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The Samurai Strategy

by Thomas Hoover · English · Gutenberg #34323 · 803,979 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Samurai Strategy

Author: Thomas Hoover


        
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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 (C) 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
protegee, 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

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