Live and prime time."

"Matt?"

"The lawyer I told you about."

"So his name is Matt?"

"Short for Matthew. Walton."

"But why . . ."

"Well, besides being a corporate attorney, he's supposed to be an
amateur expert on swords. Hobby of his."

"And Noda is actually letting him see it?" There was a faint note of
surprise in his voice. "Very unusual. That sword has been kept very
tightly under wraps, or so I've heard."

"Believe it. Tomorrow Matt Walton gets a command presentation. Courtesy
of Noda. He's arranged everything with the Imperial Household." She
gazed up at the sky, now a white marble reflecting back the lights from
the traffic.

"Tam, I'd like very much to see it too. Think you could arrange
something with Noda-san?"

"I can try."

"You know, not many people outside the Imperial Household have actually
viewed it really up close. I hear it's almost perfectly preserved."

"Then this could be your chance." She reached and took his hand. After
all, the weather was cold. "I'll ring Noda in the morning."

"Thanks. But no matter what happens, with that or anything else, just
seeing you again will make this trip worthwhile." He gave her hand a
squeeze.

"All right, Ken, dammit you win." She turned and slipped her arms
around his neck, then drew his lips down to hers. The snow drifted onto
her eyelids. "You're right. I don't have any answers, to anything."

Again she felt almost as though time was running in reverse. The
smoothness of his skin, the ease of his touch, the firm muscles.

"It'll be over soon, Tam. It has to be. And then we'll all look back on
this like a bad dream." He encircled her in his arms. "We'll go off to
Hokkaido if you like it so much there. Together. Just you and me."

"Why is it all the men I know keep offering me trips?" She laughed and
brushed the snow out of his hair. "Matt keeps trying to get me to go
down to the Caribbean. Now you want to take me to Hokkaido. I sound
like everybody's getaway girl."

"Nobody's called you a girl. You're a woman. You decide what you want."

"Well, at the moment I just want to go to bed with you." She pulled his
lips down. "After that I'll worry about the next move."

"We just have to trust each other. That's all that matters."

Well, she thought, how could she not trust this man?

At least for tonight. Tomorrow she would think about tomorrow.



CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE


Kenji Asano was a very complex human being--Western on the surface, but
with his own personality always glimmering through at the unexpected
moment. He seemed to capture the best of both worlds: the
forthrightness of an American and the intuitive self-confidence I've
come to think of as a hallmark of the East.

The Japanese are a subtle people, in the finest sense of the word, and
I normally feel slightly oafish in their land. I always know I'm
missing about three levels of the nuance in whatever's going on. By the
same token, a Japanese venturing into the West frequently seems to be
moving as though he were following the numbers on one of those old
Arthur Murray dance diagrams. The steps are precise and correct, but
there's no glide to it, no natural rhythm. Ken, I must say, had long
since gotten past that kind of awkwardness. His motions were fluid, his
reactions quick and natural. Also, he managed to achieve this while
retaining qualities that always reminded you he came from a culture
that was writing Kyoto romances and wearing perfumed silk when London
and Paris still had pigs in their garbage-strewn streets.

"Ken, you're a phenomenon." We were climbing into his blue Toyota
sports car, which he'd driven up from Tokyo. Low profile--the car and
the trip. "This play could blow up in your face."

Over our leisurely three-way breakfast in the hotel bar, he had given
me a reasonably detailed sketch of the situation, after which Tam
headed off in the DNI limo for her second day of appointments in the
robot labs. My honest reaction, despite the prickle of jealousy, was
instant liking of Asano. Furthermore, in the absence of anything
better, his scheme seemed worth a shot.

Now came the sword. A phone call established that Noda had no objection
to Ken's seeing it too, so we were set to head over to the Metallurgy
Lab together. Not a bad time for straight talk.

"I know it's a gamble, Matthew, but I'd like to think of it as repaying
my debt to America." He inserted his key in the ignition and started
the engine. "In a way I feel some personal responsibility for the
current condition of your technology."

Was he about to come clean on the subject of MITI's semiconductor
blitz?

"You know, I once heard you were the brains behind Japan's memory chip
takeover."

"Our strategy seemed prudent at the time." He sighed, then turned
around to begin backing out of the hotel parking lot. "If you're
planning for the long term, the sectors you focus on are obvious." He
paused to light a Peace, then crumpled the wooden match in his hand and
exhaled as he shifted into drive.

"And you play hardball."

"Otherwise why bother? I guess we had no idea the U.S. could be so
inept. We assumed your semiconductor people, like your baseball teams,
were major league."

He was right about that part. America fumbled away its lead by chasing
quick profits. While MITI was playing the only way it knew how. Long
term.

"I can't tell you how much I regret what's happened since," he
continued, glancing occasionally at the rows of research labs gliding
by on both sides of the roadway. "I now realize that a more cooperative
approach would have worked to everyone's

benefit. In the long run we each need the other. Now, it's going to
take plenty of cooperation to prevent the U.S. from becoming a back
office for Matsuo Noda."

"You really think a big MITI move will blow the whistle?"

"Matthew, the ministry is the closest thing Japan has to a strategic
deterrent. By exploiting it, I will become the Japanese Rosenberg in
the eyes of many, but if I can cause a worldwide scandal, perhaps
everyone here and in the U.S. will start thinking about the
implications of Noda's takeover."

"Friend, you're throwing your career in front of a train." I said it
with respect. "Matsuo Noda could eat us both for _hors d'oeuvres_."

"Us, maybe. But not MITI. At least not yet." He smiled. "You know, we
Japanese have a tradition of committing ritual suicide, _seppuku_, to
emphasize a principle. You might say I'm doing that, but it's only
professional _seppuku_. No unseemly knives or blood on the tatami."

"I understand now why Tam feels about you the way she does."

"Matthew." He spoke quietly. "I am here, you are there. I think she
needs someone she trusts, and you seem to be that person just now. Stay
by her."

"I'd like nothing better." And with that we lapsed into pensive
silence.

It took only about ten minutes for the drive over to the laboratory,
another structure that could have been a hangar for flying saucers.
Somehow the idea of viewing a sacred relic of Japan's imperial past in
this sci-fi setting was incongruous in the extreme, pure George Lucas.

We alighted in the executive parking lot and headed up the sidewalk
together. At the sealed entrance Ken showed his palm to the computer's
eye, a synthetic voice cleared us, and in we went. Waiting on the other
side was a senior staff man who greeted us at the first security check,
bowed, and motioned us to follow.

One area of the lab had been cordoned off, top security, with gun-
carrying guards posted about every ten feet. There were also about two
dozen plainclothes types wearing a white armband emblazoned with the
Imperial insignia. Seemed that nobody, but nobody, got close to the Sun
Goddess's sidearm without clearance from the top.

The staff man said Noda was currently tied up in a meeting

with the director, so we should wait. No need, I said, flashing my DNI
meishi. He bowed and we were waved past the guards, then ushered
directly into the top-security workroom--where the team of white-frocked
technicians was said to be cleaning and retouching the gilding on the
sword's _tsuba _hand guard, the decorative little disc that separates
the hilt from the blade.

Since the _tsuba_ on swords were interchangeable, not necessarily
connected in any particular way to a given piece, they're actually a
separate art form, interesting but not overly serious items. Fact is,
the Imperial Household could just as well have sent this one up here
for work and kept the sword in Tokyo.

Such, however, was not the case. The main attraction itself was
undoubtedly over there on the back workbench, in a big stainless steel
box half the size of a coffin, an armed guard stationed next to it.

Noda must have told everybody we were coming in today because the
technicians parted like the Red Sea at our approach. Although the
president of Dai Nippon was still nowhere to be seen, the _tsuba_ was
there all right, lying exposed on a worktable right next to a pile of
cleaning pads and the gilding apparatus.

And it was a stunner, take my word. One of the most tasteful I've ever
had the pleasure to view. Iron, of course, and about ten centimeters
across, circular. Actually it was shaped like a chrysanthemum, with the
raised image of a mirror on one side and a beaded necklace on the
other. The exquisite metalwork was enhanced by the fresh gilding, which
made the embossing even more striking. My unprofessional opinion? Very,
very ancient. Older than twelfth century? Entirely possible. I really
couldn't say. But a wild guess would be early Heian, certainly no later
than Kamakura. Fact is, back in those days metalwork didn't change all
that much for long periods of time, so there's no real way to date with
precision.

"_Hijo-ni omoshiroi desu_"--very interesting--I said after a respectful
interval, hoping to get into the spirit of the occasion and impress
everybody with my Berlitz Japanese. "And now, would it be possible to
see the actual sword?" I pointed toward the stainless steel coffin.
"Sealed in there, I presume."

The head technician bowed and suddenly looked very troubled. Then he
mumbled something in rapid Japanese to Asano. He didn't budge.

"Problem?" I turned to Ken.

"He says Matsuo Noda has given strict orders that the sword is never to
be viewed by the public when disassembled." He shrugged. "Noda-sama, he
says, has declared it to be sacred and therefore it must be displayed
with the proper ceremonial reverence always. Of course we'll still be
able to see it, but only after the _tsuba_ is replaced. Perhaps later
on this afternoon."

We'd come all this way, and now we were going to be stymied by some
middle-management lab technician?

"Of course"--I bowed back, hoping to bluff--"weren't you informed why we
are here? I have the honor to be Matsuo Noda's senior American
corporate counsel. Noda-sama has ordered me to check and make certain
the hilt remains in place while the _tsuba_ is undergoing repair. So if
you'll kindly open the case, I'll verify that and the matter will be
ended." I bowed again.

"_So desu_." He turned pale. Obviously the grip had been removed.
Whoops. I'd just bungled, creating a problem worse than the one I
wanted to circumvent.

"On the other hand," I continued quickly, trying to recoup, "as long as
it's locked in the case, I'm sure there'll be no problem."

Again he bowed, looking relieved. Noda had these guys scared.

"However, it will be necessary to actually see the sword, so I can
report to Noda-sama that I have carried out his instructions. Otherwise
Noda-sama may be upset, and I will be deeply dishonored."

Couching the ploy in personal terms seemed to tip the scale. He bowed
again, hesitantly, then led us over to the box. Throughout my little
white lie, Ken hadn't said one word. Guess he was as curious as I was
to take a look.

"Do you realize what you are about to witness?" The senior staff man
stood before us, his dark eyes haughty and grave. Time to put the
barbarian gaijin in his place. "Physical proof of the divinity of His
Imperial Highness, the Emperor of Japan. This sword is the most sacred
object in the world."

I nodded reverently and moved to the side to let the head technician
begin. He slipped a magnetic card into the handle of the steel case,
punched in some electronic numbers on a pad there next to the latch,
and slowly raised the lid.

Since photographs of the sword had been officially forbidden by the
Imperial Household, I'd not seen even so much as a snapshot. Ken and I
were literally holding our breath.

The interior of the coffin had been partitioned into a front and rear
section, both draped with satin. First he lifted away the back shroud--
to reveal a long gold box. That, I figured, must be the watertight case
Noda's scientists had originally detected. Ken emitted a low hum as we
looked at it. Gleaming, the purest of the pure, it had to be 24-karat,
like something you'd find in the tomb of a pharaoh. Along the sides
were some elegant, playful Heian-style reliefs. Birds, musical
instruments, Shinto goddesses. Breathtaking, that's the only word I can
find.

"It's beautiful." I was staring, dazzled. "And the sword?"

The technician hesitated. Guess we still had him worried.

"I'm sure Noda-sama will be pleased to know of your cooperation," I
said soothingly. "There should be no difficulty."

He got the message. We weren't going to rock the boat. _Wa_. Harmony.

He nodded again, reassured, then reached down and lifted away the satin
cloth covering the front section. Underneath was a bolster of deep
purple velvet, and nestled in the middle was . . . the Imperial Sword.

Ken emitted a quiet, reverent exclamation, the hissed Japanese
"_Saaaa_" that denotes pensive regard, and for a second we both just
stood there. Dr. Kenji Asano was clearly awestruck. I was too.

As well we should have been. For one thing, it was a superbly well-
preserved piece. The blade was delicately curved, and its edge could
probably still do damage. A few flecks of rust were visible here and
there, but overall it was in mint condition, just as Noda had claimed.

Even more interesting was that, sure enough, the grip had been removed
while they worked on the _tsuba_. So we were being treated to a glimpse
of the Sacred Sword the way Noda had specified it should never be
viewed--except by a few crew-cut technicians there in the lab--with the
_nakago_, the steel beneath the grip, exposed. We were seeing it all.

It's gratifying to report that his publicity people had told the truth:
there was indeed no signature on the _nakago_. (I guess if you're
swordsmith for god, you just naturally go easy on the ego.) That
omission notwithstanding, it was definitely a first-class _katana_.
Looked to be some kind of off-alloy, heavy on copper. If you had to
guess what the early swords were like, say at a time in between the
late-bronze and early-iron ages, this would be a knowledgeable estimate
for appearance. The alloy was plausible; it was clearly very old; and
with an antique hilt such as the one lying there, the overall look was
very reasonable. I was impressed. Put the handle back on the way you
normally see a sword and everything about it clicked.

Sorry, but out of habit I have to do something now. What follows is a
technical description of the Imperial Sword, including the part usually
hidden by the grip--which nobody else has been able to supply because
nobody else had seen it disassembled as it was there in the lab. There
may be some collectors who'd feel cheated by anything less. This was,
as the senior staff man had sternly brought to our attention, a once-
in-a-lifetime moment.

"Early Shinto _katana_. Very long and active _sunagashi _and _utsuri
_extending into a _kaen boshi_. Slender _nakago _with one _mekugi-ana_.
Shallow _koshi-zori _with _chu-kissaki _and _bo-hi _along either
_shinogi _extending into the _nakago _. . ."

Enough. Actually, that last part made me a little sad. Truthfully, I
think Noda was absolutely right. Nobody should sully the divinity of
this piece by exhibiting it disassembled, with the grip removed. The
problem is that anybody with the slightest experience might possibly
have his faith shaken a trifle, since it's common knowledge that a
tapered _nakago_, the sloping edge there extending back into the
section normally covered by the hilt, didn't come into its own till
around the mid fif--

"Mr. Walton, I hadn't expected you until later. You should have
contacted me."

It was the voice of Matsuo Noda, directly behind me. I looked up to
notice that the faces of all the technicians around the room now
matched their bleached lab coats.

"Guess we need to coordinate better." I turned around and smiled.

Walton, I lectured myself, don't be a smartass, just this once. Be
reverent. Who the hell knows how the Sun Goddess liked her _nakagos_
tapered?

Besides, the simple truth was the Imperial Sword of Emperor Antoku
really knocked me over. Superb workmanship, excellent balance, elegant
shape. And overall, surprisingly good condition   . . . well, except
for one thing.

"It's almost perfect." I revolved back to examine it. "Except for that
little scratch on the _nakago_. Too bad."

"What scratch, Mr. Walton?" He stared down.

"It's actually on the other side as best I recall."

There followed a long pause as Noda's eyes gradually narrowed to slits.
Finally he said, "I wasn't aware you were so conversant with press
descriptions of the sword, Mr. Walton."

We both knew the scratch on the _nakago_, on the side not showing, had
never once been mentioned in the papers.

Which was as it should be. A minor blemish really. All the same I now
felt very guilty about it. I do hope it was an unavoidable accident,
like the metallurgy guys at the Princeton lab claimed in the apology
that accompanied their bill after I shipped it down last summer for
tests.

This was turning out to be quite a day. Seems New York's crime
statistics were looking up; a theft had actually been solved. The son
of a bitch was MINE.

"Ah, well, Mr. Walton, I trust you are suitably impressed all the
same."

"Only you could appreciate how much." My head was swimming. Judging
from the surrounding technicians' reverent gaze, I got the definite
impression they had totally missed the significance of our exchange.
Kenji Asano was now wearing a pure poker face. What was he thinking?

My own concentration, however, was elsewhere at that particular
instant. The new realization: Matthew Walton is a dead man. As of this
moment. Noda would never let me live to tell what I knew.

Just then an official wearing some sort of formal-looking black kimono
emblazoned with the _kiku_ crest of the Imperial Household Agency came
walking briskly out of the office behind us. He was carrying a silver
case, about cigar-box size, something etched across its filigreed lid.
He walked over to Noda, bowed deferentially, and settled it on the
workbench next to Kenji Asano's briefcase.

Nobody paid him much notice, however, since we were all still admiring
the Sacred Sword. Finally my brain started to function. Dates? Right .
. . the night I met Noda . . . which got me out of the house ... his
hirelings cleaned out my office . . . that was about, what, two weeks
before the sword was "discovered." Perfect. Just enough time to salt
the thing in the Inland Sea, let his high-tech research team fish it
up. . . .

The technician bowed to us once more, then started spreading the satin
cloths back over the two compartments. Down came the stainless steel
lid. Click. History time was over.

That was when, finally, Ken looked over and noticed the silver case. He
stared at it, puzzled, then glanced at Noda, for whom it obviously was
intended, and inquired politely concerning what it might be.

Noda cleared his throat, mumbled something about official DNI business,
and started thanking the Household rep who'd brought out the case.

However, the Household man showed his breeding. He picked up Ken's
question, smiled and bowed, then proceeded to explain that it contained
the only copies of DNI's original technical analyses of the sword--X-ray
crystallography scans, nondestructive radiation tests, various
scientific data he didn't actually understand but which had been used
by Dai Nippon to establish the sword's alloy composition and therefore
its Sacred authenticity. These data had been forwarded to the Imperial
Household with instructions they be kept under lock and key. He'd
understood all along that they had merely been on temporary loan to the
Emperor, and thus he had no objection now that the honorable Noda-sama
had requested their return for additional study by DNI scientists. All
of Japan was in the debt of the esteemed Matsuo . . .

Kenji Asano turned to stare at me, his eyes gradually filling with an
enormous realization.

You know, I used to have a hobby of reading biographies of the geniuses
who'd come up with the truly original insights of modern times. How, I
puzzled, did they manage it? I mean, did Newton really watch an apple
fall and intuitively sense it was responding to some invisible force?
Maybe. Or how about Einstein's insight that matter and energy are
really the same thing? Or that space can be curved? Whatever happened,
they made a connection that nobody else in history had ever come up
with.

Who can explain how these breakthroughs happen? They're always the
result of standing off and viewing reality in a wholly new way.

With apologies, I've invoked some heavy names. But the point is, there
are transcendental moments when a given set of circumstances is
suddenly seen to fit more than one paradigm of how the universe
functions.

Standing there looking at the silver case, Kenji Asano saw the apple
fall from the tree. And I was only seconds behind him.

New insight number one: Something very fishy was going on with the
Imperial Sword, something which would not necessarily stand the light
of day. (On that one I was actually several seconds ahead.)

Number two: If the truth came out, Japan would be a laughingstock
worldwide. Worse, His Imperial Majesty would have egg all over his
Imperial face. As would Matsuo Noda. Hence the box, having served it's
PR purpose, had to go.

Number three: The first two insights pointed to the very real
possibility that Matsuo Noda had long since passed around the bend,
sanity-wise. But whether he had or not, one thing was clear--that silver
case contained everything we needed to nail Dai Nippon.

Who knew for sure what was in it. But Ken and I both realized at that
instant the contents had to be pure dynamite.

What happened next I probably wouldn't have believed if I hadn't been
standing there to witness it with my very own eyes. Kenji Asano was
calmly extracting a Peace cigarette from the packet in his left breast
pocket and inserting it in his mouth. Then his right hand came up and
out of his thumbnail flared one of those wooden matches he liked so
much.

"_Asano-san, sumimasen_." The senior staff man stepped forward and
blurted out, "No smoking, please."

"Sorry," replied Asano, and he flicked the still burning match toward
the waste bin there at the end of the table-- which just happened to be
piled high with the solvent pads they'd been using to scour the
_tsuba_. A lab can be a dangerous place, and this one was no exception.
A microsecond thereafter the floor was carpeted in flame.

Later I theorized what must have occurred, remembering a long-ago
personal disaster that almost got me kicked out of college. The heavy
aromatic solvent they were using, probably a benzene compound, had
vaporized off the cleaning pads, drifted down over the sides of the
container, and was hovering as an invisible, heavier-than-air cloud
just above the floor at

knee level. The exact same thing happened to me once in a Chem 201 lab--
during an after-hours endeavor wherein I was steaming out a twenty-
gallon benzene container preparatory to an experiment on the propensity
of brewer's yeast to convert grape sugar into potable ethanol. The sink
happened to be situated next to a gas-fired hot-water heater--which
suddenly kicked on. Next thing I knew, the heavy fumes around my ankles
detonated. Along with the lab fire alarm.

That explosion, as this one, was actually minor, mostly noise, though
it sounded like a bomb. The fumes flashed and it was over, leaving no
damage other than to the nervous system of any bystanders. This time,
however, there was an added ingredient. The waste container. It had
become an instant inferno, billowing dark, toxic smoke into the room.

As yelling lab technicians began rushing in with fire extinguishers,
everybody else was bolting for the exits, including the security
people. All in all, it seemed a reasonably propitious moment to make
our own departure as well, since we'd been the cause of the ruckus. Ken
fumbled around in the smoke now obscuring the workbench till he
recovered his briefcase, and then we headed out.

At the door I caught sight of the Household official and bowed my
thanks.

"_Domo arigato gozaimashita_. I am deeply honored by this opportunity
to view the Imperial Sword of Emperor Antoku." I bowed again. He nodded
back and glared at Asano.

I'd planned to thank Noda too, but he was still in there with the
confusion, undoubtedly standing personal guard over his Sacred Sword.
Let him stay. There was no real danger. The fire should be out in no
time. It was mainly smoke anyway.

Ken was also bowing his farewells to one and all. Then, as though on
cue, we both started edging toward the main hallway. By now security
people were running down the corridors and the place was in
pandemonium.

When we reached the lobby, I almost wanted to bolt for the outer door,
but we managed to keep our exit dignified, businesslike. Finally as we
cleared the last security checkpoint, I turned to him.

"You really should be more careful with your smokes, Ken." I lowered my
voice. "Manage to grab it?"

"In my briefcase."

"Then let's get the hell out of here. Noda's going to figure out what
happened any second now and go totally bananas."

"I doubt he will be pleased."

"Tell you one thing, that silver case has got to disappear, fast. Or
we're likely to vanish ourselves. We may anyway." I quickened my pace
toward the parking lot. "You know, I've got a wild hunch what's in that
box. But whatever it is, I do know for sure we'd better get the thing
somewhere for safekeeping. Quick."

"Should we tell Tamara?" He glanced down at the smoke- smeared
briefcase in his hands, as though holding a cobra.

"She's got to know everything. For her own safety."

"Matthew," he said, looking at me. "You're supposed to be an authority.
So tell me the truth. You were behaving strangely in there. It's a
fake, isn't it?"

"Ken, during the Middle Ages about fifty different monasteries in
Europe possessed the authentic, consecrated relic of Christ's
circumcision. Who's to say? Remember Francis Bacon's 'What is truth?'
Japan's emperor is now and forever. That's the only 'truth' that
matters."

"What are you saying?"

"That sword belongs to the people of Japan. Ask them if it's real."

"Well, you've learned enough about this country to be able to get your
message across without actually spelling it out. Very Japanese." He
stared at me. "You'll have to concede one thing, though. Matsuo Noda is
an absolute genius. Think about it. He claimed to have analyzed the
sword, then donated the data to the Imperial Household--knowing there
would be only one place on earth where it could be right out in public
and yet never actually examined. In a fancy silver case kept by a bunch
of Household bureaucrats, not one of whom would have the presumption to
open it. Or be able to understand anything if he did."

My own nagging thoughts at that moment were on a different track. Why
had Noda offered to let me see my own piece? To flaunt the dimensions
of his balls? Or was he starting to believe his own trumped-up fantasy?
Had Matsuo Noda convinced himself he was God? That he could turn water
into wine? Or a fifteenth-century metallurgical screw-up into . . . The
more I thought about it, the scarier it got. Or maybe, just maybe, he
thought I wouldn't recognize it with a different hilt. Could be he was
right. But Ken and I had accidentally viewed it disassembled. That
wasn't part of his little inside joke. For once Matsuo Noda had blown
it.

"Ken, everything I've learned about Noda so far tells me he's going to
do something totally unexpected the minute he realizes we took that."

"Let him. I want to know what's in it."

"Do the world a favor. No. Never, never open it."

He paused a second and looked down at his briefcase.

"Maybe you're right. It's better for everybody if it just disappears."

By then we'd fully cleared the outer doors. The day was turning
gorgeous, sunny and brisk. The thin film of last night's snow was all
but gone.

Abruptly he stopped. "Wait, Matthew. Think a minute. We have to at
least make a copy of the contents. And it needs to be gotten out of
Japan."

"To protect ourselves?"

"Precisely."

"Okay, I'll buy that. Got any ideas?"

"Well, first let's go pick up Tam. Then I'd like to transmit digital
facsimiles of whatever's in here to New York. She can set up a file in
DNI's big NEC mainframe, and only the three of us will know the file
name. It'll be your, and her, insurance policy."

"Can we do that from here?"

"In fifteen minutes. There's the Teleconferencing Center over next to
Electrotechnical. They've got everything we'll need."

"Then let's collect her and get it done fast."

He opened the door of the Toyota, then turned to me. "You know,
Matthew, I think you and Tam ought to be gone from here, too, as soon
as possible. There's a copter pad by the hotel. I'm going to phone for
a MITI chopper to pick you up and take you straight to Narita." He
patted his briefcase. "After we've transmitted the contents of this, I
want you back in New York. I'll call my secretary and have her book the
next flight out; we'll just have somebody bumped if it's full."

"Why don't you come with us? No need for you to face Noda alone."

"Not yet." He hit the ignition. "But I'll be there in spirit."

How prophetic.



CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Our major concern at that point was time. We had a lot to do, and we
weren't sure how long we had to do it. Furthermore, it would be
foolhardy to assume everything was going to proceed smoothly. That
apprehension was, in fact, soon to be thoroughly vindicated.

First, it wasn't all that simple to track down Tam. We finally
discovered she'd already left the Robotics Lab and was back at the
Tsukuba Hotel lunching with Matsugami and some of his senior staff.
Returning there, however, did provide a perfect opportunity to grab our
bags. Ken dragged her from the lunch with a phony excuse, and minutes
later we were checked out, solving at least one logistics problem.
Unfortunately, it also tipped off Matsugami and anybody else who might
be interested that we were departing.

Next were the details of arranging for the chopper. While we were
driving around trying to locate Tamara, Ken was busy on his car phone
pulling strings to commandeer one of the two MITI helicopters. After
three calls he managed to locate one at their auxiliary pad, currently
being refueled and serviced. I listened to him lean on the service
people, doing his diplomatic but firm deputy minister routine. End of
long story: it would be on its way shortly, arriving in about an hour
and a half.

Good, we thought. Plenty of time to handle the transmission of the
still-unseen documents in Noda's silver case. In the car we brought Tam
fully up to date on the extraordinary circumstances by which it had
fallen into our possession, including its potential for use as leverage
against Noda. Then we headed for the Teleconferencing Center, where we
planned to open the thing, scan the contents with a reader, and bounce
the pages to New York via satellite. Ken revealed the ministry had a
high-security channel it used to communicate with the New York offices
of JETRO, the Japan External Trade Organization over on Sixth Avenue,
MITI's public relations arm. He declared we would just link up with
that office and have them patch us through to the DNI computer. Nothing
to it.

Which was correct, theoretically. When we marched in, Ken again
flaunting his deputy minister walk-on priority, the white-shirted staff
bowed to the floor, led us to the hard-copy scanner, turned it on, and
diplomatically excused themselves, closing the security door. The place
was ours.

Don't know why, but until that moment none of us had really wanted to
know what was in Noda's case. Maybe a part of me still didn't, even
then. Whatever the reason, however, none of us had bothered to take it
out of Ken's briefcase for examination. Turned out that was a mistake.

He settled his satchel onto the desk, clicked it open, and out came the
box for our first real look. As he wiped off the smoke, my initial
reaction was to be dazzled. It was magnificent, a silversmith's
masterpiece, engraved with all manner of mythological beast and fowl. A
work of art in every sense. Never seen anything remotely like it.

The problem was, it wasn't merely locked. It was soldered shut. The
silver lid had literally been welded on, leaving it essentially a solid
piece. Noda, it turned out, left nothing to chance. Only a silversmith
could crack the seal and divulge the contents. So we still had no idea
what was inside, and worse, we'd managed to fritter away a valuable
half hour coming to that fruitless discovery. Now what?

"Shit," said Tam. "When will we ever get a break?"

"Looks like we've got two choices," Ken announced ruefully, gazing down
at the intractable chunk of metal in his hands. "We can do what we
probably should have done in the first place: simply stash this for the
moment and let Noda think we know what's in it. Or we can drive into
Tokyo and locate somebody there who can open it, then transmit from
MITI headquarters downtown."

Neither of these plans seemed particularly inspired. The first gave us
nothing but presumptions for leverage, and the second could take hours.
Noda, we all realized, was not a man who dallied.

"Actually"--Tam spoke up--"there's a third option. Surely Noda's going to
find out sooner or later we came here to the

Center. Believe me, he always learns everything eventually. So why not
transmit something else now, anything, and then after you get the case
open you can send the real data?"

"You mean, give him circumstantial cause to assume we've got the goods
on him?" Sounded good to me. "Buying ourselves more time?"

"Right. It'll take him awhile to find out exactly what was transmitted.
All he'll know for certain is that we sent something. In the meantime
Ken can go on to Tokyo and proceed with plan B: open the case there and
transmit the real contents."

He looked skeptical. "That might deceive everybody for a while, but not
for long. There're too many links in the chain between here and DNI's
New York office."

"But sending something now will gain time. It has to. Then you can go
on to Tokyo and do what you need to from there. Tomorrow."

"Maybe." He still wasn't totally convinced. "But all right--rather than
waste time arguing, let's just go ahead and do it. No harm in any
instance."

She peeked into his briefcase, a jumble of documents. "What have you
got in here that we could send?"

"Today's _Asahi Shimbun _. . ." He laughed.

"Ken."

"Okay, okay." He laid the newspaper aside and was riffling through his
paperwork. "How about a few MITI memos?"

"Nothing to do with Marketshare - 90, I hope," said Tam.

"Promise."

The apparatus was already humming, so he put through the connection to
JETRO's New York office, whereupon Tam took over and gave them
instructions for the phone link over to the DNI mainframe. It probably
required all of a couple of minutes. Welcome to the Brave New World of
global information technology.

Since we were just shooting in the dark, they transmitted some twenty
or twenty-five pages. Actually it would have been almost better to send
too few rather than too many. At four pages a minute, though, we were
finished in no time. As something of a joke, Tam suggested using the
file name Nipponica, homage to Noda's takeover pipe dream. Somehow it
seemed poetic justice.

Whether the transparency of our ruse would be immediately evident to
Matsuo Noda remained a big unknown. But . . . maybe Noda would have no
real way of discovering we'd sent garbage, at least not for a while.
The transmission done, we signed off, zipped up Ken's briefcase, and
marched out as if we knew what we were doing. Still, it was only a
bluff, and a shaky one at that. Which set me to thinking.

"Ken, it seems to me yours is the critical path in this play now." We
were walking back to the executive parking lot where we'd left his car.
"It's more important to have a real copy of the data stashed somewhere
than it is for us to blow the country in the next two hours. Which
means maybe you ought to take the chopper back yourself, send the stuff
today, and let us just drive down to Narita in your car?"

"I agree." Tam nodded concurrence. "We can leave it there and you could
have somebody pick it up tomorrow."

"That's dangerous, for both of you."

"Maybe so," she said, "but he's going to come after this case, guns
blazing, as his first priority. Ken, you're the one who's going to have
to stay out of his way now, not us. The quicker you move, the better."

"You've got a point. All right, if you want me to, then I could take
the copter back to Tokyo myself and you can use the Toyota." He was
fishing for his keys. "In fact, maybe you should just leave now."

"Let me check the schedule." I'd asked his secretary for a listing of
the afternoon and evening flights in case we got delayed. It was now
one-thirty. The next flight that looked like a sure thing was a United
at seven forty-two, or maybe the JAL at nine. Then there was a
Northwest at ten-fifteen. Loads of time.

"Look, we can wait for the chopper and at least see you off. Why don't
we head back over to the hotel and have a drink. Solemnize the
occasion--the final nailing of Matsuo Noda."

"Fine." He started the car. "But both of you get only one, at least
whoever's driving does. I want you back in one piece."

The hotel bar was beginning to feel like a second home, though now it
was deserted, the lunch trade long departed. Our ceremonial libation
also provided my first real opportunity to study Ken Asano at leisure.
I sat sipping my Suntory while he repeated once again the details of
his upcoming political move at MITI. Given any kind of luck, the flap
would render Noda's takeover a worldwide scandal.

Good. Tam and I had been Noda's point men, had done everything we knew
to assist him, and now it was clear he'd been using us all along for
his own ends. He was bent on bringing American industry back to life
for the sole purpose of skimming the cream.

What other reason could there be? Noda's noble intention supposedly was
to help rejuvenate those American corporations doing basic research--but
the price was then to let Japan lift that R&D and translate it into
consumer technology, thereby keeping for his team all the elements of
real economic value in the chain from laboratory to cash register. They
would be the ones refining their strategic capacity to transform new
ideas into world-class products and economic leadership. Japan would
retain the advanced engineering segment of product development, while
tossing a few low-skill assembly plants to the U.S. to make us think we
were still part of the action. It would, of course, be a fatal
delusion. The high-tech hardware of tomorrow's world increasingly would
be Japanese, while America became an economy of paper-shuffling MBAs
and low-paid grease monkeys assembling products we no longer were able
to design or engineer.

That depressing conclusion required the space of one Scotch. By then I
was ready to order a second, hoping it would bring forth a solution to
the problem the first had evoked with such alarming clarity.

But there wasn't time. At that moment we heard the MITI copter settling
onto the pad next to the hotel parking lot.

"Ken, here's to success." I saluted him with the last melting ice
cubes.

He toasted back, then signaled for the bill. Time to get moving.

The chopper was a new Aerospatiale AS 365N Twin Dauphin, big and white,
a VIP four-seater. Single pilot, capable of 180. (The Japanese love
those high-rotor French copters.) Guess Ken had called in a lot of
chips to arrange this customized three-wheeler for a couple of_
gaijin_. The seat-mile costs alone must have been staggering. But there
it was, fully serviced and set to go.

He walked over, ducking the rotor, and advised the pilot that there had
been a slight change of plans. They'd be returning directly back to
Tokyo. The man, wearing a blue uniform, bowed and gave him a little
salute. They seemed to be old friends. Well, I thought, if deputy
ministers don't use this gold-plated extravagance, then who's it for?

Then he returned to pick up his briefcase (Noda's silver box safely
therein), have a brief farewell, and give us his keys.

"Tamara, telex me the minute you get back. We'll proceed immediately.
Full speed."

"Let's go for it." She smiled and drew his face down for a long,
languorous kiss. I then shook his hand, and we headed for the car.
Since our bags were just little carry-ons, we looked solid to catch the
United flight with a couple of hours to spare, assuming traffic
cooperated.

"Tam, how about taking the wheel? This left-hand-side-of- the-road
driving takes practice. I almost hit somebody once in England."

"Sure." She reached for the keys, then turned back to wave to Ken. But
he was already climbing aboard and didn't notice.

"Isn't it odd?" I mused, "We still haven't heard zip out of Noda. He
must have realized by now we have his silver case. What's he planning
to do? Where'll he try to head us off?"

"Good question." She turned the key in the ignition. "I'm not going to
feel safe till we've got the actual goods on his phony sword. Not just
some dummy data."

"My guess is he'll try and nail us at the airport. It'd be his best
shot."

"At least Ken was smart enough to make the reservations under fake
names, so he won't know which flight to watch."

"There're not that many. He could be covering them all. On the other
hand, he'll assume we're arriving via the MITI chopper, so maybe we can
dodge his hit squad."

"I feel like I've been run through a wringer." She was pulling out of
the slot, backing around to begin making her way through the rows of
staff vehicles, all with special Tsukuba parking stickers.

"You can say that again. Who could have guessed all the . . ."

I'd reached around to check the back window, hoping to get the heat
going, when my field of vision turned an incandescent orange, bright
and glaring, as though the sun had just come in for a close encounter.
Before I could turn to see what . . . the dashboard rose up and slugged
me in the teeth, as a shock wave flung us both against the seat belts.

We're dead, I thought. We've been bombed. Noda's just dropped . . .

Then I looked up.

The MITI Aerospatiale, about two hundred feet off the ground, had
become a blazing sphere, a grotesque nova. Now its rotor blades were
clawing the air, askew, while it circled downward like a wounded bird.
An instant later it nosed into the parking lot behind us, hurtling
fragments of tail assembly through several empty staff cars.

I sat mesmerized as a second ball of fire erupted where it had crashed.
One of the fuel tanks had ignited, just like in the movies.

"Ken!" Tam let out a choked cry after the first few seconds of
disbelief. Then she slammed the transmission into 'Park' and began
ripping off her seat belt.

Where's she going? Doesn't she realize--?

Her door was open and she was stumbling out. That's when I finally came
to my senses, which included the sobering thought that there might be
more fuel tanks, such as the auxiliary, that hadn't yet blown.

"Wait!" I'd ripped off my own seat harness by that time and had rolled
out to begin running after her as she stumbled across the snowy stretch
of asphalt separating us from the flames.

She was moving like a gazelle, but I managed to catch up about thirty
yards from the wreckage. Using a modified shoulder block, I pulled her
around and tried to get a grip.

"Tam, nobody could survive that. We've got to stay back . . ."

At which point we both slipped and collapsed in a patch of snow . . .
just as the last fuel tank detonated with the impact of a sonic boom.
Memory can be a little unreliable under such circumstances, but I still
remember more wreckage sailing past us, including a strut off the
landing gear that gouged a furrow in the asphalt no more than ten feet
from our heads.

"Tam, he never knew what hit him. It had to be instantaneous." I was
trying to brush the wet snow off her face as I slipped my arm around
her shoulders. She was still holding back the tears, but only just.

"We didn't even have a real good-bye." Her words were jagged. "There
were so many things . . . I was hoping we . . ."

Her voice trailed off into tears.

"Look, I only knew him for a day, but that was enough to learn some
things. Kenji Asano was a wise and noble soul. Everything about him was
good."

She took my hand and held it against her cheek. "Matt, he was so kind.
That was what . . . He was . . . all that I . . ." Her eyes were
reflecting back the flames, now billowing into the pale afternoon sky.
Around us the labs were emptying as technicians raced toward the lot,
white coats fluttering.

"You know, he said something to me today. About you . . ."

"What?" She glanced up, her face streaked. "What did he

say?"

"He must have known there was danger. He sort of asked me to look out
for you."

"Danger?" She looked back at the wreckage, and a new tear trailed down
her left cheek. "I guess we don't really know for sure, do we? Maybe it
was just a fuel tank rupture, or . . ."

"You don't believe that."

"No." The tears, abruptly, were gone. "Matsuo Noda just took away the
one . . . Matt, I'm going to kill him."

It was a sentiment I shared in buckets. The question was merely how.
Medieval torture seemed too kind. I started to say something inane, and
then, finally, the shocking truth landed with the force of that last
explosion.

"Tam, that was supposed to be us." I was gazing at the flames, watching
talons of metal contort in the heat. "Noda thought we were going to be
on that copter."

"My God, of course."

"We've got to get out of here. Now. There's nothing anybody can do for
Ken."

"I'm not leaving till I've settled the score."

"Be reasonable. There's no way we can do it here. This is Noda's turf."
I was urging her to her feet. "We'll find a way. All I ask is that he
know we were the ones who did him in."

"But how can we just leave?"

"What else are we supposed to do? There's nothing left." I tried to
take her hand. "Come on."

She finally relented and, with one last tearful stare, turned to follow
me back to the car. By then a crowd of technicians was surging in
around us.

Ken's blue Toyota was still running. Without a word she buckled in,
shoved the stick into gear, and turned for the exit, whereupon she
barely avoided colliding with the first racing fire engine.

"Look, are you okay? I can drive if you . . ."

"Matt, don't say anything more, please." The tears had vanished. "Can I
just think for a while? Just give me some quiet to think." She was
gripping the wheel with raw anger. "Please."

"You've got it."

By the time we reached the highway, she was driving mechanically but
with absolute precision, almost as though tragedy had somehow sharpened
her reflexes, her logical processes.

It's a curious thing, but different people respond differently to
disaster, and Tam was one of those rare few who become harder, not
softer. I could see it in her eyes. As the minutes ticked by, and we
reached the packed thoroughfare that would take us south, it even got
to be a little unsettling. What in hell was going through her head?

Finally, after about an hour of bumper-to-bumper freeways, I couldn't
take the silence any more. Without asking anybody's permission, I
reached over and clicked on the radio. It was set for a classical
station, the music Chopin. Was this Ken's regular fare? I wondered. Was
he a romantic at heart or a classicist? Guess I'd never know . . .
that, or much of anything else about him. Which thought brought with it
a renewed sadness. Kenji Asano was a man of the East who was as much of
the West as anybody I'd ever met in Japan. I'd wanted him for a friend.

When you get to be my age, you don't make too many new friends, not
real ones. After forty, it's acquaintances. The roots of true
friendship extend so deep that there's never really time to plant them
if you start too late. Maybe it's because there's always a part
missing, that shared experience of being young and crazy and broke.
Those times back when you both still believed anything was possible.
New friends can't begin sentences with "Remember that weekend before
you were married when we got drunk and . . ." Getting old is tough, and
that's one of the toughest parts. But somehow I felt, with Ken, that
I'd known him forever. Could be that's absurd, but I really did. So
quite apart from the tragedy of his death, I felt cruelly robbed. It
sounds selfish, maybe, but it's the truth. A sad but true truth.

I was still thinking those thoughts when the four-o'clock newscast came
on. For a moment neither of us noticed, but then Tam snapped alert and
turned up the volume. The report was opening with a live remote from
Tsukuba Science City. I couldn't really follow very well, but she
realized that and began to translate as it went along.

". . . was the first tragedy of its kind for the ministry, and there
are widespread calls for an official inquiry. Dr. Kenji Asano,
nationally known director of The Institute for New Generation Computer
Technology, died today here at Tsukuba Science City when a MITI
helicopter, an Aerospatiale Twin Dauphin, crashed due to a malfunction.
No cause has yet been ascertained for the accident, which also took the
life of the pilot, Yuri Hachiro, a MITI veteran with fifteen years of
service. The condition of the wreckage has made it impossible to
determine how many other passengers may have been on board, although
MITI sources report that two visiting American scientists are also
thought to have been traveling with Dr. Asano. Their names are being
withheld by the ministry at this time, pending the completion of a full
investigation. . . .

Next came an interview with a MITI official, after which the reporter
offered a wrap-up.

". . . believe Dr. Asano's death represents a significant blow to
several vital sectors of MITI's computer race with America. However,
the vice minister has assured NHK that MITI's research effort will
redouble its commitment to . . ."

Tam clicked it off. "Two birds with one stone."

"What?"

"Matt, by bringing down the 'copter with all three of us in it, he was
planning to stop MITI and us both. Now he may think he did."

"You're right." I looked at her, and finally understood the real import
of the crash. "Which means we're now officially dead. If nobody else
knows we weren't on that chopper, why would Noda?"

She didn't answer for a long moment. Finally she said, "Maybe that
gives us the time we'll need."

"Time to nail him."

"Right. I've been thinking. About what it all means."

"Noda's play?"

"Not just that. I'm talking about Japan. Everything. You know, this
country could lead the world someday, maybe even now, if it wanted. It
has the finest schools, the most disciplined people; it's not hung up
on a lot of 'superpower' male-macho bullshit. It could be a beacon in
the dark, a force for good. But what has Noda done? He's turned it all
upside down. He's exploited the noble things about Japan for his own
selfish ends. Greed and power."

"Lucifer, the fallen angel. Who walked out on the Kingdom?"

"I guess so. But I'm also thinking about what he did to me. He
exploited the fact I was part Japanese, that I understand the potential
this country has. He made me think that's what I would be helping him
realize. But all along he intended to pervert it. He's perverted us,
Matthew. Both of us. Perverted us and used us. And now that we're no
longer needed, he's tried to kill us."

"High time we evened things out."

"Damned right. I learned a lot when I lived here. About the Japanese
mind. And you understand legal tactics. Swordsmanship. I think we're
ready."

"Ready?"

"To turn our knowledge against him."

"Start probing for the niche in his armor?"

"No. There's no time for that." She was silent for a moment, as though
preparing her words. "We've got to just sink him. Obliterate Dai Nippon
totally. And with it Matsuo Noda."

"You mean . . . go public about the sword? The problem with that is . .
."

"Exactly. Everything's destroyed. So why not forget about the sword for
a while? Whatever you know about it, at this point that's just your
word against his. I mean we have to bring the whole thing down."

"Tam, we're talking billions of dollars. This could take a while. That
number is a little hard to argue with."

"But what if that's both his strength and his weakness." She glanced
over at me. "Look, I've been thinking about what we might try. Maybe
there is a way."

"To assault him on the money front?"

"Right, but we'll need your friend Bill Henderson. Think he'd help?"

I nodded. "If you want him, I'll see that he pitches in."

"Good." She turned her eyes back to the road. "Matt, I'm

Fujiwara. Did I ever tell you that? And a Fujiwara's duty is to protect
the emperor of Japan. For a thousand years it's been their job."

She'd cracked. Begun talking gibberish. "What's that got to do with--?"

"Noda thinks he's going to exploit the Emperor. Well, he's got a big
surprise in store. I am now going to use Dai Nippon to destroy him and
then drive a stake into DNI's heart. Matthew, I'm going to make Matsuo
Noda's billions just disappear."

"That's impossible."

"Watch me."



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE


Guess Tam's Shinto _kami _were on our side, since we made it through
Narita Airport with no hassles; or maybe being dead keeps you off
anybody's hit list. Now that MlTI was determined not to release our
names until they located our remains, we looked to be in limbo as far
as Matsuo Noda and Dai Nippon were concerned. Given the fact the
chopper had been demolished and then burned down to metal, nobody knew
anything. Yet.

The scenario Tam laid out on the 747 flying back, while we drank a lot
of airline cognac in the upstairs lounge, was destined to be yet
another first in the annals of American finance, one way or the other.
If we bungled it--and lived to face the consequences--would we end up
like those grim-faced executives you see being hustled into the federal
courthouse downtown, flanked by G-men in cheap trench coats? Later,
eyeing the network cameras, we'd have to smile bravely and declare that
American justice, in which we had full confidence, would surely
vindicate us after all the facts, etc.

To go with her play meant we were headed either for the history books
or jail, or both. But we would definitely need

Henderson and his "Georgia Mafia." My questions were actually pretty
simple: (1) Could it be done, and if so, (2) how and how fast?

We got back Monday, the day before New Year's, and the first person I
called after Amy was Henderson, casually mentioning that something
potentially very disrupting to the Street was in the works.

"Bill, fasten your seat belt. Bumpy weather ahead."

That captured his attention in a flash. What in hell, he inquired, was
I talking about?

"We need to get together, tonight." I continued.

"Where?"

"How about your place? Matter of fact, there's a real question just
now, at least in Japan, concerning whether Tam and I are actually
alive."

"Walton, what in God's name is going on?"

"In the fullness of time, friend, all things will be known. Now we see
as through a glass darkly . . . well, actually we're seeing through the
smudgy windows of the Plaza, suite three twenty-five, where we're
presently holed up. But we've got to stay low profile for a few more
days."

"Whatever you say," he replied, still puzzled. "Then how about dropping
by here tonight for a quick one, and then afterward we can all mosey
over to Mortimer's on Lex for a quick bite?"

"Okay. As long as we go late. I want to miss the happy-hour crowd."

This did not please him, but he agreed. My suspicions were he wanted to
use the occasion to reconnoiter the glittery, jet-set ladies at the
bar. Henderson, whose style and drawl undoubtedly distinguished him
from the B-school competition there like a white-maned palomino in a
herd of draft horses (investment drones who wore a beeper on their belt
and used "bottom-line" as a verb), surely found the place a fertile
hunting ground. Mortimer's was custom-made for his idiosyncratic style.

About nine that evening Tam and I slipped out of the Plaza's Fifty-
ninth Street entrance and headed up Fifth Avenue toward Bill's. He was
headquartered in one of those solid, granite-faced buildings near the
Metropolitan that are constructed like small fortresses--presumably so
New York's upper one tenth of one percent can repel the long-feared
assault of the homeless hordes at their feet. In the lobby, Henderson
vouched for us over the TV intercom, after which we were given a visual
search by the doorman, his uniform a hybrid of Gilbert & Sullivan and
crypto-Nazi, and shown the elevator.

A quick doorbell punch and the man from Georgia greeted us, Scotch in
hand. His little pied-a-terre was about three thousand square feet of
knee-deep carpets, Old Masters (I loved the Cezanne and the Braque),
and masculine leather furniture. A padded wet bar, complete with mirror
and a bank of computer monitors--for convenient stock action--stretched
across one side of the living room, while the sliding glass doors
opposite faced onto a balcony that seemed suspended in midair over
Central Park. While Tam, with her designer's eye, was complimenting him
politely on the understated elegance of his Italian wallpaper, French
art, and English furniture, I tried not to remember all those early
years back in New Haven when his idea of decor was a feed-store
calendar featuring a bluetick hound.

Although the balcony doors were open, the living room still had the
acrid ambience of a three-day-old ashtray. He poured us a drink from a
half-gallon of Glenfiddich on the bar, gestured us toward the couch,
and offered Havana cigars from a humidifier. I took him up on it, out
of olfactory self-defense.

"So tell me, ladies and gents, what's the latest?" He settled  himself
in the leather armchair and plopped his boots onto an antique ottoman.
"How're the Jap assault forces doing these days? They gonna take over
the Pentagon next?"

"Not that we've heard." I was twisting my Havana against the match.
"Though it might reduce procurement costs on toilet seats and ashtrays
if they did."

Henderson sipped at his drink, then his tone heavied up. "Who are we
kidding, friends. My considered reading of the situation is your boys
on Third Avenue are unstoppable. They can do whatever they damn well
please from here on out."

"That's not necessarily in everybody's best interest, Bill." I strolled
over to look down at the park. "Got any new thoughts?"

"Can't say as I do. Our IBM play didn't get to first base; Noda saw us
coming a mile away. Thank God I didn't get in deep enough to get hurt."
He leaned back. "What makes it so damned frustrating is the market's
tickled as a pig in shit. Ain't nobody too interested in dissuading
your friends from buying up everything in sight. Street's never seen
anything like this kind of bucks before. It's a whole new ball game
downtown."

"That's right, Bill," I mused aloud. "The question is, whose ball game
is it?" Tam still hadn't said anything.

"Damned good question. What happens when foreigners start owning your
tangible assets? The answer, friend, is they end up owning _you_."

"Henderson, all that could be about to change."

"Says who?" He leaned back. "Looks to me like Noda's going all the
way."

"Bill, let's talk one of those hypothetical scenarios you like so much.
What if Dai Nippon suddenly had a change of plans? Switched totally?
And instead of buying, they started selling?"

That pulled him up short. He even set down his glass. "Come again?"

"Call it a hypothetical proposition. I'm asking what would happen on
the Street if Dai Nippon decided, unannounced, to make a significant
alteration in its portfolio? All of a sudden started divesting?
Massively."

"When'd this happen!" He squinted. "How much action we looking at?"

I didn't want to say it for fear he might need CPR for his heart.
Finally Tam set down her drink and answered him. "All of it."

"Christ." He went pale. "What's that add up to, total?"

"We figure it'd run to several hundred billion," I answered.

He sat there in confusion. "Over what kind of time period?"

"That's part of the reason we wanted to see you. If, strictly as a
hypothesis, they were to do something like that, as fast as possible,
how long would it take? Just throw your hat at the number, wild guess."

"Time, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"Well, let's look at it a second here. I'd guesstimate that all the
exchanges together--Big Board, American, Merc, CBOT, NASDAQ, Pacific,
the rest--probably have a dollar volume upwards of . . . how many
billions a day? Say twenty billion, easy, maybe more, the way volume's
climbing. But that figure's purely hypothetical. If Dai Nippon dumped
all those securities on the table at once, the value of their portfolio
would go to hell."

I glanced at Tam.

"That's how we see it too," she said. And nothing more.

"What are you two suggesting?" He was visibly rattled. "Noda'd never
pull anything that crazy."

"Bill, with all due respect, let's proceed one step at a time here with
this hypothesis," I went on. "Assuming, just for purposes of
discussion, he did decide to do something like that, unload everything,
what's the fastest way?"

"Hell, I'd have to think."

"Come on, man. Financial derring-do is your special trade," I pressed
him. "What if DNI's mainframe was used to set up a global trading
network? Began dumping worldwide?"

"Well, that'd probably be the quickest approach." He was slowly coming
awake. "Jesus Christ! It's not Noda we're talking about." He looked at
me, then at Tam. "It's you. You're going to try and . . ."

"Possibly."

"Then we sure as hell are talking theory, 'cause you'd never be able to
do anything like that without Noda's gettin' wind of it."

"Henderson, as usual you're not listening. Plausibility is not the
topic under discussion. Right now we're looking at the impact."

"Well, you'd damned well better start with some plausibility." He
settled back. "Say you could get around Noda. The next problem is, the
minute word hits the Street DNI's dumping, all hell's liable to break
loose. It'd be front page. And first thing you know, the market's going
to be headed the wrong way. If you've got a heavy block of shares you
want to divest, you damn well do it on the QT, 'cause its price can
start to nosedive. Folks tend to figure you know something they don't.
The Street's about ninety percent psychology and ten percent reality .
. . if that much."

"Just concentrate on the technical part, Henderson."

"Well, friends, any way you cut it, we're talking what I'd call a very
dubious proposition. Those Jap institutions would lose their shirt if
DNI dumped all at once." He exhaled quietly. "You start rolling
billions and billions in Japanese money, how you plan on keeping the
thing from blowing sky-high? You'd have Nips climbing all over your ass
in ten minutes flat, you tried something like that."

"Henderson, relax. What if we did it anonymously? Like I said. Used the
DNI mainframe, funneled orders through accounts everywhere, dummy
accounts in banks all over the place? Wouldn't that give us some elbow
room?"

"Maybe, maybe. If you played it right. I'd guess a few wise guy
analysts would probably sniff something in the wind, but nobody'd have
a handle on the real action, at least not for a while. Things might
stay cool temporarily."

"Are you saying that, in theory, the market side is doable, at least
initially?" Tam pressed him.

"I'm just guessing it's vaguely conceivable." He got up to freshen his
drink. "Be that as it may, though, the real problem is the Japanese
end. I'd guess the shit's going to be all over the fan in Tokyo the
minute you start selling. Those pension funds are not going to roll
over and let you wreck their portfolio."

"Bill"--I spoke up--"they're not going to be able to stop us. Count on
it. DNI holds the stock as trustee. Noda's rules. Ironclad power of
attorney."

"So?"

"So," I said very carefully, "we are going to take over Dai Nippon."

"What the hell are you talking about!"

We told him. The Rambo part.

"Jeezus!" He stared at the two of us. "What you're proposing is a major
felony. I could get accessory and five years for just listening to
this."

"Who's going to file charges?"

"How about Mr. Matsuo Noda for starters?"

"Bill, we just happen to have a little leverage with Mr. Noda-san at
the moment. The minute he finds out we're still alive--"

"You'd damned well better, or you could be looking at a long interlude
of pastoral delights up at the Danbury country club." He was still
dumbstruck. Finally he grinned. "After parole, though, you could
probably sell your memoirs to Newsweek for a couple of million and land
a guest slot on Carson."

There was a long pause as silence filled the room, broken only by the
distant sound of a siren from the street below. For a minute I had the
paranoid fantasy it was the first wave of the police SWAT team heading
downtown to shoot it out with us.

Finally Bill turned back and fixed me with a questioning look. "Are you
really serious about this asshole idea?"

"It's not without appeal."

"Walton, you dumb fuck, do this and you'll never work in this town
again."

"I'm well aware of that."

"Nobody'd hire you to fight a dog summons, let alone a takeover." Bill
turned to Tam. "Talk sense to this man."

"It was my idea."

"You're both crazy." He walked over to the bar and poured some more
Scotch into his glass. "But what the hell. I've seen enough to know
we'd damned sure better start taking this country back into our own
hands one way or another."

"So you'll help?" She was watching him like a hawk.

"Well, now, what's life for, gentle lady"--he grinned--"except to kick
ass now and again. Somebody's got to throw a monkey wrench into Noda's
operation. If you think you can do it, then count me in. If nothing
else, maybe we can cause a few waves down on the Potomac."

What am I hearing? I found myself wondering. Dr. William J. Henderson,
capitalism's pillar of sober reappraisal, entertaining a scenario
straight from a CIA handbook?

Of course, Bill still hadn't heard the second half of the play.

"Fine, we could use your help on the setup." I glanced at the row of
CRT screens behind the bar. "First there's the matter of getting
control of DNI's supercomputer, and then we'll need somebody with
trading experience. Is there any chance you could bring in one of your
boys to oversee that end?"

"How do you figure on running it?"

"I'd guess our best shot is to stay off-exchange as much as possible.
Use Jeffries, third-market outfits like that. And also keep the money
offshore, international, with a lot of separate bank connections to
handle the transfers. Maybe also float some of the interim liquidity in
overnight paper to cover our tracks, just so we can generally keep the
lid on everything as long as we can."

"Then it so happens one of my boys might just fill our bill. That's his
thing. He operates freelance now, but he's good. Damned good. Trouble
is, he knows it, and he don't come cheap anymore."

"I think we can cover a few consulting fees. Can he keep his mouth
shut?"

"If he couldn't, we'd both probably be in jail by now." He drained his
glass. "Though remember, you'll be moving a lot of bucks, and there are
folks who keep track of such things. But I know a few smokescreens
that'll hold the SEC and that crowd at arm's length for a little." He
looked at me for a second, his face turning quizzical. "What was that
you said just now? About parking the money overnight? What are you
going to do with it after that?"

"You're getting ahead of things," Tam replied calmly.

"Bill, why don't we head on over to Mortimer's?" I looked out at the
park one last time. "You may need a stiff drink for the rest of this."

"Jesus, I'm dealing with maniacs." He got up and headed for his coat.
"Let's move it."



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


Bushido. Take it apart, _bu-shi-do_, and you have "military- knight-
ways," the rules of chivalry that governed every moment of a samurai's
existence. This code of honor of the warrior class, this noblesse
oblige, was also known as 'the way of the sword.' For a samurai the
sword was a sacred icon, an emblem of strength and inner resolve.
Casual handling was unheard of. You never stepped over a sword, you
never treated it with insouciance or irreverence. It was an extension
of your character. A samurai regarded his _katana_ as the symbol of his
caste: a weapon, yes, but also a constant reminder of who he was, his
obligations as well as his rights.

Which was why I needed the prize of my collection in hand when we
entered our final battle with Dai Nippon. I wanted to face Matsuo Noda
with classic dignity, with the Japanese honor he had scorned, to let
him know he had a worthy opponent, one who understood the meaning of
_bushido_. I also wanted in that process to stick those DNI guards'
Uzis up their ass. I'd be needing a _katana_.

Our meeting with Henderson was Monday night. Tuesday morning we all
buckled down and began working around the clock, each of us handling a
separate area, Tam called in some favors with the head of the NYU
computer center and adapted an off-the-shelf program for stock
transactions to suit our unique requirements. She then booked time and
scheduled a few debugging runs. In the meantime Henderson was taking
care of our banking preparations, opening a string of accounts, mostly
offshore where we could move with comparative anonymity. Also, we all
got together at his place a couple of times and blocked out exactly
what we wanted to unload first, names and dates.

While Tam and Henderson were setting up the financial end, the
electronics were my responsibility. I was on the phone all day Tuesday
knocking heads with Artie Wilson, an old friend who operated a maritime
radio business down on the island of St. Thomas. Together we assembled
a piece of gear needed to address one of the essential telemetry
elements, and Wednesday night he took his boat over to St. Croix to
install it.

I think I've already mentioned the marvelous Caribbean beach house that
had practically fallen into my and Joanna's hands a few years back. It
also sported, as do a lot of island places, a TV satellite dish, and it
so happens this one was massive, a twenty-footer. Now, what is not
commonly appreciated is that those concave parabolas can be used to
broadcast as well as receive.

Artie and a couple of his cronies worked all Wednesday night and got it
rigged the way I wanted it, including a deadeye bead on the commercial
satellite currently being used by DNI for proprietary communications
with Noda's Kyoto office. I figured it like this: if "Captain Midnight"
could override Home Box Office's satellite network using a receiving
station in Florida and broadcast a Bronx cheer to Time-Life, we could
by God knock out DNI's high-security channel for an hour or so. Artie
would be on standby Friday, ready to flip the switch.

Noda was apparently still in Japan, presumably busy throwing obstacles
in MITI's path, or maybe searching for the remains of his silver case.
Let him. We were about to start handling his communications with the
DNI office for him, via a setup of our own devising.

One nice thing about global electronics is that if you get a network
far-flung enough, nobody can trace anything--which was what we were
counting on. After we'd killed Noda's primary communications system, we
intended to substitute some Japanese hardware we'd had installed at
Henderson's--together with a little help from a mutual friend in
Shearson Lehman's Tokyo office. The arrangement was complicated, but it
looked workable on paper. Thing was, though, we'd have to get it right
the first time. No dry runs.

All of which tended to make me uneasy. You don't leave anything to
chance when you're playing our kind of game; you need to have a backup.
This feeling brought to mind an admonition in an old sixteenth-century
text on swordsmanship, the Heiho Kaden Sho, something to the effect
that "you should surprise your opponent once, and then surprise him
again." So, strictly on my own, I went about a bit of _bushido_
lawyering, using that power of attorney Noda gave me back when we
started out to set up a fallback position in case Tam's scheme somehow
failed. This twist, however, I decided to keep under wraps. Nobody
needed to be diverted just then worrying about worst-case scenarios.
That's what corporate counsels are for.

It was the most hectic week of our lives, but by three P.M. Friday we
were ready, assembled at Henderson's place and poised for battle. Using
his new hardware, we got on line to Shearson's Tokyo office, Bill
cashing in a decade of stock tips with a longtime acquaintance. We then
fed him the MITI ID codes we'd picked up from Ken during that ill-fated
episode at the Tsukuba Teleconferencing Center, and he used these to
patch back through to their New York JETRO offices. Finally we got St.
Croix on the phone, holding.

"Time to synchronize everybody's watches." Tam was wearing her usual
designer jeans, a blue silk shirt, and had her DNI flight bag freshly
packed for the long days ahead.

"That thing says 3:28:37." Henderson was watching one of his monitors
behind the bar, now blinking off the seconds.

"Then let's all get ready to set at 3:29," said Tam.

Which we did.

"Okay, time to roll." I punched the speakerphone. The line to St. Croix
was still open.

"Ready, Artie?"

"Say the word, my man," the voice from the box came back. "We got the
watts."

"You on frequency?"

"Loud and clear. Sound like they runnin' some kind of coded
transmission. Don't read."

"Double-check, Artie. We can't mess up. You're on 26RF- 37558JX-10,
right?"

"Yo, my man. Who doin' this?" He bristled. "Think I can't hit nothing
'less it got hair round it?"

"Just nervous up here, okay? Settle down. At three-thirty, exactly
twenty-seven seconds from now, go to transmit."

"No problem."

"Stay on channel, Artie. Don't wipe out The Old Ttme Gospel Hour or
something. We're about to be in enough trouble as it

is."

"You the one 'bout to be up to yo' ass in bad news, frien'. Me, I just
some oyster-shuckin' jive nigger don't know shit."

. . . Except, I found myself thinking, how to make a monkey out of the
U.S. Coast Guard and DEA and God knows who else for ten years. Artie
was the best.

Disconcertingly, I might also add, Artie Wilson had demanded cash in
advance for our job, which didn't exactly reflect a high degree of
confidence in the endeavor. However, there was no way we could test
what we planned to do. This was it.

"You've got fifteen seconds."

"One hand on the switch, boss, other on my--"

"Artie, stay focused--"

"Thing is, jus' hope I remember which one to yank."

"The big one."

"That's what you think, white boy . . . zero. Blast off . . . yooeee,
they gone." Pause, then: "Yep, we pumpin'."

"Got it?"

"Just hit that little birdy with enough RF to light up San Juan. They
eatin' garbage. They decoder up in Apple town's gotta be goin' apeshit.
They can't be readin' no telex, no nothing."

"Okay, keep it cranking." I turned to Tam. "You're on."

"We're already patched through, on hold."

"All the way through Tokyo and back?" It was still a bit dazzling.

"We're going to look just like an auxiliary MITI transmission. All I
have to do is put in the DNI code, then request the connection over to
Third Avenue."

She tapped away on Henderson's keyboard, sending the ID through
Shearson's communications center in Tokyo, then back through JETRO on
Sixth Avenue, from whence it was routed into the communications room at
DNI's Third Avenue offices. Since she was using the standard DNI
transmission format, we would look authentic. Right now, with their
primary satellite channel gone, the JETRO link should be DNI's only
high-security connection to the outside world. She began the
transmission, in Japanese _kana_.

Attention: Eyes only; J. N. Tanaka. Special instructions regarding
operations. Please confirm routine satellite communications channel
currently inoperative.

Moments later the message came back: Confirm communications
malfunction.

Then Tam: Due to technical difficulties with transmitter, weekend
operations terminated. Staff advise alert number, message J9.

That last was DNI's special setup that caused the computer to
automatically dial the home number for all members of the staff, giving
special instructions. Message J9 told everybody not to come in until
further communication. God, was DNI efficient! The mainframe just kept
dialing each number till somebody picked up. It even talked to
answering machines. We figured that would head off most of the next
crew. All we needed was a window of a few minutes between the goings
and comings.

Then a message came back. As Tam began translating for us, though, a
strange look was spreading across her face.

Operations already suspended as of 2:57 NY time per security-link
instructions. Staff leave of absence. Is this confirmation? Repeat. Is
this confirmation?

"What in hell." Henderson stared at Tam, then me. "Whose damned
instructions?"

"Matt, what do you think's going on?" Tarn's fingers were still poised
above the keyboard. "Why on earth would DNI Kyoto order a shutdown
here?"

"That's a big question." One that had no answer. "Better just fake it,
and fast."

"What else can we do?" She revolved back around to the keyboard and
began to type.

Confirmation. What personnel remain?

Back came Tanaka's reply: As instructed, security personnel only.

"Tam, get off the line. This feels wrong."

She wheeled back again. Transmission concluded. Standby for further
instruction.

Tanaka's reply was brief and to the point. A man of few words:
Confirmed.

"Whatever's going on, we've got to get over there." I hit the
speakerphone line again. "Artie, keep them jammed till five oh five.
That should do it. If we're not in by then, we're dead."

"You got it, boss," came back the voice. "Any longer, some gov'ment
honkie's gonna put on a trace. Be our ass. Correction, yo' ass."

"Just pack up your gear and haul out of there. The FCC's the least of
our problems at the moment."

"You the man. Down again soon?"

"Can't rule it out. Take care." I punched off the phone.

Tam was already headed for the door. Downstairs waited the car and
driver we'd hired. No point trying to hail a cab in rush hour,
particularly with so much depending on the next thirty minutes.

"Okay, Bill, keep that Shearson link up. Maybe it'll block anybody else
from reaching DNI's message center." I was putting on my coat. "Where's
that package?"

"Right here." He reached behind the bar and retrieved the one item I
wanted with me when we confronted security. It was nicely wrapped in
brown paper. "Look out for yourself, Walton. I got a few good drinkin'
years left. Be a shame to have to do it all by myself."

"Your guy ready?"

"Says he's on his way. Due here inside fifteen minutes."

Without further farewells we headed for the elevator.

The trip over brought forth various thoughts on what lay immediately
ahead. For some reason I found myself remembering Yukio Mishima, who
once voiced a very perceptive observation on the nature of
swordsmanship. He claimed that the perfect stroke must be guided toward
a void in space, which, at that instant, your opponent's body will
enter. In other words your enemy takes on the shape of that hollow
space you have envisioned, assuming a form precisely identical with it.

How does that happen? It occurs only when both the timing and placement
of a stroke are exactly perfect, when your choice of moment and the
fluidity of your movement catch your opponent unawares. Which means you
must have an intuitive sense of his impending action a fraction of a
second before it becomes known to your, or his, rational mind. The
ability to strike intuitively before your logical processes tell you
your opponent's vulnerable moment has arrived requires a mystical
knowledge unavailable to the left side of the brain, because by the
time that perfect instant becomes known to your conscious mind, it has
already passed.

The point is, if you allow yourself to think before you strike, you
blow it. Which is why one of the primary precepts of _bushido_ is "To
strike when it is right to strike." Not before, not after, not when you
rationally decide the moment has come, but when it is right. That
moment, however, is impossible to anticipate logically. It can only be
sensed intuitively.

My intuition, as we rode the elevator up toward Dai Nippon's center of
operations, was troubled. The offices had been cleared in advance of
our arrival by somebody from DNI's Kyoto operation. We had struck at
the proper void in space, all right, but our opponent had deliberately
created that opening. Things weren't supposed to happen that way.

Then the elevator light showed eleven and the door glided open. We were
there. Before us lay the steel doors of The Kingdom. While Tam gave the
computer a voice ID, I stood to the side readying the surprise I
planned for Noda's security twosome. Off came the brown paper, then the
scabbard, and in my hand gleamed a twelfth-century katana from the
sword-smith who once served the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto. The prize of
my collection. It was, arguably, the most beautiful, sharpest, hardest
piece of steel I had ever seen. With the spirit of the shoguns.

"Ready?" She glanced over as the doors slid open.

"Now."

Awaiting us just inside the first doors were the X-ray and metal
detector, the latter a walk-through arch like you see in airports. Then
past that were the second doors, beyond which were stationed the two
Uzi-packing guards. The detector was set to automatically lock the
second doors if metal was detected on the persons of those passing
through, and the wires leading out of it were encased in an aluminum
tube, attached there on the left. This would have to be fast.

The sword was already up, poised, and as we entered, it flashed. Out
went the electronic box with one clean stroke, the encased wires
severed at the exact point where they exited from the gray metal. There
was no alarm, not a sound. We'd iced it.

Beautiful.

I figured there would be time for exactly two more strokes, but they
had to be right, intuitively perfect. So at that moment I shut down my
rational mind, took a deep breath, and gave my life to Zen. Mental
autopilot.

The connecting doors slid open, and there stood the guards. We'd caught
them both flat-footed. So far, so good. Now the sword . . .

Yukio Mishima, whom I mentioned earlier, once asserted that opposites
brought to their logical extremes eventually come to resemble one
another, that life is in fact a great circle. Therefore, whenever
things appear to diverge, they are actually on a path that brings them
back together--an idea of unity captured visually in the image of the
snake swallowing its own tail. According to him there is a realm
wherein the spirit and the flesh, the sensual and the rational, the yin
and yang, all join. But to achieve this ultimate convergence you must
probe the edge, take your body and mind to the farthest limits.

I'd been reflecting considerably on what this meant to us. Noda's two
heavies personified brute physicality, the body triumphant; Tam and I
were meeting them with the power of the mind and, I hoped, finely honed
intuition. Whereas these may seem the farthest of opposites, as with
the symbol of the snake, they merged at their extremities. They became
one. I knew it and the two startled guys now staring at us understood
it as well. Mind and body were about to intersect. The circle had
joined.

Their Uzis--about two feet long, black, heavy clip, metal stock--were
hanging loosely from shoulder straps several inches away from their
hands. I saw them both reach for the grip, but that sight didn't really
register. My cognitive processes were already shut down.

While the first man's left-hemisphere neurons were telling his right
hand to reach downward, the sword was already moving, milliseconds
ahead. It caught the gun's heavy leather strap, parting it like paper,
and the Uzi dropped, just eluding his fingers. He stood naked.

That was all for him and he immediately knew it. If you're looking at a
razor-sharp _katana_, you don't get a fallback try. However, the second
guard, dark eyebrows and bald head, now had time on his side. Up came
the automatic, one-handed.

Right here let me say you've got to admire his pluck. If I'd been
staring at a four-foot katana that could have bisected me like a
noodle, I might have elected to pass. But he'd weighed the odds and
concluded he had a chance. Again, though, his rationality bought us
time. The neurons firing in his brain were setting in motion a sequence
of logic. He was thinking.

The sword wasn't. My blank mind was centered on the void, the place
where the Uzi would be when it was leveled at my chest. The overhead
stroke caught it just where intuition said it would be, point-blank,
his finger a millimeter from the trigger.

Cheap Israeli steel. The eight-hundred-year-old katana of Yoritomo
Minamoto's swordsmith parted the Uzi's perforated black barrel like
Hotel Bar butter, bifurcated it into identical slices. Guard number two
just grunted as it clattered to the floor.

By my reckoning we'd been in the inner chamber for about three quarters
of a second, but Noda's two human mountains were now standing there
holding nothing but time in their hands. Nobody had to draw them a
picture. The game was over. _Bushido_.

I motioned Tam toward the first guard's weapon.

"Matthew . . ." She hesitated a moment, then snapped into action. "You
weren't kidding about that sword. I never realized--"

"Let's go."

"Right." She now had the one remaining automatic. The other was no
longer usable. Didn't matter. One was all we needed.

We now had to kill the automatic ID on the outer door and put it on
manual. Otherwise the two guards upstairs might come calling. While Tam
stood there with the Uzi, I went back out and yanked the wires that
hooked the voice reader to the computer. There was probably a
scientific way to turn it off, but who had time for science? Besides,
just then my veins were still pumping pure adrenaline. Facing the
business end of an Uzi, even for a fleeting instant, is no way to begin
an evening.

Tam ordered the guards to open the last door and in we marched. Tanaka
was standing outside his office, his dark eyes glazed, his bristle-
covered skull rosy with shock. He turned even redder when he saw the
_katana_. Nobody had to tell him what it could do.

"Mr. Walton, why are you here?"

"We're about to undertake some corporate restructuring."

Tam proceeded to herd Tanaka and the guards into Noda's office, pausing
just long enough to kill the phone wires. As he began to recover, he
commenced sputtering about legal action and jail and general hellfire.
Who cared? As of this moment, the offices and computer of Dai Nippon,
International belonged to us.

Henderson was informed of our progress when his phone rang at exactly
4:48 P.M. He arrived, along with his Georgia Mafia computer expert, at
5:17, and Tam met them at the security doors.

I wasn't actually there to welcome them aboard, since I was guarding
Tanaka just then and engaged in a small one-on-one with the man,
explaining to him that Matsuo Noda's ass was ours. The president of Dai
Nippon, I advised, was a few short days away from becoming everybody's
lead story, featured as the Japanese executive who'd (apparently)
rebelled against his homeland. Noda was no stranger to headlines, of
course, but he preferred to engineer them himself, so this definitely
wasn't going to be his style. Matsuo Noda was, albeit unwillingly,
about to make history. As I broke this news to Dai Nippon's chief of
New York operations, I sensed he was definitely less than enthusiastic
about the prospect. Well, he'd have a few days to get used to the idea,
since nobody was going to enter or leave the eleventh floor for a
while.

It was still a bit difficult to believe what had happened. Or even
more, what was next. But sometimes reality can have a way of
outstripping your wildest powers of imagination--a Space Shuttle
explodes, a nuclear meltdown in the Ukraine, ten-dollar oil, all of it
too farfetched to make credible fiction. It could only exist in the
realm of the real.

We were about to start moving billions and billions of dollars, fast.
And since we didn't know how long we could continue before Matsuo Noda
figured out a way to stop us, we were going to adhere to a schedule
that covered the most vital sectors first--those outfits whose R&D Tam
considered strategic to America's future technological leadership. Our
goal for the first day was five billion, worldwide.

Thus the countdown began. Henderson's financial artist loaded Tam's new
program tape onto DNI's big NEC supercomputer and cranked up. We had
roughly sixty hours till the opening bell on Monday.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


"It's the worst of times, buddy, and the best of times. Whatever dude
once said that didn't know the half of it. He oughta be around now to
check out the Street."

That was Henderson's Georgia Mafia co-conspirator, an irritatingly smug
young man with red hair and acne who dressed entirely in white, right
down to his skinny Italian tie. We were told he went by the handle of
Jim Bob. As he meditated upon Wall Street's macroeconomic
incongruities, he punched a Willie Nelson tape into his boom box and
popped a Coors, pregame warm-up for programming a full-scale assault on
the U.S. securities markets.

Jim Bob allowed as how he'd arrived in the Big Apple four years earlier
with a cardboard suitcase, a finance degree from Georgia Tech, and a
larger than regulation endowment of natural cunning. After a couple of
years' toil in Henderson's quasi-legal vineyards, he'd gone out on his
own, whereupon he'd parlayed his winnings with Bill and the remnants of
a baseball scholarship into what was now a high six-figure "haircut,"
the name options players use for their grubstake. The way he figured
it, he was just hitting his stride.

How, I inquired at one point during that long weekend, had he managed
it?

"Chum, it's idiot simple. You buy into fear, sell into greed, and fuck
fundamentals. Main thing is, if something makes sense, don't do it.
America's in the all-time shit, and Wall Street's oblivious. It's like
everybody's bidding up standing room on the Tttanic. But who cares? You
play options like I do and all you have to worry about is not getting
stupider than the herd. Which ain't necessarily much of a trick."

Stock options, he went on to assert, were like having a credit card in
a whorehouse--a ton of action for what amounted to tip money up front.
No wonder Las Vegas was in trouble, when Wall Street was beckoning our
high rollers to take odds on the direction of the market. Only widows
and orphans, he observed, bought actual securities anymore. That action
was reserved for the halt and lame.

While country singers twanged beer hall soliloquies on the general
increase in faithless women, Jim Bob coded in the brokerage houses and
offshore banks we'd be using, the catalog of stocks in the DNI
portfolio, and our sequence of transactions.

As noted earlier, the financial setup had been handled by Henderson and
friends. Using his connections, he'd opened accounts for hundreds of
dummy corporations in about two dozen offshore banks. He stuck to the
usual no-questions-asked operations like Banca della Svizzera Italiana
and Bank Leu in the Bahamas--the latter a Swiss-owned Nassau laundry
that had, in years past, reportedly destroyed records and lied to the
Securities and Exchange Commission as a favor to certain of America's
more inventive inside traders.

Since the volume of money to be moved was staggering, it would all be
handled by sophisticated telecommunications networks. We would pass it
through the anonymous accounts we'd established, accessed both ways by
computer, and it would never be touched by human hands. DNI's cash
would flash in and out with total cover. Added to that, anybody who
tried to trace us would first have to break through a traditional Swiss
stone wall.

To dump the stock we were planning to exploit fully the new
"globalization" of the financial scene. Now that the National
Association of Securities Dealers had struck a deal with the London and
Tokyo stock exchanges to swap price quotes, worldwide market makers
were buying and selling American securities around the clock. Plenty of
active market-making was happening off the exchange floors as well, at
places like Jeffries out on the coast, which had recently handled a
massive Canadian takeover of an American company overnight, entirely
off-exchange. With all the avenues available it was almost impossible
to track the movement in a given issue. DNI's computers would be
routing sell orders to brokerage firms around the globe, a block here,
a block there, none of them in quantities that would raise eyebrows.

Maybe I also should add that none of the "corporations" Henderson had
set up would be allowed to show a profit, which would simplify Treasury
Department reporting requirements. As a matter of fact, before we were
through, DNI was going to lose billions. But it would all be done
legally, in accordance with SEC regs. It would also lead to a world
financial flap of notable proportions. Nobody would ever take Noda's
money for granted again.

While Tam went over her new program with Jim Bob, pointing out her
special features, Henderson and I found ourselves at reasonably loose
ends. We sat around drinking green tea (God, how I came to hate that
stuff) and puzzling how we'd all managed to get into such a mess. The
major plus, however, was that we finally had Matsuo Noda by the short
and curlies.

Or so we hoped. The problem was, he'd been a player longer than any of
us, and he'd already demonstrated plenty of stamina. How would he
counterattack? The question wasn't if, it was when. For the moment,
though, we seemed to be on our way with clear sailing; in fact, the
communications link with Kyoto was entirely empty. Tanaka also had
clammed up, refusing to talk--beyond a rather firm prediction that our
wholesale divestiture of DNI's assets was an insane act doomed to
failure. I might also add he didn't appear nearly as concerned as the
circumstances would seem to merit. In fact, he was so complacent I
started getting a little uneasy. Finally Bill and I ran his prediction
past young Jim Bob. Could somebody get through to Tam's program and
devise a way to shut us down?

Henderson's increasingly glassy-eyed protege took out enough time from
popping "uppers" and swilling Coors to assure us to the contrary.

"Hell, no way you could stop what we're settin' up here. We got
ourselves what you call a closed system. Everything's

going to be handled by that green-eyed monster over there in the
corner. We got these numbered brokerage accounts all over the place.
Zip, in go the sell orders; zap, out go confirmations. And since none
of the cash sits around, our bank accounts are all just gonna churn.
We'll have billions of buckaroos rollin' at the speed of light. Ain't
nobody gonna be able to get a bead on the action, take my word for it."

Our computer-generated buying and selling, he went on to declare, was
conveniently similar in appearance to the "program" trading of the big
institutional investors, the arbitrage players who routinely sold
millions of dollars of securities in minutes using computers. Thanks to
them, the market these days had been conditioned to accept huge,
unaccountable trades as part of the territory. If somebody dumped
massive blocks of stock unexpectedly, it could mean anything--such as,
the spread between those stocks' prices and some "index future" had
gotten momentarily out of sync. Shuffling securities like poker chips
was the name of the game on the Street these days, so nobody would
really notice or care. The turnover we'd be generating would merely
suggest to the market that various investment-house arbitrage desks
were unwinding positions.

What the heck, I said to Tam, maybe we could unload the better part of
DNI's holdings before Noda struck back. The real key to our attack on
Dai Nippon, however, depended on what happened to that cash after we
turned it around. When I mentioned that, she just crossed her fingers.

By late Sunday night the DNI offices were a clutter of empty Chinese
take-out containers, Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes, and computer
printouts. However, Jim Bob claimed the system looked like a go. He'd
completed a long sequence of test runs, and he was predicting he could
probably swing at least four billion the first day, something in the
nature of a warm-up for grander things to come.

Jim Bob, I should say, was fully as efficient as advertised by
Henderson. Even if he was now flying higher than a moon shot, thanks to
all the pills. He worked methodically, carefully analyzing the program
at every step, double-checking the codes, poring over his verification
printouts for obscure glitches. Mainly, though, he kept one unfocused
eye on the clock, saying he always delivered on time. Point of honor.

Thus it was that, when Monday morning rolled around, we

were primed to move on Wall Street. Tam's program was poised inside the
mainframe like some lurking id, ready to be unleashed. We decided to
start modestly, sticking to the exchanges in New York, and only later
in the day expanding outward as we gained firmer footing.

At the stroke of nine-thirty A.M. Jim Bob inaugurated our maiden run
with yet another beer. Henderson and I poured ourselves a bourbon. Tam
even joined us, accepting a respectable shot.

"Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls." Jim Bob shakily peeled back
the tab on his Coors. The screen in front of him focused our attention
down to one small flashing green dot.

"Ignition."

He hit a key on the terminal, and Merrill Lynch got a computerized
"sell" order for ten thousand shares of Texas Instruments. The time was
exactly 9:31.

It was a textbook lift-off. Rows of green numbers began to scroll up
the screen, only to blink and disappear. By God, the thing seemed to be
working. We had just pulled the plug on DNI. All that was left now was
to sit back and watch it sink.

As the morning wore on, Tam fielded phone calls from staffers, always
claiming that Tanaka was not available just then. Of course, we weren't
sure how long we could get away with that excuse, but for now none of
us wanted to set the man free to start jabbering in Japanese on the
phone. On the other hand, we were loosening up a bit on security.
Partly, I guess, because we were all increasingly wrecked, but also
because it seemed to fit the situation. By Monday, Tanaka and his two
retired sumo bone-crushers appeared to have grown resigned, one might
even say philosophical, and I don't mind admitting it bothered me a
lot. Tanaka was watching us destroy Noda's grand design right before
his very eyes, yet he just sat there as though none of it mattered. How
could this be? All he did was busy around brewing tea for everybody.
(Except, of course, for Jim Bob, who stuck to Coors.) However, I was
too tired by then to think much about it.

Around two-thirty Henderson began complaining of a splitting headache
and declared he had to go home and get some rest. I started to protest,
but the man looked half dead. Tam and I weren't much better off, so we
flipped a coin to see who would take the first watch. She won, which
was great by me, since the long hours without sleep were really
starting to unravel my concentration.

To understand what happened next, you have to try and envision the
scene. It was three P.M. and things were going letter perfectly. The
dollars were sailing through the accounts we'd set up and along about
noon we'd even kicked in our buy program.

Yes, buy. That's not a typo. You see, we had to lose billions, not
necessarily a trivial task. Think about it. If you merely want to drop
a few million, all you have to do is just invest in some high-flying
start-up and then sit there till the venture craters. But billions?

That's the part where Tam really showed her mettle (no pun intended).
Look, she said, the Brothers Hunt managed to blow millions by trying to
corner silver, bidding up the price and then seeing it collapse. But
we've got to get rid of some serious money, so why don't we do the same
thing, only with a commodity worth something?

Platinum.

All life's great ideas have an inevitable simplicity. That's right, we
were programmed to sell DNI's stock and buy platinum. From anybody,
anywhere, at any price. We were planning to just swallow the worldwide
commodity markets in the stuff, starting at the NY Merc and ending at
Capetown. Of course, what we were also doing was boosting its price
into the stratosphere--we were even bidding against ourselves through
different brokerage houses. Anything to drive it up. I mean we had a
lot of money to get rid of. We figured that by the time we were
finished, DNI would be the proud owner of a couple of hundred billion
in platinum metal, platinum futures, platinum mining stocks, platinum
storage companies, platinum dealerships, platinum reserves, platinum
investment coins. All of it at a price as high as we could push. I was
betting on two thousand dollars an ounce by Friday.

The nice part was, what central bank was going to step in? Platinum was
strategic, sure, but it wasn't a monetary metal. And if we had to bid
against governments, so much the better. We were playing a drunken
speculator's dream, going all out for the most volatile of all the
world's commodities. After we'd squeezed that scam for every ounce it
was worth, we would deliberately puncture the bubble and let the price
nosedive. We were going to destroy the cancer of Dai Nippon by gorging
Noda's takeover machine with financial poison. The eventual collapse
should wipe out Matsuo Noda totally.

Platinum. I asked Jim Bob to check the waning moments of Monday's spot
market, the latest prices down at the NY Merc, and he reported it had
scooted up about twenty dollars an ounce. A little slow maybe, but then
we were just starting out. I figured it would probably double in a
couple of days.

Such was my fond hope as I drifted off for a nap on my desk. Tam was in
Tanaka's office, half-nodding in her chair, while Jim Bob was sitting
before his monitor, still nourishing himself with beer and colored
pills. I gave him the Uzi and told him to help Tam out by keeping an
eye on Tanaka and the two guards, all now sleeping like a baby. My last
vision was of Jim Bob sitting there, the Uzi draped over his wrinkled
white lap, clicking away at the keyboard.

I slept right through Emma's four-o'clock phone call from my office
downtown. When I awoke around nine P.M. Jim Bob mentioned she'd rung.
No message, he said. Then don't worry about it, I mumbled to myself;
get back to her in the morning.

Tam didn't seem to remember the call, which momentarily troubled me.
Had we both been dozing at the helm? Well, who could blame her? In
spite of my own nap I still felt like hell, so I dragged myself up,
stretched, wandered around the office, drank some more green tea, and
inquired of Jim Bob how things seemed to be proceeding.

"Looking good." He grinned. He was now working Hong Kong and the Asian
exchanges, limbering up the satellites as he flashed our (DNI's) money
around the globe. Anybody heard from Henderson? Not a word, he said in
a tone that seemed disconcertingly pat.

I briefly toyed with heading down to the street and trying to locate an
early "bulldog" Times to see what kind of a splash we were making in
the press, but since Tam was now sound asleep, I figured I'd better
stick to duty.

I vaguely recall stumbling into my office to rummage for an old box of
NoDoz stashed somewhere there in the desk, and thinking how nice it
would be just to lean back in the chair. . . .

A phone was jangling in my ear. As I pulled erect, the clock on my desk
was reading ten-thirty--My God, A.M.--and I felt as if I'd been run over
by an eighteen-wheeler. What the hell was in that green tea Tanaka had
been brewing?

Inside the receiver at my ear was Emma, and what she had to say brought
me awake like an ice-cold shower. In a voice

brimming with triumph, she announced she'd just resigned and I could
consider this official notice thereof. In fact, she was price-shopping
Florida condos this very minute--what did I think of Coral Gables?--and I
was lucky she'd bothered to take out time to inform me of her intended
plans. By Wednesday she expected to be able to loan money to the
Rockefellers, in case they should need a little liquidity on short
notice.

How'd you come by this sudden fortune? I asked. Where, she snapped
back, have you been? The Dow Jones average was about to double, if it
hadn't already. Funny, but the rest of the market was going nowhere.
Oddest thing she'd ever seen. However, it only went to show what she'd
always told me, and if I'd listened to her instead of those smarty-
pants uptown brokers, I'd be rich now too. Stick with the blue chips.
IBM was up thirty percent since yesterday, AT&T was flying, GM was
selling for a price that would make you think they were back in the car
business.

What the hell was she talking about! That's when I noticed a copy of
Tuesday's New York Times lying there on my desk, right next to the
phone. Only at first it didn't seem like the Times. Or maybe Punch
Sulzberger had just been swallowed whole by Rupert Murdoch, because I
hadn't seen a headline that arresting since the Posts immortal "Coed
Jogger Slain in Bed." It was banner, right across the top; the Times'
headline writer was practically orgasmic. But whereas the Post gets off
on mere sex, the good gray Times reserves its libidinous juices for
that ageless aphrodisiac, money.



_New York Stock Exchange Prices Explode

NEW YORK--Volume skyrocketed on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange
yesterday, as buyers for Big Board issues responded worldwide to a
renewed confidence in American industry. Analysts are calling this the
first leg of the Great Bull Market of the 1990s, saying this surge has
been overdue for a decade. Leading the phenomenal rally were a number
of America's foremost corporations. . . .



_I came off my chair like a shot and headed for Tam's office. "Is
anybody following what's going on outside?"

Her face was down on the desk, dark hair tousled across her cheeks. She
looked up and rubbed her eyes, obviously knocked out too. Strange.

"What . . . ?" Her voice was slurred.

"Something's gone crazy," I yelled. "Where's Henderson?"

Then I remembered he wasn't there. However, I did locate Jim Bob easily
enough. He was in Noda's corner office, wideawake and still carrying
our Uzi. Only now there were two of those long black automatics
present, the other lying atop the wide teakwood desk.

One more thing. Seated behind that desk, his silver hair framed by the
sunlight streaming through the wide back windows, was . . . Matsuo
Noda.

The Shogun had arrived.

And with him came the dawn of a new, powerful reality. My drugged mind
was flooded with the ramifications. Matsuo Noda, I now realized, had
been on to us from the start. Once again he had used us. He had been
the one who had emptied the office, the better to lure us in.

But the guards . . .

Noda-san, I bow to a true samurai. A swordsman's swordsman. Of course,
it was as simple as it was elegant. You were testing us, allowing us a
plausible opening, just difficult enough to force us to reveal our true
strategy. The dictum of the masters: "If you want to strike your enemy,
let him try to strike you first. The moment he strikes you, you have
already succeeded in striking him." Pure _bushido_.

Everything up till now had only been feints. What I assumed was the
battle turned out to have merely been staking out terrain, jockeying
for position. At last, though, we were ready for the real engagement.
Trouble was, Matsuo Noda had just secured the high ground.

"Come on in and have yourself a seat, Walton." Jim Bob beckoned toward
the vacant chair as he sipped from a glass of California champagne, its
plastic-looking bottle stationed on the floor beside him. Coors time
was over.

"Jim Bob, what's happening with the market?" I was ignoring Noda for
the moment, trying to get a firmer grasp on the new "prevailing
conditions."

"'Bout what we figured," he replied, his white suit now greasy and
wrinkled. "Yep, looks like we're roughly on schedule."

"It's a relief to know there's a timetable." I finally turned to Noda.
"Wouldn't want this takeover to be half-cocked."

"Mr. Walton, if you would be so kind." He smiled and indicated the
chair. "It would be well for you to join us."

Jim Bob waved me over with his Uzi. "Fact is, we're all about due for a
little show and tell." He glanced up as Tarn entered the doorway. "Be a
good idea if you got up to speed on what we're doing here, too."

"I just scrolled some prices," she said, glaring groggily at Noda, the
morbid realization descending rapidly now. "You don't have to tell me
anything. I know exactly what you're doing."

"What we're doing is, we're pulling this country out of the shit.
That's what we're doing. We're saving this country's ass. Which is more
than anybody else here's doing," Jim Bob continued, satisfaction in his
voice. "How in hell did you ever think you could pull something like
you were trying? Mr. Noda here could squash you all just like a june
bug anytime he gets a mind, take my word for it."

Noda still hadn't amplified the new Dai Nippon scenario, but he didn't
really need to bother.

"Jim Bob, don't spoil the fun and tell me. Let me try to guess." I
glanced over at Noda, then back at him. "He suckered you in with his
'Rescue America' spiel. World peace at a price."

"Well, tell you the truth, the man did buy me lunch."

"I'll bet that's not all he did, you opportunistic son of a bitch."

I examined Noda. "How does it feel to have Japan about to be sole owner
of IBM and AT&T and GM and . . . guess I could just check the
supercomputer out there for the full list."

"Certain strategic corporations." Noda smiled benignly. "It had become
the only meaningful direction to proceed, Mr. Walton. I'm afraid our
other measures were clearly too little, too late."

"Why bother with the small fish, right? If you're going to buy up
American technology, do it right."

"Mr. Walton, we both know it is inevitable. Neither you nor I can alter
the tides of history." He sighed. "Perhaps Japan can provide the
management guidance required to save America's industrial base, but it
cannot be achieved merely by dabbling. Stronger measures, much
stronger, were required. I finally came to see that. The problem was
how to do it without a major psychological disruption of the market and
more Japan bashing. Then by the greatest of good fortune, you solved my
problem for me." He nodded toward Tam. "Your new trading program, Dr.
Richardson, which allowed us to operate anonymously, was ideal. Why not
make use of it? Particularly since Mr. Henderson had the personnel to
render it operational."

While digesting that, I returned my attention to Jim Bob. "Let me guess
some more. Ten to one you bought 'call' options on the Big Board issues
he was planning to take over."

"Well, they were bound to go up." He flashed a reptilian grin as he
adjusted the Uzi, now a bolt of black against his rumpled white suit.
"If you're standing by the road and a gravy bus comes along, what are
you going to do?"

"Terrific. Be a pity for this insider windfall to go to waste. Just
wanted to make double sure you got a piece for yourself."

"Does a bear crap in the woods?" he inquired rhetorically, then tipped
back his head and drained the champagne glass.

"Right. So naturally you bought call options on the Blue Chips, locking
in a cheap price just before Noda's money boosted them into the
clouds."

"Safe and simple. Of course, some traders go for index options, S&P
500*s and indicators like that, but that's always been too airy-fairy
for me. When the market's set to head up, I just buy calls. Heavy
leverage. No risk."

I concurred. "Nothing too abstruse."

"The thing of it is, I'm more comfortable dealing with reality," he
went on. "I like to kick the tires, check under the hood, so that index
crap's not my style. Like I always say, if you've got hold of something
you can't figure out how to drink, drive, or screw, maybe you oughta
ask yourself what you're doing with it."

A pragmatic criterion, I agreed. 'Though it's rather a pity you didn't
cut me in on the play. I could have used the money."

"Walton," he replied, "it downright pains me to have to be the one
breakin' the news to you, but you could have used the money more than
you think. Whose bank balances do you figure I've been using to test
out that platinum program?"

"In the spirit of intellectual curiosity, Jim Bob, does our new system
for blowing capital show promise?"

"From the looks of my early churning, I'd say you got yourself a
winner."

The fucker. How in hell did he get access to my money? I decided to
just ask, whereupon he obligingly explained.

"Well, we're hooked into every bank computer in town." He was
unblinking, a drugged-out zombie. "Account numbers aren't exactly a
state secret, given the right phone call. Same goes for trust funds."

Trust funds?

"Let me be sure I've got this straight. You've also wiped out my
daughter Amy's college money? She's now penniless too?"

"We're close, real close." He reached down and retrieved the bottle,
then sloshed more of the cheap bubbly into his glass. "I'm figuring I
can have everything down to a goose egg by sometime round about . . .
lunch, probably."

I decided then and there I was going to kill him, and Matsuo Noda, with
my own bare hands. The only question was whether to do it at that
moment or later.

"Jim Bob, for the record, you two've just fucked with the wrong guy.
When somebody starts messing with Amy's future, I tend to lose my sense
of proportion."

"Nothing personal, Walton. You just had to be stopped, that's all." He
grinned. "Figured it'd get your attention. Besides, way I see it, this
man here's absolutely right. He's got the only answer that makes any
sense."

"As long as sellout artists like you get rich in the process."

"It's in the grand American tradition, buddy. Enlightened self-
interest, better known as looking out for number one. Everybody else
here's hocking this country's assets to Japan and gettin' rich doing
it. So why not? Besides, we've still got a ways to go. Time to give
you-all a piece of this thing too."

"If we play ball?"

"Exactly."

"You greedy prick." I was considering just strangling him on the spot,
nice and uncomplicated. "Noda's not here for anybody but himself. He's--
"

"That's not the way I see it." He glanced over toward The Man, who was
still silent as a sphinx.

"You wouldn't have the brains to understand even if we told you. But
maybe there's something you can comprehend." I glanced at the metal
grip of the Uzi on Noda's desk. One lightning move and it was in my
hand. "I'm not going to let you do this."

"It's already done, pal." He lifted his own Uzi and leveled it at my
forehead, grinning, his little idea of a joke. "I've got that NEC
mainframe out there programmed for weeks of trading. Billions . . .
Pow!" He jerked the barrel upward, then continued, "Way I've got it
rigged, ain't nobody can turn it off now. We'd just as well all go
fishing."

"Jim Bob, take care with that gun. Somebody might just decide to ram it
down your scrawny throat."

"Ain't gonna be you, buddy." He reached for the champagne bottle again,
no longer grinning.

"Mr. Walton." Finally Noda spoke again. "I assure you this is for the
best. What you two were planning was very ill-considered. Not to
mention that, if I'd actually permitted you to sink Dai Nippon's
capital into some volatile commodity and then manipulate the markets,
you might have given our institutional investors an enormous loss of
confidence in my program. I have a responsibility to make sure that
never happens." He studied Tam. "Dr. Richardson, you especially
disappointed me. You betrayed my trust, something I always find
unforgivable."

"You betrayed my trust." She looked ready to explode. "Lied to me,
exploited me, used me. You perverted everything I had planned--"

"As I've explained, this had become necessary. There was no other way."

"How about Ken, and probably Allan Stern?" she interrupted. "Was taking
their lives 'necessary' too?"

"You have no proof of that," he continued smoothly. "I would further
suggest that too much speculation is not a healthy pursuit, Dr.
Richardson. In the marketplace or in life."

"I'm not speculating."

"As you wish. In any case I think we both realize it is never prudent
to meddle in matters beyond one's concern."

"There's a small detail you may have overlooked, Noda-san," I broke in.
"That bogus sword. What are you planning to do when we blow the
whistle?"

"My timetable for Nipponica is now proceeding on schedule, Mr. Walton."
He glanced at the Uzi on the desk, his voice ice. "Consequently you are
expendable as of this moment."



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT


           _If the swordsman casts aside two thoughts, life and death,
nothing can defeat his mind.



_That was the credo of the formidable warrior-samurai Bokuden, who
lived during the early seventeenth century. Focus on Noda, I told
myself, not on staying alive. What we had to do was overcome him and
the money of Japan by the power of mind. By beating him at his own
game. That was the only way we could win.

As I saw it, we might actually have the advantage. We knew his
strategy, so all we had to do now was move inside his defense
perimeter. In a way we were even closer than he realized. Noda was
obsessed with Nipponica, and a samurai concentrating on his sword is
not able to attack. The thing to remember was rhythm, the beat. We had
to get out of sync with him, disrupt his pacing.

When Tam and I retreated to my office, I noticed that my _katana _was
missing. No surprise, but it didn't really matter. We would be using
the "no sword" technique anyway, moving under his hilt, then going in
for the kill. Jim Bob would be our new weapon.

At the moment Noda's new hatchet man was strolling around the floor in
his dingy white suit, toting his Uzi and monitoring us with an
occasional vacant stare as he watched the terminal's flash. His bumpkin
facade, incidentally, had to be the best acting job I'd seen since the
Royal Shakespeare. He may have been a spaced-out options hustler at
heart, but he could coach Machiavelli on duplicity. A worthy opponent.

"Just hit nine percent of IBM." He glanced at a CRT screen as he ambled
down the row next to my office, swinging the automatic. "Telephone
looks good for twelve percent by

opening bell tomorrow. Good thing we've got a computer and these fake
accounts. Otherwise we might have to cut the SEC in on the news a
little too early."

Well, DNI was nothing if not organized; "global trading" was on a roll.
There would be no way to trace Noda--or to stop him. By the time anybody
realized what was afoot, he'd be well on the way to having us literally
bought out. God knows, Japan had the money.

"Jim Bob," I yelled across. "Mind telling me what the hell it is you
really think you're up to?"

"I'm making history." He grinned and waved his Uzi in the air. "You're
getting to watch the dawn of a new age."

"For your wallet." I beckoned him over. "Tell me something. You didn't
actually sell any of the high-tech stocks on Tam's list after all, did
you?"

"Hell, no." He was still grinning. "All we did was play games a little.
Whenever I sold anything, I just turned around and bought it back a few
minutes later."

"So where's all the money coming from for this big blue chip takeover?"

"We got a whole new financial network in place. Mr. Noda worked it out
with the pension funds over there."

"Well, it seems to me you ought to be doing this thing right. Why think
small? Pick up some more shares of those high-tech issues in the old
portfolio too."

He stared at me with his bloodshot eyes. "How come we'd want to bother
with that?"

"Just thought maybe you'd like to make a score."

"Huh?"

"Besides, down the line it'd probably impress hell out of Noda. The man
admires initiative."

"What was it you said about a score?" He was blinking in erratic
bursts, still flying on uppers.

"Forget it. Just a crazy idea that crossed my mind." I turned and
walked back into the office . . . where Tam was waiting.

"What was that all about?"

"Tam, did you hear what those bastards did?" I was steaming. 'They blew
my daughter's college money."

"I heard."

"Well, it pisses me off like I can't begin to describe."

"I gathered that." She looked at me strangely. "He finally

got to you, didn't he? Noda finally pulled your cork. No more Mr.
Cool."

"You got it, lady."

She continued to study me, and into her eyes crept a kind of affection
I didn't even know they possessed. "Guess that makes two of us, Matt.
He found out how to get to me, and now he's found out the one thing you
care about."

"Guess he did at that."

"Well, now you know how I feel."

"He broke the rules, Tam. That's not part of the game. But do you
understand what this means? Now I'm free to do anything I want. Honor
is out the window."

"This isn't a game."

"You're right. It's a battle. But even battles have rules."

"My God, macho to the end."

"Call it what you want. But I am now going to destroy them both,
totally. Wipe them out. They've given me no choice."

"How exactly do you propose doing that?"

"I made the opening move just now. Next I'm . . . later." I glanced up
to see Jim Bob approaching. He was staring at me, glassy-eyed.

"What was that you were saying a while ago?"

"Don't remember, Jim Bob."

"Something about a score."

"Oh, that. Nothing really."

"Don't start getting cute, Walton." He sighted his Uzi around the
office.

"Nobody screws with you, right?"

"Better believe it, sport."

"Well, I was just wondering, since Noda's tied up at the moment, if you
might want to go ahead and make a little money on the side."

"I'm not doing so bad."

"Fine. Since you're not interested anyway, we can just skip it. No big
deal."

"Hang on a second." His eyes seemed to be trying to focus as he stared
through his gunsights. "What's the play?"

"Merely a wild idea, that's all. I was wondering what would happen if
you bought a few call options on those stocks already in the portfolio,
then boosted the prices on those too?"

"You mean on those high-tech outfits we were supposed to start
selling?"

"Well, the setup's just sitting out there. You've got all that

Japanese pension money and Noda's computer. No reason not to kite those
high-tech issues a little and pick up some pocket change. Fun and games
to while away the time. But then maybe you've already made all you want
to."

"Hey, asshole, there's two things you can't ever get too much of, and
one of them's money." He was rocking mechanically. "Matter of fact,
this action we're generating is driving up the March calls for our new
buys to the point where the price is getting way out of line."

"Had to happen. Everybody else in town has figured out somebody's
driving the market. They're getting on the options bandwagon too,
bidding them up. So why not play a little market shell-game with those
issues already in the portfolio, buy some calls and then kite the price
on them as well? Show Noda a thing or two."

"Kind of stick it to the boss man." He paused.

"Think of it as insurance. Just to make sure you come out of this play
whole. Tell you a secret about Noda. With that guy, you know you've got
a deal when the check clears."

"He's a crafty fucker, grant you."

"You might want to give it some thought. But if you're going to make a
move, it's probably now or never. Be the early bird or forget it."

All this time Tam was looking at me as if I'd gone over the edge. I
began to deeply regret not having filled her in on the fallback
scenario.

The door to Noda's office was now closed, his two guards posted
outside. Guess even a samurai needs some rest and tranquility after
flying halfway around the globe in a chartered Concorde.

"Well, gotta admit it's an idea." Jim Bob continued to weave
unsteadily. His motor mechanisms were now on automatic, along with his
venal corn-pone brain.

"Matt, what in hell are you doing?" Tam was pulling me back into the
office.

"Stay cool. Swordsmanship is like Zen. You can't ever let your mind get
attached to anything. Do that and you're stuck; your mind stays with
the past and makes you neglect what lies ahead. So I figure the best
thing to do here is to adjust to the new 'prevailing conditions.'" I
glanced out at Jim Bob, now just beyond the door and absently humming
some Waylon Jennings tune as he swayed solo.

"Well, I want to know what you're up to."

"Okay, here's the play. While you were setting up your sell-off scheme,
I did some fiddling on my own. Remember back when we started out, I
fast-talked Noda into giving me power of attorney? Well, it finally
paid off. Last week I convened an instant shareholders' meeting for
every company where DNI owns a majority of the stock and personally
voted through a new set of resolutions."

"Mind filling me in on what they were?"

Before I could reply, Jim Bob came dancing in, licking his pale lips.
"Walton, tell you what. Think I'm gonna go for it."

"What?" I looked up.

"That options play. Comes a time you gotta look out for yourself and
fuck everybody."

"That's the kind of thinking made this country what it is today, Jim
Bob. Right on."

"Fuckin' A, baby." He did a quick dance step. "Go for the gold."

"You know, as long as we're at it, how about a little piece of the
action for me too? Nothing big. Just a couple of bucks for old times'
sake."

"Why the hell not!" He let out a whoop as he turned and headed for a
terminal. "Give you sloppy seconds on this one, ace. Just long as I get
first pop."

"Matt, I don't know what you're up to, but I'll kill you if you start
helping him." She looked like she would too.

"You know, you once said you wanted to drive a stake into DNI's heart."
I turned back. "Well, this is your chance. But we've got to get moving
and do it before Noda catches on."

Whereupon we joined Jim Bob in front of his monitor. He was now busy
pulling up quotes for March calls on the Chicago Board Options
Exchange, the CBOE. He checked them over, then got on the phone
directly to the market makers on the floor. When you're operating in
hyperdrive, you don't dawdle around with brokers.

"Jim Bob, while you're doing that, I think I'll just start setting up
the buy orders for the stock. If we want to move prices, we've got to
have coordination."

"Yahoo. Let's kick some ass." He'd just entered a wholly new dimension
of exuberance. "Shit fire and save your matches; fuck a duck and see
what hatches."

My sentiments precisely. I started scrolling up DNI's

portfolio of high-tech securities, looking for the biggies. If things
went as planned, our screwing of Matsuo Noda was definitely going to be
memorable.

Now Jim Bob was chortling quietly to himself as he punched up more
numbers, moving on to bilk options traders on the AMEX.

"Matthew, you'd better finish explaining what you're up to." Tam was
standing behind me, her hand gripping my shoulder.

"Look, we have to do this fast. Switch a beat on Noda, break his
rhythm. Just trust me."

"My favorite word." She didn't move.

"Now"--I pointed to a column of green numbers on the left-hand side of
the screen--"are those the percentage holdings DNI has?"

"Looks correct."

They were about what I remembered. DNI's positions varied from around
fifty percent to the low sixties.

"Okay." I turned to face her. "Which of these do you want to knock out
first? There may not be time to torpedo them all."

"What are you going to do?" She was frowning, but I could tell the idea
had appeal.

"Set dynamite under them. Just blow them sky-high."

"How?"

"Using an obscure corporate anti-takeover tactic not many people know
about yet. Jim Bob's right. We're going to make history. Nobody's ever
done this on the scale you're about to witness. Just pick the stocks
you want detonated first, but please hurry." I shoved a pen and paper
at her, then turned to watch Jim Bob, now dancing around with a phone
in his ear, still buying calls on the old DNI portfolio. "How're we
doing over there, chief?"

"Don't want to push March too hard, tip off the market, so I'm picking
up some Junes too." He yelled my way, "We're going long, baby."

"Jim Bob, I was just wondering. Don't you think you ought to hedge a
little, just in case? Maybe buy a few puts to cover the downside?"

"With the kind of volatility I'm about to goose into this market?
You're starting to sound like some pussy, Walton. Get naked, go native.
Only way to fly." He did a twirl, then a kick. "Just buckle in, dude,
cause I'm gonna take that Jap money and pump my underlying stocks right
into orbit. This play's a lock, taking money from a baby."

"Well, I wasn't blessed with your brand of raw courage, Jim Bob. So
what do you say I do a little hedging for you? We'll be partners. I'll
cover the downside with my own money, assuming I've got any left. I'll
buy a few puts, and then if these stock prices just decide to go crazy
and crash, we can still sell at the current quotes. Protect ourselves
if things head south for some reason."

"Suit yourself. But that's the best way I can think of to piss away
what little 'haircut' you've got left." He was grinning again.

"Guess I'm a masochist. What can I tell you."

While my new "partner" was laying the groundwork for his scam, loading
up on options to buy stocks at today's prices just before he turned
around and shoved enough Japanese money into the market to send them
sky-high, I did the opposite. I got on the phone to various brokers,
including a currently jubilant Sam Kline, and started buying "at the
money" puts in Amy's name.

Jim Bob was betting the market would head up, buying calls; I was
betting it would go down, buying puts. I was laying a wager with
anybody in America who would agree, for my front money, to buy a stock
from me at today's quotes anytime through mid-March, even if the real
price had since dropped to zilch. Which I fully intended to make
happen.

Insider trading? Well . . . yes. You see, I was literally the only man
on earth who actually knew what the stock market was going to do next,
after DNI started buying more of those stocks I'd planted with land
mines. But I was a driven man just then. Maybe I'd go to jail
eventually, but by God Amy would still make college.

Amy. What was she doing today? I wondered. This was, what? Tuesday? So
she must be back at school, probably thinking about lunch. Strawberry
yogurt and a bar of Tiger's Milk "health" candy. God, I loved that
little dark-haired prize more than life itself.

Where were we headed, she and I? Was I going to learn to let go? Maybe
that wasn't going to be the problem, I thought, at least for her. Face
it, I was about to become a fixture, just a stuffy impediment to
nature's raging hormones. She'd already started rehearsing feminine
wiles on me, practicing that coy, downcast glance that didn't quite
break subliminal eye contact. Where did she learn stuff like that? And
she almost had it down cold. Next it'll probably be eye shadow and
colored bras.

Damn. This Christmas was going to be my last real chance to get to know
her, to bore her silly with all my eminently ignorable fatherly advice.
And I blew it. That in itself was enough to make me want to deep-six
Matsuo Noda forever, the bastard. The money I fully planned to recoup;
her thirteenth Christmas was gone forever.

With which somber thought, I returned to buying puts. By the time I'd
finished, Tam had her "death wish" list ready. And Jim Bob was just
wrapping up his new program of call-option acquisition. Now for phase
two.

I strolled over to his monitor, carrying her paper.

"Jim Bob, these might be a good place to start." I tossed the sheet
down beside his keyboard. "Why not just set up a lot of buy orders to
hit the market tomorrow at the opening? Doing it all at once should
drive the prices straight up."

"Right." He leaned back, twitching. "Wonder how much buying it'll
take?"

"Well, why not play it safe? Use the computer and just boost DNI's
high-tech portfolio another . . . oh, five percent, straight across the
board. Every issue. Program it and let her rip. You've already got
Tam's sell setup. All you have to do is turn it around."

"Sounds good to me." Now he was swaying to and fro, humming tonelessly.

"Then let's get rolling. You hit AMEX and the Big Board; Tam and I'll
see if we can't drop orders for a few blocks on Jeffries, the off-
exchange network. We have to make waves at the opening bell tomorrow."

"Hear you talkin'. These issues gotta look like major movers." He was
beaming from ear to ear as he revolved shakily back to his terminal.
"Damn if I don't jus' love screwing the market."

We went to work, and for the next half hour we transmitted buy orders
to the farthest reaches of the globe. Once they were posted, it didn't
matter when they'd be executed. Even if Noda killed us, a hand from the
grave would come back and destroy him. The time bomb I'd set would blow
the minute the SEC tallied up DNI's new holdings. There were about to
be a lot of rich, happy workers in this Land of the Free. But the one
man certain not to be among their number was Matsuo Noda. Speaking of
which . . .

"Mr. Walton, would you kindly explain what you are doing?"

I froze, realizing he was standing directly behind my chair. How long
had he been there? I'd been too absorbed to pay attention. Stupid,
Walton, extremely stupid.

"Tell you the truth, Noda-san." I wheeled around and looked him in the
eye, shielding the screen. "Sometimes you have to make the best of
things. Discretion's the better part of valor, so we're told."

"I'm familiar with the expression." He appeared less than convinced.

"Who knows? Maybe Nipponica is the way to go." We needed time, just a
little more time. "In any case I'm a firm believer in riding the horse
the direction it's going. So I persuaded Jim Bob to buy a few options
for me. Trouble is, the guy's a little tentative on reality just now."

"Decidedly." He glanced over at our mutual friend, now typing away
obliviously, then turned and moved on toward the water cooler next to
my office. Did he believe me? Maybe he actually thought we would just
roll over and give up.

Or possibly Noda was in that unconscious mind-state that goes along
with real mastery in swordsmanship. When a Zen archer discharges an
arrow, his concentration must never be on that shaft. It must be on
nothing. And the same is true with swordsmanship. Your mind must be in
its natural state, empty of distractions. So if Noda allowed himself to
focus on the small stuff right now, he'd forfeit his "no mind" edge.

Well, we were about through anyway. The only thing left was to keep him
occupied just long enough for Jim Bob to finish sending out the last of
our buys.

"The sword was a masterful idea, Noda-san." I got up and walked over to
join him. "How'd you manage it?"

"Mr. Walton, what exactly do you know about the Emperor Antoku's
Imperial Sword?" He sipped from a plastic cup, eyes squinting behind
his rimless specs.

"Probably more than I should."

'Then you will understand its recovery is a turning point in the
history of Japan."

I looked at him and realized he believed it. Actually believed it.
Matsuo Noda had become a legend in his own mind. Why tamper with
perfection?

"Have to admit, too, the idea of using our international bank cover to
gobble up America's blue chips incognito was a stroke of genius.
Congratulations. You're about to scare MITI and the rest of Japan half
to death. Not to mention the world. With DNI heading up the management,
who knows what could happen? You can probably write your own ticket
back home after this."

"Your friend Dr. Henderson's young colleague was invaluable."

Was?

Alas, poor Jim Bob. Did that mean he wasn't going to live long enough
to spend the new fortune he thought he was about to make? Maybe Noda
was planning to do half of my work for me.

"I guess a few of those phone taps you like so much led you straight to
him, right? You were probably at least a day ahead of everything we
did."

"Good intelligence is vital to any successful endeavor, Mr. Walton. You
should remember that from Sun Tzu's classic Art of War."

The man was right on.

"All these dummy corporations." I was still running the stall. "A
little stock bought by each one, the SEC will never suspect. You just
roll trades worldwide, till--"

"As long as necessary."

"Who knows you're doing this?" Was it possible some rogue financier
such as Noda really could pull a fast one on the whole world, use
Japanese institutional money for whatever he pleased? "Have you cleared
this with the fund managers . . . ?"

"It was not necessary, Mr. Walton. I have long since earned the trust
of my colleagues." Again he had a weird look in his eye. Matsuo Noda, I
realized, was currently operating from a distant planet.

Needless to say, our dialogue hadn't done a lot to calm my nervous
system. The obvious solution to Noda's secrecy requirements didn't
include a lengthy life span for a lot of loudmouthed gaijin. Time to
wrap up the stock market games and get back to swordsmanship.

"At this point there's only one problem left, but I suppose

you've already thought of it too. If word of this anonymous takeover
breaks too soon, the exchanges might just decide to shut down trading
and stop you. Which means we're all a threat to you at this point."

He stood unmoving. "That matter will be addressed presently."

How soon, I wondered, was "presently"?

"But haven't you forgotten somebody? Bill Henderson. The man's no fool.
The minute he figures out your play, which he surely will, he's going
to start blowing word all over the newspapers. You'll never get away
with this."

Noda smiled lightly. "It would be helpful if he were here now. Perhaps
you could be good enough to arrange for it."

So with Matsuo Noda standing over me, Uzi next to my head, I called
Henderson on my speakerphone. He picked up after eight rings.

"Bill. Getting rich?"

"Walton, what time is it? Goddam, you woke me up." He yawned into the
receiver. "Jesus, I feel like hell. What's going on? Everything still
looking okay?"

"Couldn't be better. Quite a party around here. Want to come back down
and help us celebrate?"

"Well . . . what the . . . ! It's after eleven already. Hey, let me
check out the market first. Be down there in a little."

I looked up as Noda fingered his Uzi. "Just come on over now. Don't
putz around with the market. We could use the company. And Bill . . ."

"Yeah?"

"This shindig's BYOB. So how about picking up a fifth of Scotch? That
way we can all get into the spirit of things here on the eleventh
floor."

"Walton, that's a hell of a--"

"I know bringing your own booze is not your style. But why don't you
check in with Eddie, the security chief downstairs? He always keeps me
a bottle of Suntory there in the utility room. See him about it."

"That Japanese crap. Matt, what are you talking about? You know I hate--
"

"Just ask for Eddie, Bill." I cut him off. "Tell him Matthew Walton
wants his black label Japanese juice sent up here immediately.
Understand?"

I hung up before Henderson could say anything more.

Such as tell me we both knew there was no such thing as "black label"
Suntory.

"Guess he'll be here shortly." I turned back to Noda.

"He should be here in no time at all, Mr. Walton. Two of my guards have
been posted outside his building since he returned there yesterday. For
his own safety. They will bring him."

With that chilling bit of news Matsuo Noda proceeded to yank out the
phone cord, then head back to his office. The Art of War. You leave
nothing to chance. In fact his two sumo heavies were now standing
outside my office, keeping a close eye on us. Guess he no longer had
full confidence in Jim Bob.

"Tam, did you catch what just happened?" I'd walked back over to the
terminals.

"I did." She was staring into space.

"Henderson was our best hope to get out of here alive. He has a
suspicious mind the equal of Sherlock Holmes's. But now..."

"Matt, what's he going to do to us all?"

"Don't think it'll be pretty."

"Then . . ." She'd turned and was staring at the security entrance,
wearing a quizzical expression.

I wheeled around to look too, and at first I thought I might have been
hallucinating. A female figure was emerging through the doors, wearing
an outfit whose style I couldn't quite place. Maybe it was one of those
bulky creations such as Yohji Yamamoto or some other avant-garde
Japanese designer might dream up, but it didn't resemble anything I'd
ever seen before. Silk like a kimono, yet with a flowing quality.
Ancient almost.

Then I had a vision, just offbeat enough to fit. An ink illustration
out of the The Tale of Genji flashed before my eyes, and I realized I
was seeing a _hakama_, something that hadn't been around the streets of
Japan for roughly eight hundred years.

The woman in it was wearing peculiar makeup, not punk, though it might
have been. It was pale, like the delicate ink shadings on a Heian hand
scroll. She looked for all the world like a court lady of ages past;
she'd have fit right in at some 1185 Heian linked-verse soiree. Old
Kyoto come to life.

Is this the latest neo-New Wave? What in good Christ . . .

The only uncoordinated touch was the handbag, leather and starkly
modern, with a lock attached.

Jim Bob gave her a glazed stare as she moved right past him, headed for
us. The sumo pair was bowing to the floor.

Well, well, the Emperor's most devoted courtier had finally arrived.
Into our presence on this day of days had returned none other than Ms.
Akira Mori. One look at her eyes told me she'd come to kill somebody.



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE


"Mr. Walton, where is the silver case?" She'd walked straight up to us
and now was just standing there, awaiting an answer.

"Mori-san, that silver box is long gone, thanks to Noda." I suddenly
felt as if we'd just dropped out of the twentieth century and back into
the twelfth. Time warp. "Let me tell you something. It was like the
apple in the Garden of Eden: bite into it and out would spew the
knowledge of good and evil. Better to forget the whole thing."

"You don't know anything."

"Definite point. We've just discovered there was a heck of a lot we
didn't know." I thumbed toward Noda's office. "Including the scope of
Dai Nippon's impressive new investment program."

She ignored that response entirely as she whirled on Tam, her voice
increasingly strident. "Dr. Richardson, you have betrayed His Majesty."

"Mori-san, you and everybody who's helping Noda are the ones who've
done the betraying." Tam stared her in the eye, daggers.

"Even though you are Fujiwara, you still let him continue," Mori
pressed on, oblivious. "His scheme to manipulate the Emperor, to
undermine MITI--"

"That's got nothing to do with--"

"It is the duty of a Fujiwara to protect His Majesty."

"Speaking of His Majesty," I cut in, "how much did you have to do with
Noda's fake sword? Guess that 'protected' the Emperor too. Nothing like
being handed a new lease on divinity."

"The sword was to be his gift to me." She said it hesitantly. "To
restore--"

"Perhaps we can clarify what it's really intended to restore, Mori-
san," I interrupted again. 'The shogunate, with Noda as--"

She turned on me. "And you helped him too."

"What?"

"You and Asano-san stole the only thing I could have used to stop him.
The contents of that silver case. And then this operation. After I'd
tried to warn you both."

"Mori-san, could be we're all acting under certain misunderstandings
here today. For starters, buying up every American blue chip issue in
sight was not exactly our idea."

She stared at me for a second, disbelieving. "But that is precisely
what you are doing."

"Think again." I pointed toward Noda's office. "That's his game. Helped
along by that sharpshooter over at the console." I waved to Jim Bob,
who toasted us with his champagne glass, still too zonked on uppers to
comprehend the revised ground rules. "Maybe you'd like to run through
it with them."

She seemed to notice him for the first time. "Who is that person?"

"Noda's new hired gun. We've been retired. Without even so much as a
gold watch."

"He is the one responsible?"

"He's good, tell you that. Fooled us all." I settled onto the office
couch. "Noda's got him and this supercomputer. Looks like good-bye
America."

Noda's office door, incidentally, was still firmly closed, so
presumably he wasn't yet aware of Mori's arrival. Were we about to see
history replayed before our very eyes, that fateful battle of Dan-no-
ura staged all over again, eight hundred years later, as a loyal
retainer of the emperor fought to thwart the armed takeover of a would-
be shogun? Wonder who was going to win this time around.

"Mr. Walton, this must be stopped." She was turning the

key on her new leather handbag, unlocking it. "I also insist you return
your copy of the contents of that case. Having that is the only way I
can--"

"Mori-san, not so long ago the contents of that silver box were very
dear to our hearts, which is one reason we took the precaution of
storing a facsimile on the hard-disk memory of the mainframe here. Now,
there are about ten zillion files in that computer, so all you have to
do is figure out what file name we used and you can just run off all
the copies you want." I got up and faced her. "At the moment, though,
there're more pressing worries."

"You are playing with fire, Mr. Walton." She glanced at the computer
room down at the other end of the floor.

"No kidding. This is a tough game we've got going. Maybe you'd like to
get an update from the other team too, Noda and his new crony."

"Are you saying he is the one?" She was pointing toward Jim Bob, who
was now winding up the last dispatch of our new buy orders. I noticed
it was the third time she had inquired.

"Don't take our say-so for it. Go ask him."

Without a word she spun around, leaving a cloud of exquisite floral
perfume in her wake. Tell the truth, I rather liked the designer
outfit, what you might call a real classic. What I didn't care for all
that much were the vibes. Very, very ominous.

As she strode toward Jim Bob, he watched her with an unfocused gaze. He
apparently assumed it was all some costume-party gag. Definitely a
major mistake.

"I am Akira Mori."

Probably by then he no longer knew what he was seeing. He revolved
around, adjusted the Uzi leaning against the console, and extended his
paw.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. Jim Bob McClinton. You work for Mr.
Noda?"

"In a manner of speaking." She ignored the proffered handshake. "Is it
true you are now in his employ?"

"I was. At the moment, though, I'm taking care of myself, American-
style, if you want to know."

"Whatever you are doing, I hereby order you to terminate all activities
in this office. Immediately."

Jim Bob just stared at her, not quite sure his brain wasn't playing
more tricks. "Well, now, I'd normally like to oblige a

pretty lady like yourself, but I'm afraid I just don't have any
intention of doing that." He grinned, eyes flashing.

"Are you telling me you refuse?"

"You hear real good." He reached down for the Uzi, and his bloodshot
eyes began to blink. "Far as that goes, where I come from we're not
used to takin' orders from cute little twats. So the best thing for you
to do would be to shake your ass out of my way and mind your own
business. Or maybe go talk things over with Noda." He thumbed toward
the office. "In there."

She was opening her handbag, reaching inside.

Jim Bob, I was wanting to yell, this woman is neither "cute" nor
"little." Above all, she is definitely not a "twat." You are now face-
to-face with a world heavyweight ball-breaker. Who may be about to take
that Uzi you're so proud of and tie it around your scrofulous neck.
This game is way over your head. Can't you see where it's headed?

"Matt, what's she doing?" Tam bolted forward. . . .

Sad to say, everybody was too late, including Henderson. By probably no
more than a second or so. I watched Jim Bob swing around his automatic
. . . and then the lights went out. We heard the dull thunk of a
silencer, followed by another, and next the sound of a chair crashing
backward, an Uzi clattering across the floor. It was indeed Dan-no-ura
all over again, only this time the shogun's forces had just taken the
first hit.

But at least Henderson must have eluded Noda's gorillas. How'd he do
it?

Whatever had happened, he'd gotten the message. Suntory black. He'd had
Eddie yank the master switch for the eleventh floor. He "blacked out"
Dai Nippon.

For what good it did. Not much, as things transpired. He'd only cut the
overheads. The computer must have had its own backup power, some
circuit that didn't run through the main utility room. The office was
now eerily illuminated by CRT screens, still buying blue chips. As
usual, Noda had prepared for all eventualities.

Gingerly we inched out onto the floor. Jim Bob was sprawled beside his
console in a spreading pool of blood. Maybe he was still alive. Maybe
not. Tam reached down to check the pulse at his neck.

"It's gone." She looked up, stunned.

Who was next? More to the point, where the hell was Mori?

Then we saw her, moving like a ghostly figure in a _No _play, gliding
through the bizarre lime-colored light of the terminals. We watched as
she disappeared into Noda's office, trailed by the two dumbstruck
guards.

What a standoff, I reflected fleetingly. The would-be shogun versus the
Emperor's number one fan. This time, though, the Imperial side is
hopping mad and loaded for bear. Wonder who'll . . . ?

There was, however, something more important to think about. The next
few seconds could turn everything around. This was hardly the time for
historical meditations. With deliberate haste we might even live long
enough for some history of our own later.

In the dim glow of the screens Tam grabbed Jim Bob's Uzi, and we both
dived for Noda's office. The door, happily, had just slammed shut.
Since it was the kind that opened out, all we had to do was shove a
desk against it and they were contained.

Now, how much time did we have?

"The mainframe." She was staring through the green shadows toward the
glassed-in room that contained the massive NEC. "Matthew, we've got to
shut it down somehow. That's the only way left to stop him."

"Is there an on-off switch?" Who knew how you went about disconnecting
a twenty-million-dollar supercomputer?

"We're about to find out." She led the way.

The entry door was glass, half-inch, and locked. Beyond it stood the
string of six-foot-high modules, off-white and octagonal, lined up like
squat soldiers on flooring elevated about six inches above that
outside. The nerve center of Noda's empire rested there on its
platform, silent and secure.

"Tam, pass me that thing." I reached for the Uzi, turned it around, and
rammed the steel butt against the glass. Then again. It just bounced
off.

"Harder."

"Okay, but stand away."

I hauled back and swing at it with all my might. With a sickening
crunch the glass shattered inward, spewing shards across the icy tiles
inside. An alarm went off somewhere out on the floor, but we just
ignored it. After I'd punched away a few hanging pieces, we stepped in
and up.

I handed back the Uzi. Now what?

"It's freezing in here." She shivered from the cold, then pointed down.
"You know, all the wiring must be underneath this raised floor. There's
no way to even know where the power conduit is, let alone reach it."

"Okay, guess we'll just have to start ripping . . ."

My heart skipped a beat. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I
finally noticed what I should have seen immediately. Lying atop the big
computation module was a thin, four-foot- long bundle, swathed in silk.

So there's where he decided to put it--in the one room that would always
be locked. Or maybe he thought it should be kept in the most powerful
location on the premises.

I reached up and retrieved it, then pulled away the silk. The blade had
just been freshly oiled, and it literally glistened in the dim light.
It was every bit as razor-sharp as the day it had been consecrated
eight hundred years ago at the zenith of samurai metallurgy.

Guess Noda knew a prize when he saw it. And this _katana _was
definitely a one-of-a-kind piece--an Old Sword, _koto_, from the Sanjo
branch of the Yamashiro school of swordsmiths, late Heian. Signed by
Munechika, said to have fashioned samurai swords for the Shogun
Minamoto Yoritomo himself, the man who destroyed the Imperial forces at
Dan-no-ura. No wonder Noda had treated it with special reverence.

"Welcome." I held it up.

"Why do you suppose he put it in here?" She was admiring it too.

"You know, I think I understand. But it's the kind of thing that can't
be explained in words."

"Well, at least you've got it back again. Samson's hair. Are you
pleased?"

"Maybe Noda was trying to tell me something. Send a message. But now
I'm going to send one back."

"Do you really think . . . ?" She was already ahead of

me.

"Guess we're about to find out." I bowed to the blade ritually, then to
the NEC's head-high main processor. "From the first shogun to the
last."

This, I muttered silently, is for Amy. Her answer, Noda- san.

The great masters of swordsmanship all will tell you something very
ironic. If you train for years and years, all your

moves eventually become instinctive; you literally no longer "know"
what you are doing. You become oblivious of your mind, as unknowing,
consciously, of technique as the day you started. Thus the greatest
masters and the rankest beginners actually share something very
similar. Both are totally unaware of technique.

Was I closer to the mindless beginner or the "no mind" master? Friends,
that's one confession you'll need medieval torture to extract.

I will, however, admit to thinking about which stroke to use. There are
several that might have done the job. Of them all, though, the _kesa_
seemed best for some reason. It slices diagonally, from the left
shoulder down and across to the right, and a swordsman pure in spirit
can literally bisect a man, slice him right in half.

As the blade sang through the cold and struck with a ring true as a
bell, I felt nothing, thought nothing.

The hexagonal computation unit standing in front of us wasn't halved,
not even close, but it was severely disoriented. I felt a small tingle
in my fingertips as the sword sailed through the outer steel casing and
severed its first layer of silicon neurons, sending forth a shower of
sparks.

It wasn't dead, but then the sword had some backup. There is a long
tradition in Japanese culture of cooperation, support from others. For
example, in _seppuku_, the ritual disembowelment sometimes called
_hara-kiri_, there is always a second participant who stands behind you
and ceremonially lops off your head as your body topples forward. It is
an honored assignment.

My action may have been satisfying symbolically, but it wouldn't do the
job alone. Fortunately it didn't have to. There was one simple way to
disengage Noda's electronic brain, now and forever. Tam didn't even
hesitate.

For a second there it could have been the Fourth of July. An Uzi
blasting away in the dark is a marvel. I watched spellbound as she
emptied about twenty rounds into the processor bank as well as into
everything else in sight, continuing until smoke started to pour out of
the flooring below, followed by the crackle of electrical shorting.
Then several storage modules began to arc, their high voltage mating in
midair. In moments Noda's NEC supercomputer was transformed into a
shorting, sputtering junk heap.

After that, electrical fires erupted down below, and the linoleum
squares beneath our feet proceeded to heat and buckle. Next, something
flashed somewhere in the dark, and a stack of computer printouts lying
next to the door burst into flame.

Originally I'd planned to retrieve the blade, but then I reflected a
second and decided just to leave it. The sword in the supercomputer. A
six-figure gesture, maybe, but one worth every penny in satisfaction.
Noda would definitely understand.

By the time we made our way back through the shattered glass doorway,
picking a path among the splinters, the fire was already spreading to
the main office.

"Let's get out of here." Tam was still grasping the Uzi.

"Not so fast." I reached for the grip. "You don't get to have all the
fun. How do you operate this thing?"

"Just pull there." She pointed, then raised the muzzle. "Careful. You
might need that foot someday."

I lifted it up and it coughed a burst of flame. The water cooler
outside my office exploded.

"Uh, I think you have to be Chuck Norris to do it like that. On a scale
of one to ten, that round scores down in the fractions. Better aim."

"Spoilsport." But I did. I took critical bead on a leering green
monitor, squeezed, and felt a light kick from the metal stock. Out
blinked one of the dying monster's eyes. Then I methodically took out
half a dozen more workstations, just for the hell of it. Automatic
weapons fire can be great therapy. Not to mention fun.

"Okay for a beginner . . . Matt!" She was pointing at the desk of
Noda's secretary. A phone light had just flashed on. "He's calling in
reinforcements."

"Time to make our not-so-graceful exit."

"Bring the automatic."

"You've got it . . . and, uh, I'm a little embarrassed to ask you for
money, but would you mind grabbing your purse. We may need it."

"You're now broke, right?" She dashed for her office.

"So we're told." I was wrapping the Uzi in some computer printouts that
hadn't yet caught fire. The place was really starting to blaze, thanks
to all the paper. Smoke everywhere.

While she was coming back, I decided to go over and kick

the desk away from Noda's door. Sure it was a risk, but we couldn't let
him burn to death. Or Mori. Besides, we were home free. With the NEC
supercomputer blown to pieces, as well as Jim Bob, there was absolutely
no way Noda could cancel that stack of buy orders we'd seeded all
around the globe. Nothing could stop the bomb.

As we made our way through security, we saw Mori coming out of the
office, choking through the smoke and looking crazed as ever.
Apparently the battle of Dan-no-ura, twentieth-century style, was still
raging. Then Noda appeared in the doorway behind her and just stood
there surveying the blazing ruins of his empire. With his customary
discipline, he appeared totally unperturbed by it all. Not her, though.
She lunged for the remains of the computer room, now billowing smoke
and tongues of fire. The last thing on her mind, apparently, was us.

Which was just as well, because the second we hit the hallway we heard
the elevator chime. It had to be Noda's backup forces. Without a word
we both ducked for the stairwell, and as the metal door slammed behind
us, Tanaka and a host of armed DNI security guards poured off the
elevator like gangbusters. Turns out there'd been a small army poised
downstairs just in case.

They could have the place, what was left of it. My last memory of that
office was a raging torrent of smoke and flame. Nothing remained. This
had to be the grand finale for Dai Nippon and Matsuo Noda. The end.
_Finis_.

Barring unforeseen developments.



CHAPTER THIRTY


When we emerged into the lobby calmly as we could muster, fire engines
were racing up outside, cops were crowded around the elevators, and
Eddie was so frantic yelling about the holocaust up on eleven he didn't
even bother to say hello. We searched in vain for Henderson as we
worked our way through the milling throng, headed for the pay phone in
the corner. Bill had to be somewhere; nobody else would have blacked
out the DNI offices.

My first thought, though, was that we needed to make tracks. The
brouhaha to come would best be handled from the safety of a foreign
shore. Fortunately in my pocket was just enough change for one call,
and as luck would have it, our man was in.

"Sure, Matt, no problem. But this is damned sudden."

"Right now, Patrick. And hurry. Could be the perfect moment for an
extended vacation. How about just sending the car around? Over on
Third, near--"

"That Japanese place you told me you work for?"

"Worked for, Patrick. No more. Just got laid off."

"Hell, I know where they are. It's all over the tube. I'm sitting here
right now watching Jack O'Donnell blow his stack at a press briefing
down in D.C. Wish you could see the guy. It's live on CNN. Is this
thing for real? What was that Dai Nippon outfit trying to do? Buy up
every--"

Incredible. Henderson had really come through.

"Patrick."

"Yeah."

"Fill you in on all the details over a drink someday. Right now,
though, we could really use Charlie and the car ASAP. We'll be waiting
outside."

"We?"

I looked at the smoke-smeared woman standing beside me. "Truthfully,
I'm hoping for some company."

Tam smiled, then reached out and took my hand. Not a word about
"strictly business."

"Okay, Matt, Charlie just walked in. I'll send him straight on over."

"Thanks a million. Owe you a big one."

As we moved on out through the revolving doors, we finally spotted
Henderson, wearing his gray topcoat and mingled in among the crowd on
the sidewalk. The lowest of low profiles. For a second I almost didn't
recognize the man. He looked a wreck, standing there shading his eyes
and squinting up. Then I followed his gaze and realized smoke was
pouring out of the windows on eleven. Seems we'd demolished a little
exterior plate glass, too, along with everything else.

"Bill." I signaled. "Over here."

"Walton, thank God." He waved and pushed our way. "I was worried stiff
you two might still be up there. What in hell happened? Did you just
blow up--"

"Long story. There was a small war, a new one and an old one. But how'd
you get here? Noda said he was having your place watched. A couple of--"

"Yeah, I saw those two apes. They were in my lobby in handcuffs, being
grilled by New York's Finest when I came through. Our doorman figured
they were casing us for a robbery and called the cops. What's Noda
think--I live in a fucking tent? I pay for top security, friend. The
best."

"Anyway, nice work with the lights. Much appreciated. The bad news is,
you might want to get out of town for a while. Maybe go skiing
someplace. The whole thing fell apart. Noda just brought in a whole new
load of funding."

"Hell, I figured that out the minute I saw the Times lying there
outside my door. Only one place the market could be getting this kind
of dough. Tokyo pension funds. So I went back in and called Jack."

"You made the right move, tipping him off."

"Maybe he can get trading shut down. Stop it somehow."

"We stopped it ourselves," Tam interjected, then indicated the paper
bundle in her hands, black metal stock protruding out of one corner.

"God Almighty." He stared around at the policemen racing by, walkie-
talkies chattering. "Where's Jim Bob? I got a good mind to--"

"Your hotshot screwed us, Bill. Noda got to him and bought him off."

"I figured that out too. Little fucker." He grimaced. "Guess I trained
him too well."

"He didn't deserve his payoff. Somebody'd better hustle a medic up
there fast."

"Let them take care of it." He thumbed at the firemen piling off their
trucks, then bent over and pecked Tam on the cheek. "Well, Professor,
it's been short and sweet. Keep 'em honest." He reached for my hand.
"Walton, you know how I hate to travel on short notice, but considering
the situation . . . St. Moritz might be nice for a while."

"Drink some Pear William for us."

"Will do. Best of luck."

"Same to you." I watched him flip up the collar on his coat as he
turned. "Oh, by the way, Bill, one last thing."

"Yeah?" He glanced back.

"Want a little insider information?"

"Wouldn't dream of listening." He returned like a shot.

"Might not be a bad idea to short every high-tech stock DNI currently
holds. There's a finite possibility all hell's going to break loose at
the opening tomorrow."

"What's the story?" He was all ears.

Tam turned to me. "Are you finally going to explain what that scam with
Jim Bob was all about?"

"Well, now there's some time. What I did was sucker him into posting
buy orders for an additional five percent of every company on your kill
list."

"I'm well aware of that." She just continued to stare.

"Which means that when the SEC reports those holdings, it'll trigger
the new provisions their majority stockholder-- with whose power of
attorney I acted with full legal authority--voted last week."

"Which was?"

"It's a little like what's being called a 'tin parachute' these days,
the latest twist on the antitakeover 'poison pill.'"

"Isn't that where managements have their boards vote that a hostile
buyout will trigger big disbursements of a company's assets to the rank
and file? What's that got to do with . . . ?"

"That's the play. Great takeover defense, by the way."

"But Noda had already taken those companies over." She frowned,
puzzling.

"Right. Obviously, nobody's supposed to institute one _after _a
takeover, but that's what Dai Nippon voted to do last Wednesday and
Thursday for every company it owns. The way it's set up now, if the
majority stockholder in any of those companies, which just happens to
be DNI, acquires another four percent or more, all that stockholder's
stock is automatically disbursed to the employees."

"Just like that?"

"Fully legal. Like a 'tin parachute.'"

"But what will . . . ?"

"Let me finish. In my version there're some strings attached. The money
can't be used to just go out and buy Toyotas. I arranged it so that all
the stock will be held in escrow for ten years and used as collateral
for loans specially earmarked to finance expansion and R and D. In
other words the employees are about to become those companies' new bank
partner."

"What in holy hell are you talking about?" Henderson appeared to have
just entered shock. His bloodshot eyes were like saucers. "Noda's piece
of those high-tech outfits is just going to be given to the troops,
then locked up as security for new financing?"

"Bill, try and think of it as a different kind of 'restructuring,' that
grand new corporate scam. But instead of the standard rip-off where
managers entrench themselves by loading up a company with debt and
bribing their shareholders with the money, I turned the whole thing
upside down. Gave the control of those companies to their workers,
who'll now have a stake in dividends and profits."

"Walton, you idiot. Stock prices for those outfits are going to
nosedive the second news of this hits the Street. It'll scare the
institutions shitless. I've never heard anything so crazy."

"Who knows what'll happen? Let the 'supply side' economists try and
figure it out. My guess is we're about to find out if anybody here
still believes in the working man. In any case it can't make things
worse, and it should be great fun to watch. At least American industry
is about to be owned by the people who punch the time clocks. Maybe
working for ourselves instead of investment bankers will help things
get rolling again."

"I don't believe you did this." Tam fell against me laughing. "Do you
realize what it really means? Noda's totally destroyed. He'll have to
sell off that new portfolio of blue chips just to have enough profit to
cover the claims of his original Eight-Hundred-Year-Fund investors.
After this, no Japanese money manager is going to give him a yen. He's
history."

"_Bushido_. When you break the rules, things like that can happen."

"Jesus, I'm not going to screw around short selling. I'm just gonna
load up on puts before the opening tomorrow. You oughta do the same,
Walton. When the Street gets wind of this and all those stocks crater,
you could clear millions." Bill headed briskly up the avenue.

"Stay well." We watched him disappear into the crowd, then started
searching for Charlie Morgan and the car.

Incidentally, the recipient of that phone call wasn't really named
Patrick. Since there are laws about smuggling firearms in and out of
countries, and we damned well were going to take along the Uzi, it
seems only right to give him a pseudonym. His charter outfit, which
works out of that hangar off to the side of the majors at Kennedy,
keeps a Lear that can make the Caribbean in one hop if it's not too
full. He even picks you up in a limo, his come-on for the carriage
trade.

About ten minutes later we saw Charlie working the Rolls around all the
fire engines double-parked on Third and waving for us.

"Good to see you again, Matt." He glanced back as we settled in.
"Christ, you two look terrible. Were you up there?"

"Just left."

"Must have been a hell of a fire from the looks of it." He hit the gas
and made a right turn. "Where to? Straight down Fifth to your place?"

"One quick stop first. Over on West Seventy-eighth."

"The West Side? In this traffic? Come on, Matt. I still haven't had
lunch."

"Just cut through Central Park. Should be a snap."

While he and Tam waited outside the West Side "Free School, I went in
to try and kidnap Amy. It wasn't easy. I finally explained to Ms.
Winters that my daughter's Christmas vacation had merely been delayed a
little this year, but better late than never. After some haggling, we
struck a deal on homework. Then, in a limo piled high with school
books, class projects, lunch boxes, and a black Israeli Uzi, we headed
downtown.

"Dad, you've gone nuts." My only offspring was in heaven.

"Honey, we're going to snorkel for two weeks solid. Think you can stand
the old man for that long?"

"Can we have a Christmas tree? You promised."

"I'll cut it myself."

"And a Christmas party too?"

"Might have to call it something else, but I suppose we can give it a
try. If you keep up on the homework." I looked at her, failing as usual
to understand the movements of her mind. "Sweetie, why do you want to
throw a party? This is supposed to be a vacation."

"Dad, really. Don't you remember that neat boy from Sweden whose
parents have that house across the bay? He was teaching me windsurfing
last summer. He's in junior year now, but if he's there, we've got to
have a party. Don't you understand?"

"Guess we'll have a party."

What can you do? Nobody said you're supposed to win them all.

Bad news, or maybe it was good news, travels with amazing speed in this
day and age. The late edition of the Tuesday New York Post found its
way to the Caribbean on an evening flight, and since it took us a while
to get out of town, it actually reached the Virgin Islands shortly
before we did. However, since we flew directly into St. Croix instead
of the main island of St. Thomas, we missed the delivery.

As it happened, though, an old acquaintance was passing the house that
night on a personal mission, and he was kind enough to drop off Rupert
Murdoch's Tuesday contribution to journalism.

The time was around ten P.M. Amy was sound asleep, conked out from
twilight windsurfing, and Tam and I were working on a pitcher of
planter's punch by the pool when there came the sound of honking out
front. I went in and unlocked the entry, then peeked out to see who it
was. The red, white, and blue jeep belonged to none other than Artie
Wilson, dressed to the nines.

"Walton, my man, you done gone and got yourself famous." He grinned
with delight, then threw a rolled-up newspaper toward the door. "Tole
you it'd be yo' ass."

"Artie, what in hell. Turn that thing off and come in for a drink.
Somebody I want you to meet."

"Hey, late for a reception at that new place down the beach. Think all
them hot New York divorcees jus' come down here for nothing but
sunshine an' vitamin D? Gotta keep the tourists satisfied." He revved
his engine and began backing out of the drive. "Tomorrow, maybe, Feds
ain't nailed yo' honkie butt by then."

With which enigmatic pronouncement he sped into the humid night.

I picked up the bundle, then snapped on the yard lights and strolled
back out where Tam was sitting, still wearing her pool robe. What was
Artie talking about?

As I settled down beside her and unrolled the paper, staring back at us
from the front page were two very familiar faces.

"Off one of my book jackets," she said. "I never much cared for it."

"Mine's from their photo morgue, during some takeover circus."

Guess we should have been keeping closer tabs on the news. Seems that
Matsuo Noda, president of Dai Nippon, Int., had held a press conference
mid-afternoon Tuesday to refute all the misinformation being spread by
Senator Jack O'Donnell. As he claimed, it was actually two Americans,
former employees of DNI, who had been responsible for Dai Nippon's
secret hostile takeover of the U.S.'s largest corporations. He made
this point to dispute Senator O'Donnell's assertion that they had been
the ones who'd stopped it. (See photo, page 1.) He went on to apologize
for what apparently had been a severe communications mix-up within DNI,
which brought about this unauthorized action, and he was pleased to
report he personally had taken steps to terminate the buy-up this very
morning, as of 11:53 A.M.

Run that whopper by Jack's subcommittee, Noda-san.

There was more. Seems the body of an unidentified male--young,
Caucasian, and badly burned--had been recovered by firemen on the
eleventh floor of DNI's offices. Noda had no idea who this person was,
perhaps a misfortunate prowler. . . .

"Matt, look!" She was pointing at a paragraph on the lower half of the
page.

There'd been a second casualty, although not as serious. The well-known
Japanese financial commentator Akira Mori had been borne, unconscious,
from the premises. Acute smoke inhalation. As of press time she was in
intensive care at Mt. Sinai Hospital.

"We saw her come out of the office. It was pretty smoky by then, but
how could . . . ?"

The answer followed. Firemen reportedly had discovered her in the
computer room near the mainframe's burned-out storage banks.
Speculation was she had been attempting to save the hard disks, the
vital DNI files.

"Mori wasn't trying to save anything." Tam tossed down the paper. "She
wanted to make sure all the disks were destroyed.

To protect the Emperor from a scandal over Noda's sword hoax."

"Another victim for the Imperial sword." I looked up at the starry sky,
a mosaic of silver and black as the Milky Way floated above us. The
night air was symphonic with the sound of crickets. "How many more?"

Then she retrieved the _Post_ and we finished the item. After Noda's
prepared statement there'd been a Q&A--during which he reaffirmed his
intention to use all available means to block Senator O'Donnell's
subpoena of DNI's remaining records, an action he declared confiscatory
and groundless. Privileged information, etc.

He did, however, manage to wrap things up on a forward- looking note.
Today's unfortunate, indeed tragic, accidental fire should be
understood as merely a momentary setback. Nothing that had happened
would in any way diminish his program of capital infusion and open-
market acquisition in America's high-tech sector. Wall Street need not
worry; Senator O'Donnell's "harassment" notwithstanding, Dai Nippon's
money was here to stay. We were now partners. His grand new alliance,
Nipponica, would shape the world to come.

"That's what he thinks." She laughed. "Wait till he wakes up tomorrow
and discovers he just donated all his high-tech acquisitions to their
employees. Don't think that fits the big strategy. One thing, though,
America's overpaid, golf-playing senior executives could have some wild
and woolly board meetings ahead."

"Life's full of surprises." I pulled her over and slipped my arm
around.

"And the biggest one for me, this week at least, has been you." She
turned and kissed me softly on the mouth, then again. My heart skipped.

Whereupon she abruptly rose and dove headfirst into the pool. Without
her suit.

Looked to be a second chance coming up this year, for us all.



AFTERWORD



Contemporary tales of technology and economics engage a moving target,
which means they must necessarily include an element of forecasting.
Inventing the world to come is always more an art than a science, and
the results can never be precise. Trends, however, do have a way of
continuing. Sometimes, in fact, you look into the crystal ball and hope
what you see never happens. This fable is offered in that spirit.

Those who have critiqued this manuscript all or in part include agent,
editors, and friends. Special thanks are due, in alphabetical order, to
Virginia Barber, Susan and Norman Feinstein, Joanna Field, Linda Grey,
Joyce Hawley, Fred Klein, and, perhaps most importantly, Gary Prideaux,
who introduced this writer to the magic of Japan two decades ago.
Others who were kind enough to offer suggestions include N. R.
Kleinfield, Pamela McCorduck, Ellen Solomon, Anna Stern, Karen Sunde,
Christopher Martin, Eric Allison, Susan Stoller, Michael Cavallo,
Makiko and Kazuyoshi Morikawa, Jim Piper, Tim Richards, Paul Bove, Eric
Bove, Charles Gordon, Janet Miller, David Palmer, Arthur Blatt, and
Malcolm Bosse. If this story succeeds in any measure, it is because of
them. Its faults are the author's alone.



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