Chapter 11 bankruptcy in order to protect his personal assets from

creditors. Nobody can lay a glove on you."

"Mr. Walton"--he leaned back, a twinkle in his dark eyes--"that's exactly

why I knew you were right for us. You have an intuitive grasp of

tactics."

"If you do this, there're going to be a lot of unhappy, unemployed

lawyers in this town."

"Most regrettable. Some of them might even have to go out and find

productive work." He rose and shook my hand. "You've destroyed the

prospect of years of legal roadblocks in a single stroke. It's

elegant."

It was. Sun Tzu and Miyamoto Musashi would definitely have approved.

But there still had to be more. An unexpected opening is not enough in

itself; it needs an equally deft follow-up. Bushido, the Way of the

Sword, teaches that you should first surprise your antagonist, and then

you must confound him. Both the initial attack and the carry-through

are crucial to success. Among other things, that meant Noda's mechanism

for calling a board meeting of the companies he'd be acquiring had to

be instantaneous, without the usual niceties.

"This setup should do the job, but only if it's used with finesse.

Otherwise the whole system gets buried in paperwork."

"What do you mean?"

"You have to be fast, and flexible. Once you've taken ownership of a

company, you've got to gain immediate control over its board of

directors, in order to block any and all countermoves."

"I understand."

"Do you? I'm talking about the ability to call an executive session out

of the blue. The _kesa_ stroke of the sword. The power to cut a CEO in

half before he can blink. No time for consensus and the usual Japanese

niceties."

He stood quietly, thinking. At last he spoke.

"In other words, I must be able to convene the board at a moment's

notice. Is that the essence of what you are saying?"

"Nothing else is going to work."

"Very well. After we have a commanding stock position, we can institute

the necessary changes."

"Good. Remember though, that's still merely half the battle. Besides

being able to call board meetings, you need full authority to institute

a shareholders' vote, which in this case will consist of nothing more

than you signing your name."

"Perfectly reasonable."

"It is. But it also means you've got to be available to me at all

times. Can I rely on that?"

He turned and strolled to the window, pensively. "That may not always

be possible."

"Then you've got a potential problem."

He revolved back and studied me a second, finally taking the bait.

"There is, of course, one very simple solution. I can merely assign you

power of attorney, allowing you to act in my name if I cannot be

reached."

"That would do it. But you'd be handing over a lot of authority."

"I envision no difficulty." He looked me over with the self- assurance

of a tiger contemplating a haunch of beef. "I have every reason to

believe you would always act in DNI's best interest, Mr. Walton."

It was possible he knew a few things I didn't. On the other hand, maybe

Matsuo Noda had just overreached, taken too much for granted. Whichever

it was, the maneuvering just completed had been one small step for Tam,

and Matthew Walton. Should we ever need them, I'd just conned Matsuo

Noda into giving me duplicates of the keys to his Kingdom. It was our

protection and, in a way, my secret price for putting our heads into

Dai Nippon's noose.

"Then it looks like we have everything we need to move forward." I

nodded.

"Excellent."

Upon which I absented his office, safety net in place. The play was on.

Which brings us to Tam Richardson. If my approach to this new job was a

little unconventional, what about the college prof who showed up in

jeans as she readied to renovate corporate America? One thing, we

suited each other. It was a tag team made in heaven. After I'd pried

open the door to the companies DNI was buying, she was going to roll

in, guns blazing, and shove everybody against the wall.

Let me add one important distinction, however. Whereas I may have been

wary, even slightly skeptical, Tam was definitely the idealist. She

was, by God, going to get this country moving again. America was once

more going to lead, she declared, not follow. No defensive Fortress

America claptrap. Hers would be nothing less than a full-scale assault,

intended to win back and keep a solid manufacturing base here, toe-to-

toe with the world.

Since no overall American program existed to rescue industries now

being killed by foreign competition, she was going to do it herself,

create a coordinated battle plan for our strategic sectors. Backed by

Noda's Japanese billions, she was about to try and redeem this

country's future, leading us back to number one. She also was quick to

add she had no intention of merely copying Japan's famous management

techniques. Japanese industry, she insisted, hadn't invented long-term

planning, sound capital investment, dedication. What they did over

there these days was what the U.S. used to do. The American work ethic

was alive and well; it was just temporarily on the wrong side of the

globe. She was about to bring it home again.

Maybe she could. One major impediment at least would be out of the way.

Since the companies Dai Nippon was taking over would no longer have to

answer to a lot of fickle fund managers every three months, they could

start investing for the longer term. Also a lot of unnecessary fat was

going to be sliced out of upper management. If things went as planned,

Dr. Tamara Richardson and Dai Nippon were about to become the ruthless

architects of a new corporate America.

Unless . . . well, there seemed no reason not to take things at face

value, at least for now. DNI's new Industrial Management Section on the

twelfth floor had already begun filling up with young Tokyo University

graduates, guys who embodied the work ethic in human guise. They meant

business. Nobody was sipping coffee and critiquing last night's rerun

of Dynasty. I got the definite impression one of the unsmiling whiz

kids in Noda's handpicked cadre could chew up about five American MBAs

for breakfast. Tam currently had them working overtime, putting

together a reorganization plan for an outfit in Boston, one of their

new acquisitions, which I guess I'd better just call XYZ. The previous

week Dai Nippon had purchased some twenty-four percent of its stock,

presently at a historic low, and she was planning to make the company

her showcase turnaround.

Stock in hand, she'd buckled down with her new staff and using DNI's

analytical machinery confirmed some alarming suspicions. It turned out

XYZ was practically a terminal case, living at the moment off its real

estate assets, which were being systematically dribbled away to mask

heavy losses. Layoffs would be next.

By Thursday of the second week, however, she'd put together a

restructuring, including some painful austerity that might just salvage

the company and its American jobs. She went home that night feeling

quite proud of herself, and Friday she flew up to Boston for her first

official conference with XYZ's chief executive officer.

Since a quarter of a company's shares gives the holder reasonably high

recognition, the CEO was understandably nervous about who exactly had

acquired a fourth of his company inside of a week and a half. He

appeared at Logan with his Rolls limo to receive Dr. Richardson

personally.

She explained right off that she was there merely to pass along a few

of DNI's "recommendations." She took one look at the Rolls and added

that, for example, one of the first was going to be to divest all limos

forthwith, along with the new fifteen-million-dollar Gulfstream IV he'd

bought for weekend fishing trips down in the Keys, and direct the

proceeds toward capital investment.

From there on things progressed pretty much as might be expected. By

the time they reached his paneled office she had been obliged to

explain that his options were either (1) to get in line, or (2) to

watch DNI pick up another thirty percent of his company's O-T-C shares,

then march him and his "golden parachute" past a stockholders' vote

they would call to review his career options. After that she had claim

to his unalloyed attention.

It was a tough Friday. After she flew back late, she dropped by the

office to pick up a few things and fill me in on how it went.

"Good. You're still here." She popped her head around my office door.

"Who won? The Christians or the lions?"

"Want to hear about it?" She came on in and dropped her briefcase on

the desk.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Matt, you should have seen the look on that man's face." She clicked

open the case and pulled out the action plan she'd developed for XYZ.

She was exhausted but still wired. "These CEOs forget it's shareholders

who own the companies and pay their salaries. They start thinking

they're little Caesars."

"Hey, those are the kinds of operators who used to be my clients.

Believe me, I know the type."

She then proceeded to give me the rundown. Outfit XYZ specialized in

high-tech widgets it sold in the U.S., Latin America, and Europe.

Problem: their widgets cost too much, broke down more than they should,

and consequently folks didn't tend to buy them the way they once did.

As a result XYZ had dropped about five million last quarter and

(unbeknownst to its workers) was currently on the verge of closing two

of its three U.S. plants and exporting the assembly operation someplace

where it could exploit two-dollar labor, a move that would tank just

over a thousand American jobs. Management says, gee, that's tragic, and

awards itself another year-end financial tribute.

Dr. Richardson had just dropped a bomb in the playpen. First off, she

told them, XYZ's damned widgets cost too much not because American

workers are overpaid, but because its assembly plants were a candidate

for the Smithsonian. Therefore, starting immediately, short-term

profits as well as dividends and all management compensation would be

slashed and the resulting capital, together with a new offering of

long- term corporate equities, would be invested in automating its

facilities and retraining workers. There would, in fact, only be

workers in future, since all freeloading middle managers, attorneys,

and drones with titles such as 'administrative assistant' were to be

terminated. She gave them a list.

Henceforth, she went on, management would begin planning ten years

ahead, not three months. XYZ would concern itself with world

competition then, not now, and it would develop a substantially more

diversified product line to cushion slumps. As part of that shift, it

would double the budget for R&D immediately and expand the lab.

Innovation would once again be brought to the product stage fast and

adapted quickly to world markets. XYZ's new focus would be on making

its market share grow in the decade ahead, which also meant cracking

down on quality and halving the current customer-be-damned response

time on deliveries and service. Concerning those last items, product

managers would now be required to address customers' complaints

personally. She figured that in itself would turn around XYZ's

substantial quality control debacle overnight.

Finally, there would be an immediate crash program to rectify XYZ's

costly illusion that English was the worldwide language of business.

These days, she explained, the language of business is the one your

customer speaks. Accordingly all XYZ's overseas operatives would be

required to enroll in intensive language training now, including formal

study of the history and social customs of their territory.

"Sounds like you let him have it with both barrels. Keep on like this,

and the U.S. of A. may never be the same."

"That's the idea. One company down and about three thousand to go."

What's that saying about a journey of miles and miles starting with the

first step? Well, she'd taken the step. The future lay ahead.

"Hey, can I buy you a drink?" I was winding up the day, the week.

"You've earned it."

"Like nothing better." She was repacking her briefcase. "Matt, I'm

having the time of my life. All the things I've always wanted to do.

This is like a fantasy come true. We're going to pull this off, wait

and see."

"Could be." I was switching off the lights in my office. "Tell you

something though, Doctor. I keep wondering what will happen when Noda

gets through with us."

"Thoughts?" She glanced back.

"Well, after Japan takes over half the companies in this country and

starts running them right, then what?" We were headed for the security

doors. "But maybe we ought to talk about that some other time. And

place."

"I'll think about it tomorrow. Just now I'm bushed."

"Tomorrow, in case you've lost count, is Saturday. Don't know about

you, but I'm taking the day off. The hell with Japanese business hours.

My daughter comes this weekend." We were saluted by heavies in the

security airlock, then the doors opened. "Matter of fact, we're going

to eat somewhere down in SoHo tonight. Care to join us? Be warned it'll

be mostly soy by-products and brown rice."

"I'd love to meet her." She looked at me. "Matthew Walton with a

daughter. My God." She laughed. "Sorry, Matt, but you really don't seem

the father type."

"Amy's mother said approximately the same thing as she was packing her

bags. But I'm now undergoing intensive on-the-job father training. Fact

is, I'd planned to knock off around Christmas and take her down to our

place in the islands, though now I'm not sure there'll be time."

"Sounds very fatherly. You should go."

"I'm still hoping to." I looked her over again. "Well, the hell with

it, why mince words. Tell me, Tam, how's your love life these days?"

She burst out laughing again. "You haven't changed a bit. Not at all."

"Spare the commentary, okay? Just stick to the question."

"Excuse me, counselor. The honest answer is it's nonexistent, which you

surely must know, since I'm here every night till midnight just as you

are." She examined me pointedly. "Matthew, could this conceivably be

construed as a proposition? To a horny, bone-tired woman in her moment

of mental fatigue?"

"It might be a tentative gesture in that direction. I'm a slow mover."

"You always were." She finished buttoning her coat. "What time's

dinner?"

"I'll pick up Amy and buzz you. Give us an hour."

"Think she'll like me? Some stranger competing for Dad's attention?"

"If she does, it'll be a first." I pushed the down button on the

elevator.

Guess what. Matthew Walton barely got a word in edgewise the entire

night. Then around eleven, in the cab headed home, Amy whispered to me

she thought Dr. Richardson was "kinda neat." Was she gonna be my new

girlfriend?

Tell you, it's not always simple learning to be a father.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Over the next couple of weeks I began to wonder if the scenario wasn't

going a little too smoothly. Everything about Noda's setup seemed

surprisingly pat. The answers came too easily. Was it all really what

it seemed?

I should also add that in the fortnight since Tarn's first contact with

America's shell-shocked industrialists, the situation had not gone

unnoticed in Washington. Tuesday of the second week Jack O'Donnell

called and left a message downtown with Emma, asking if I could arrange

a meeting for him with the elusive Matsuo Noda. Although I'd tried to

keep Jack informed as to developments, he still wanted to confront

America's New Age maker face-to-face.

"Walton," he said when I got back to him, "I just heard your guy's too

'busy' to meet the press, but maybe he'd chat with a close, longtime

friend of his American attorney. That's me, in case you don't recognize

the description. Why not try and get me in to see him?"

"You're dreaming, Jack." I told him that a U.S. senator was about the

last person Matsuo Noda would be interested in meeting just now. "Don't

hold your breath, but I'll bring it up and see what he says."

And what do you know! Noda declared that nothing would please him more.

Naturally there had to be a few ground rules about confidentiality--this

was after all a delicate corporate situation--but otherwise he'd be

delighted to chat. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

Thus around two P.M. Thursday, Jack O'Donnell arrived at the new

twelfth-floor operation, ready to get the truth or by God know the

reason why. After he made his way past our Uzi- outfitted reception, I

brought him on through the floor and introduced him to Dr. Richardson.

Jack knew of her writings

and hit the ground running, asking who, why, when, where, etc., but

before he could get any real answers, Noda appeared and took over.

O'Donnell confided later that his first impression of Matsuo Noda

matched perfectly my description of the man--every bit central casting's

image of the in-charge Japanese honcho. After the usual routine

pleasantries, Jack said he'd like to record their talk. Noda politely

demurred, saying recording instruments stifled his spontaneity, then

proceeded to laud Jack's own articles and speeches urging American

industry to get its house in order. Senator Jack O'Donnell, he

declared, was a visionary American statesman.

Jack accepted this praise warily, then asked if he could maybe have a

peek at the computer operation on the floor below, the analytical

armory I'd told him about. Again Noda begged off, claiming he'd be

honored to guide the esteemed senator's tour personally, but surely

they'd both prefer to postpone that until such time as they had the

leisure to review the operation in detail.

Jack sensed, and I did too, that he was getting a polite runaround, so

he decided to get down to business. He clicked open his briefcase and

took out a notebook.

"Mr. Noda," he began, "there's been considerable speculation in

Washington this past couple of weeks regarding the specific intent of

Japan's sudden heavy involvement in America's high-tech sector. My

subcommittee has monitored foreign investment here for a number of

years, and frankly I've never seen anything remotely like what's now

underway. I'd appreciate an informal briefing, unless you wish to open

the regrettable possibility of a formal subpoena to appear before our

subcommittee."

Whereupon Jack received the first whoosh of what soon blossomed into a

roomful of aerosol bullshit. Noda started with some malarkey about the

great tradition of economic cooperation between our peoples, advanced

to balderdash about Japan's desire to share her resources with the

world's less fortunate, then outdid himself with triple-distilled

crapola about the timeless trust and regard his country's ordinary

citizens cherished in their hearts for our Christian nation (which had

merely torch-bombed and nuked them a few decades past). Worst of all,

Jack had to sit there and listen. I've never seen the guy so

uncomfortable.

Clearly Noda intended to give him pure _tatemae _- soothing

generalities that added up to zip. The man was, by God, going to do

exactly what he wanted, all of which was perfectly legal, so he didn't

really see any point in drawing a picture for the U.S. Senate.

Finally Jack just closed his notebook. "Let me put this differently. I

understand that your objectives are not merely acquisition, but also an

attempt to rejuvenate U.S. business. Beginning, I take it, with the

lackluster segments of our high-tech sector?"

"We hope to offer suggestions from time to time that may prove

helpful." Noda just sat there like a sphinx. "Perhaps I can offer an

example. As you doubtless know, Senator, Japanese firms build plants

overseas these days primarily to be more competitive in those foreign

markets. You Americans, however, are moving your manufacturing abroad

now mainly to compete with foreign goods here it home in your own

market. You appear to think it as comparable, but of course it is not.

What you are doing is exporting your own jobs. Your strategy is

defensive, ours is offensive."

Jack looked him squarely in the eye. "Quite frankly I must tell you

that not everyone in Washington these days trusts Japan's 'offensive'

in international trade. I for one would be very interested in knowing

exactly why Japan has chosen to invest billions of dollars in keeping

America's manufacturing alive. Particularly when so much of it is

competitive with your own."

"Yes, Senator, I realize you Americans prize frankness." He wasn't

giving an inch. "Very well. Quite honestly, no one in Japan believes it

is in the interest of the Free World to allow your industrial base to

continue its current decline. Our economic condition is linked to

yours, like the vital organs of Siamese twins. We cannot afford to let

you atrophy. For one thing, you are our only defense shield, since we

have none of our own. I might also add, though it is a comparatively

lesser concern, you are Japan's primary customer."

"So what you're proposing--if you'll permit me to paraphrase--is to take

certain of our strategic industries, the ones in trouble, by the neck

and institute the management, investment, and research necessary to

keep them competitive."

Noda just smiled. "Dai Nippon expects to offer occasional

advice in the spirit of friendly cooperation. Which is why," he went

on, "I am so happy to have this opportunity to review our program with

someone such as yourself. Your understanding of America's industrial

malaise has not gone unnoticed by those Japanese who take the longer

view, who worry about world economic stability."

Jack tugged at his silk tie and nodded his thanks. Then Noda continued.

"You will be pleased to know I have been in contact with the Japanese

trade organizations that have political action committees, or PACs as

you call them, in Washington. Last year we distributed over fifty

million dollars . . . at least if you believe the Senate Foreign

Relations Committee's staffers . . . in an effort to clarify

misunderstandings about Japan's trade and investment position here." He

smiled. "That averages out to about a million dollars per state, to

take a somewhat clinical view. Of course I will try to use my influence

to see what our PACs can do to help you next fall."

"Mr. Noda, your expression of support is, naturally, appreciated." Jack

was turning politician again. "However, you should be aware of Section

441(e) of the Federal Election Campaign Act, which states that 'no

foreign national shall make a contribution, or an implied promise to

make a contribution, in connection with any federal public office.' I

don't think this discussion is proper."

"That law says nothing about PACs of duly incorporated American

subsidiaries of foreign-owned organizations, Senator. For example, Sony

of America and a coalition of Japanese investors recently contributed

hundreds of thousands to legislators of Florida and California to

encourage the defeat of those states' unfair unitary taxes on foreign-

owned companies. Sometimes it's necessary to remind your federal and

state governments that Japanese investment can be very problematical in

an uncongenial environment." He smiled. "Americans investing overseas

have a long history of making their interests known to those

governments; why should Japanese businessmen be expected to do

otherwise?" All of a sudden Noda glanced at his watch, rose abruptly,

and bowed. "Well, the afternoon seems to have gotten away from us. I

wish you to know I am extremely honored you've taken time from your

undoubtedly busy schedule to visit with us, Senator. It has been most

pleasant."

He shook hands with Jack as he continued. "Of course I have not yet had

the opportunity to review the thinking of the man expected to oppose

you in next fall's senate contest. I believe he is Representative Mark

Reynolds, is he not?"

Jack's polite smile sort of froze on his face.

"But, I'm sure I will," Noda proceeded blandly. "Again let me stress

that voices such as yours are important. There are so few opinion-

makers in America, individuals such as Dr. Richardson and yourself, who

have the receptivity to appreciate the importance of Dai Nippon's

program and its objectives."

I quickly offered to show the distinguished senator to the door, hoping

I wouldn't need that Christmas-gift dog muzzle. He was still closing

his briefcase as we passed the guards, a couple of guys who looked like

the heavies in an old Bruce Lee karate epic. Click, we were on the

elevator, click, we were headed down.

"Good Christ!" He exploded. Before he could say anything else, I waved

for silence. Around here the walls probably had ears. (Shortly

thereafter I discovered I'd underestimated even that.)

In minutes we were on Third Avenue, autumn wind in our hair, with

O'Donnell positively awestruck by Matsuo Noda's balls.

"Matt, did I hear what I thought I did?" His eyes were grim.

"That he's got X million bucks that say you get retired if you fuck

with him?"

"My reading was, I play ball with him and his crowd and he'll write a

blank check for my campaign next year. I cross him and I'll be watching

the Mark Reynolds show every night on prime time right through election

day." He was livid. "Matt, take my advice and get out of this thing.

That bastard thinks this country's for sale. If he expects me to run

interference for him on the Hill while he gears up for World War Three,

he's making a big mistake."

"Jack, I can't quit now. Who else is going to keep an eye on this guy?

Besides, he'd never let me. I know too much."

"So what? He's got to be stopped."

"Look, if you're so worried, then deliver a major speech on the Senate

floor. About all these Japanese billions rolling in, absorbing

companies, with a lot of samurai fanning out to take

names and kick ass across the boardrooms of America. It ought to get

picked up by the Nightly News. Then we'll see what the country wants to

do about it."

The problem, obviously, was what _could_ the country do about it. And

more than that, where would it eventually lead? Did anybody--Tam

Richardson included--seriously believe this was merely a temporary

helping hand? History had a practice of going in one direction--forward.

So after Noda had acquired a lot of our high-tech outfits, maybe even

kept them from going the way of Mostek and others, what next? More and

more I was beginning to wonder if this was really preferable to our

blundering along as best we could on our own.

After gazing at the sky a minute, he declared he was going to do

exactly what I'd said. Blow the whistle. He was about to write a speech

that would be read the length of America, maybe even in the White

House--unless, as Henderson claimed, nobody there these days read

anything but TelePrompTers. Nobody was going to buy off Jack O'Donnell.

I watched as he bulldozed a matron and her fur-collared pooch out of

the way to grab the next cab for his midtown office. On the way back

through the lobby I stopped off and grabbed a copy of _Time_. Had we

made the weeklies yet?

Yep. Lead article, all about how the Japanese loved investing here.

Going up in the elevator, though, I happened to flip past a profile of

some recently disappeared luminary in the academic world, the guy who

was supposed to have been the father of artificial intelligence. It

occurred to me the piece might be of interest to Tam. She'd been so

busy she was probably out of touch.

When I got back up to twelve, Noda was gone. Vanished almost as though

he hadn't been there. I wanted to huddle with Tam about his evasive new

song and dance, but since I was holding the magazine, I showed her the

item. The rest of what happened you can probably guess. She had been

out of touch.

"Oh, my God, Allan!"

"Friend of yours? I'm sorry."

"Nobody told me." She grabbed it and quickly skimmed the article.

Finally she headed for her office. "I've got to call Sarah."

"Tam." I caught her arm. I'd finally made the connection.

"I think I already know the story." Then I recounted Henderson's

bizarre tale.

That was the first time though not the last that I saw Tam Richardson

look scared. She obviously knew something I didn't.

"Matthew, something is very, very wrong."

"Just repeating what I heard." I looked at her, now twisting the

magazine in her hands, and decided to press. "Is there more to this

than you're telling me?"

"I don't know." She glanced around. "I really don't want to talk about

it here."

"Whatever you say." I paused. "How well did you know him?"

"He had dinner at my apartment not more than a couple of months ago."

She tossed down the magazine. "And he asked me to do something for

him."

"Did you?" Don't know why I asked. It just seemed relevant.

"No. I guess you could say I did just the opposite. Now it all makes me

wonder if . . . if maybe it has some connection with . . ." Her voice

trailed off.

"What? What connection?"

"Nothing." She was starting to clam up.

She didn't say anything more. And, so far as I know, that phone call

never got made.

Besides, something else occurred that night to occupy her mind. When

she got home, she picked up her mail and decided to crash. She'd been

so busy she still hadn't finished with all the odds and ends that had

stacked up during the Tokyo trip, but that night she was too knocked-

out to bother. She poured herself a glass of white wine, quickly

checked the mail, and was getting ready for bed when she first noticed

the light flashing on her answering machine. For a minute she

considered just letting it wait. There was nobody she wanted to talk

with who wouldn't still be there in the morning. But finally curiosity

got the upper hand, and she pushed "Play."

There was only one message. In Japanese.

Ms. Akira Mori wanted to see her Friday morning, at the DNI offices. It

wasn't a request; it was a summons.

Wait one minute! Mori? When did she get into town? And more to the

point, where did Mori-san come off summoning Tam Richardson for a

command appearance? She had another

glass of wine and finally went to bed wondering who exactly was now

running the show at DNI.

Friday late she awoke still thinking about Allan. What was going on?

She was beginning to get worried, and maybe a little frightened.

Finally, just before lunchtime, she got her briefcase and hailed a cab

for uptown.

After she cleared the checkpoint at the twelfth-floor elevators, she

spotted Mori-san, right there in the midst of the action. This woman

wastes no time, she told herself. Mori, an incongruous peacock of

designer elegance in the midst of the bustling, short-haired staff, was

poring over a stack of printouts assembled on a desk in the center of

the floor. Meanwhile, the office was going full tilt: the green print

of CRT screens glowed; printers hummed all around; data bleeped between

terminals; and staffers were hurrying over selected documents for Mori

to review. Also, since heavy buys were underway, the latest SEC filings

(required when one entity acquires more than five percent of the stock

of a given company) were being readied.

As it happens, I was already on hand too, over in Noda's office where

we were going over some paperwork. The day's news as far as I was

concerned also was Mori-san. She'd appeared bright and early, held a

closed-door confab with Noda, proceeded to do some photocopying, then

commandeered an office.

By purest coincidence I was doing some copying of my own round about

then and ended up on the copy line right behind her, inhaling her

perfume. Next an odd thing happened. As we all sometimes do when

rushed, she'd snatched up her copies while the last original was still

on the machine. Then she asked me if I wanted regular size or legal.

Legal, I said, and she reached to flip the switch. As she did, though,

she accidentally clicked the "print" button with those long

fingernails, whereupon she stalked off, rummaging through her copies

and forgetting the original.

Not for long. Two seconds later she was back to claim it, but by that

time an unauthorized copy was lying in the output bin. I didn't even

see it. However, when I scooped up my own pages a minute later, mixed

in with them was a sheet listing some names and numbers with REVISIONS

lettered across the top. I started to toss it, then paused to glance

over the names for a moment.

Hang on, everybody, this is very out of line. That's when I decided to

slip it into my briefcase.

When Mori saw Tam come in, she quickly stacked the printouts she was

reviewing into a neat pile, then beckoned her toward the far corner of

the floor. Tam noticed that Mori's new office was at the opposite end

of the building from Noda's.

"I understand Noda-san has appointed you director of this division."

Mori was ushering Tam into the office, all the while running her

fingers nervously through her sculptured black hair. "Congratulations."

Not exactly a great opener. It sounded even harsher in Japanese, since

it was so at odds with the usual polite greetings.

"I've been hired to do a job, Mori-san, and I intend to do

it."

"_So desu ne_," Mori concurred in Japanese, her voice a trifle

strained. Tam thought she looked a bit bleary-eyed after her flight in

from Tokyo, but there were no half measures about the woman. She was

all business in a prim silk suit shading to gray with a bright blue

scarf tied at the neck. She wore high heels, but they didn't slow her

brisk stride as she paced around her desk. "I am sure you will do it

well. I would like you to know I am prepared to assist you at every

step."

Well, Tam had a pretty clear idea of how she intended to proceed, which

didn't really include a lot of assistance from Akira Mori. What exactly

had Noda been telling this woman? Maybe, she mused, Mori-san just

hadn't been fully brought up to speed.

"I noticed that you're reviewing our analytical sheets." Tam continued,

"Those are the firms we're going to start restructuring first."

"And if you do not receive the desired cooperation? What will you do

then?" Mori asked evenly, as though she didn't already know the answer.

"We'll just keep up stock acquisition till we have whatever we need.

Also, I intend to appoint a representative to sit on the board of

directors, to monitor performance and make sure our program is

implemented."

"That is my understanding as well." Mori went on, "And concerning the

matter of who will be assigned--"

"I've just finished putting together a list of management experts.

They're dedicated people. Most of them will probably help us for a

small honorarium instead of their usual consulting fees."

"These personnel are an area I wish to discuss with you," Mori pushed

ahead, almost as though not listening. That was when Tam realized she

was finally getting around to the real agenda of the meeting. "It is

our opinion that, at this stage, the heavy involvement of Americans in

that capacity would be counterproductive."

"'Our opinion'?" Tam didn't like the sound of this. "Who exactly is

'our'?"

"I have reviewed Dai Nippon's program in some detail with . . . the

interested parties in Tokyo." Mori appeared to be making an

announcement. "They have concurred that at this stage it would be more

efficient if we assigned our own specialists to assist in the

management of these companies."

"Your own specialists?" Now Tam was starting to bristle. "Just whom do

you have in mind?"

"Industrial experts such as Kenji Asano, for example, may be involved."

She continued, "We have a great reservoir of talent to choose from,

particularly within the Ministry of International Trade and Industry."

"MITI?" Tarn stared at her, dumbfounded. She couldn't believe her own

ears. That was like calling in a fox to fortify your henhouse. "You've

got to be joking."

"The decision was made last week." Mori fixed her coldly. "Noda-san has

been informed, and he finds the suggestion . . . acceptable."

"Well, I don't," Tam flared. "It's outrageous."

"There is something you must understand, Dr. Richardson," Mori

continued in Japanese. "The management of a company should represent

its ownership. Since Dai Nippon will be holding what amounts to a

controlling interest in these firms, we are obliged to assist them

using whatever international specialists we feel are most qualified to

contribute. For now we believe that the expertise in our Ministry of

International Trade and Industry is most appropriate since it has

guided corporate growth in Japan for many years with undeniable

success."

"That's irrelevant." Tam steamed. "First, most MITI executives don't

necessarily understand American business. And second, MITI has no right

involving itself in the operation of our industry. It's a flagrant

conflict of interest."

"There I must disagree with you. On your first point, many Japanese

firms have been manufacturing here and have an excellent record of

labor relations and management success. As to your second point, using

specialists trained by MITI is simply the most efficient way to

transfer Japanese expertise."

"It won't be allowed."

"Why shouldn't it be? Any people we bring here will be on leave of

absence. Hence they will no longer have any official ties to the

Japanese government. No law prevents us from appointing whomever we

wish."

Ouch, Tam thought. She's right. Nothing could stop Dai Nippon from

restructuring the boards of directors of the companies in which it held

a voting majority of shares. In fact, several Japanese firms had

already taken over and reopened the manufacturing facilities of some of

the very companies MITI's "targeting" had decked only a few years

before, bringing in Japanese board members as part of the deal. What's

more, Americans loved it. Governors were falling over themselves to

attract Japanese joint ventures to their states.

"Does Noda-san understand the significance of bringing in MITI

personnel?"

"There are many interests to be addressed . . ."

At this point I wandered in, together with Noda, to talk about setting

up a meeting that afternoon. We'd been reviewing DNI's plans for a new

program of real estate investment and construction, part of expanding

the research or manufacturing facilities of the firms it was now in the

process of absorbing.

I passed a pleasantry with Tam, then studied her, puzzled. "You look a

little distressed this morning."

"I'm receiving an update on a change in our program." Tam glared back

at Mori, then turned to Noda. "What's this about bringing in people

from MITI?"

Noda smiled, but he looked a trifle uncomfortable. "Think of it as a

temporary measure." He nodded toward Mori, then looked back at Tam. "We

always like to operate by consensus. And that consensus among the fund

managers who have joined us appears to be that our investments should

initially be monitored by our own people."

"I thought this office was going to be in charge of determining who our

people would be, not somebody in MITI." Tam fixed him coldly, then

turned on me. "Did you know anything about this?"

"Bringing in honchos from MITI? News to me." I examined Noda. "I

understood the management end of this was going to be directed by Dr.

Richardson."

He was smiling again. "But it will be. She will continue to meet with

the CEOs of the firms we intend to assist to provide our preliminary

analysis of their operations, and she will be with us every step we

take."

"It hardly sounds that way." Tam was boiling. "The way it looks now, I

set up a reorganization plan, then MITI's people come in and take

over."

"Merely for consultation, Dr. Richardson. I assure you." He glanced

uncomfortably at Mori-san. Both Tam and I had the same hunch at that

point: Noda's backers had started to get a little edgy about his

investments, so they'd decided to send in some brass from the Delta

Force to keep an eye on things. But you'd never have suspected that as

he continued, "Dr. Richardson, surely you must be aware that MITI

personnel are not in the habit of, as you phrase it, 'taking over.' At

most MITI merely recommends policies to enhance competitiveness.

Furthermore, the individuals we will engage will no longer be

associated with MITI. They will merely be specialists in our hire.

Their participation will be extremely beneficial, please believe me."

"If making decisions like this is your idea of consensus, then I don't

think much of it." Tam was getting increasingly wound up. "And I'll

tell you something else. I intend to review the government connections

of anyone you bring in. I'm going to have final say."

"We all want to work together," Noda continued smoothly. "Our plans are

continuing to evolve. Of course I will insist on full American-Japanese

coordination and cooperation at every stage." He looked squarely at

Tam. "You have my word."

She glanced over at me, trying her best to keep cool. I was toying with

my papers, still posing as a neutral observer, but I was equally

puzzled. Why would Japan's Ministry of International Trade and Industry

let its people be used to assist American companies? Okay, MITI's elite

technocrats were probably the cream of Japan's management talent, but

they already had their hands full.

More to the point, given MITI's sorry history of rule bending and

economic guerrilla warfare, why would it now cooperate in Dai Nippon's

plan to restructure the high-tech segment of U.S. manufacturing? I

asked Noda point-blank.

"Mr. Walton, if you choose to see Japan and the U.S. as competitors,

then I suppose you could regard this as our ancient tradition of

'giving salt to the enemy.'" He smiled awkwardly.

Bullshit. That's what I thought, not what I said, which was nothing.

Tam in the meantime had her own question to chew on. Mori had mentioned

Ken Asano. Was he involved too? Since Mori had specifically named him

as being on the MITI team that she or somebody now planned to enlist,

was this a tip-off that Ken was in with them up to his neck? Was this

the "trust" he'd talked about?

Since Tam looked as if she was getting ready to resign on the spot, I

figured a little cooling-off time for everybody might be in order.

"Dr. Richardson, if we're about through here, could you help me a

minute?" I thumbed toward the open door. "Tanaka wants you to approve

the final setup for the partitions."

I quickly discovered I was wrong about the idea she would quit. As we

worked our way past the computer terminals and stacks of printouts,

retreating toward the center of the floor, she declared war. "MITI or

Mori or whoever's behind this is going to have a fight on their hands.

We don't need them involved."

"Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think we're being kept in the

dark about a lot of what's cooking." I kept my voice low, scarcely

above a whisper, as the Japanese staff milled in and out. "There's a

sheet of paper in my briefcase that I'd like to go over with you. Yet

another example of the curious new developments around this place."

She poured herself a cup of green tea from the large urn stationed in

the middle of the floor. "What do you mean?"

"We'll talk about it later." I poured some tea for myself. "I think

something's gone haywire."

That startled her, and she began to tune in. "Things are pretty haywire

now."

"This may be even worse. I came across something a while ago that

doesn't add up." I looked at her. "I think we ought to talk about it."

"Now?"

"Not here. How about tonight?"

"Can't. There's a damned faculty dinner I have to attend."

"Then tomorrow night?"

"Where?"

"What would you say to my place downtown? I think you live right around

the corner from me."

"This has to be strictly business, Matt."

"Guaranteed." I raised my palm.

"Well, I've got a lot of work--"

"Shall we make it for seven?" I was handing her my card, address and

number thereon. "The cocktail hour?"

She was still glaring at Mori's office as she absently took it. "Well .

. . all right." She glanced back. "Seven."

"See you there."

. . . Jack O'Donnell's speech, to be delivered to the Senate that

Tuesday, sort of slipped to the back of my mind. Maybe it shouldn't

have. After getting back to his office that afternoon he dictated about

three versions before he had it the way he wanted it. Friday morning he

messengered a copy down to my office, and I can tell you it was a

beauty. He'd got it all, and he'd got it right.

Later Friday, however, he received a phone call from Matsuo Noda. After

the usual preliminaries, saying how much he'd enjoyed their meeting,

Mr. Noda confided he was calling as a personal favor to the senator,

since they'd hit it off so well the previous day. Turns out he'd just

been talking to the CEOs of various Japanese outfits scheduled to set

up manufacturing operations in some of the "rust-belt" mill towns in

upstate New York. Here was the distressing development: seems they were

all of a sudden taking another look at sunny Tennessee. The problem

was, they were upset by the anti-Japanese tone a lot of New York

publications were taking these days--Japan bashing in the Times

editorial pages, things like that. Noda, however, felt all this was

very shortsighted of those Japanese investors; and he wondered if

Senator O'Donnell would like him to put in a word for the Empire State.

Pause. He hated to mention this, but people were even talking of

closing certain Japanese-operated factories already in place, such as

that big one in Elmira, Jack's hometown, and moving them south. But he

thought threats such as that were very impolite and he was hoping he

could find time to straighten the whole thing out.

Like I said, it would have been a hell of a speech.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

That Saturday turned out to be the day when winter descended abruptly

and with rare vengeance. Remember we're only talking mid-December,

still a dozen full shopping days till you know what, but it could have

been the depths of January. After things kicked off with what seemed a

foot of snow around three, the elements really started to unload.

Everything from sleet in historic proportions to a wind-chill that

would have frosted the horns off a Bexar County billy goat.

While I waited for Tam, I battened down the garden, covered the outdoor

furniture, and prudently provisioned the larder with a flagon of Remy

antifreeze. Ben in the meantime was lumbering around downstairs, eyeing

the snow-covered garden with an air of disgruntlement. The universe had

turned unacceptable, something he never greeted with equanimity. I

decided to try and divert his misery by hauling him up on the long

Country French dining table and combing some of the knots out of his

shag. When that merely reinforced his overall gloom, however, I called

it quits, located a consoling rawhide stick for him to gnaw, and poured

a brandy. It was along about then, shortly after nightfall, that Tam

finally appeared.

A cab with snow chains dropped her off (she'd come directly from the

office, which Noda had just shut down for the weekend), and I helped

her navigate the sleet-covered steps. I got the immediate sense that

her first impression of my living quarters was unchanged from the old

days. In spite of all the art, armor, and antiques, the place had a

poignant rootlessness about it. Boys like toys; they just get more

expensive as the bank account grows. Also, since she'd been in the man

game long enough to spot a divorce-rebound case a mile off, she

probably had me figured from the start: part of that army of emotional

paraplegics in our feckless day and age.

After the MITI twist, however, I suppose she was ready to consult with

somebody concerning the direction things were headed. I warmly invited

her downstairs to the sisal-carpeted den just off the garden and dumped

some logs in the fireplace. Next I pulled out a few discs--Mendelssohn

seemed about right for some reason--and offered to whip up a batch of

margaritas. 'Twould be, I dared to hope, a long winter's eve. Alas, she

said no thanks, a club soda and lime would do fine. Looked as if I

would be working barehanded, without aid of that universal socializer,

distilled spirit, so I rustled up a Perrier, then poured another

snifter of brandy for myself.

Since she appeared exhausted, my first suggestion was she kick off her

shoes and get comfortable. No argument.

After settling in, shoes off and feet to the fire, she announced she

was ready to hear what I'd come up with.

Before an awkward silence could grow, I snapped open my briefcase.

"Dr. Richardson, in keeping with the ground rule that this is a formal

business meeting, let me introduce my first agenda item." I flashed her

my best smile, then pulled out the purloined page. "This is part of the

paperwork Mori seems to have brought with her. I don't understand too

well what it's all about, but my first impression is that somebody has

decided to do some major tinkering with your program. Take a look at

this and give me an opinion." I passed it over.

She glanced down, then back at me. "Are you supposed to be bringing DNI

documents home?"

That was her first reaction, swear to God.

"Look, this just accidentally got in with some of my photocopies. All

it is is a list of companies. And I didn't want to talk about it there

in the office." I reached over and ran my finger down the string of

firms, then to several columns of numbers off to the right. "The

question is, what are these outfits suddenly doing on DNI's buy list?"

She studied it a second, looked around the room, and said exactly

nothing.

"Doesn't that seem at all strange to you?" I finally spoke up. "As I

understand the plan, you want to shift more corporate funding into

research in the companies you're buying into? I do have it right, don't

I?"

She nodded.

"Okay, then you're with me so far. But take a look at this." I

indicated the column of numbers. "That's the current research budget

for these firms--it says so right up there on the top. Presumably these

figures came out of the analytical setup down on eleven. Does anything

about those figures seem out of line?"

She looked at it, her eyes widening, then narrowing.

"Well, I don't know what this sheet is all about." She glanced up.

"These companies aren't part of our buys."

"Got news for you. I think they just made the team." I pointed to the

heading. "See that--'ACQUISITION SCHEDULE: REVISIONS.'"

When she said nothing, nada, I continued, "But you're right; they

weren't on the original list. The reason being, I would surmise, that

they didn't need any of this so-called management Rx you guys are

supposed to be cooking up. Look at that one, and that one. Even I know

enough to realize those outfits are operating with a real cash surplus

right now, have plenty of R&D funding already, and hence are doing just

fine, thank you. The figures, in fact, are right over there in that

column on the right."

"Matt, we don't know what this is for."

"True, true. So let's just play pretend. And to make it fun, let me

show you something else." I rummaged through my briefcase some more,

finally extracting another paper. "I copied a corresponding page from

the file on current buys."

I laid it alongside the first.

She picked up the second sheet, checked it over. "I helped compile this

list."

"Then maybe you'll see what I'm saying? Format's the same. The only

difference is, some of the dogs have been dropped and replaced by some

very well run corporations."

"You're right about that. All high-tech, heavy research investment."

Progress? The first scale to fall from her eyes?

"Then let's play another round of this 'pretend' game. As I understand

it, you and yours put together this original list of companies for one

main reason: lousy management. But all of a sudden the outfits in the

worst shape on list number one have disappeared on list number two.

Meaning, I would assume, that they're no longer part of the program, at

least as it's laid out on this revised version Mori must have brought

in from Tokyo."

"What are you trying to say?"

For chrissake, what did she think I was trying to say?

"Oh, nothing much, I suppose. Except that it looks to me like

somebody's just knifed your program in the back. All of a sudden DNI's

going to start buying outfits that already have good management, not to

mention heavy research commitments. So what exactly is anybody supposed

to be doing to help them along?" I paused. "Maybe a better question is,

who removed those others, the ones now winging it on a hope and a

prayer."

She laid down the two pages side by side and began to compare them in

more detail, a finger here, a finger there. But strictly no comment.

Along about then Ben got up and checked out the sleet- covered garden,

then lumbered back and plopped down beside us, clearly expecting a pat

for diligence in the line of duty. She remarked that English sheepdogs

always reminded her of a big flotaki rug. After that put-down she

returned to the lists. I hoped the poor guy's sensitive ego wasn't

mortally fractured.

Well, she announced finally, my so-called discovery didn't add up to

much.

"Matt, I officially have no opinion about this. It could mean

anything." She shrugged. "Maybe the new twist is to start with the

companies that can benefit the most from coordination. Take on the easy

job first where the payoff will be greatest. Save the tough ones for

later."

"Oh, sure. Who knows? It could all be very innocent, right? I mean, for

all we can tell, the moon might really be green cheese." I wondered

what had gotten into her all of a sudden. It was plain as day what was

happening. But instead of congratulating me on my sleuthing, she was

turning obtuse.

"Tell me exactly how you got this sheet."

"Like I said, more or less by accident." I told her the story again. "I

was about to chuck it, then I took a second to mull it over. That's

when I got to wondering why the numbers seemed so inconsistent. Next

thing I noticed was the new list of players. All of a sudden the

heavens opened. A vision." I got up to freshen my brandy, then came

back. She was still sitting there, maybe too exhausted to think

straight. "But I take it you don't believe my little epiphany means

anything?"

"Since I don't know what it means, I'm not going to engage in a lot of

uninformed speculation."

Good Christ, I thought, what's happened to all her reputed brilliance?

"You know," she went on, "I don't think you should be taking any more

documents out of the office. There's a reason for all the security."

"Hey, back off. I just have boundless curiosity." I still couldn't

fathom her lack of interest . . . no, make that hostility. "Look, I

don't claim to understand how birds fly, how fish swim, or how this

whole damned picture fits together. However, my new, albeit uninformed,

observation is that Noda and Company are not exactly giving us the fine

print on their scenario. Exhibit A: this strange new list."

"I think some fresh air would be nice." She rose to her feet, located

her shoes, and strolled over to look out at the garden. The sleet and

snow was about a foot and a half deep. "Why don't we go into the back?"

"What?" I stumbled to my feet. "Do you have any idea . . ."

She looked at me a bit funny, then made some hand signals.

Huh?

Finally I realized she was telling me she didn't want to say anything

more inside the house.

Talk about paranoid! Suddenly the reason for all her hemming and hawing

over my little theft came clear. She actually thought we might be

bugged! Get serious, lady.

Anyway, she gave me the cool-it sign, then calmly started putting on

her coat. Astounded by the possible dimensions of human mistrust, I dug

out a sweater from behind the couch and opened the door. She was still

nursing that damned designer water.

Ben snapped to alertness and galloped to the door, whereupon he

confronted the weather. His strategic decision, executed with lightning

speed, was to switch into his patented "zone defense" surveillance mode

against backyard trespassers, which required staying inside where it

was warm. I gave him a pat, freshened his water bowl, and followed her

out into the snow.

There was a brief lull in the weather. The sky glowed red from all the

streetlights, at least what you could see of it through the surrounding

brownstones and the leafless ailanthus tree at the back. I looked

around as Ben gave the fence one last survey, then plopped down and

settled his chin onto his paws with a grunt.

Tam, I suppose, had finally concluded I wasn't pulling some kind of

loyalty check for Noda, so that was when she opened the real can of

worms.

"How long was she making copies? I mean, you were standing right behind

her."

"Mori? I don't know. Less than a minute." I examined her, a trifle

puzzled. "Why?"

"How many pages?"

"Probably half a dozen or so."

She just stood there a moment, gazing up at the sky, then she went back

inside, stepping around Ben, and returned with the sheet. "Did you

notice this?" She pointed to the upper right-hand corner.

I took it and strained in the faint light from the back windows. "It

says '129/147.'" I looked up. "You think that means . . . ?"

"I think your episode suggests at least two things." She took back the

page. "The first one is, this is part of a much larger document."

"With you so far. A hundred and forty-seven pages. And the second?"

"You said she only made half a dozen copies, then overlooked this?" She

paused. "Don't you think Akira Mori can count?"

At that moment the snowy night grew silent as a tomb.

"What are you suggesting?" I finally blurted it out. "That she left

this on purpose?"

"Maybe. But I don't have the slightest idea why."

"Christ, you have a very mistrusting mind." I slogged on through the

snow for a few steps, then turned back. "I'm convinced it was

accidental."

"All right, let's just say that's a possibility for now. But what we do

know for sure is we'd better get our hands on the rest of this."

"Hey, don't look at me. I'm already in this scam deeper than I ever

intended to be. I say we either play their way or cut and run. We start

getting too nosy and we could end up on the wrong end of one of those

Uzis."

"Matt, there's something else I noticed about the list. It's ominous."

"Care to elaborate?" I kicked at the snow.

"Well, not out here. I'm freezing." She pulled her coat a bit tighter.

"Is there someplace inside where we can talk?"

"I've got an idea. But let's warm up first." I led the way back in. The

fire had died a bit, so she settled on the floor next to the hearth,

the smooth contours of her cheeks golden in the flickering light.

"Sure you won't have a brandy after all. To combat the chill?" The

quartet Opus 44, No. 1, was enveloping us, both violins emerging out of

the shadows.

She looked up and smiled. "Maybe it would be nice."

I fetched it, slid onto the floor next to her, and stretched to stir

the coals. Ben sauntered over to keep me honest, plunked down, and was

immediately out like a light.

"How're we doing for warmth?" I propped the poker against the side of

the mantel, then reached over and touched her tangled hair lightly with

my fingertips. To my everlasting surprise, she leaned next to me.

"Much better."

"Maybe we should both bail out right now. Tonight. Why not just go down

to my place in the islands and monitor the apocalypse off the satellite

dish? Watch MITI eat America."

Was I joking? Only partially. Down home we have a saying about folks

with a certain . . . _je ne sais quoi_. They'd do to ride the river

with. In my book Tam was definitely one of the riders.

The fire snapped and startled Ben, who glanced up, checked out the

sleet-covered garden, then grimly resumed his snooze. She reached over

and gave him a pat. The first time. "You know, I can't believe MITI is

behind all this. I know at least one MITI person myself."

"You know somebody in MITI?" I was a trifle taken aback. "Who?"

She stared at the fire. "His name is Kenji Asano. You wouldn't have

heard of him."

I lay there for a moment listening to the quartet, my memory registers

running a quick sort. Then it came to me. Kenji Asano was the MITI guy

Henderson said had masterminded Japan's rape of the U.S. semiconductor

industry.

"You actually know him?"

"Sure do." She smiled. "Very well."

Shit. I didn't really need to hear this. "That sounds like a little

more than a professional acquaintance." I looked at her for

confirmation.

"A little."

Okay, I thought. Guess we're getting down to the straight story here.

Press on. "Well, I have some news you may not like. This Asano genius

personally engineered the destruction of the U.S. industry in RAM

chips. Probably the most devastating sneak attack on America since

Pearl Harbor."

She stiffened. "Who told you that?"

"Let's just say I heard it. So what's this guy doing all of a sudden

saving U.S. high-tech industry? He's already cost this country tens of

thousands of jobs and literally billions of dollars."

"I don't believe it. I know Ken. Sure, he works for MITI, but his job

is overseeing Japan's own research in supercomputers. He's very proud

of their progress."

Oops. I swirled my snifter. "Whatever you say. If that's really true,

then excuse me. I take it all back."

She looked up--probably not believing my diplomatic reversal--and watched

as I casually slipped my arm around her waist. I couldn't tell if she

wanted it to happen or not.

Thinking I might have some momentum going, I reached back and pulled a

couple of wide cushions off the couch, stationed them by the fire, then

eased us both against them. I tried to do it with naturalness, finesse.

It wasn't happening.

"Matthew, underneath all that unnecessary bluster, which is just as I

remember, you're still a half-decent guy, which I also remember. But I

don't really think this is a good idea." She looked at me, her face

highlighted in the orange glow of the embers.

"I hope it's not because you have other commitments." I heard my voice

harden. "Like maybe in Japan."

"I'm just a little distracted tonight, that's all." She watched as I

trailed a finger around the hard tip of a nipple beneath her shirt.

Gently she moved my hand away. "Don't start."

"Maybe I can at least get a rain check." I retired from the field.

"Possibly." She smiled, then gave me a telling glance. "A while ago you

said something about another place."

My soundproof chamber?

"Right." I rose. "We're always open around here for travelers on a

frosty night." I helped her up. "And for this evening's special

introductory offer, there's a hot tub down the hall. Why don't you let

me fill it, and you can unwind those muscles for a while, Japanese-

style or California-style or whatever. Do you good."

She looked me over a second, then smiled. "Lots of nice, loud running

water?"

"Exactly."

Off we went to the Italian-marble bathroom there off the downstairs

bedroom. I'd installed that little indulgence for Joanna back during

happier times; these days I used it as the world's largest laundry

hamper--ripping it out would have cost a fortune. Jo's revenge, I called

the thing.

She marched in, took a look about the room, which had one of those big

tubs trimmed in redwood, and said it reminded her of a place near Ise.

She did at least have the discretion to omit the circumstances of that

occasion.

What happened next sort of shook my cool, my being a good Texas lapsed-

Baptist. You see, I'd never bought into the nudity-is-wholesome ethic

of the Age of Aquarius. Passed me right by. I mean, where's the fun in

life without a little forbidden fruit? But Tam just began shucking her

clothes. Everything. Kept going till she'd even doffed her little beige

knickers, piling everything one piece at a time in a neat heap on the

counter. Just like that. While bold corporate raider Matt Walton stood

there in terminal astonishment, grasping the edge of the sink as if it

were a life preserver. My nonchalance was an Oscar-winning performance.

Now in the attire God gave her, she calmly inquired if I had any bubble

bath.

"Well, ah, sure, I mean, I suppose so, probably somewhere around here.

If not, there's probably a box of Tide in the basement." I groped

blindly in the cabinet and my hand fell upon a pink bottle whose label

read "Mr. Bubble." What's this? Then I realized it must be some suds

stashed there by Amy. Bet she saw somebody soaking on TV and concluded

that's the way grown-up women behaved. My God, it's in their genes.

Then I turned around.

Tell you one thing, Dr. Tamara Richardson was still in great

shape. All of her. Was she pulling a tease number on me, or just doing

what comes naturally? Sad to say, I fear it was the latter. I guess

she'd somehow internalized this Japanese idea that nudity is no big

deal.

"Tam"--I finally found my voice--"you're something else. I know you're

smart, and I'm beginning to remember you never were all that retiring.

How about refreshing me on a few of the other things I seem to have

forgot."

"I think I wanted to be a boy." She laughed as she sampled the water

with her toe. "I thought they had all the fun." Now she was pouring in

a test portion of Amy's Mr. Bubble. "Then I found out girls could do

anything boys could, but usually better. So I stopped worrying about

it." She stepped in.

"Easy. You're talking to an unreconstructed male chauvinist."

"What else is new? You all are at heart. At least you have the decency

to admit it." She dumped in the remainder of the pink gunk. Will

somebody please tell me why women, all women, go for that stuff? An

exaggeration, you say? Ever see one turn it down?

"Hey, I'm trying to deprogram myself, but it's uphill work." I watched

as a perfectly formed breast disappeared beneath the foam. "I tend to

be old-fashioned."

"I recall all too well."

"Well, give me a chance." I leaned back against the sink. "You know,

this striptease isn't helping repress my primal male instincts a whole

heck of a lot."

"Matt, for somebody who's supposed to be an expert on Japan, you've

understood very little about us."

"Us?"

"You know. I'm half and half." She flashed me a Mona Lisa smile as she

was wrapping her hair in a towel. I found myself thinking that at least

she shaves her underarms, a minor concession to conventional propriety.

"Well, so what. I'm an equal-opportunity seductionist. That is, when I

get the opportunity."

"Not making much headway tonight, I fear." Another tricky smile. She

was starting to drive me distracted.

"Thought you'd never notice."

"Matt, you're an emotional basket case. I've seen plenty." She looked

me over sympathetically. "Sorry, but I've got enough problems of my

very own. You'll have to manage your own salvation."

"Could be you're just deceived by my sensitive nature." I leaned

against the counter, playing peek-a-boo with a tan nipple now half-

concealed in the bubbles. "Mistaking it for brain damage."

"Uh, uh." She shook her head in the negative. "I read your gender

pretty well."

I was beginning to get a little annoyed. Who needed this? "Tell you

what, Dr. Richardson, for all my putative failings, I do happen to

possess a modest allotment of native wit. And my male intuition tells

me your dance card is full right now. That same right-brain perception

also suggests it has something to do with this MlTl honcho Asano."

"So?"

"So that upsets me for a couple of reasons, only one of which will

probably be of any interest to you. I don't think you have an entirely

open mind on the possibility MITI or somebody may be about to try and

nail this country to the wall. Because if you admitted that, you would

also have to admit something you apparently find distasteful to concede

about your Prince Charming." I watched her eyes grow sad. "Stop me if I

cross the line from preaching to meddling--to use a little expression

from my youth."

"Matthew, you've just ceased being nice." She looked down. "What do you

do if you think you trust somebody and then you find out maybe that

trust is . . . misplaced?"

"Old Ecclesiasticus, back in Bible times, told us, 'In the time of

adversity, consider.' As advice goes, that's still probably sound value

for the dollar. Like for example, you might want to back off and do a

little thinking on whether Noda and his crowd have been using you, and

me for that matter, like a couple of patsies."

When she said nothing, I pressed on. "I walk into the office yesterday,

the first thing I hear about is some MITI connection, then tonight I

hear about your MITI connection, and it's starting to sound like the

same tune. Like maybe these guys have been playing you like a violin."

"But why me?"

"Credibility. And low profile for MITI's grab. By sending you out to

meet the victims, they've thrown the hounds off the scent. Dr. Save-

American-Industry has come to help. You're so goddam clean, Tam.

Impeccable credentials. You're gold to those guys." I was set to give

her a blast, but I decided to try keeping the lid on for once. "Maybe a

better question than why they chose you is why you went for it. How did

they brainwash you?"

"Nobody brainwashed me. I still think Noda's being straight. He can

think in global terms. That's a rarity."

"And how about this Asano character? You sure gave me the message to

back off when I questioned his intentions."

"Maybe I've been thinking with something besides my head." She sighed

and leaned back. "But then, maybe not. I have no reason to believe he'd

mislead me."

"Look, I don't know anything about the situation. But I respectfully

suggest you ought to reflect on that possibility." I looked at her. "By

the way, I seem to remember you said there was something else about the

list that struck you as odd."

"It has to do with the kind of research being done by those new firms

on the list. A pattern." She paused.

"What pattern?"

"I'd rather not say just yet. Until I'm sure. It's probably just my

imagination."

Something snapped inside me about then. Anger. Tam Richardson, I was

rapidly concluding, was being used by those bastards. And as best I

could tell, this idealistic woman couldn't let herself believe it. The

situation royally pissed me off. Even more when I also suspected this

Asano operator had somehow been playing fast and loose with her

heartstrings. I decided then and there I wasn't going to let them get

away with it.

A strange psychology takes hold of you when you sense you've been

temporarily outflanked; I think it's that primal human response

somebody once dubbed flight or fight. You realize you've got two

choices: you can either stand your ground, or you can make a run for

the sidelines. So what to do about Dai Nippon and Noda and Mori and

Asano? Right then and there I made a tactical decision. I decided that--

like the caveman facing the saber-toothed tiger--the best defense would

be to try and make the beast back off.

More to the point, it wasn't merely Tam that was imperiled. Maybe

Henderson's suspicions were right; maybe this was the handshake that

turned into a karate flip, the beginning of World War II, Part B. So I

figured I owed it to myself and everybody else to at least uncover the

truth.

No entity, I've always believed, is unstoppable, no matter how massive.

There's always a soft underbelly somewhere. After a while any big

organization gets cocky and makes a blunder. Sometimes, in fact, you

can lure them into it. I concluded there was only one way to go, head-

to-head with Dai Nippon. You want peaches, you shake the tree.

"Okay, you've got your theories, I've got mine. But for both our sakes,

I think it's time we moved on them."

"What do you mean?" She looked up.

"I suggest we start with a little information gathering." I turned on

the hot water again, nice and noisy, then continued. "What do you say

we go up and take a little private look around the offices."

"Tonight?"

"What better time. Weather alert, right? Nobody's there. It's perfect.

We can fast-talk the security, get in, and check the place over."

"And where, exactly, do you propose we look?" She examined me

skeptically. "I'm there every day."

"How about that new office Mori commandeered for herself. I think we

ought to poke around and see what she's got. Maybe try and locate the

rest of that document, if nothing else."

"I'm not sure we ought to be doing anything quite that drastic, at

least not just yet."

"I didn't claim it was approved by Amy Vanderbilt. I just say we ought

to give it a shot. If we don't look into this, who will? Maybe we'll

find something to explain the so-called pattern you think you see."

"Matt, for all I know, that may be nothing more than a coincidence. If

Noda found out we'd done something like this, the whole ball game would

be over."

"That's the chance we take. Let's just see what we can come up with,

okay? Personally, I'm beginning to think Noda and your pal Asano are

both world-class con artists." I poured a little more cognac for us

both. "But whoever's right, we should at least try to find out. Who

knows? What if it's becoming a MITI show now, for some purpose neither

of us can imagine?"

"All right." She looked apprehensive for a second, only a second, and

then her eyes hardened. "You know, Noda and Mori claim I'm Fujiwara ...

on my mother's side naturally." She laughed. "And you know something

else? I feel in my bones that it's true. I believe it. I'm Japanese,

Matthew, and I'm proud of that."

I glanced over at a set of samurai armor stationed just outside the

bathroom door, glistening enameled steel. '"Tell you the truth, I'm

second to nobody when it comes to admiring Japan's ethic and their

guts. But I tend to draw the line at 'master race' talk. As a matter of

fact, I wouldn't object too strenuously if they did manage to beat us

in a fair contest. Hell, we won round one and they were remarkably

sporting about it. But what I want is to make sure round two is fought

on level ground. No inventing new rules, no rabbit punches or below-

the-belt stuff. That's all I ask."

"How about showing me some of those swords you claim you collect?" She

came out with it, just like that.

"My pleasure. Like nothing better."

Besides, it seemed a good time for a change of pace. I straightened up

and headed for the back parlor upstairs, then around the corner to the

sword room, its door now fully repaired from the strange break-in. I

fished out the key and snapped open the lock.

Funny thing, but walking around fully dressed / had started feeling out

of place. Maybe it is merely a state of mind.

All right now, where to start? This was a crucial moment. My first

impulse was to go all the way to gold, that marvelous _katana _dating

from the early Kamakura, or even before, said to have come from the

forge of the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto's personal swordsmith. But wait a

minute. After that, what? Maybe the absolute tops should be saved for a

more auspicious moment. That sword was, to my mind, an almost sacred

work. Maybe instead we ought to start with something a little offbeat,

then gradually work up to the best and sharpest.

The obvious choice, in fact, was a piece I considered a real curiosity,

racked there on the left, top slot. As I lifted it off and slipped it

out of its scabbard, the metal glistened like a mirror, reminding me

how long it's been since I'd oiled and pampered my playthings.

"I'm afraid nothing here was handed down by the Sun Goddess." I was

coming back down the stairs a little unsteadily, like a half-drunk

samurai. "But this one's kind of like the old style, at least the

metallurgy is. Unusual. Heavy on copper and tin. In a way almost closer

to bronze than steel."

Then I proceeded to point out a few interesting features--the nice curve

of the face line, the burl grain, the Shinto deities on the elliptical

_tsuba_ hand guard, that kind of thing-- taking care to keep it out of

the damned bubbles. I was starting to get wound up, as all enthusiasts

do with a captive audience, when she tactfully cut me off.

"How's the handle attached, or the grip, or whatever it's called?"

"That's the hilt, the _tsuka_. Held on with a little wooden peg stuck

through a hole in the metal. Here, let me show you." I had a small

brass punch on my key ring that was specially designed to push it out.

"Under the grip there's a wrapping of silk braid, and then a layer of

the belly skin of a stingray, to protect the steel. But you just remove

this peg and the whole ensemble slides right off." I removed the handle

and laid it on the sink. "Now you can see the untempered end of the

sword, the tang or _nakago _as it's called." I passed the weapon to

her, blunt end first. "That's where a swordsmith engraved his

signature, his title, the place it was forged. So you always should

check. On a really important piece, there may be cutting tests noted

there. Like maybe they tried out the blade on a criminal or two just to

see if it worked. Quality control."

"God." She shuddered. "Really?"

"Licensed testers did it and certified it in gold engraving on the

nakago. Some of the ones upstairs have it. But this one's an ubu,

virgin." I watched her turn it in the dim light. "Careful now. That

edge is very sharp."

"How can you tell if it's really old?"

"Lots of ways. The grain, the signature, and then too a good one should

have some rust there on the _nakago_, black not red."

She held it up a second and examined it.

"Virgin, huh? No signature?" She had a funny, almost embarrassed,

expression on her face.

"Correct. But like I said, this one's not--"

"Then who was 'Nihon Steelworks: Nagoya'? Somebody you bought it from?"

"Anybody ever tell you you've got a crummy sense of humor." I wasn't

smiling as I reached to take it back. Her crack annoyed me and I'm

afraid I showed it. Some things you don't kid around about. "That's a

modern foundry that turns out crappy--"

"Don't get testy. I'm only reading. Right there." She pointed to some

very faint English engraved into the metal.

"_Christ_!"

I grabbed it back and held it under the light to look. No mistaking.

There it was, plain as could be.

That's when I finally realized the thing was a copy. A goddam replica

of the original. Okay, a remarkably good one, but a fake nonetheless.

How did this get in my closet?

Could somebody have broken in and . . . ?

Suddenly it hit me. The robbery. Whoever had lifted my records must

have also pulled a switcheroo on this _katana_, leaving this piece of

Nagoya junk and disguising the deed by replacing the original grip and

tsuba hand guard. I'd been too loaded to notice.

I wanted to crack the goddam fraud over my knee like in the movies, but

you don't do that with a samurai sword, even a phony modern one. So

instead I flung it down on Jo's Italian-marble floor and headed back

upstairs to check the others. What in hell had happened? Had they

cleaned me out after all. My God, thousands . . .

I began yanking down swords, starting with the aforementioned

centerpiece of the collection, scrutinizing them in the light. But

after about half a dozen proved to be all right, I started calming

down. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. Well, what the heck, I

thought. It wasn't exactly a crippling loss. Finally I grew a little

ashamed of myself and sheepishly wandered back down, collecting the

ringer off the floor.

"Tam, I'm sorry. Somebody broke in a while back, and they must have

stuck this fraud in my collection. It's not the one I thought it was."

"Sure." She just looked at me, with some sympathy. "Matthew, it's all

right. Really. Lots of people own replicas of art. I have a few prints

myself. It's not a crime." She touched my hand. "Don't worry. It

doesn't matter--"

"You--" I bit my tongue to squelch the unpleasant word forming on my

lips, stomped back upstairs, and returned with a real sword. Then I

gave my lecture all over again, dwelling on every insignificant detail.

I was going to bore the woman till she cried uncle. Finally I

succeeded.

"Okay, you win. I apologize." She leaned back in the bubbles. "You

really love this hardware, don't you?"

"Tam, I love the samurai ideals. I admire craftsmanship. I revere

courage. The guys who made and used these blades had it all. If I'm

going to collect art, why not something that inspires me."

She just looked at me and nodded. I think she really understood.

"Then let's make a pact, Matt, you and me." She finally spoke up.

"We'll face Dai Nippon or MITI or whomever honorably. And we'll keep

them honest."

"Samurai." I smiled. "Lineage to lineage. And may the best . . . person

win."

I returned the sword and locked up, then lounged in the bedroom and

chatted through the open door while she finished her soak. It didn't

seem proper to lug a chair into the bath, and there was something too

undignified about perching atop the loo. Why, I kept wondering, had

somebody taken such elaborate pains to lift a single antique and plant

a fake? So I wouldn't miss it? But why bother?

Finally she got into a robe and came out, whereupon we went downstairs

and proceeded to put away more brandy, sleet slamming against the

windows. That was when she refreshed my recollections of her early

life, the peripatetic half-breed army brat. I think, truth be told, she

was currently about as adrift as I was. She was too wary to admit it; I

was too incapable of touching my own fractured emotions. So we talked

around things, saying everything except that maybe we needed somebody.

All the while the storm outside continued to rage. But once again I was

feeling those stirrings that I'd kept on ice for way too long.

Alas, though, it had to end. About one A.M. we geared up. She retrieved

her coat; I banked the fire; and we straggled out into the sleet. After

finally managing a cab, we headed uptown. We'd agreed on the rules; now

we were off to face the beast.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As we rode, I tried to get into mental fighting trim. It wasn't easy.

Walton, I kept telling myself, you're too old for this kind of

intrigue. And why drag this innocent woman in. You're not shuffling

paper and cutting deals and then going out for a drink with the other

side's counsel after you've both finished impressing your clients by

shoving each other against the wall. You're about to start fooling

around with guys who carry submachine guns. When you wouldn't know what

to do with an Uzi if somebody handed you one. If these boys start

shooting, there won't be a lot of polite inquiries concerning due

process.

Tam was leaning against my shoulder, still perfumed from the bubble

bath, and totally relaxed. She seemed to know what she was doing. Or

maybe she didn't want to think about the risk we were taking. As for

me, this Sam Spade number was definitely not part of my legal arsenal.

My thoughts, however, kept coming back to her. Tam Richardson was the

first woman I'd felt this comfortable with for a long, long time. She

was a mixture of tough and soft, and she was smart. What I'd always

been looking for. Exit Donna, enter Tam. Maybe life was going to give

me another inning.

If we both lived that long.

We'd headed uptown on Sixth Avenue, rutted with slush; at Fourteenth

Street we hung a right, east toward Third. The snowplows were out,

together with the salt machines, while abandoned cars were lodged in

furrows of ice all along the curb. This was definitely shaping up as

the storm of the year. Since most of Tanaka's staff lived in the

Japanese "ghetto" up in Hartsdale and Eastchester (where there's even a

Japanese PTA these days), they surely must have caught the "Orient

Express" out of Grand Central before the trains got stopped dead by the

weather. Certainly tonight of all nights the DNI offices would be

empty. This had to be our shot. So shape up, Walton, and go for it.

While we listened to the sleet bounce off the back window, our Jamaican

driver proceeded to compare New York City unfavorably with every armpit

he'd ever known, as well as a few arctic locales he doubtless was

acquainted with only by reputation. I finally tuned him out and began

asking myself one question over and over. What exactly are we going to

do if we figure out there's some kind of skullduggery afoot? Is there

any way to stop them, even if we wanted to?

Probably nothing short of Congress's cracking down could keep Noda's

money out of the country, and who's going to support that kind of

legislation? Most solons, in fact, were hailing DNI and its Japanese

billions as the salvation of America. No lawmaker was staring at the

cameras and "viewing with concern" this new godsend of cash. Ditto the

stock exchange. They were nervous downtown, sure, but given the avowed

purpose of Wall Street--attracting money--there wasn't exactly a

groundswell of sentiment against Dai Nippon's massive investments. Noda

had come into the market at its darkest moment and begun shoveling in

capital. How could this be anything but positive? So every time another

Japanese billion rolled in and prices ticked up some more, everybody

merely leapt for joy. The Japanese were coming to rejuvenate our land,

cheered the Journal. Billions from the cash-rich Japanese capital

markets were voting with their feet to be part of America's resurgence.

Maybe they're right, I told myself. About the only discordant voices in

this chorus of hesitant hallelujahs belonged to a few op-ed sour-

grape academics. I recalled one piece in particular from late last

week. Who was it: Robert Reich, Lester Thurow, "Adam Smith"?

This must be how it felt all those years in Europe as they helplessly

watched the invasion of American money. Has the U.S. now joined the

Third World, capitalized by rich "Yankees" from the East? Now at last

we realize that setting up plants here for "co-production" was merely

the foot in the door. Does it matter if U.S. industry is owned by

American pension funds or Japanese insurance companies? Guess not,

unless you happen to care whether we still control our own destiny.

America, soon to be the wholly owned subsidiary . . .

The writer was just blowing smoke and knew it. These days a harangue in

the Times and a token will get you on the subway. Even Henderson was

taking a new look at Noda-- astounded by his market savvy. The Georgia

po' boy who once summarized his own trading style as the four F's

("find 'em, fleece 'em, fuck 'em, and forget 'em") had met his match.

What a play Noda had made! To Bill, my new client had acquired the aura

of some omnipotent invader from the depths of space--The Creature That

Ate Wall Street. His eyes glazed over whenever he reflected on Noda's

masterful one-two punch. Billions skimmed inside a week.

"Tam, take a good, long look." I was pointing up into the night as we

emerged onto the slippery sidewalk. "The house that Noda built. Did all

of this happen since only late September?"

"Time flies when you're having fun." She slammed the door and headed

for the lobby, calm as could be. Okay, Walton, you'd better toughen up

too.

I rewarded our grumbling cabbie with a vulgar tip and watched the

vehicle slowly roll off into the sleet, tires crunching, to end another

of those passing New York intimacies so vivid yet so forgettable.

As it turned out, lobby security was a breeze, since yours truly had

approved the application of the night guard personally right after DNI

took over. Eddie Mazzola, blue uniform and grasping a Styrofoam cup of

coffee, glanced up from the Sunday Daily News, his face generic Staten

Island.

"What brings you out on a night like this, Mr. Walton? Nothing wrong, I

hope?"

"Do me a favor, Eddie. Burn this place down. We'll split the insurance

and both retire to Miami Beach. Who needs New York?"

He concurred the idea had merit. I then went on to mention that we'd

just come from uptown; Dr. Richardson here had forgotten some kind of

gobbledygook up on twelve, and we wouldn't be a minute.

"Tell you the truth, Eddie, my fingers are too damned numb to bother

signing the visitor's book."

He saluted and returned his concentration to the Knicks' perennial

slump.

We took the night elevator up, and somewhere around the time we passed

the ninth floor, we managed to settle on a story. Noda, we would say,

had called Tam and asked her to hurry up a special report on one of the

firms for Monday. We'd just left a dinner party on the East Side,

thought we'd drop by and pick up some printouts since she wanted to

work at home tomorrow. Shouldn't be more than a minute.

As the number above the door hit twelve, I tried to remember how to

pray.

In the hallway we waved at the TV eye and the steel door opened.

Standing there was Shiro Yamada: cropped hair, trifle burly, gray

uniform. One of the regulars. He shifted his Uzi as we came through.

Then he recognized Tam and bowed low.

By the wildest of good fortune Yamada only spoke Japanese, a linguistic

limitation that turned out to be crucial. Tam began by observing the

niceties: she commiserated with him about the weather, the late hour,

would the next shift be able to get through and relieve him. He was all

bows and deference and _hai, hai_.

Finally she worked around to why we were there, almost as though that

were a nuisance and the real reason had been to drop by for a chat. By

the way, she added, there were a couple of things she needed from her

office. She gave him the story.

Yamada listened, bowing, _hai, hai_, then sucked in his breath to

demonstrate we'd presented him with a serious conflict of obligations--

which for a Japanese is the most disturbing prospect imaginable. This

situation entails great difficulty, he said, drawing in more air

through his front teeth. _Honto ni muzukashii desu_.

_Muzukashii deshoo ka_? Enquired Tam. Difficulty?

_Hai, so desu_. Yes, and he was deeply apologetic. Lots of _sumimasen_,

very sorry.

At first I thought he just hadn't bought the story. But then it turned

out that there were these rules, you see. No one was allowed on the

floor weekends without a pass signed personally by Tanaka-san. He

glanced at his watch. It was nearly two A.M. More heavy intakes of air

and _muzukashii's_. Of course the honorable Dr. Richardson-san, being

an honorable director herself, should be able to come and go as she

pleased, but the rules . . .

He seemed to be pleading with Tarn to help him find a resolution for

this towering dilemma.

"What's the problem, Tam?" I enquired, sotto voce.

"No fucking pass."

After an extremely awkward pause a light bulb clicked on in my simple

mind. With great theatrics I suddenly slapped my own forehead, gave Tam

a tip-off in English, and began rummaging my pockets. When we left the

house I'd grabbed an old topcoat, not worn since that rainy night I met

Noda, and in it somewhere was . . .

She started explaining that Walton-san may have brought the pass with

him and merely let that fact slip his mind.

Then I felt what I was looking for, in the bottom of the inside pocket.

Noda's _meishi_, his business card, complete with the English note

scribbled across the back.

"How stupid of me," I apologized. "Had it all along. Noda- san's 'top

priority' pass. He gave it to me only yesterday."

Yamada took the business card and studied it with a puzzled look. What

did this have to do with anything?

That's when I impatiently turned it over and pointed to the English

scribbling on the back. Noda's initials, I groused, right there at the

bottom.

"_Hai, wakarimasu_." He understood that Noda-sama surely had written

this, but so what? It wasn't the official form that the rules

specified. More _muzukashii_.

Noda-san was in a rush, I apologized again. Didn't have time to locate

the regular form. Tam passed that along in better Japanese.

"_Soo desu . . ._" Yamada thoughtfully agreed that such oversights

sometimes happened. Everybody knew the big _daimyo _had a tendency to

override official channels. He shifted his Uzi uncertainly.

"Noda-sama insisted I finish this report by Monday," Tam stressed. "We

should only be a minute."

Yamada scrutinized the back of the card a moment longer, holding it up

to the light. What was he going to do?

Finally he handed it back, bowed reluctantly, and looked the other way.

It was a go.

"God, that was close." Tam closed the door behind us and clicked on the

lights. "You don't know how lucky we were. If Morikawa had been on duty

tonight, forget it. He'd never have bought that cock-and-bull routine."

About a dozen computer workstations had been installed

on twelve to link up with the mainframe and data center on eleven. As

we moved quickly past the sleeping screens, blind eyes staring vacantly

into space, there was an eerie, ghostlike abandonment to the place, all

the more so because of its hectic motion during regular hours. The

phantoms of regimented analysts seemed to haunt the rows of empty

desks. Tam remarked she'd never seen it like this: the nerve center off

duty. Only the storm of the decade, together with two A.M. Sunday

morning, could create such solitude. It took God to shut down Dai

Nippon.

"Okay, time to move fast. Let's hit Mori's lair." I was whispering as

we neared the corner office. Ahead was the closed door, solid oak. I

took a deep breath and reached for the knob.

It was locked.

"No dice." I looked around at Tam, who was still wearing her lamb coat,

gray against her dark hair, sleet melting on the shoulders.

"Let me try." She gave it a twist. Nothing. "I don't suppose we'd be

very smart just to kick it in. Though that's what I feel like right

now, after all our trouble." She turned to me. "Maybe there's a key

somewhere in Noda's office? Think there's a chance?"

"Could be." I was rummaging my pockets. "First, though, let me check

something."

I pulled out a ring and began to flip through it. "I ended up with a

master, courtesy of the RM&S floor manager that day they turned in

their keys. Now, if this internal door lock hasn't been changed yet,

maybe . . ."I selected one and kissed it for luck. "Here goes."

The key, a large silver model, was resistant, the way masters always

are. Undeterred, I wiggled it forcefully, and slowly it slipped into

the knob. A couple of jiggles more and the thing began to revolve under

my hand.

We emitted matching sighs of relief as Tam shoved the door wide and

reached for the light switch. "Now I've got to regress into the past. A

lot of their reports are in Japanese." She went on to explain that

although she could read the _kana _syllabaries easily enough, she'd

forgotten a lot of the _kanji_ ideograms. She could piece together

enough to work through a simple newspaper story, but heavy technical

prose was always tough.

She quickly sorted through the papers piled in neat stacks

atop Mori's desk, but who knew what most of them said? Nothing looked

like my stolen list. Next she checked the drawers of the desk. One

contained a heavily marked printout; the others, nothing.

Time was ticking. If Yamada decided to make the rounds, no quantity of

creative fiction would save us.

She quickly grabbed the printout. At least we had one item that might

give us something. What, though, we still weren't sure. Nothing

resembled the page I'd lifted, but locating that document now appeared

increasingly like a long shot anyhow. Guess everything seems easy till

you actually try doing it.

Where else to look?

I glanced around the room, wondering about the file cabinet. Probably

locked, and besides . . .

That's when I saw it. On a side table next to some technical books was

an item we'd both failed entirely to notice. A large leather attache

case.

"Tam, I think we've hit pay dirt. Check that out. Do you suppose she

could have forgotten it last night when they shut the place down?"

"Maybe she didn't need it. Anything's possible. I remember seeing her

carrying it around yesterday afternoon."

"Well, could be this is our find." I lifted it . . . and realized it

was empty.

"Shit." I slammed it down, and just then detected a faint rattle

inside. Hold on a minute.

I carefully shook it again and listened. "Tam, there's something in

here."

"I vote we take a peek."

Which is what we did. No harm, right? I mean, the darned thing was just

lying there. No "break and entry."

Guess what was inside. Not paper. Not a MITI report. Not lunch. Nothing

in fact except for a shiny little compact disk, a CD.

"What the hell is this doing in here? Did she bring along some Beach

Boys?"

"Matt, that's an optical disk, a CD-ROM." She suddenly seemed very

pleased.

"Huh?"

"Compact disk, read-only memory. Except this one looks to be erasable

and writable. This is the latest thing in computer storage technology."

She held it up to the light, which reflected a rainbow of colors off

its iridescent surface. "Maybe we've found what we came for. Let's take

it and go."

"Is this like the CDs in record stores? The ones you play back using

some kind of laser gizmo?"

"Same technology, only this is for text and data, not music. These can

hold five-hundred megabytes, about one hundred and fifty thousand

pages."

"Then I have some disquieting information to impart. I saw somebody

come in here one day after shopping at Tower Records, and a CD he'd

bought tripped the metal detector out there in Yamada's anteroom like

he was wearing sleigh bells. Down inside this shiny plastic must be

aluminum or something. We can't take it out." I turned it in my hand.

"And besides, what would we do with it anyway? Stick it in a Walkman

and listen to all the little digits spin by? In hi-fi?"

"I've got a reader at home . . . but wait, there's a better way." She

lifted it from my grasp and headed out onto the floor. "Ever hear of

computer crime?"

"In passing."

"Good. Then what you're about to witness won't shock you."

I watched as she kicked on one of the NEC desk stations and loaded in a

program. Next she walked over, flipped a switch on a little box, and a

drawer glided out. In went Mori's shiny disk. Another button was

pushed, the drawer receded, and the disk was spinning silently.

Well, I thought. You want peaches, you shake the tree, right? Maybe

she's about to kick hell out of the orchard.

"I'm going to dump this into the memory of the mother ship downstairs."

She did some fiddling, then typed in her password to sign on the

mainframe on eleven. "Beam us down, Scottie." In moments she and all

those silicon cells below us were beeping away at each other. She

didn't look up, just kept typing away, the hollow click-clack that's

become the signature sound of our computer age. Finally she leaned back

and breathed. "Okay, it's reading the disk. After it's in memory down

there, we can pull up the contents here on the screen and see what

we've got."

I don't know how long it took to read the thing. Probably no more than

a minute or so, though it seemed forever. Finally something flashed on

the screen and told us the disk had been dumped. Tam took it out of its

little player and passed it to me.

"Here, put this back in her case. While I start pulling up the file."

I'd just finished snapping it shut when I heard an expletive from out

on the floor that would not be judged suitable for family audiences.

"Watch your language."

She was sitting there staring at the screen. Finally she turned and

looked at me. "So close, yet so far. It's encrypted'."

"It's what?"

"Come and look."

I did. On the screen was a mass of numeric garbage. What was this all

about?

"Matt, when this disk was written, whatever went on it was scrambled

using some key, probably the DES system, the 'data-encryption

standard.' It keeps unauthorized intruders like us from snooping."

"How does anybody read it?"

"A decrypting key must be in the hardware down on eleven. But we can't

get through to that level of the machine without an 'access code.'

Which we don't have."

"Very smart. The electronic keys to the kingdom." I watched, wondering

all the while what Yamada was doing out there. Should I blunder out and

chat him up with my Berlitz Japanese, just to keep him occupied? The

clock above the door was ticking away.

"Tam, why not just try activating the key using your own password as

the access code? Maybe it'll get you into that level on the mainframe."

She gave it a go, without much enthusiasm. Predictably the message came

back, 'ACCESS CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.'

"Well, try some others." I was grasping. "Hit it with 'NODA' or

'MORI.'"

She did, but after both were rejected the workstation suddenly signed

off. Click, out of the system.

"What's happened now?"

"More bad news. I forgot the mainframe is programmed so that you get

three tries at a protected code and then it breaks the connection.

That's to keep crackers like us from sitting here all day and running

passwords at random. Another security precaution."

"Three chances to guess the secret word and then you're

out. Sounds like a game show." I just stood there and scratched my

head. Seemed we were, to be blunt, shit out of luck. "What now,

Professor? I assume there are about a hundred million alphanumeric

combinations they could use."

"Close." She was clicking away at the keyboard. "So let's think a

minute." She glanced back at me. "Why don't we assume for a minute that

this is a MITI disk."

"Safe bet."

"So the decryptor key in the machine here would be from MITI, right,

since Mori obviously brought the disk to be read?"

"Sounds good."

"You know, I was in Ken's office once, and I recall watching some of

his staff playing around with the information on one of these disks.

Don't know why I still remember this, but the password they used was

... I think MX something, three letters, followed by six digits. The

digits were always changing, but the prefix was the same."

"So if your wild guess about this being a MITI disk is right, and the

first two letters of the three-letter alpha part are still MX, that

means there are exactly, what--twenty-six letters in the alphabet times

a million numbers--twenty-six million combinations. We're looking for

one number in twenty-six million? So if it takes, say, five seconds to

type one in and try it, we're talking roughly a hundred and thirty

million seconds to go the course." I glanced again at the door.

"Besides which, we get kicked off after every third try. Working around

the clock, we ought to have it sometime about, what, 2001?"

She glanced back at the screen, then suddenly whirled around, a funny

look on her face. "What do you have in your office?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't you have a PC downtown?"

"Just a little IBM AT, 512K. And also a Mac, a toy I use to draw

cutsey-poo pictures now and then and do covers for reports."

"How about a telephone modem?"

"Built in. How else could I handle all that trading?"

"And it's up?"

"The IBM? Never turn it off. Little twitch left over from playing the

Hong Kong exchanges. Habits die hard."

"Okay, I'm going to try and use it to crack the code in DNI's

mainframe."

Honestly, for a second there I thought my hearing had gone. "My little

IBM against that monster? How, forchrissake? There're twenty-six

million--"

"We'll have to do something not very nice. Since the Japanese aren't

used to hackers, those bearded malcontents in firms who screw up

business computers for spite, these workstations aren't buffered off

sensitive parts of the system. We are now going to exploit that trust

in Japanese culture. We're going to organize these terminals, hook them

to your computer, and then direct that network against the mainframe

downstairs. Something no Japanese would ever dream of doing." She got

up and went down the row clicking on machines. "There's a list of names

in my office, there by the phone. Can you bring it?"

"Coming up." I fetched it. It was a temporary "phone book" of the staff

on the floor. She took the list and went back down the line of

stations, typing something on each keyboard.

"What are you doing, Tam? This is crazy."

"It'll just take a second. Everybody here has a password to sign on to

the mainframe, but it's just the name of the person." She came back to

the first workstation. "Now the mainframe thinks ten people just signed

on to the system. We'll use these terminals to try access codes on the

main computer. Your PC will control them so that each terminal hits it

with two codes and then the next one goes on line. That way we'll never

get kicked off. It should get around the 'three times and you're out'

filter downstairs." She began frantically typing again.

"What are you doing now?"

"We could try alphanumerics sequentially or randomly. I think randomly

is probably better. It'll be faster. So I'm writing a little program

for the mainframe, a random-number generator. It'll start making up

random access codes of MX followed by a letter and six digits and

sending them to your PC downtown, which will immediately feed them back

in pairs to these terminals. Out one door, in another. Maybe that will

fool it."

"Christ, woman, you've got a criminal mind. Is this the kind of stuff

you teach at NYU?"

"What's your number downtown?" She was typing away again.

I wrote it down and handed it to her. "I don't have the foggiest idea

how you're going to be able to swing this."

"That's all right. I do. Just let me get your IBM networked into these

terminals here. Fortunately it's compatible, and all it's going to be

doing for now is bouncing back numbers generated by the mainframe." She

flipped some switches, then typed my number onto the screen. I

momentarily wondered if the sleet had knocked out the phone system. It

hadn't.

Again the seconds crawled by, but as soon as she'd finished her chat

with my IBM downtown, the row of terminals suddenly started beeping

away. Two shots, beep, the next one came alive; two shots, beep, right

down the row.

"Okay, your computer is running the show now. Sooner or later maybe

something will click." She punched a couple more keys, then got up.

"It's done?"

"Ready to rock and roll." She was putting on her coat. "We'll be

running millions of numbers."

"Isn't anybody going to know you've pulled this?" I was, I confess,

totally dumbfounded.

"Not unless they discover my little program in the mainframe

downstairs. But it's just a random-number generator, something any

sophomore could write. The trick is, we're hitting it with so many

terminals it won't be programmed to keep track of all these little

elves trying to sneak in. And when we're through we'll turn them all

off using your modem downtown."

"Good God, whatever happened to pen and pencil?" I was still dazed.

She'd done it all so fast. "If you can find the decryptor key and get

into the files, then what? You going to dump all the info on Mori's

sexy little CD down at my place?"

"I hope you've got lots of paper. Who knows what's on it." She was

shutting off the lights. "Come on, let's get out of here."

"Aye, aye, Professor." I walked back, clicked off the light in Mori's

office, then paused to double-check the lock.

"We came for printouts, remember. We only have Mori's." I was joining

her. She glanced at the stack on her desk, then grabbed a pile and

handed them to me.

"You'd better carry these. And don't be put off by my 'ugly American'

routine at the door. It'll be for a purpose."

After she'd doused the rest of the overheads, we passed

through the first security door and greeted Yamada. While I fiddled

with Tam's printouts, she proceeded to give him a very Japanese-style

dressing down, disguised as a series of pale compliments. She reviewed

all her work for Dai Nippon, just happening to mention Noda-sama this

and Noda-sama that every other breath. The hapless guy sucked in his

breath and bowed a lot and _hai, so_-ed about once a second and then

_sumimasen_-ed some more. By the time the elevator appeared, she'd

destroyed him. He'd lost so much face he'd never dare mention our visit

to Noda or anybody.

About two minutes later we were out on the sleet-covered sidewalk,

looking for a cab. It was a heroic effort, but eventually we were

headed back downtown. Secure and holding.

Although my upstairs office was freezing, I was mesmerized watching the

flashing green numbers spin on my little IBM screen. It was like

playing one of those "fruit machines" at the local bars, except we were

sitting there witnessing a gigantic intelligence turned against itself,

searching for the crack in its own armor. There was something ironic

about the fact that the Japanese were such a homogenous, disciplined

people they didn't need vast arrays of American-style safeguards to

keep crazies off their computers. Unfortunately for them, they weren't

expecting a couple of American criminals with no such scruples.

By four A.M. we had watched three million random numbers tried; by

first light we were up to six.

"Tam, I'm beginning to get this sinking feeling MITI must have changed

the prefix." I was bringing a new pot of coffee, half staggering up the

carpeted stairs. "Or maybe we should have done it sequentially."

"Maybe, but that would mean wasting a lot of time on numbers that are

improbable. This is our best chance." She poured another cup of java

while I just stretched out on the floor. "Damn. I wish I could remember

what the other alpha was. MX what? That could save us days."

"We don't have days." I closed my eyes. "Try hypnosis."

She sat staring at the screen for a few moments, then slowly wheeled

around. "I know why I couldn't remember it. It was a repeat. Matt, it

was X."

"Go with it."

"Hang on." She did some quick typing and hit the play

button. Her face was showing the strain, but I loved her looks. What a

champ. We were together; us against the beast. Unfortunately, though,

the beast was still ahead.

At seven-thirty Ben roused himself and lumbered expectantly up the

stairs. With a silent curse I put on my boots and took him out for a

stroll on the ice. He hated it. When we came back, I decided to give up

and crash. Come on, this was insane, a billion-to-one shot and we

didn't even know what the prize was at the bottom of the box. We were

getting nowhere. MITI had changed the code and screwed us. Fortunately,

however, I heroically vowed to try and stay awake till eight A.M. That

was it. The end.

At exactly 7:49 the numbers abruptly stopped. "ACCESS CODE MXX909090

CONFIRMED--DECRYPTOR KEY ACTIVATED." Confidential MITI memos started

scrolling in orderly green clumps up the screen.

"My God, Matt, turn on your printer."

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Jack, doing anything today?"

"Walton, what in hell . . .?"

Jack O'Donnell and Joyce Hanson had been working through the ten-pound

Christmas catalog known as the Sunday Times--she was up to Arts &

Leisure and he'd advanced as far as Business--when my call interrupted

their mutually agreed-upon vow of silence. Now that her apartment in

the West Seventies had become Jack's weekend hideaway, his escape from

phones and conferences, the number was as carefully guarded as a

Minuteman launch code.

The time was shortly after noon. He'd just braved a foot of snow and

sleet to retrieve the paper and a couple of fresh croissants, while

Joyce was still recovering from a two A.M. session editing a speech one

of his staffers had drafted for some

ILGWU holiday blowout the following week. Since he was still chewing

over Noda's ominous phone call, wondering what to do, the last person

on earth he wanted to hear from right now was Dai Nippon's lawyer, even

if it was me.

"Feel like coming down for a Bloody Mary? An academic lady we both know

is here, and we've happened across something you might find

interesting. Very interesting."

"Care to elaborate?"

"It's a little complicated, Jack. How about coming down?"

He glanced out the frosted kitchen windows, puzzling what in blazes was

up, then finally agreed.

"Keep the coffee hot."

"You've got it."

Joyce claimed to be unamused, though in truth maybe she wasn't all that

heartbroken to have the place to herself for the afternoon. He grabbed

his coat and said don't throw out The Week in Review.

The streets were now at a standstill, so the prospect of finding, let

alone traveling in, a taxi was implausible in the extreme. As a result

Senator Jack O'Donnell shared the Broadway local with several hundred

of his lesser-heeled constituents and finally managed to get down to

Sheridan Square, from which it was only a few mushy blocks over to my

place.

Ben greeted him at the door with me not far behind, doubtless looking

as if I'd just stumbled in from a three-day forced march. Without a

word he passed over his coat, then followed me downstairs where Tam was

still going through the line of printouts spread across the dining room

table, translating onto one of my yellow legal pads.

I pointed him in the direction of the coffee urn stationed in the

kitchen. He poured a cup, then came around and plopped down on the

couch.

"Walton"--he sampled his brew, then set it down--"you're not going to

believe what your goddam client did Friday. Swear to God, your man

actually threatened me, the bastard, a not-too-subtle warning to back

off."

"Jack, that's small potatoes." I straddled one of the dining room

chairs. "What would you say to a possible play by our friend Matsuo

Noda that makes Pearl Harbor look like a gesture of Japanese-American

solidarity?"

"Two days ago I might have thought you'd been smoking a controlled

substance. Now, I'm not so sure."

"Well, we're still piecing it together. I don't think anybody could

even imagine what's really afoot. One thing's for sure, though--this is

big." I paused. "It might even be that Noda is somehow fronting for

MITI, though I'm still not totally convinced."

I'd been turning that possibility over, but I somehow couldn't buy it

all the way. Wasn't Matsuo Noda's style. He was a loner.

"MITI?" He looked at me. "That's government, right? The Ministry of . .

."

"International Trade and Industry. Japan's 'War Department' for trade."

"Yeah? Go on."

"Listen. All Noda's talk about helping American industry? Of course

it's bullshit. But I think it's just half the bullshit. What we suspect

is, he's buying a little of everything so nobody will figure out their

real agenda."

"You'd better back up and take this from the beginning."

"Wait a minute." Tam got up and started the turntable. Mendelssohn was

still on the platter. Maybe we were taking too many precautions, but

she still nursed the idea we might be bugged.

With the music cranked up to "8," we proceeded to give Jack a quick

summary of how the stack of memos on the table had come into our hands.

In a way, though, they raised as many questions as they answered.

"Jack, nothing here is spelled out in detail. We have to take

everything and sort of rotate it by ninety degrees to see how Noda fits

in." I walked over to the table. "Tam, where's your translation of that

one by what's-his-name . . . Ikeda?"

"Right here." She handed it to me.

"Here, Jack, start with this. Just to get up to speed on the

background."

He fumbled in his pocket, retrieved his bifocals, and began to read the

yellow sheet.

_OPERATION MARKETSHARE - 90

Internal Memo No. 22

From: Hiromu Ikeda, Deputy Minister of Industrial Technology Sector,

Ministry of International Trade and Industry

(MITI)

Subject: SUPERCHIPS

World dominance in semiconductors will provide the basis for Japan's

control of the global information industry by the turn of the century,

which will be the key to our economic leadership and military strength.

The critical path to achieving this lies with the coming generations of

semiconductor technology--the submicron, giga-scale superchip.

Accordingly, the objectives of Operation Market- share - 90 in the

semiconductor sector should receive the highest possible priority.

Areas of research should include semiconductor-grade polysilicon,

silicon wafer production, ceramic packaging, quartz photomasks, X-ray

lithography, supercooled Josephson junction circuits, and

optoelectronic chips for optical switching. R&D should also be focused

on digital signal processing, application-specific integrated circuits

(ASICs), specialized dynamic random access memories (DRAMs), very

large-scale integrations (VLSIs) for supercomputers . . .

_"Walton, I can't make heads or tails of this gobbledygook." He tossed

down the sheet. "What's this all about?"

"What it means"--Tam spoke up--"is that Ikeda has targeted every emerging

area of semiconductor research. Everything. A clean sweep. If he

succeeds, sooner or later nobody else will even be able to make the

really advanced chips. A few more years and America joins the Third

World."

Jack looked a little skeptical. Truthfully I found her extrapolation

somewhat fanciful myself. But then, who knew?

"Tam, how about showing Jack that other memo? You know the one."

She didn't say anything, just turned back and sorted through the stack

of yellow pages till she had it. Out came Jack's glasses again.

_OPERATION MARKETSHARE - 90

Internal Memo No. 37

From: Kenji Asano, Deputy Minister for Research and Planning, Ministry

of International Trade and Industry (MITI)

Subject: CURRENT STATUS OF R&D

This office has now completed its review of the recent survey of

research and development (R&D) by Japanese firms compiled by the

Science and Technology Agency, the results of which are the subject of

this memorandum. Of the companies surveyed, 70% maintain that their

research is equal or superior to that of leading firms in the U.S. and

Europe, although only 18.2% consider themselves in unchallenged top

position. Furthermore, the remaining 30% believe their research is

inferior or lagging behind the West (ref. to Table 1). Of those who

reported inadequate R&D in high technology areas, the following reasons

were given . . .

_"Whoever wrote this is just poor-mouthing." He flipped on through the

sheets, then looked up. "Saying he needs more money for basic research.

I hear this kind of stuff all the time. Hell, Japan already spends

nearly twice what we do per capita on nonmilitary R&D. What does he

want?"

"Keep reading, Jack, and you'll see that the main R&D he's pushing is

in computers and semiconductors. It ties in exactly with Ikeda's

targets. This is backup consensus for the big drive."

"You still haven't told me anything I didn't already suspect." He

tossed the pages onto a side table. "So how about answering a few less-

obvious questions?" "Shoot."

"First off, what's this Operation Marketshare - 90 all about?" He took

off his glasses and pocketed them.

"Jack, remember the famous Hitachi directive that got loose a while

back, the one on how to market their 256K memory chips, ordering their

salesmen just to keep underpricing American manufacturers till they had

the sale, loss no object. According to Henderson, by the time the

International Trade Commission got around to convicting them of

dumping, they'd demolished America's domestic industry and nailed down

ninety percent of the market."

"Ninety, you say. Well, that's getting to be a familiar number." He

slumped back against the sofa. "Out of curiosity, what's included in

this MITI Marketshare - 90 operation?"

"Computers, of course. But also pretty much everything in high tech

where the U.S. still has a leading position--from biotech to aerospace.

These guys don't think small."

I gave Ben a pat, then pulled Mori's printout around, going on to

explain that we'd come across it in the drawer of her desk. It was, I

added, obviously some kind of special computer sorting of the firms DNI

was targeting. The categories in the sort were a breakdown of high-tech

areas, with individual firms listed underneath, together with a summary

of their research expenditures.

"Take a look. First, notice that this printout has been sorted and

converted into this list here." I placed it alongside the page I'd

found in the Xerox machine. "Voila, they're identical."

"So?"

"Okay, now compare that list with the R&D areas targeted in Ikeda's

memo." I laid Tarn's translation down next to Mori's pages. "See?

Everything on Ikeda's MITI wish list for research in semiconductors is

now being done by the American outfits named here in Mori's sorting,

which is the latest revision in DNI's acquisition program."

"What are you getting at?" He looked it over.

"It's a pattern." Tam spoke up. "These new buy-ups cover Japan's last

remaining shortfalls in R&D. I spotted it right away. But what I didn't

realize till we got these memos was that the areas covered by Mori's

companies exactly dovetail with MITI's goals. I probably wouldn't have

noticed it without her sorting. Mixed in with all the other companies

Noda's buying, he's targeted those that fill the gaps in MlTI's

semiconductor push."

Jack looked at us quizzically. "Are you telling me MITI's behind Noda's

program?"

That's where Tam and I parted company. She argued it was obviously a

MITI play: why start from scratch when you can just buy what you need?

Sound business investment. For some reason, though, I wasn't so sure.

Somehow that explanation seemed too simplistic. Unfortunately, however,

there's a law in science or somewhere that says you should always pick

the least-complicated theory that fits all your data. Hers appeared on

the face of it to address the facts perfectly. Except for one unknown:

if Mori did "accidentally" feed me the sorting that blew the whistle on

Noda's design, why?

"I think this has to be what the buying program on this list is all

about," Tam answered. "He's taking over firms whose R&D coincides with

MITI's targets. Matsuo Noda has been put to work simply acquiring what

they need, but to make sure nobody suspects the real agenda, he's

worked up this elaborate 'management assistance' story, buying all

kinds of companies." Her voice was bitter. "The next step will be to

set up joint ventures between these firms he's bought and their

counterparts in Japan. Then all American R&D would be shared."

"Which means"--Jack's face began to redden--"that since we always seem to

lose out when it comes to commercializing what we invent, the U.S. ends

up becoming one big think tank for Japan in the twenty-first century.

We do the research, and they manufacture and market. They pick our

brains and then cash in on it." He turned back to Tam. "Do you really

think it was Noda who planned all this?"

"I wish I knew what to think." Her voice grew hesitant as she continued

to stare down at the memo. "It's hard to believe Ken would do something

so unethical--especially a grab like this--when I'm sure he's convinced

Japan ought to be advancing its own R&D."

"Ken? Who's--"

"Did you see who authored that second memo?" She pointed to the name.

"Kenji Asano is apparently a close friend of Dr. Richardson's," I broke

in, my tone unnecessarily sharp. "Unfortunately, he seems to be an even

closer friend of his cronies at MITI."

Tam didn't respond, just sat there looking betrayed.

"Matt, let's be constructive here." Jack walked over and shook the

coffee pot, then sloshed the last dregs into his cup. "We damn well

ought to take some kind of action."

"That's why we wanted to talk to you." Tam came back to life. "Do you

think you could leak something about this? Maybe to the Times?"

"And say what?" He laughed, a little sadly. "That I've happened across

a set of secret MITI memos that bear a coincidental similarity to some

stolen DNI printout? Don't think that's exactly 'Fit to Print.'" He

frowned. "But I'm glad our Mr. Noda has finally let slip his true

intentions. I never believed all that pious malarkey about propping up

American industry." He snorted. "The man gets a few suckers like you to

help him destabilize our bond markets, in the process of which he turns

the high-tech sector of American industry into a bargain basement for

MITI."

Tam sipped her coffee, maybe trying to act as if Jack's comment hadn't

stung her the way I suspected it did. I decided to try and handle her

defense.

"Jack, hold on a second. You've got to admit that a lot of these

outfits Dai Nippon is buying are currently on pretty thin ice. If

somebody doesn't come in here and help run them right, they're probably

headed offshore anyway."

"We're not talking about first aid now, Walton. We're talking about

Matsuo Noda taking over the most strategic segment of our economy after

pulling the biggest scam in the history of world finance."

"That looks to be the story." I watched his cheeks redden with

frustration. "So what do you propose we do? There's no law against

foreign investment. Securities exist to be bought."

"Well, dammit, Matt, we've both seen enough by now to realize this Noda

genius is up to no good. We've got to stop him."

"Couldn't agree more. So why don't you just arrange to have the SEC

shut down trading in every stock DNI has in its gunsights."

"You know that's out of the question."

"Exactly. So what legal remedies are there? How do you squelch a

takeover program that's not even against the law?"

"That's your specialty, counselor, or so I hear."

"Jack, be realistic. We can expose this thing, maybe even try and lean

on Tokyo to back off, but aside from shutting down trading there's no

legal way to actually stop Matsuo Noda from buying whatever he likes.

You can't shut Japanese investors out of Wall Street. There'd be a riot

downtown. We're talking about the open market here, not some inside

deal."

"Forget legalities." He scowled. "Tell me how your damned corporate

raiders go about shenanigans that don't quite match the letter of the

law."

"Jack, I've officially quit the business. Retired. Guess you hadn't

heard."

"That's what you think. You just got un-retired. As of this moment. Now

give me one of those high-priced consultations you're so famous for."

"For you, Jack." I looked him over. "One last play. Trouble is, there's

not much that's do-able, at least on short notice."

"You say 'not much.' Which means there's something."

"Well, one possibility might be to try and slow him down

some, make him think twice, say, by punching up the prices of the

stocks he's aiming at. Make them less of a bargain."

"That's a start."

"Not much of one."

"Well, how could it be done?"

"Since you're such a Boy Scout, Jack, you probably won't like what I

have in mind. This one's not exactly in the rule book."

"Try me."

"Okay, it's a long shot, and we'll definitely need some help. If we're

going to tinker with the market, then we have to have somebody Wall

Street trusts. And also somebody who's got a lot of money to play with,

short term."

"Sounds like our mutual friend from Georgia."

"Well, Henderson can play the Street like a symphony. What I'm thinking

of involves tricking the smartest guys around, the 'risk arbs.' We'd

need to suck them in. If anybody can do it, he's the man."

"Then I say let's give him a buzz."

"Fine. Why don't I get him on the squawk box so we can all listen in."

There beside the couch was an old conference phone some client once

gave me as a Hanukkah gift. At long last it might be good for

something.

The risk arbs, by the way, are the risk arbitrageurs, those speculators

who live with one ear to the ground. The minute they hear word, inside

or otherwise, that a company is "in play," meaning it's a candidate for

a possible takeover or merger, they immediately grab up and stockpile

huge blocks of its publicly traded shares. Then they sit back and pray

for a bidding war. Since company A has offered so much a share for

company Z, maybe company B will step in and offer more. Or maybe

company Z itself will outbid them both and offer even more in a stock

buyback. They're the hyenas of the hunt, getting plenty of leftovers no

matter who ends up buying Z. Besides, they don't really care anyway.

They're not investing in American industry, they're laying side bets.

Tam and Jack settled back while I punched in Bill's number.

The doctor was in, and after a few profane formalities-- tempered when

we informed him of a female presence--he listened with uncharacteristic

attentiveness. I gave him an

update, concluding with the view that we ought to try heading off

MITI's presumed play.

Henderson, despite his admiration for Noda's style, didn't take kindly

to the possible buy-up of America's remaining R&D in semiconductors, a

specter that coincided all too closely to his own fable about how MITI

had already eaten one segment, memory chips. I decided to start by

seeing if he and I were on the same wavelength concerning

countermeasures. Without tipping him to my own idea, I asked what he

thought could be done.

"Tell you, it won't be easy. One thing, though, we could maybe try and

scare 'em off with a little brushfire."

"Try that in English, Bill," Jack interrupted.

"Don't know, maybe a few hot rumors could hit the Street . . . mergers,

takeovers, your usual quick-buck action. Say a few of the CEOs of these

outfits on Noda's Christmas list had a little powwow, a 'secret'

meeting everybody manages to hear about, and supposedly talked about

gettin' themselves bought out. Naturally they'd deny everything on the

Evening News, which in itself will tell the Street we're talkin'

wedding bells."

"Is that really going to do us any good?" Tam was talking to the box.

"Afternoon, ma'am. Liked that last book of yours a whole lot. Hope

you're keeping them boys sober." I could almost see Henderson turn up

the charm, sculpting a voluptuous, horny divorcee in his ardent

imagination. Tam, to my surprise, was not totally immune to his Georgia

sweet talk. She sort of smiled to herself as he continued, "But to

answer your question, a takeover rumor can do marvels for your stock

price. What happens is the 'arbs' come in, snapping up blocks of stock

and holding them, just in case. It can take a lot of securities out of

circulation, at least short term. So if we could get the arbs to

chasing those companies on Noda's list, they'd give the Japs a little

competition. At the very least it'd kite the market, hurt their

pocketbook."

"Bill, that's why we wanted to call you. How about putting your

finances where your flag-waving is? Be an arb yourself for a few weeks.

Lead the herd. Start picking up some blocks of stock and shooting off

your mouth a lot about your 'inside' information. I'll even kick in my

modest retirement fund to help the action."

"What if somebody pulls the rug out from under us? Shoots the whole

thing down? We'd be left holding all that stock we'd bid up. We could

lose our shirt."

"Then protect the downside by buying puts. I have full faith you'll

think of something. Come on, Henderson, be a market maker. You've got

the credibility. All you have to do is set a spark to this, then we'll

quietly head for the sidelines to make way for all those investment-

house yuppies who love to shoot craps with their clients' money."

"Have to be a quick in and out for damned sure. This hot-air balloon

won't stay up for long." He paused, clearly not wild about the idea.

"Tell you what, though, maybe if we had a real good story."

"Ideas?"

"Well, how about this? Maybe we've just heard on the grapevine that

those outfits on Noda's play list have started a little 'white knight'

talking. And since this is just speculation, we might as well think

big. Know who I mean?"

"The pride of Armonk."

"Give that man a gold star. We both know IBM headquarters ain't talked

to nobody but God since Watson outgrew his short pants, so it'd be

weeks before they'd stomp on some horse-pucky rumor about how they were

looking into saving whatever's left of the chip business here. Just

covering their ass, we'll say. Friendly mergers. No poison pill stuff."

"That's exactly the kind of specious 'supporting detail' that always

triggers the Street's greed." I concurred. "Offhand I'd say that sounds

just about perfect for tomorrow's hot tip on the Exchange floor."

In truth it did seem like a workable first draft of an idea. No law

against deep background sources that turn out to be 24-carat bullshit

down the road. The antitrust implications would be front page for a

couple of days, but since the administration adhered to the 'see no

evil' school of regulation, that angle wouldn't impress the smart

money. America starts thinking big, chucks the myth of garage

entrepreneurs, and staves off Japan using a dose of MITI's own

medicine. IBM rides in to rescue what's left of Silicon Valley. It

might just make Matsuo Noda back away. He'd learn America could play

hardball too.

We told Bill to take the rest of the day off. Jack was, I can report,

noticeably encouraged. Tam also. For my own part I just crashed, with a

few wistful reflections on my rocky

non-seduction. But if we pulled off our little scam, she might be more

inclined to take me seriously.

As Shakespeare said, Lord, what fools these mortals be. I realized the

true extent of Matsuo Noda's reach on Monday, just after noon. I was

still home when Tam called from the office uptown to inform me of the

latest developments. I was so busy on the phone just then, planting

merger rumors with a few friendly columnists, that I was almost annoyed

to take time out for her call. However, she quickly captured my

attention.

First, the revisions on DNI's acquisition program were in full swing.

Noda had started purchasing those healthy semiconductor outfits on the

new list.

Then she went on to say that an additional set of buy orders had just

gone out over the wire. Noda had been on his satellite hookup to Tokyo

all morning, and he'd now finalized official authorization for a minor

expansion, so to speak, in DNI's program. Apparently Tokyo had agreed

with him that his portfolio should include a certain high-grade issue

to achieve better overall "balance."

She didn't say much more, for obvious reasons, but we both had a strong

hunch what must have happened. If anything was bugged, for chrissake,

it wasn't my apartment. That's B-movie stuff. It had to be my phone.

Matsuo Noda had just kicked off a new buy program to the tune of three

and a half billion. For what? More high-tech stragglers? Not precisely.

One company, and in an amount intended to stay safely just below the

Securities and Exchange Commission's Form 13-D mandatory reporting.

Twenty-five million shares of IBM, roughly a full four percent of Big

Blue.

It was a massive variation of the "Pac-Man" takeover defense: you eat

anybody you think wants to eat you. Noda's message to us was loud and

clear: he could buy the USA anytime he wanted. Dai Nippon was

unstoppable.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I hung up the phone very slowly.

"We've 'moved the shadow.'" I spoke the words to myself hesitantly,

maybe even a little apprehensively. That was the name for a famous

strategy of the seventeenth-century swordsman Miyamoto Mushashi, using

a feint to lure your opponent into prematurely disclosing his battle

plan.

The way I saw it, Matsuo Noda now stood revealed. It had all been a

setup. The financial scam, the help-American-industry cover, the MITI

"guidance." This was a takeover, all the way. A global takeover. What

else could it be?

And the only people on this side of the Pacific who knew were Matt

Walton and Tam Richardson.

For some reason that thought brought to mind the professor at Stanford,

the AI guy who'd disappeared. What was it Tam had said? He'd had dinner

at her apartment? Asked her to do something for him in Japan? And her

MITI friend, whose name was all over that stack of memos on the table

downstairs? Asano. Where did he fit in?

One thing, he'd helped Noda recruit her. They'd worked together, and

their play had been flawless.

But now our friend Matsuo Noda had a small headache. Tam Richardson and

Matt Walton had exposed the underside of his game. The shadow had

moved. Which meant it would only be a matter of time before he struck.

Where was our weakness, hers and mine? What would cause us to lose our

rhythm, to blunder? He'd already outmaneuvered Jack O'Donnell with

ease. He had a master swordsman's unerring instinct for his opponent's

weakness. So where was mine? I had to know it before he found it.

He'd realized Jack could be blackmailed, if the stakes were

his constituents' jobs and lives. But I didn't need a job. And the only

life . . .

Of course! It was obvious. Amy.

Could it be I was dealing with a madman who made people disappear?

If I was about to take on a pro like Noda, I had to cover every

possibility. Which meant I had to get her out, away, beyond his reach.

Today.

Still, though, there were so many questions. Who was really behind all

the moves, the master puppeteer? Was it only Matsuo Noda, or was this

possibly, just possibly, something that wound its way even higher. If

so, who was the point man on that? Akira Mori?

The only rational countermove now was to back off and "survey

prevailing conditions." Miyamoto Mushashi's _keiki o shiru to iu koto_.

But to do that we had to remove ourselves beyond the reach of Dai

Nippon's sword. How long did we have?

I glanced at the clock on my desk, the little Sony digital. The number

12:18 stared back, the two dots in the middle flashing every second.

Amy was still at school, and for the moment I couldn't think of a safer

place. They wouldn't even let me in without a pass. She didn't get out

till four P.M.

So now what?

Simple. In swordsmanship, vigilance is everything. And there are two

things you always have to keep in view. The first is called _ken_, the

surface actions, the moves your opponent wants you to see. The second,

and more important, is _kan_, the essence of things, the real truth.

_Ken _covers the superficial moves; _kan _gives you the big picture.

Instinctively I still believed we had only been witness to _ken_, the

distractions, the insignificant feints of our opponent. The deeper

wisdom of _kan_ still lay beyond us. Time to probe.

We had three and a half hours.

I got up and headed downstairs to retrieve a couple of very important

memos. If we needed them, we'd have them. The rest of the pile I

brought back upstairs and locked in the sword room (the closest thing I

had to a safe). Finally, I reflected a second and paused to scribble

Emma a note, asking her to feed and walk Ben in case I wasn't around

for a while. That taken care of, I retrieved my heavy topcoat from the

front closet, walked out into the street, and grabbed a cab for the

offices of Dai Nippon, International.

Maybe our opening move should be _uromekasu to iu koto_, to feint a

thrust that would induce a state of confusion in Noda's mind. Then we

could stage a tactical retreat to plan the final, all-out attack.

Retreat to where? Well, that part at least was easy: the obvious

hideaway was my place down in the islands. The thing to do was to

quietly catch American 291 and head for the Caribbean. If Noda did

manage to track us down, he'd be in for a surprise. Let me explain.

Back when the world was young and Amy was still a gleam in our eye,

Joanna and I acquired a rambling white fortress, complete with pool,

that was being offered to the first tourist appearing on St. Croix that

day with ready cash. Seemed its Cosa Nostra owner back in Sicily (so

the story went) suddenly needed a transfusion of a hundred grand in

bail money. Fortunately I'd had a good year and happened to have the

necessary liquidity. It was luxurious beyond vulgarity. Hardwood

parquet floors, heavy tile roof (to withstand an Interpol bombing run?

Who knows?), manicured grounds, satellite dish, a bar worthy of Caesars

Palace, three bedrooms, and music in every room. It was oversize and

garish and pretentious and . . . who cares, I loved the place. Sort of

a Roman villa in the middle of paradise. However, because of the

peculiar requirements of its former tenant, it also had a security

setup to shame Fort Knox, including a six-foot fence, two-inch-thick

doors, and TV monitors all over the grounds.

If we could locate a little hardware to match Noda's Uzis, he'd be in

for a surprise should he try and send down a Dai Nippon hit squad for

an unscheduled visit.

But first things first. Right now we needed to somehow lure Matsuo Noda

into revealing more of his overall strategy.

After the cab dropped me off, I rode the elevator up to twelve and

passed through security. The complement of guards, I noticed in

passing, had just been expanded. Instead of two, now there were four.

And when I walked out onto the floor, nobody said anything, but there

was an almost palpable air of tension. Stony silence, analysts nervous.

Bad vibes, very bad vibes.

I just ignored the stares and headed straight for Tarn's office. She

was waiting, and she had an identical reading of the

situation. The minute I walked in, she got up and shut the door. Her

first words . . .

"He just brought in more security. That, and the IBM thing. Matt, he's

getting worried."

"Bet your ass he is. We're moving in too close. But I think Noda

figures he's just toying with us now. Having some fun before he cuts us

in half."

"I'm not afraid of him. No matter what he tries." She glanced at the

door. "Did you bring the memos?"

"Here in my briefcase. But I think it's too soon to show him everything

we have. Right now he doesn't know what we've got. That's better."

"Well, I've just begun to fight. I'm going to Tokyo to get the truth

out of Ken." She paused, and her voice trembled slightly with anger.

"He's got some heavy explaining to do."

"You're incredible." I just looked at her. "I almost believe you still

can't accept that your friend Asano is in on Noda's play. Since he's

such a terrific guy."

"Matt, I don't believe it. He wouldn't be part of this. You don't know

him."

"That I don't."

"All I'm saying is, this doesn't feel right. He wouldn't involve MITI

in whatever Noda's planning." She sat down, running her hands through

her tousled dark hair. "You know, the fact is we still don't know for

sure who's really behind what."

"Exactly. How does everybody fit in, including us? We've got pieces of

a puzzle lying around--a section here, a section there--but something

fundamental is missing."

"So what do we do next?"

"How about a little joust with our friend downstairs? Try and feel him

out. Maybe we can lure him into making another move, something that'll

give away more of his game."

"You don't think he's actually going to talk."

"Not really. He'll feint, parry. But if we watch carefully, maybe we'll

glimpse more of the outline of his strategy. Then we'll know what our

counter scenario has to be." I decided to hold off on telling her the

getaway plan. Assuming the walls had ears, we'd already said too much.

"Look, make you a deal. First let's see what happens with Noda, then we

decide what to do about your friend Asano."

"All right. But let's stay cool." She was locking her desk.

"You read my mind."

With that settled, we strolled out, past the doubled security, and

headed down to eleven. The way people looked at us, I felt as naked as

Tam had been in the bath Saturday night. How much did they know?

Matsuo Noda was in his office. His secretary buzzed us right through,

almost as though he'd been waiting for our appearance.

"Dr. Richardson. Mr. Walton." He rose to greet us. "How timely. There

is an urgent matter we have to discuss."

"We want to talk about MITI." I decided to try and break his rhythm as

quickly as possible. Take the action to him.

"Then this is a coincidence." An easy smile as he resumed his seat.

"That happens to be the very matter I wanted to explore--"

"What we want to know," Tam interrupted, "here and now, is whether our

program is being run by the ministry."

"Dr. Richardson, you . . . and Mr. Walton, are in the employ of Dai

Nippon, International, not MITI." He leaned back in his chair. "Though

of course nothing in this world is entirely simple. Certain . . .

interests of the ministry are germane to our programs here."

"Then we'd like to hear about it." She glanced at the leather chairs

but decided to remain on her feet. I did the same.

His face was like granite. "Well, you are aware we've occasionally

received input from MITI's Industrial Technology arm.

"How about Research and Planning, Ken's section?"

"Only a few informal--"

"Nothing to do with Marketshare - 90?"

He betrayed a hint of confusion, quickly masked. "Dr. Richardson, with

all due respect, I fear you may not be entirely aware of the various

forces at play here." He leaned back. "This program of ours must

succeed. There are many avenues of responsibility, but all difficulties

will be overcome."

"What do you mean?"

"All in time, please believe me." He smiled once more. "I'll readily

grant you our acquisition program may have evolved slightly as of late

in the direction of more-solid securities, but you can be assured that

is merely a response to the concerns of certain conservative

institutional investors in Tokyo." He continued, a silver tongue to

match his silver hair. "Risk is involved. Not to mention an enormous

quantity of funds. There is pressure on us just now to try and maintain

a prudent balance in our portfolio." He glanced at his watch

impatiently. As if he was anxious to move ahead. "Which brings us to

the matter we have to address."

"Just to set the record straight"--I decided to do a little parrying of

my own--"you have nothing to say about any kind of MITI involvement?

Including Marketshare - 90?"

"Well, this Marketshare - 90 proposition you refer to probably should

be thought of as merely one of the ministry's more ambitious trial

balloons, nothing more. It has the quality of--how do you say it?--

woolgathering. Whatever its purpose, it should in no way be confused

with Dai Nippon's objectives." Such was Noda's reply. Then in a

remarkably convincing tone he added, "How could the ministry's planning

possibly have anything to do with our program here?"

Tam wasn't buying. "Looks to me like it has a lot to do with

it."

"Dr. Richardson, since I am no longer directly affiliated with MITI, I

am not in a position to speak for every proposition arising there.

However, we both know that the ministry's responsibility is to provide

long-range industrial planning. They often circulate scenarios for

comment. It's part of their job."

We were rapidly losing our footing. Noda was top-ranked swordsman. He'd

kept his discipline and revealed nothing. He was telling us we hadn't

found an opening. He was right. It was a classic standoff.

Or it should have been. Strategically, we should have taken that moment

to back away and analyze Noda's style, searching for his weakness. But

instead Tam made what turned out to be a fatal move. She struck,

exposing herself.

"Since according to you MITI is not involved in this program, there

should be no problem if I contacted them directly and talked this over.

In Japan."

I wanted to yell no, don't tell him anything.

But it was too late.

"An excellent idea." He nodded gravely, then turned to me. "Do you

intend to be part of this expedition as well, Mr. Walton?"

What to do? The only moves left now were defensive. No way was I going

to let Tam face the beast alone. Also, if Noda had me, he wouldn't need

Amy.

"I assume you can spare me here for a few days."

"But we will all be in Japan together." He removed his thin, wireless

spectacles. "That is in fact the very matter I needed to discuss with

you. It is time you both were brought more closely into the matters at

hand. Beginning today. I've already made reservations on New York

Helicopter, departing for Kennedy in two hours. From the East Thirty-

fourth Street heliport."

He had us. He'd seized the initiative, feinted us off balance, and

defined the terms.

She tried to recover. "When and where we go is something we intend to--"

"Ah, Dr. Richardson, one must seize the moment. It is past time you and

Mr. Walton understood more fully the many levels of concern involved

here. There are a number of things you need to see." He smiled as he

replaced his glasses. "Because of the expected frequency of my travels

in the coming months, I have just leased a Concorde. We refuel in

Bahrain. I've been looking forward to having you both as my guests."

"The answer is no."

"Mr. Walton, I urge you not to forgo this opportunity too rashly." He

looked me over. "In fact, since you are known to be an authority on

Japanese arms, I could even arrange for you to have a firsthand look at

the Imperial sword."

"Forget it."

"But the timing couldn't be more ideal. At the moment the sword has

just been transferred to one of the metallurgy labs at Tsukuba Science

City for minor repair work. Since Tsukuba is to be our destination as

well, I can just telex the Imperial Household and instruct them to

arrange a viewing date." He smiled again. "For a connoisseur such as

yourself, nothing would please me more."

There was something about the way he said it. I don't know. Maybe a

strange glimmer flashed through his eyes. Looking back, I think that

was the moment I first should have realized Matsuo Noda had decided he

was God.

"You didn't hear me. We're not leaving now. At least not on your

terms."

"Mr. Walton, I really must insist." He glanced over at Tam. "What I

intend to show you should be of extreme interest to you both."

"I'll go when I'm ready." She turned and headed for the door.

"Dr. Richardson, I'm afraid we all have no alternative." He spoke

quietly, his tone masking the harshness as he continued. "These offices

have been sealed. As a temporary security measure. There appears to

have been an unauthorized access to the NEC mainframe here. However,

I've decided to postpone criminal charges for the moment." He smiled

again. "Besides, the time has come for you both to know everything."

We were on our way. I looked out of the window on my side, down through

the haze covering New York's East River just below us, and took Tam's

hand. The NY chopper was a Sikorski S58T, twin engine, two pilots.

Events were moving so fast it was hard even to think. No doubt about

one thing, though: we'd been outmaneuvered, outplanned, outfought. The

only good part was, he had me as hostage, not Amy. In a final face-off

with Noda, whatever he had in mind, I still figured I could take care

of myself, MITI and all. The battle had just begun.

When we walked out of Noda's office, there was no longer any mistaking

the new security arrangements. Dai Nippon was on red alert.

"Well, Matthew, looks like we're about to get the big picture, like it

or not."

"On Noda's terms. Which wasn't the way it was supposed to happen."

"I just need to confront Ken."

For whatever good it may do, I found myself thinking. We were knee-deep

in confrontations and we still didn't know a damned thing. What did

Noda have planned for us? Whatever it was, I had a strong feeling I

didn't want it.

Back in my own office at Dai Nippon, there was only time for one phone

call. The first name that came to mind was Joanna. I wanted to say,

Look, if I don't make it through this, you and Amy are well provided

for. She's got a trust fund that's seven figures, and you can have the

house, the bank account, the whole damn works. Just don't ever let a

man named Matsuo Noda anywhere near you or her.

But I couldn't force myself to dial the number. It wasn't Joanna who

was in over her head now; it was me. The subtle or

not-so-subtle difference was enough to stop me cold. I'd vowed to

manage life on my own, and this was no moment to waffle.

So, instead I did the next best thing and called The West Side Free

School--which, I might add, may have been free in its disdain for

classical curriculum, but it had very non-free tuition practices. I

identified myself, announced an emergency, and asked to speak to Ms.

Amy Walton. In about a minute she was there.

"Dad, we're in the middle of our Monday Geo-2 exam." She lowered her

voice. "What's the capital of Somalia?"

"Honey, haven't a clue. Just try and do the best you can. Employ that

exceptional brain of yours."

"Thanks."

"Adults don't have to know the capitals of Third World countries.

That's a small perk we get for putting up with old age." I paused.

"Amy, about this weekend."

"Uh, oh." She sighed. "Betcha I know what's next."

"Well, a problem's come up. I've got to take care of a few things."

"Dad, the snow leopards. This weekend is when they're supposed to--"

"Honey, we'll hit the Bronx Zoo the minute I get back. I absolutely

promise."

"You going off somewhere?"

"Just a quick trip."

"Where?" She perked up.

"We'll talk about it when I get back." I wanted to say "if I get back."

"Big secret, huh?"

"Amy, I just wanted to . . . darling, be careful."

"What's the matter? Dad, are you in some kind of trouble?"

How could I answer? Damned right I was, but that wasn't the point of

the call.

"Sweetie, just . . . just be especially careful. That's all. I'll try

my best to make it up to you at Christmas. Maybe we can still get down

to the islands somehow. And Amy . . ."

"Yeah."

"I love you, honey."

"Love you too, Dad. Look, I gotta get back."

"I'm sure Ms. Winters will give you some extra time."

"Don't bet on it. She's an old grouch. She's twenty-eight and an old

maid."

Twenty-eight. Old? Good God. I keep forgetting what it's like to be

thirteen and think of the future as the next three weeks, followed by a

gaping void.

"Sweetheart, that's not exactly ancient. Believe me. She's probably

still got half a dozen good years left."

"Tell her. Look, I've gotta run."

"All right. Just advise your mother something unexpected came up. Maybe

you and I can make it next weekend. We'll do the snow leopards, that's

an absolute guarantee."

"Great. So long, Dad. Have fun."

I almost said "good-bye." Bad luck, I thought. So instead I said, "Take

care."

Shortly thereafter Matsuo Noda, Tam Richardson, and yours truly were

headed over to New York Helicopter's midtown pad, one of Noda's

bodyguards in the limo with us. The battle was drawn.

Now as I looked down at the boroughs of New York gliding below, all

those little strings of metallic beads lined up on the ribbons of

asphalt, the backyards of New York's solid middle class glimmering with

remnants of snow, I found myself wondering what Noda had planned for

them.

Another imponderable still nagged at me as well: what about Akira Mori?

Tam reported that by the time she'd arrived at the DNI offices this

morning our friend had vanished. Ditto her information-packed attache

case. As quickly as the lady had come, she'd disappeared back to Tokyo.

But not with Noda. She'd gone on her own terms. Was he now using his

new Concorde to try and head her off. What had she been doing here?

Just hand-delivering MITI's latest "guidance"?

Maybe we were finally about to uncover everybody's real agenda.

Again my mind went back to ken and kan, Miyamoto Musashi's famous

discourse on mental attitude in The Way of the Warrior, which he called

_heiho kokoro mochi no koto_. What was merely appearances, _ken_, and

what was _kan_, the global picture, the essence?

Noda had temporarily gained the upper hand, but now I realized that was

almost to be expected. After all, he was a swordsman with decades of

experience. So much for _ken_, my superficial observation. The real

truth, _kan_, lay much deeper. And like all such truths it had to be

elementary, elegantly simple.

Which left only two possibilities. Either Matsuo Noda was merely an

insane genius about to show us the inner workings of the massive

organization he now controlled, or he planned to kill us.

Or both.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Dr. Kenji Asano gazed out the window of his office at the Institute,

the last shafts of sun casting long shadows in the canyons below. It

was late Tuesday afternoon, and gales of December wind tunneled around

the skyscrapers of Tokyo, chilling the gray steel and glass. The blank

computer screens reflected back his smooth, trim face, his glum eyes.

Technology. It was divorcing man from all sensibility. What Kenji Asano

found himself wanting at that moment was not high-tech but high-touch,

to be seated on the _tatami _of his Tokyo teahouse, smelling the fresh

straw, gazing out over the manicured evergreen shrubs of his garden,

the clumps of leafless black bamboo. He recalled again the tea ceremony

in Kyoto and the sight of Tamara approaching down the stepping stones

of the "dewy path." She was a rare American, one who understood the

essence of _cha-no-yu_--inner power shows itself in outer restraint.

As he lit a Peace cigarette with a wooden match and continued to

examine the cheerless skyline of Tokyo, a thought flickered past--

Bodhidharma, the first Zen master, who had plucked away his eyelids to

prevent sleep as he meditated. That reflection led naturally to

ruminations on the master's disciple, Hui-ko, who sat _zazen _for days

in the snows outside Shao-lin monastery, then finally severed his own

arm and offered it to the master as testament of his devotion.

_Bushido_, the code of the samurai. Who today would cut off an arm to

prove determination? Or be Benkei at the Bridge, the servant who breaks

the rules of society and cudgels his own master to protect their

disguise and deceive their foes. That famous episode, he told himself,

would be his model. Sometimes _bushido _required you to circumvent

tradition and honor for the greater good.

What was happening in Japan? These days many thoughtful Japanese were

expressing open concern, even fear, over their country's rising

nationalism. Although high officials still couched their flag-waving in

coded language intended to elude foreign notice, many prominent voices

were now suggesting "it's wrong to think prewar Japan was all bad." The

latest school textbooks spoke glowingly of the country's Imperial

traditions. Encouraged by this jingoism, in truth veiled racism, many

superpatriots were beginning to emerge from obscurity. Now, with the

Imperial sword as symbol, the Japanese right was openly on the march.

Surely Noda had known it would happen, had counted on it.

He recalled the line by Yeats, "And what rough beast, its hour come

round at last . . ."

The "beast," Kenji Asano feared, had arisen in Japan. And its monstrous

head was none other than Matsuo Noda. Who could have suspected the dark

side of Noda's grand design or the extent of his determination?

Violence, money in the billions, and accomplices where they were least

suspected. Perhaps even inside MITI.

This last disturbing prospect had convinced Kenji Asano that the time

for operating within the rules was past. He had already taken a first

step, aided unwittingly by a bureaucrat of immense ambition within the

ministry. His first counterploy against Noda had bought time--how much

he didn't know-- but the next move must be decisive.

He glanced around his office, then at the MITI reports stacked high on

his desk. Benkei at the Bridge. For Kenji Asano only one course was

left. He would now have to use his own master, MITI, to destroy Matsuo

Noda.

His mind went back to the meeting at his MITI office Monday of the

previous week. Although he was on temporary assignment at the

Institute, he still checked in daily at the ministry. Filing into his

office at nine-thirty sharp had been the three men whose "consensus"

was crucial. The difficulty was, they must never know what he planned.

Michio Watanabe, International Trade Policy Bureau,

Trade Research Section: heavyset, early fifties, a professional

bureaucrat with powerful eyes and a permanent expression of skepticism.

He had been a close colleague of Noda's for decades.

Tanzan Kitano, Industrial Policy Bureau, International Enterprises

Section: gray hair tinged with silver, immaculate dresser, spoke five

languages. He had been in MITI over twenty years and had maintained the

same mistress for fifteen: a man respected for his long-range thinking.

Hiromu Ikeda, Industrial Technology Agency: late thirties, thrived on

expediency, doing the job no matter the consequences. Part of a hard

new breed, he was Japan's future. And MlTI was his future.

While the men moved toward the wide couch across from his desk, Kenji

Asano opened with offhand pleasantries, directed mainly toward

Watanabe, partly because he was eldest and partly to sound out his

mind-state. Next he welcomed Kitano with a few inquiries concerning his

wife and son, a transparent formality since he was known far and wide

to despise them both. Finally he greeted Ikeda and indicated the

meeting would be short, knowing the younger man liked to move directly

to matters at hand and regarded the usual preliminaries as an old-

fashioned waste of time.

Agenda: The American companies Matsuo Noda was acquiring. A proposition

had surfaced (in Japanese bureaucracies, all ideas are anonymous and

thus devoid of repercussions) that certain MITI personnel be put on

leave of absence to serve on the boards of those U.S. concerns. Given

the heavy participation of Japanese monies in Noda's American program,

perhaps a more formal monitoring mechanism would be helpful to head off

potential anxiety in Tokyo's financial community.

The idea, of course, was Kenji Asano's. He had first laid the

groundwork with a few oblique hints to several of Dai Nippon's major

institutional backers, particularly the Dai-Ichi Credit Corporation,

Ltd. That move had borne fruit. Within days they had begun wondering

aloud whether the ministry might wish to consider helping oversee

Noda's American investments. So far, so good. Now MITI itself had to be

convinced. This meeting would undoubtedly be the first of many,

resulting eventually in a consensus. Would the ministry go along?

Having set forth the topic, Kenji Asano surrendered the floor to

Watanabe, the senior man present--and therefore the one whose views, in

keeping with convention, would be listened to and applauded by everyone

else in the room whether they agreed or not.

"In my judgment, the original objectives of Matsuo Noda and Dai Nippon

are the most desirable means of maintaining the long-term security of

Japan," Watanabe declared. "It is in our strategic interest that he be

allowed to succeed. Which is why MITI should stay 'hands-off,' should

limit its participation to an advisory capacity, nothing more. Anything

further could well prove extremely counterproductive in our relations

with the United States. We do not need more friction."

"So deshoo, Watanabe-san." Kitano, the man second in seniority, nodded

after a moment's pause. "I totally concur with the basic aspects of the

viewpoint you have expressed." He was telling everybody he hadn't made

up his mind.

"I also support fully Watanabe-san's insightful summary of the relevant

issues." Ikeda spoke up, his honorifics far more polite than necessary,

a signal. "_Keredomo _(however) . . . it might possibly be prudent to

examine briefly the considerations advanced by those who differ with

this wise assessment in order that we may counter their concerns more

thoughtfully."

That was it. Kenji Asano had a head count. Watanabe was against sending

MITI personnel. Kitano was waffling. Hiromu Ikeda was foursquare and

hell-bent in favor of the idea. He had just announced it to the room.

Was Watanabe in league with Noda, willing to give him free rein? Was he

one of Noda's operatives inside the ministry? Or was he merely

advancing his own ideas, genuinely fearful an influx of MITI personnel

into the U.S. could precipitate a severe diplomatic flap?

On the other hand, why was Ikeda so in favor of having MITI move in on

Noda? The answer to that was hardly a puzzle. MITI's young prince of

ambition, Hiromu Ikeda, scented the possibility of grabbing a part of

Matsuo Noda's new American empire for his own. Handled skillfully, it

might well catapult him directly to vice minister inside a decade.

"Perhaps it would be useful to review once more the main elements of

the situation." Kitano knew he had the middle ground and thus was

offering to arbitrate. "The condition of America now is very troubling.

The question is, how can we best aid them, and ourselves. We in Japan

realize that a nation's true strength is ultimately not in armaments

but in the health of its economy, its industry. Yet the Americans, by

making themselves a military state, have paradoxically imperiled their

real security. How long can we continue to rely on an ally so blind to

the main threat to its own strategic well- being? Matsuo Noda is

correct. Our very safety may soon be imperiled. Something must be done.

The only question is how best to proceed."

"_So desu ne_." Watanabe pressed, realizing he would have to force his

point. "The Pentagon is, ironically, America's most insidious enemy.

Japan's greatest benefit from America's defense umbrella has not been

the billions we've saved on sterile arms; it has been the technical

manpower we have free to support competitive industries. But the price

has been the industrial decline of our foremost ally. This cannot, must

not, be permitted to continue." He paused. "Matsuo Noda, a man I've

known and respected for years, who guided this ministry to greatness,

should be allowed to assist the Americans rebuild their civilian sector

unhindered by us. If MITI involves itself at this time, the American

government may well grow alarmed and step in to stop him. Then their

industrial stagnation will merely accelerate."

"_So deshoo_," Ikeda finally spoke. "I agree. Unfortunately, however,

there are some who believe the task Noda-sama has undertaken cannot

succeed without direct MITI assistance. Again it is a matter of our own

security. The question has arisen concerning whether we should continue

to rely on the Americans to rescue their industrial base unassisted by

any formal direction. Of course I disagree with such pessimistic views,

but some would say we ourselves must now step forward and assume global

leadership in technology to prevent a vacuum from developing in the

Free World. By taking charge of America's floundering high-tech sector,

we could rescue it from continued mismanagement, while--incidentally--

satisfying our own R&D needs in a way that is extremely cost-

effective. However, this can only be achieved if we are in a position

to provide hands-on guidance. Which means direct MITI involvement." He

paused. "These opinions of course are not my own, merely ones I have

heard voiced. I am told, though it is difficult to comprehend, that

this viewpoint has

been entertained by Nakayama-sama of the Secretariat, and even

discussed in his weekly conference with the Parliamentary Vice

Minister."

The hand of fate! Asano exulted. Hiromu Ikeda has already done my work

for me. He's gone over everybody's head. He swallowed the idea like a

carp snapping a hovering dragonfly, then went off and peddled it to the

Vice Minister as though it were his own.

A man to watch out for in the future, he thought. But a perfect ally at

the moment.

Watanabe said nothing. His ancient face was in shock. Everybody

realized the meeting was over. It was clear Ikeda had trampled on

consensus and seniority in order to further his own fortunes.

"Watanabe-san, I think we all agree your understanding of the situation

is entirely proper," Kenji Asano said soothingly. "But solely in the

interest of continued theoretical discussion at some later time, it

might be prudent if all sections prepared a contingency list of staff,

fluent in English, who would be suitable for reassignment to an

American sector."

"It is always wise to cover contingencies, Asano-san," Watanabe said

dryly.

None of them realized it, of course, but Hiromu Ikeda's ambition could

well turn out to be the salvation of MITI itself. But for now, Asano

mused, that was something none of them needed to know.

Looking out the window at the freezing streets below, glimmering from

headlights and neon, Kenji Asano told himself that a dangerous game lay

ahead. Noda's first gambit had been countered, but there would be more.

What he needed was a preemptive strike.

He had made the plans for that strike, a play of pure, absolute genius.

The catch was, Tamara would have to cooperate.

With that thought he reached down and unlocked the top right-hand

drawer of his metal desk, then drew out a large red and blue envelope.

It was air express from a university address in California. As he

fingered the stripes along its side, he recalled how it had arrived

here at his office at The Institute for New Generation Computer

Technology while he'd been in Kyoto with Tamara.

Finally he opened it again and slipped out the contents.

Inside was a confidential memo on the old Nippon, Inc. letterhead,

unsigned but obviously authored by Matsuo Noda, a top-security document

that had been clocked in at a document station at Tsukuba Science City.

How had Allan Stern stumbled onto this? Had he stolen it? Picked it up

by accident? It was in Japanese, so how could he have sensed its real

import?

American ingenuity, he told himself, defied all understanding. The

memo, which outlined the timetable for a massive scenario, had been the

first step of a long path of discovery leading Kenji Asano to

indisputable proof of Matsuo Noda's real objective. Allan Stern must

have had this translated or somehow intuitively guessed Noda's plan.

And then . . . Allan Stem had tried to warn MITI. Why? Out of past

regard for Dr. Yoshida, former head of the Institute and a close

friend?

Stern reportedly had vanished the same day this envelope was

postmarked. Noda had acted, but not swiftly enough.

Who at MITI had been the original recipient of this memo? Maybe, he

thought, it no longer mattered. There was only one real way to stop Dai

Nippon. . . .

At that moment his phone buzzed. As he punched the button, his

flustered secretary announced that an in-flight call was waiting,

channeled through MITI's satellite security link. It was the president

of Dai Nippon, International.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tsukuba Science City can be awe-inspiring or a specter, depending on

how you choose to look at it. The time was Wednesday morning, and Tam

and I were viewing the place through the tinted windows of Matsuo

Noda's personal DNI limo, the black Nissan she knew so well. From the

vantage of an elevated freeway packed with rows of sleek Hondas and

Toyotas sparkling in the cold December sunshine, we could see the

silhouettes of cluster after cluster of modernistic concrete towers, an

urban complex of a hundred and fifty thousand souls rising above what

was, only a few short years ago, mostly farms. Be that as it may, take

my word for it that nobody's growing radishes there today. Science

City, nestled in the foothills of Mt. Tsukuba some fifty kilometers

northeast of downtown Tokyo, represents a government investment,

including the industrial park once the site of Expo '85, of over thirty

billion dollars.

Tsukuba is holy ground, the place of heroes, where kamikazes once

trained for their suicide missions against the American fleet. Now it

is one of the largest research centers in the world, with almost ten

thousand scientists and fifty separate laboratories and scientific

institutes. As we neared the first complex, I tried to make sense of

all the Dali-esque curved buildings that housed Japan's new brain

trust. From the outside you can tell something is going on, but it

seems secretive and proprietary. It is. The thing I had to keep

reminding myself, though, was that none of this was for military

boondoggles. It was aimed dead-on at industrial technology. E.g.,

there's research here on high-energy lasers all right, but they're not

intended for zapping some hypothetical Soviet satellite; they're part

of the world's largest laser-radar telescope, which can project beams

out more than thirty miles to analyze air quality. In short, the work

here was applications-oriented, practical, and--get a firm grip on your

wallet-- commercial.

Together with Noda and his bodyguard/chauffeur we were headed for the

Electrotechnical Institute, where he was about to give us our first

glimpse of Japan's new high-tech empire. That lab just so happened to

be the place where heavy work was underway on applications of the

artificial intelligence effort of Kenji Asano's Fifth Generation shop.

It was merely the first stop, however, in an odyssey Noda claimed would

take us through the hidden heart of Japan's industrial future.

Noda reported he had spoken with Kenji Asano, who was unfortunately

tied up in meetings and couldn't join us until tomorrow. Thus Tam had

not yet had her chance to hear his account of MITI's sudden new

interest in Dai Nippon's program. All the same, Noda claimed to welcome

Ken's arrival.

"Whatever concerns you may have, I'm sure he will be more than happy to

address them," declared the president of Dai Nippon.

Tam had tried on her own to reach Ken at his office, without success.

Maybe, I thought to myself, he just didn't want to talk. In any case

that quandary remained unresolved.

The way I saw the situation, though, we had enough to deal with merely

getting through today. Noda's game was no longer a game. He was going

to take us to the top of the mountain, show us the other side, and then

. . . what? Whatever it was, that part would have to be handled in due

time. For now his intentions seemed to be to drive home a singular

point: if you think Dai Nippon has been playing hardball with money,

wait till you see Japan's real action. He was going to lay bare the

empire, the awesome machine he now had at his command. The payoff of

Tsukuba, he explained, was intended to be nothing less than total

technological supremacy.

The limo was slowing to a stop in front of an oddly shaped concrete

building, brand-new, that covered several acres with cones and hexagons

and various geometries. We'd arrived.

"This is the Electrotechnical Institute, research center for Japan's

Advanced Robot Technology Project." He pointed. The laboratory appeared

to be somebody's idea of what architecture would be in the twenty-first

century, a sort of Japanese spaceship splattered across a vast acreage.

"The work underway here and over at the Mechanical Engineering lab is

intended to coordinate all government and private research on

industrial robots."

He stepped out and motioned for us to join him. Our top- secret tour

had begun. As we walked toward the main entryway, he delivered an

opening summary.

"Here we have allocated twenty billion yen, about a hundred and fifty

million dollars, for an eight-year research program to perfect a range

of industrial robots." He continued while we walked past the small gray

metallic sign, in both Japanese and English, that identified the

Institute. "It is being closely coordinated with the spin-offs of the

Fifth Generation AI work."

I noticed that no guards were posted, though the metal doors were

tightly sealed. Noda didn't bother to take out a key as he proceeded.

"The Advanced Robot Technology Project coordinates the research of over

twenty corporations as well as R&D at various universities, and this

lab is where we integrate all the results of that work."

"You mean different parts or robots are being created at separate

research operations, then brought together here?" I probably shouldn't

have been surprised by the tight, nationwide coordination. Typical

Japan.

"Precisely. Robots have a multiplicity of elements. There are

manipulators, the mechanical versions of our hands; then there are the

senses of vision and touch; and finally there is movement, locomotion.

Each of these is being developed individually, then combined here. For

example, if a robot is to understand voice commands--in effect making

its operator a programmer--then it must incorporate the speech

recognition work of the Fifth Generation Project, which will supply the

eyes, the ears, the brain."

Maybe that's where Asano comes in, I thought. Could it be he's the

point man here for artificial intelligence, on board to oversee

creating the computerized brains for all these babies. Was he yet

another DNI operative, witting or unwitting, just as Tam and I had

been?

Noda's lecture was still underway. "The first generation of robots does

things by rote, the same motion repeated dumbly over and over again.

What we call the second generation are those with crude sensing

abilities, perhaps touch pads or video, though they are still

stationary." He placed his hand over a small screen by the door. A

light flashed under his palm---presumably allowing a computer somewhere

to analyze his handprint--and a second later the door slid open. Then he

continued, "The goal of the work here is a third-generation robot. You

might almost call it a functional 'android,' since it will be able to

move, see, and think much as we do. Whether it will actually look like

a human is another matter, but that's not necessarily even a useful

objective."

Intelligent monsters in silicon and steel, I found myself thinking. All

our fantasies, or nightmares, come to life.

I didn't have to look far to see that they were already in the womb. We

were entering the main laboratory floor now, surrounded by what seemed

a Martian landscape of mechanical creatures. The place was bustling,

yet spotless as a hospital ward. Noda acknowledged the deep bows of

several of the shirt-sleeved staff, then continued.

"Although visitors are not normally permitted in the sensitive areas

here, I have arranged total-access priority for you both. I consider

you among the few Americans today who can understand the strategic

significance of this program."

If Matsuo Noda was really saying that he intended to give us a sobering

dose of Japan's impending high-tech clout, he was off to a bang-up

start.

Then he turned and greeted a short, white-uniformed man. "Allow me to

introduce Dr. Noburu Matsugami, who is senior staff specialist for the

program here. Dr. Matsugami will be your guide today."

Matsugami was close to fifty and balding, with short- cropped hair that

seemed to stand out on the sides of his head like the bristles of a

metal brush. He was bowing to Noda every other second, as though he'd

just been summoned by God. He attempted a smile, then greeted us in

Japanese, followed by accented English.

I surveyed the floor--steel and aluminum and computers-- feeling as if I

could have been on another planet. Tam, strangely, had said scarcely a

word the whole time. She probably knew about a lot of this, but surely

not the proprietary, advanced devices.

Noda's glimpse of Japan's industrial "Manhattan Project" was one of the

most memorable experiences of my life. Although I suspect the devices

he let Matsugami show us were just the toys, they still were enough to

leave no doubt where things were headed.

Without going into the classified details, let me attempt to describe a

few of the items I still remember. I was particularly impressed by the

Waseda University/Hitachi walking robot WHL-II, which uses advanced

machine technology and computer control to move just as a human does,

two-legged style. Its hydraulic steel joints and carbon-fiber muscles,

together with its computerized foot sensors, give it walking skills

better than most young humans'. Its brain of course is a

microprocessor, programmed to let it walk in different styles, just as

we do. Other mobile robots had four legs, even six--such as the Titan

III, which we saw climb up a set of stairs like a metallic sci-fi

spider.

As for robot hands, the most advanced also were from Hitachi's

mechanical engineering research lab. Unlike most robot grippers, little

more than glorified vises, this one had three fingers (which Matsugami

claimed were more agile than a version at MIT) whose "muscles" were a

heat-sensitive metal (invented in the U.S.) that would contract when an

electric current passed through.

Vision research was also well advanced. A Matsushita robot equipped

with a computerized "eye" was able to analyze the lines and shadows of

a human face and then draw a black-and- white sketch like a sidewalk

artist. Even more amazing, a robot with a TV-camera eye--developed

jointly by Waseda University and Sumitomo Electric--could read sheet

music and play it on a keyboard using mechanical fingers. This android

pianist employed recent advances in artificial intelligence to

determine the best fingering for each phrase and even took requests for

tunes in spoken Japanese. Play it again, HAL. Other robots with "voice

recognition" capability allowed a human operator simply to sit in one

spot and command the mobile machine where to go and what to do.

At one point Tam asked Matsugami for a candid opinion on how far along

he thought the Advanced Robot-Technology Program had progressed. Well,

he replied, sucking in his breath pensively, the manual dexterity

problem was about licked: the robot arms now being perfected could pick

up anything and move it anywhere. Vision and programmable intelligence

were harder, but he felt their research was getting close. Already he

had robots that could analyze and interpret 3-D objects and scenes,

enabling them to maneuver around a factory floor and make decisions of

almost human complexity. The ultimate objective was factory-wide

systems for Computer-Integrated Manufacturing (CIM) that would allow

every operation of a company, from design to engineering to

manufacturing, to be controlled by computer via a single data base. It

was cheap, and it elevated quality control to a hundred percent. No

doubt about it, he said, as Japan moved to automate manufacturing and

get on with an information- industry future, these smart robots would

be their secret weapon.

The Institute's mechanical menagerie, I realized, was what the next

century was going to look like. Except it was here now. As Matsugami

took us through lab after lab, it became clear that the Japanese

"third-generation" functionoid robot was all but a reality.

Noda's message was clear. Already Japan was spending twice as much on

new manufacturing technology as America was. They led the world in

robotics and that lead was growing. With the coming of that third

generation--robots that could

see, move, and think--world industrial leadership would be up for grabs.

These were the stakes Japan was betting on the twenty-first century.

Anybody who planned to play against them better have something on the

table too.

At the end of the tour as dusk was beginning to settle in, Noda

reappeared and escorted us back to the limo. And that's when he laid it

out.

"Dr. Richardson, what you and Mr. Walton have just seen is merely a

glimpse of the real peril to America's future." He was closing the door

of the car. "There is much, much more . . . projects such as the rapid

commercialization of superconductivity. America's world supremacy is at

a crossroads."

"Why are you showing us this?" Tam was still troubled by the same

question that was eating at me.

"Very simple, really. Thus far we have, together, attempted to address

some of the more egregious ineptitudes in America's corporate

management. Our success in that, if I may say, has already been

substantial. However, the best-managed organization cannot flourish

without the tools required to take it the next step. That translates as

technology." He paused, then looked at us both. "Do you understand what

I'm saying?"

"Japan now has the technology, just as it has the money," Tam answered.

"You are correct. Thus far Dai Nippon has merely provided a conduit to

infuse capital into the American industrial scene. That was the easy

part. The task remaining will be much more difficult." He looked at us.

"Difficult because, for this, America must share in return."

"You want to make a deal, I take it." I finally spoke. Funny, but I

thought I sounded a little like Faust beginning negotiations with the

devil.

He smiled. "That is a blunt way of describing what I am about to

suggest, Mr. Walton, but it does capture the spirit of my proposal.

America excels in basic research, Japan in applied research, in

engineering. The time has come to join forces."

"How?"

"As you have seen, the monetary resources at Dai Nippon's disposal make

it possible for us to wield significant influence." He smiled.

"Japanese capital has been brought to America; Japanese technology can

be brought as well."

"At a price."

"At a price, yes. But a modest one really." He smiled again, then

buzzed for his driver to start the car. "Let me put it like this. If

you choose to proceed with me in the next step of Dai Nippon's program,

I will arrange for everything you have seen today to be my gift to

America. All I ask from you both is complete cooperation in the days

ahead. Together we can forge an informal alliance between Japan and

America that could alter the course of world history. But it must be

done in an atmosphere of complete trust."

Tam was astonished. "You'd make this manufacturing technology available

to American industry? Why?"

"As part of a quid pro quo, Dr. Richardson. It's quite simple. In

return I would expect complete access to the R&D in the firms Dai

Nippon has acquired." He stared back through his rimless glasses.

"Which, I gather, is a notion you find a trifle unsettling."

You bastard, I thought. You did have my phone tapped. How else could

you have known what she was thinking?

She shot me a telling glance. "How does all this fit in with the new

MITI guidance we're suddenly getting?"

"That is a separate matter, Dr. Richardson, which we will address in

due course. What I am concerned with now is something else entirely--the

final step in restoring America to economic health. The first

requirement was long-term capital and better management, which Dai

Nippon has now begun to provide. The next is technology, a small

foretaste of which I have shown you today."

Was this, I wondered, the big picture, the _kan _we'd been trying to

get a handle on?

"What I'm proposing," Noda continued, "is that together we become

partners in the creation of a massive Japanese- American consortium.

Perhaps we could call it Nipponica."

"Nipponica?" She kept her tone even.

"The name has an interesting ring to it, does it not? As I envision the

organization, you would be its American CEO." He paused. "I would chair

the board." Then he turned to me. "And you, Mr. Walton, could be

invaluable as chief corporate counsel."

The man had gone totally mad. Or had he?

"I still don't understand how this venture could be brought together.

You'd be dealing with hundreds of companies, a worldwide management

headache."

"Mr. Walton, what other choice do we have? Given the precipitous

decline of America's global leadership, together with Japan's economic

and technological rise, there can be only two possible outcomes of the

inevitable direction affairs are headed: bankruptcy for us both, or

war. The time has come for risk-taking, for a belief in the human

spirit. We each need the other more than our political leaders can

allow themselves to admit, and thus steps must be taken outside normal

diplomatic channels to bring us closer together." He continued, in

perfect form, "Both America and Japan would benefit from a commingling

of our industry and research. We would learn from each other, find

strength in unity, realize a common perspective on global concerns. Our

economies would be joined, our peoples united. Instead of friction and

the saber rattling of trade disputes, we would have the harmony of a

single enterprise."

"Who exactly is going to finance and operate this undertaking?" I was

listening to him describe his planned-for Utopia with increasing

skepticism. But he had already rocked America, and Japan, to the core.

Not a man to underestimate.

"As you might suppose, Dai Nippon would, by virtue of its present

situation, be ideally suited to lay the groundwork." He glanced out the

tinted windows. "Afterward the political processes of both countries

would naturally have no choice but to follow our lead, ratifying--as

they always do--conditions that have already become a _fait accompli_."

It had all the easy resonance of a grand historical venture, except . .

. except what if this was still _ken_, superficialities, not _kan_, the

real truth?

"Before we go any further, I think Dr. Richardson and I should talk

this over." I looked up to see the Tsukuba Hotel, where we were

scheduled to stay overnight. Noda had made other accommodations for

himself, saying he also needed to drop by the Metallurgy Lab and check

to see how work was going on the sword. My scheduled viewing was to be

tomorrow.

"I agree." Tam looked at me sharply. "We can discuss this more in the

morning."

"As you wish." The limo was pulling to a stop. "Tomorrow should be an

interesting day for you both. We can continue our discussions then." He

smiled. "However, be aware that time is of the essence."

With that parting shot, the long black Nissan sped away.

"Tam, let's see if this place has a bar. I need a drink."

"Double." She was carrying the small overnight bag Noda's New York

staff had handed her as we left. I had one too, just a shirt and

essentials.

The hotel saloon was modernistic, vinyl, and leaned heavily toward

Japanese beer and Suntory whiskey. By now some middle-level executives

were getting off work at the labs and dropping in to start their usual

evening round of drinking, but at this early hour it was still sparsely

occupied.

We headed for a comer table and ordered a couple of draft Kirin. After

the beers arrived, we got down to brass tacks.

What the hell was Noda's real agenda?

Two heads, so the saying goes, are better than one. I don't know, could

be they're worse. Because as Tam and I sat there, Noda's offer to head

up some kind of new world consortium dangling before us, what our two

heads came up with was the scariest thing that'd ever crossed my path.

Maybe it was the thought of America's working stiffs, whose jobs Noda

supposedly was so determined to save. Trouble was, I didn't buy that in

the slightest anymore. So what made any sense?

Simple. Why not the most obvious answer of all? Noda wasn't doing this

for them. Or for Japan. That wasn't his game. Noda was planning this

grand design for Noda.

"Tam." I sipped at my beer. "Did you believe a word of what he said?"

"Of course not. At least not the United Nations speech. It's pure

hogwash."

"Totally agree. But he's about to do something big, I'm convinced."

"Got any ideas."

Luckily the place was getting noisier now, so nobody could have been

listening even if they'd tried. Which was the very reason I wanted to

talk in the bar and not in either of our rooms. Who knew the reach of

Noda's electronic ears?

"Not really. But what if we stepped back a second and tried looking at

this latest move from a longer view. Maybe we've been tangled up in the

trees, missing the forest."

"We've seen plenty of forest lately."

"But what if it's the wrong one? Let's try the _teki ni naru to iu koto

_strategy, become the enemy. Pretend for a minute we're Noda, a guy

who's got it all--money, clout, everything. So why

does he all of a sudden want to come across the Pacific and buy himself

a load of industrial headaches, then hand them Japan's technology?"

"It's MITI somehow. I'm convinced that's the key. Which is why I'm

going to nail Ken."

"Well, let's not jump to conclusions. I'm wondering. What if Dai Nippon

is taking over American industry not because it's strategic to MITI as

those memos we found would lead us to think. What if the reason is

because it's strategic to Noda?"

"But why?"

"What if his relationship to that ministry is something totally

different from what it seems?"

"Well, if MITI's not behind the buy-ups, then who're they for?"

I sat a minute, again trying to think like Noda. "What if this scenario

is actually aimed at . . . what if it's a global power play?"

She looked at me skeptically. "I don't get it."

"Okay, granted it sounds crazy, but let's chase that for a minute. I

think we agree this whole scenario is not what he wants it to seem. So

what are some of the other things in all this that aren't what they

appear to be? Does anything dovetail?" I sat musing a second, searching

for an opening. "What are some of the twists about Japan that're

obviously misleading?"

"Well, acceptance of _gaijin_, for one. It goes only so far, then stops

like a brick wall." She was obviously speaking from personal

experience.

"Maybe that's because they've always been isolated. Some things never

change," I pondered aloud. "Which is probably the secret of their

success. Take the ruling clique. Sure, Japan is a democracy, but is it

really? Not the way we understand the word. What they actually have,

after you get past all the slogans, is just a retread of the old

system. The truth is it's still run as it was a thousand years ago. By

the old families, the old money. Elections never decide issues. They're

handled by the power structure. Half the seats in the Diet are

practically hereditary, going back generations in the same family.

There's only one real political party. The ministries are fiefdoms. I

mean, the goddam country is still feudal. They don't even have a word

for democracy. They had to borrow it. _Demokurasu_."

"Well, Japan's a pragmatic place. The old ways work. Remember the

_zaibatsu_, those industrial conglomerates that ran the war machine?

MacArthur dismantled them, but they reappeared almost as soon as he

left."

"Right, the power structure restored those right away. The zaibatsu are

back and chewing up world commerce. But the _demokurasu_ eyewash is

still around. The job's not finished."

She stared around the room. "Matt, I don't like where I think you're

headed."

"I agree it's sick, but let's push it a little more. What is it about

Japan that's made it such a dynamo the last couple of decades?"

"Hard work, organization, drive."

"Exactly. But where did that come from?"

"They had to have it. Over the centuries most Japanese were dirt poor.

They had to hustle just to survive. Matthew, Japan is a collectivist

society driven by capitalism, an idea so alien to the West nobody can

even see it."

"Perfect description. Only problem is, all this _demokurasu _is sooner

or later going to start cutting away the very thing that's made Japan

so successful--a country powered by obedient, collective action and

glued together by hierarchy and tradition."

"You're saying Noda wants to turn back the clock?"

"Don't know. But what if these industrialists, these _zaibatsu

_honchos, are fed up with having to deal with all the cumbersome

_demokurasu_ machinery. And they're especially fed up with a certain

ministry making them jump the hoop. Tam, what if Noda's real agenda is

to go to America and buy himself a gun to hold to MITI's head."

"You don't think he's buying America's companies to help MITI?" She

looked unconvinced.

"If I had money to bet, I'd almost be willing to put it on the

possibility he's buying leverage to use against MITI and through them

the whole inefficient government setup. How come MITI's suddenly

sending staff over to look in on Noda's play? Could it be somebody

there's figured out what he's up to and they want to head him off? They

realize Matsuo Noda is the only man on the planet who could conceivably

beat MITI at its own game? Bring it to its knees? First he acquired

control of half the capital in Japan, then he came to the U.S. and

started grabbing up all the R&D that'll be competing with MITI through

the end of the century. When he's got it, he'll have a power base to

match theirs. He's set to call the new tune."

"Which is?"

"Who knows? But try this for an agenda: time to cut the crap, Noda's

thinking, get rid of all the clumsy Western-style _demokurasu_ charade,

tighten up, lean and mean. Go back to the only system that's ever

really clicked for Japan. Imperial rule. Make the 'Land of the Gods'

sacred and invincible."

"This is getting wild." She lowered her voice. "But maybe . . . maybe

you could be right. He just happens to locate the Imperial sword, and

suddenly the emperor is resurrected from a discredited figurehead back

to a symbol of Japan's greatness."

"Here comes that old-time religion. Everybody goes traditional, right

on cue, and the nutty Japan Firsters are thriving again, just like the

thirties."

"Good Lord."

"Doesn't it all fit somehow? Matsuo Noda started off by creating this

shadow outfit, Dai Nippon, in order to get his hands on all his

countrymen's money. Now the next step will be to start phasing out the

_demokurasu _frills and the powerless prime minister and the MITI

bureaucrats and turning the place into a kick-ass machine again. Look

out world."

"One small problem. The emperor can't rule Japan. Not really. He's a

living god. Which means . . ."

"See? That difficulty's nothing new. For a thousand years the emperor's

had no real clout anyway. The nitty-gritty of running Japan was always

the job of his stand-in."

There was a long pause. We both avoided speaking the word, but there it

was. Finally she leaned back and closed her eyes, her voice barely

audible above the din of the bar.

"Shogun."

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

_"Komban wa_, Tamara." The voice emerged from the dark as her key

turned in the door of room 328. "How are you?"

"Ken!"

"Good to see you again."

"How did you . . .?"

He chuckled as he switched on the light by the chair. "Rank in MITI has

its moments."

"I thought you were coming tomorrow."

"I am, officially." He rose and moved toward her. "But tonight I'd

hoped we could be together." He smiled. "Alone."

She stood in the open doorway, unmoving.

"Ken, we have a lot to talk about, all right." She closed the door.

"And I don't mean in bed."

Truthfully, she wasn't even sure she wanted to see him at all. The Dai

Nippon scenario was getting too complicated, too insidious. Noda's play

was turning into something with worldwide implications.

"Tamara, I came because we need to talk. I think you're in danger.

Maybe we both are."

"From Noda? Just because he's a megalomaniac--"

"You think it's that simple?" he interrupted. "Don't be so sure. For

now let's just say he's very, very clever, and very powerful." He

reached out to welcome her. "But whatever he is, the time has come to

stop him."

"I think Matt and I just figured out why. He's a threat to MITI, isn't

he, Ken? A peril to your power base."

"He's a threat to everybody. But yes, MITI is definitely in his way at

this point. Or at least I'm in his way. Somebody has to be."

"So what do you expect me to do about it? As a matter of fact, what has

MITI done for me lately except try and move in on my work?"

"Tam, you can't stand up to Noda alone. But maybe together we can, at

least for a while."

"What makes you think . . .?"

"I have a weapon at my disposal. A powerful weapon. The ministry. If we

can use it to focus attention on what he's--"

"How?"

"I want to speed up the ministry's involvement. Bring in lots more

people. We do that and we'll---"

"I see." She slipped past him and headed for the second chair. 'That's

a terrific idea. Give it all to MITI." For a moment there she'd almost

been ready to start trusting him again.

"Tam, we only have to make it seem that's what is happening." He turned

to face her. "It'll be like waving a red flag under the nose of your

Congress. Surely that'll wake everybody up to what he's doing. They'd

move in and stop him cold. Guaranteed."

"Ken, Matsuo Noda made me a very intriguing proposition today. Matter

of fact, it sounds better than yours." She got up and walked over to

the small refrigerator fitted under the sink. "Want a beer? I'm going

to have one."

"All right." He looked at her. "What were you saying just now? About a

proposition?"

"Noda asked me to head up a Japanese-American consortium run as a

single industry. It's almost as if he wants to put together an American

version of MITI, an organization that can oversee and coordinate

American R&D nationwide."

"Do you believe he means what he says?"

She turned and stared at him for a moment. "I guess the honest answer

is no. I think it's just a smokescreen to get his hands on everything

he wants in the U.S., disguised under the rubric of assistance." She

retrieved two cans of cold Asahi and popped the tops. "On the other

hand, you're suggesting we have to give America's industry to MITI in

order to save it from Matsuo Noda." She extended a can of beer and a

glass. "Right now, I don't trust MITI any more than I trust him."

"Tamara, this is a high-stakes game. Against a man with more money and

power than the world has ever seen in one place. It's not going to be

easy to stop him. It's also going to be risky. For us both."

"And you think a MITI takeover is the answer."

"It's the only thing that's left." He sobered. "Unfortunately it'll

also damage MITI's political credibility badly worldwide. But that's

the price I'm willing to pay to stop Noda. What other choice is there?"

"Hurt MITI? I'm not so sure. Taking over all of DNI's American research

labs should give quite a boost to your Marketshare - 90 program,

wouldn't it. You'd be acquiring America's high-tech sector for Japan

all nicely wrapped up in a bundle." She poured from her can. "Ought to

trim years off your timetable."

"I don't know where you heard about that, Tam." Vague surprise in his

voice. "But that's not a real program. Market- share - 90 is just a

planning exercise over in the General Affairs Section. Part of some

training for their new people."

"When we asked Noda about it, he seemed to think it was real enough."

"Then he was just bluffing. He had to be."

"Ken, what do you take me for . . .?" She wasn't sure how much more

double-talk she could stand.

He waved his hand to stop her. "Please. Just trust me for this once.

That's all I ask."

"You're sure as hell not making it easy. I think it's time you told me

what's really going on."

"All right. I'll show you the bottom line. Maybe then you'll accept the

truth." He got up and went over to his briefcase. "I have something in

here you ought to see."

"What?"

"It's an advance text of the speech His Majesty delivers on January

second."

"That's his annual New Year's appearance at the Imperial palace, right?

When he bestows his blessings upon the land."

"Exactly." He pulled out the sheet. "I think this sheds light on a lot

of things. Here. I made a rough English translation, just to hear how

it sounds."

She took the paper, torn from a yellow legal pad, and began to read.

The speech began with a long-winded celebration of the famous Yasukuni

Shrine, home of the spirits of all Japanese warriors. That shrine, His

Majesty then went on to declare, was increasingly misconstrued by the

world as a symbol of Japanese militarism, a misapprehension both

unfortunate and untrue, since Japan had indeed renounced martial force

forever. However, to reinforce that commitment in the eyes of a nervous

world, he was now announcing the dedication of a new national shrine to

Japan's spirit that would have no such misleading overtones. This new

shrine, at Tsukuba Science City, would be a memorial to the peaceful

use of technology, to man's mastery of the physical world sanctified so

long ago by the Shinto gods.

She looked up. "A new national shrine? Nice political move."

"Better read the rest before you jump to conclusions."

She glanced down and continued on.

It had further been decided, the Emperor would say, that the newly

recovered Imperial sword would not be housed at Ise after all. It would

instead be the centerpiece of this new memorial to Japanese technology.

Well, she thought, it still sounds okay. Theme shrines are perfectly

within tradition. After all, the Meiji Shrine in Tokyo commemorated the

nineteenth-century emperor who began Japan's modernization. However,

the thing to remember was that new shrines can have a philosophical

subtext. The Meiji told the Japanese that their country had accepted

Westernization. So, given that the creation of a new shrine can embody

a message to everybody, she found herself wondering what word was being

sent out this time.

The Emperor would go on to spell this out, lest any of his subjects

were too dense to get the picture. Unlike the Yasukuni Shrine, he would

say, this new memorial at Tsukuba would not commemorate Japan's warrior

past; rather it would celebrate a modern Japan whose world eminence

would be fashioned not with arms but through economic struggle. In so

doing, it would symbolize the regeneration of Japan's ancient spirit,

_Yamato damashi_, of which the _bushido _of the samurai was merely one

manifestation, only a stage. Grander things were on the way. Japan's

rightful place in the new world order was only now coming into its own.

The new Tsukuba _damashi _would harness modern technology to Japan's

ancient traditions, would put the new at the service of the old.

What he was really telling his people, she realized, in oblique

language only they would comprehend, was that Japan was now prepared to

wage open confrontation through commerce--their trading state pitted

against the world's military states, whose economic base and martial

ascendancy they would now proceed to challenge through technological

superiority and cutthroat trade.

"Ken, does this mean what I think it means?" She passed back the yellow

page.

"If you think it means Noda's got him now, then the answer is yes. He's

co-opted the Imperial house." He took the sheet and returned it to his

briefcase. "I'd bet you anything Noda himself wrote that speech. He's

begun, Tamara. His total takeover, of America and Japan."

She sat a moment in silence, a strange sensation in her stomach. Did

she believe it? She wasn't sure.

"Ken, there's something you should know. A colleague came with me on

this trip. An American lawyer. Knowing him, he's probably still down in

the bar. I'd like him to read this. Why don't we go down and I'll

introduce you."

"Who is he? Can he be trusted?"

"As a matter of fact, he's an old friend. From a long time past. But

we've been through a lot together lately."

He leaned back and sipped his beer. "Am I to assume this traveling

companion is more than a casual friend?"

"That's not exactly your worry, is it? I don't pry into your life when

I'm away." She got up to retrieve another can of beer.

"You can't blame me for being curious, Tam. It's a simple, reasonable

question."

Nothing Kenji Asano does is ever simple, she told herself. There's

always a subtext.

"Don't try to change the subject. One thing at a time." She sipped from

her glass. "And regarding your plan, as far as I'm concerned, there's

been too much MITI dabbling already. Frankly it pisses me off."

"I'm sorry if you choose to feel that way, Tam." His eyes darkened.

"Please believe me when I assure you we're on the same side. I've told

you what I propose doing about Noda. But I haven't heard any of your

ideas."

She sighed and sipped her beer. "I don't have any. Yet."

"Then why not trust me?"

Trust. There was that word again. Trouble was, she wasn't sure she

trusted anybody anymore. She rose, strolled to the window, and reached

for the curtain. Should she let him stay the night? Maybe that was just

asking for more heartaches. Letting Japan screw America two ways. With

that dismal thought she pulled open the curtains.

It had begun to snow, a swirl of drifting white.

"Ken, come and take a look." She beckoned him. "I think I'd like to go

outside for a while. I'm weary to death of arguing."

He rose and came over to the window, standing next to her. "It's just

started." He glanced around the room. "Did you bring any boots?"

"No, and I don't care. I just want some fresh air to help clear my

head."

"All right, but we'll have to use the service elevator. I can't be seen

walking through the lobby, not till tomorrow."

"We can take the stairs. Come on."

By the time they emerged onto the driveway leading out toward the road,

traffic had slowed to a crawl and the futuristic shapes of Tsukuba's

labs seemed like a fairyland. She noticed that the hotel had its own

helicopter pad, undoubtedly to accommodate MITI officials who needed to

pop up for a quick consultation. The place was high-tech, powerful,

frightening.

Just like Kenji Asano.

"Ken, I'm afraid maybe we've lost it, you and me."

"Lost what?"

"Whatever we had there in Kyoto." She sighed.

"Maybe you've lost it, Tamara." They were striding through the first

thin film of white that now blanketed the sidewalk paralleling the

road, leaving a trail of flattened footprints. "Nothing has changed for

me. You're welcome to come back and be part of my life anytime you

choose."

"Well, right now I just want to walk in the snow." She glanced at him,

wondering if she still felt anything at all. "You know, it's a funny

thing, but the snow tonight reminds me of a trip I once took, years

ago, up north to Hokkaido. The innocence, the simplicity, it was all

captured in that pure, endless white." She looked around them. "How

could Tsukuba Science City even be part of the same country?"

He smiled. "As the tour books always say, 'Japan: land of contrasts.'

Well, the old ways are going fast, Tam, except in our hearts. Some

things will always be the same."

"Tell you the truth, that's what scares me the most. Things like the

sword, which can cause this whole country to go crazy overnight."

"Ah yes, the sword. Matsuo Noda's magic talisman. You know, that's the

real reason he'll be so hard to stop. What a

genius. He delivers it to the Emperor, almost the same way the Sun

Goddess supposedly once did, and in the process makes himself a living

god."

"Speaking of the sword, by the way, Matt is going over to the

Metallurgy Lab tomorrow to see it. Live and prime time."

"Matt?"

"The lawyer I told you about."

"So his name is Matt?"

"Short for Matthew. Walton."

"But why . . ."

"Well, besides being a corporate attorney, he's supposed to be an

amateur expert on swords. Hobby of his."

"And Noda is actually letting him see it?" There was a faint note of

surprise in his voice. "Very unusual. That sword has been kept very

tightly under wraps, or so I've heard."

"Believe it. Tomorrow Matt Walton gets a command presentation. Courtesy

of Noda. He's arranged everything with the Imperial Household." She

gazed up at the sky, now a white marble reflecting back the lights from

the traffic.

"Tam, I'd like very much to see it too. Think you could arrange

something with Noda-san?"

"I can try."

"You know, not many people outside the Imperial Household have actually

viewed it really up close. I hear it's almost perfectly preserved."

"Then this could be your chance." She reached and took his hand. After

all, the weather was cold. "I'll ring Noda in the morning."

"Thanks. But no matter what happens, with that or anything else, just

seeing you again will make this trip worthwhile." He gave her hand a

squeeze.

"All right, Ken, dammit you win." She turned and slipped her arms

around his neck, then drew his lips down to hers. The snow drifted onto

her eyelids. "You're right. I don't have any answers, to anything."

Again she felt almost as though time was running in reverse. The

smoothness of his skin, the ease of his touch, the firm muscles.

"It'll be over soon, Tam. It has to be. And then we'll all look back on

this like a bad dream." He encircled her in his arms. "We'll go off to

Hokkaido if you like it so much there. Together. Just you and me."

"Why is it all the men I know keep offering me trips?" She laughed and

brushed the snow out of his hair. "Matt keeps trying to get me to go

down to the Caribbean. Now you want to take me to Hokkaido. I sound

like everybody's getaway girl."

"Nobody's called you a girl. You're a woman. You decide what you want."

"Well, at the moment I just want to go to bed with you." She pulled his

lips down. "After that I'll worry about the next move."

"We just have to trust each other. That's all that matters."

Well, she thought, how could she not trust this man?

At least for tonight. Tomorrow she would think about tomorrow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Kenji Asano was a very complex human being--Western on the surface, but

with his own personality always glimmering through at the unexpected

moment. He seemed to capture the best of both worlds: the

forthrightness of an American and the intuitive self-confidence I've

come to think of as a hallmark of the East.

The Japanese are a subtle people, in the finest sense of the word, and

I normally feel slightly oafish in their land. I always know I'm

missing about three levels of the nuance in whatever's going on. By the

same token, a Japanese venturing into the West frequently seems to be

moving as though he were following the numbers on one of those old

Arthur Murray dance diagrams. The steps are precise and correct, but

there's no glide to it, no natural rhythm. Ken, I must say, had long

since gotten past that kind of awkwardness. His motions were fluid, his

reactions quick and natural. Also, he managed to achieve this while

retaining qualities that always reminded you he came from a culture

that was writing Kyoto romances and wearing perfumed silk when London

and Paris still had pigs in their garbage-strewn streets.

"Ken, you're a phenomenon." We were climbing into his blue Toyota

sports car, which he'd driven up from Tokyo. Low profile--the car and

the trip. "This play could blow up in your face."

Over our leisurely three-way breakfast in the hotel bar, he had given

me a reasonably detailed sketch of the situation, after which Tam

headed off in the DNI limo for her second day of appointments in the

robot labs. My honest reaction, despite the prickle of jealousy, was

instant liking of Asano. Furthermore, in the absence of anything

better, his scheme seemed worth a shot.

Now came the sword. A phone call established that Noda had no objection

to Ken's seeing it too, so we were set to head over to the Metallurgy

Lab together. Not a bad time for straight talk.

"I know it's a gamble, Matthew, but I'd like to think of it as repaying

my debt to America." He inserted his key in the ignition and started

the engine. "In a way I feel some personal responsibility for the

current condition of your technology."

Was he about to come clean on the subject of MITI's semiconductor

blitz?

"You know, I once heard you were the brains behind Japan's memory chip

takeover."

"Our strategy seemed prudent at the time." He sighed, then turned

around to begin backing out of the hotel parking lot. "If you're

planning for the long term, the sectors you focus on are obvious." He

paused to light a Peace, then crumpled the wooden match in his hand and

exhaled as he shifted into drive.

"And you play hardball."

"Otherwise why bother? I guess we had no idea the U.S. could be so

inept. We assumed your semiconductor people, like your baseball teams,

were major league."

He was right about that part. America fumbled away its lead by chasing

quick profits. While MITI was playing the only way it knew how. Long

term.

"I can't tell you how much I regret what's happened since," he

continued, glancing occasionally at the rows of research labs gliding

by on both sides of the roadway. "I now realize that a more cooperative

approach would have worked to everyone's

benefit. In the long run we each need the other. Now, it's going to

take plenty of cooperation to prevent the U.S. from becoming a back

office for Matsuo Noda."

"You really think a big MITI move will blow the whistle?"

"Matthew, the ministry is the closest thing Japan has to a strategic

deterrent. By exploiting it, I will become the Japanese Rosenberg in

the eyes of many, but if I can cause a worldwide scandal, perhaps

everyone here and in the U.S. will start thinking about the

implications of Noda's takeover."

"Friend, you're throwing your career in front of a train." I said it

with respect. "Matsuo Noda could eat us both for _hors d'oeuvres_."

"Us, maybe. But not MITI. At least not yet." He smiled. "You know, we

Japanese have a tradition of committing ritual suicide, _seppuku_, to

emphasize a principle. You might say I'm doing that, but it's only

professional _seppuku_. No unseemly knives or blood on the tatami."

"I understand now why Tam feels about you the way she does."

"Matthew." He spoke quietly. "I am here, you are there. I think she

needs someone she trusts, and you seem to be that person just now. Stay

by her."

"I'd like nothing better." And with that we lapsed into pensive

silence.

It took only about ten minutes for the drive over to the laboratory,

another structure that could have been a hangar for flying saucers.

Somehow the idea of viewing a sacred relic of Japan's imperial past in

this sci-fi setting was incongruous in the extreme, pure George Lucas.

We alighted in the executive parking lot and headed up the sidewalk

together. At the sealed entrance Ken showed his palm to the computer's

eye, a synthetic voice cleared us, and in we went. Waiting on the other

side was a senior staff man who greeted us at the first security check,

bowed, and motioned us to follow.

One area of the lab had been cordoned off, top security, with gun-

carrying guards posted about every ten feet. There were also about two

dozen plainclothes types wearing a white armband emblazoned with the

Imperial insignia. Seemed that nobody, but nobody, got close to the Sun

Goddess's sidearm without clearance from the top.

The staff man said Noda was currently tied up in a meeting

with the director, so we should wait. No need, I said, flashing my DNI

meishi. He bowed and we were waved past the guards, then ushered

directly into the top-security workroom--where the team of white-frocked

technicians was said to be cleaning and retouching the gilding on the

sword's _tsuba _hand guard, the decorative little disc that separates

the hilt from the blade.

Since the _tsuba_ on swords were interchangeable, not necessarily

connected in any particular way to a given piece, they're actually a

separate art form, interesting but not overly serious items. Fact is,

the Imperial Household could just as well have sent this one up here

for work and kept the sword in Tokyo.

Such, however, was not the case. The main attraction itself was

undoubtedly over there on the back workbench, in a big stainless steel

box half the size of a coffin, an armed guard stationed next to it.

Noda must have told everybody we were coming in today because the

technicians parted like the Red Sea at our approach. Although the

president of Dai Nippon was still nowhere to be seen, the _tsuba_ was

there all right, lying exposed on a worktable right next to a pile of

cleaning pads and the gilding apparatus.

And it was a stunner, take my word. One of the most tasteful I've ever

had the pleasure to view. Iron, of course, and about ten centimeters

across, circular. Actually it was shaped like a chrysanthemum, with the

raised image of a mirror on one side and a beaded necklace on the

other. The exquisite metalwork was enhanced by the fresh gilding, which

made the embossing even more striking. My unprofessional opinion? Very,

very ancient. Older than twelfth century? Entirely possible. I really

couldn't say. But a wild guess would be early Heian, certainly no later

than Kamakura. Fact is, back in those days metalwork didn't change all

that much for long periods of time, so there's no real way to date with

precision.

"_Hijo-ni omoshiroi desu_"--very interesting--I said after a respectful

interval, hoping to get into the spirit of the occasion and impress

everybody with my Berlitz Japanese. "And now, would it be possible to

see the actual sword?" I pointed toward the stainless steel coffin.

"Sealed in there, I presume."

The head technician bowed and suddenly looked very troubled. Then he

mumbled something in rapid Japanese to Asano. He didn't budge.

"Problem?" I turned to Ken.

"He says Matsuo Noda has given strict orders that the sword is never to

be viewed by the public when disassembled." He shrugged. "Noda-sama, he

says, has declared it to be sacred and therefore it must be displayed

with the proper ceremonial reverence always. Of course we'll still be

able to see it, but only after the _tsuba_ is replaced. Perhaps later

on this afternoon."

We'd come all this way, and now we were going to be stymied by some

middle-management lab technician?

"Of course"--I bowed back, hoping to bluff--"weren't you informed why we

are here? I have the honor to be Matsuo Noda's senior American

corporate counsel. Noda-sama has ordered me to check and make certain

the hilt remains in place while the _tsuba_ is undergoing repair. So if

you'll kindly open the case, I'll verify that and the matter will be

ended." I bowed again.

"_So desu_." He turned pale. Obviously the grip had been removed.

Whoops. I'd just bungled, creating a problem worse than the one I

wanted to circumvent.

"On the other hand," I continued quickly, trying to recoup, "as long as

it's locked in the case, I'm sure there'll be no problem."

Again he bowed, looking relieved. Noda had these guys scared.

"However, it will be necessary to actually see the sword, so I can

report to Noda-sama that I have carried out his instructions. Otherwise

Noda-sama may be upset, and I will be deeply dishonored."

Couching the ploy in personal terms seemed to tip the scale. He bowed

again, hesitantly, then led us over to the box. Throughout my little

white lie, Ken hadn't said one word. Guess he was as curious as I was

to take a look.

"Do you realize what you are about to witness?" The senior staff man

stood before us, his dark eyes haughty and grave. Time to put the

barbarian gaijin in his place. "Physical proof of the divinity of His

Imperial Highness, the Emperor of Japan. This sword is the most sacred

object in the world."

I nodded reverently and moved to the side to let the head technician

begin. He slipped a magnetic card into the handle of the steel case,

punched in some electronic numbers on a pad there next to the latch,

and slowly raised the lid.

Since photographs of the sword had been officially forbidden by the

Imperial Household, I'd not seen even so much as a snapshot. Ken and I

were literally holding our breath.

The interior of the coffin had been partitioned into a front and rear

section, both draped with satin. First he lifted away the back shroud--

to reveal a long gold box. That, I figured, must be the watertight case

Noda's scientists had originally detected. Ken emitted a low hum as we

looked at it. Gleaming, the purest of the pure, it had to be 24-karat,

like something you'd find in the tomb of a pharaoh. Along the sides

were some elegant, playful Heian-style reliefs. Birds, musical

instruments, Shinto goddesses. Breathtaking, that's the only word I can

find.

"It's beautiful." I was staring, dazzled. "And the sword?"

The technician hesitated. Guess we still had him worried.

"I'm sure Noda-sama will be pleased to know of your cooperation," I

said soothingly. "There should be no difficulty."

He got the message. We weren't going to rock the boat. _Wa_. Harmony.

He nodded again, reassured, then reached down and lifted away the satin

cloth covering the front section. Underneath was a bolster of deep

purple velvet, and nestled in the middle was . . . the Imperial Sword.

Ken emitted a quiet, reverent exclamation, the hissed Japanese

"_Saaaa_" that denotes pensive regard, and for a second we both just

stood there. Dr. Kenji Asano was clearly awestruck. I was too.

As well we should have been. For one thing, it was a superbly well-

preserved piece. The blade was delicately curved, and its edge could

probably still do damage. A few flecks of rust were visible here and

there, but overall it was in mint condition, just as Noda had claimed.

Even more interesting was that, sure enough, the grip had been removed

while they worked on the _tsuba_. So we were being treated to a glimpse

of the Sacred Sword the way Noda had specified it should never be

viewed--except by a few crew-cut technicians there in the lab--with the

_nakago_, the steel beneath the grip, exposed. We were seeing it all.

It's gratifying to report that his publicity people had told the truth:

there was indeed no signature on the _nakago_. (I guess if you're

swordsmith for god, you just naturally go easy on the ego.) That

omission notwithstanding, it was definitely a first-class _katana_.

Looked to be some kind of off-alloy, heavy on copper. If you had to

guess what the early swords were like, say at a time in between the

late-bronze and early-iron ages, this would be a knowledgeable estimate

for appearance. The alloy was plausible; it was clearly very old; and

with an antique hilt such as the one lying there, the overall look was

very reasonable. I was impressed. Put the handle back on the way you

normally see a sword and everything about it clicked.

Sorry, but out of habit I have to do something now. What follows is a

technical description of the Imperial Sword, including the part usually

hidden by the grip--which nobody else has been able to supply because

nobody else had seen it disassembled as it was there in the lab. There

may be some collectors who'd feel cheated by anything less. This was,

as the senior staff man had sternly brought to our attention, a once-

in-a-lifetime moment.

"Early Shinto _katana_. Very long and active _sunagashi _and _utsuri

_extending into a _kaen boshi_. Slender _nakago _with one _mekugi-ana_.

Shallow _koshi-zori _with _chu-kissaki _and _bo-hi _along either

_shinogi _extending into the _nakago _. . ."

Enough. Actually, that last part made me a little sad. Truthfully, I

think Noda was absolutely right. Nobody should sully the divinity of

this piece by exhibiting it disassembled, with the grip removed. The

problem is that anybody with the slightest experience might possibly

have his faith shaken a trifle, since it's common knowledge that a

tapered _nakago_, the sloping edge there extending back into the

section normally covered by the hilt, didn't come into its own till

around the mid fif--

"Mr. Walton, I hadn't expected you until later. You should have

contacted me."

It was the voice of Matsuo Noda, directly behind me. I looked up to

notice that the faces of all the technicians around the room now

matched their bleached lab coats.

"Guess we need to coordinate better." I turned around and smiled.

Walton, I lectured myself, don't be a smartass, just this once. Be

reverent. Who the hell knows how the Sun Goddess liked her _nakagos_

tapered?

Besides, the simple truth was the Imperial Sword of Emperor Antoku

really knocked me over. Superb workmanship, excellent balance, elegant

shape. And overall, surprisingly good condition . . . well, except

for one thing.

"It's almost perfect." I revolved back to examine it. "Except for that

little scratch on the _nakago_. Too bad."

"What scratch, Mr. Walton?" He stared down.

"It's actually on the other side as best I recall."

There followed a long pause as Noda's eyes gradually narrowed to slits.

Finally he said, "I wasn't aware you were so conversant with press

descriptions of the sword, Mr. Walton."

We both knew the scratch on the _nakago_, on the side not showing, had

never once been mentioned in the papers.

Which was as it should be. A minor blemish really. All the same I now

felt very guilty about it. I do hope it was an unavoidable accident,

like the metallurgy guys at the Princeton lab claimed in the apology

that accompanied their bill after I shipped it down last summer for

tests.

This was turning out to be quite a day. Seems New York's crime

statistics were looking up; a theft had actually been solved. The son

of a bitch was MINE.

"Ah, well, Mr. Walton, I trust you are suitably impressed all the

same."

"Only you could appreciate how much." My head was swimming. Judging

from the surrounding technicians' reverent gaze, I got the definite

impression they had totally missed the significance of our exchange.

Kenji Asano was now wearing a pure poker face. What was he thinking?

My own concentration, however, was elsewhere at that particular

instant. The new realization: Matthew Walton is a dead man. As of this

moment. Noda would never let me live to tell what I knew.

Just then an official wearing some sort of formal-looking black kimono

emblazoned with the _kiku_ crest of the Imperial Household Agency came

walking briskly out of the office behind us. He was carrying a silver

case, about cigar-box size, something etched across its filigreed lid.

He walked over to Noda, bowed deferentially, and settled it on the

workbench next to Kenji Asano's briefcase.

Nobody paid him much notice, however, since we were all still admiring

the Sacred Sword. Finally my brain started to function. Dates? Right .

. . the night I met Noda . . . which got me out of the house ... his

hirelings cleaned out my office . . . that was about, what, two weeks

before the sword was "discovered." Perfect. Just enough time to salt

the thing in the Inland Sea, let his high-tech research team fish it

up. . . .

The technician bowed to us once more, then started spreading the satin

cloths back over the two compartments. Down came the stainless steel

lid. Click. History time was over.

That was when, finally, Ken looked over and noticed the silver case. He

stared at it, puzzled, then glanced at Noda, for whom it obviously was

intended, and inquired politely concerning what it might be.

Noda cleared his throat, mumbled something about official DNI business,

and started thanking the Household rep who'd brought out the case.

However, the Household man showed his breeding. He picked up Ken's

question, smiled and bowed, then proceeded to explain that it contained

the only copies of DNI's original technical analyses of the sword--X-ray

crystallography scans, nondestructive radiation tests, various

scientific data he didn't actually understand but which had been used

by Dai Nippon to establish the sword's alloy composition and therefore

its Sacred authenticity. These data had been forwarded to the Imperial

Household with instructions they be kept under lock and key. He'd

understood all along that they had merely been on temporary loan to the

Emperor, and thus he had no objection now that the honorable Noda-sama

had requested their return for additional study by DNI scientists. All

of Japan was in the debt of the esteemed Matsuo . . .

Kenji Asano turned to stare at me, his eyes gradually filling with an

enormous realization.

You know, I used to have a hobby of reading biographies of the geniuses

who'd come up with the truly original insights of modern times. How, I

puzzled, did they manage it? I mean, did Newton really watch an apple

fall and intuitively sense it was responding to some invisible force?

Maybe. Or how about Einstein's insight that matter and energy are

really the same thing? Or that space can be curved? Whatever happened,

they made a connection that nobody else in history had ever come up

with.

Who can explain how these breakthroughs happen? They're always the

result of standing off and viewing reality in a wholly new way.

With apologies, I've invoked some heavy names. But the point is, there

are transcendental moments when a given set of circumstances is

suddenly seen to fit more than one paradigm of how the universe

functions.

Standing there looking at the silver case, Kenji Asano saw the apple

fall from the tree. And I was only seconds behind him.

New insight number one: Something very fishy was going on with the

Imperial Sword, something which would not necessarily stand the light

of day. (On that one I was actually several seconds ahead.)

Number two: If the truth came out, Japan would be a laughingstock

worldwide. Worse, His Imperial Majesty would have egg all over his

Imperial face. As would Matsuo Noda. Hence the box, having served it's

PR purpose, had to go.

Number three: The first two insights pointed to the very real

possibility that Matsuo Noda had long since passed around the bend,

sanity-wise. But whether he had or not, one thing was clear--that silver

case contained everything we needed to nail Dai Nippon.

Who knew for sure what was in it. But Ken and I both realized at that

instant the contents had to be pure dynamite.

What happened next I probably wouldn't have believed if I hadn't been

standing there to witness it with my very own eyes. Kenji Asano was

calmly extracting a Peace cigarette from the packet in his left breast

pocket and inserting it in his mouth. Then his right hand came up and

out of his thumbnail flared one of those wooden matches he liked so

much.

"_Asano-san, sumimasen_." The senior staff man stepped forward and

blurted out, "No smoking, please."

"Sorry," replied Asano, and he flicked the still burning match toward

the waste bin there at the end of the table-- which just happened to be

piled high with the solvent pads they'd been using to scour the

_tsuba_. A lab can be a dangerous place, and this one was no exception.

A microsecond thereafter the floor was carpeted in flame.

Later I theorized what must have occurred, remembering a long-ago

personal disaster that almost got me kicked out of college. The heavy

aromatic solvent they were using, probably a benzene compound, had

vaporized off the cleaning pads, drifted down over the sides of the

container, and was hovering as an invisible, heavier-than-air cloud

just above the floor at

knee level. The exact same thing happened to me once in a Chem 201 lab--

during an after-hours endeavor wherein I was steaming out a twenty-

gallon benzene container preparatory to an experiment on the propensity

of brewer's yeast to convert grape sugar into potable ethanol. The sink

happened to be situated next to a gas-fired hot-water heater--which

suddenly kicked on. Next thing I knew, the heavy fumes around my ankles

detonated. Along with the lab fire alarm.

That explosion, as this one, was actually minor, mostly noise, though

it sounded like a bomb. The fumes flashed and it was over, leaving no

damage other than to the nervous system of any bystanders. This time,

however, there was an added ingredient. The waste container. It had

become an instant inferno, billowing dark, toxic smoke into the room.

As yelling lab technicians began rushing in with fire extinguishers,

everybody else was bolting for the exits, including the security

people. All in all, it seemed a reasonably propitious moment to make

our own departure as well, since we'd been the cause of the ruckus. Ken

fumbled around in the smoke now obscuring the workbench till he

recovered his briefcase, and then we headed out.

At the door I caught sight of the Household official and bowed my

thanks.

"_Domo arigato gozaimashita_. I am deeply honored by this opportunity

to view the Imperial Sword of Emperor Antoku." I bowed again. He nodded

back and glared at Asano.

I'd planned to thank Noda too, but he was still in there with the

confusion, undoubtedly standing personal guard over his Sacred Sword.

Let him stay. There was no real danger. The fire should be out in no

time. It was mainly smoke anyway.

Ken was also bowing his farewells to one and all. Then, as though on

cue, we both started edging toward the main hallway. By now security

people were running down the corridors and the place was in

pandemonium.

When we reached the lobby, I almost wanted to bolt for the outer door,

but we managed to keep our exit dignified, businesslike. Finally as we

cleared the last security checkpoint, I turned to him.

"You really should be more careful with your smokes, Ken." I lowered my

voice. "Manage to grab it?"

"In my briefcase."

"Then let's get the hell out of here. Noda's going to figure out what

happened any second now and go totally bananas."

"I doubt he will be pleased."

"Tell you one thing, that silver case has got to disappear, fast. Or

we're likely to vanish ourselves. We may anyway." I quickened my pace

toward the parking lot. "You know, I've got a wild hunch what's in that

box. But whatever it is, I do know for sure we'd better get the thing

somewhere for safekeeping. Quick."

"Should we tell Tamara?" He glanced down at the smoke- smeared

briefcase in his hands, as though holding a cobra.

"She's got to know everything. For her own safety."

"Matthew," he said, looking at me. "You're supposed to be an authority.

So tell me the truth. You were behaving strangely in there. It's a

fake, isn't it?"

"Ken, during the Middle Ages about fifty different monasteries in

Europe possessed the authentic, consecrated relic of Christ's

circumcision. Who's to say? Remember Francis Bacon's 'What is truth?'

Japan's emperor is now and forever. That's the only 'truth' that

matters."

"What are you saying?"

"That sword belongs to the people of Japan. Ask them if it's real."

"Well, you've learned enough about this country to be able to get your

message across without actually spelling it out. Very Japanese." He

stared at me. "You'll have to concede one thing, though. Matsuo Noda is

an absolute genius. Think about it. He claimed to have analyzed the

sword, then donated the data to the Imperial Household--knowing there

would be only one place on earth where it could be right out in public

and yet never actually examined. In a fancy silver case kept by a bunch

of Household bureaucrats, not one of whom would have the presumption to

open it. Or be able to understand anything if he did."

My own nagging thoughts at that moment were on a different track. Why

had Noda offered to let me see my own piece? To flaunt the dimensions

of his balls? Or was he starting to believe his own trumped-up fantasy?

Had Matsuo Noda convinced himself he was God? That he could turn water

into wine? Or a fifteenth-century metallurgical screw-up into . . . The

more I thought about it, the scarier it got. Or maybe, just maybe, he

thought I wouldn't recognize it with a different hilt. Could be he was

right. But Ken and I had accidentally viewed it disassembled. That

wasn't part of his little inside joke. For once Matsuo Noda had blown

it.

"Ken, everything I've learned about Noda so far tells me he's going to

do something totally unexpected the minute he realizes we took that."

"Let him. I want to know what's in it."

"Do the world a favor. No. Never, never open it."

He paused a second and looked down at his briefcase.

"Maybe you're right. It's better for everybody if it just disappears."

By then we'd fully cleared the outer doors. The day was turning

gorgeous, sunny and brisk. The thin film of last night's snow was all

but gone.

Abruptly he stopped. "Wait, Matthew. Think a minute. We have to at

least make a copy of the contents. And it needs to be gotten out of

Japan."

"To protect ourselves?"

"Precisely."

"Okay, I'll buy that. Got any ideas?"

"Well, first let's go pick up Tam. Then I'd like to transmit digital

facsimiles of whatever's in here to New York. She can set up a file in

DNI's big NEC mainframe, and only the three of us will know the file

name. It'll be your, and her, insurance policy."

"Can we do that from here?"

"In fifteen minutes. There's the Teleconferencing Center over next to

Electrotechnical. They've got everything we'll need."

"Then let's collect her and get it done fast."

He opened the door of the Toyota, then turned to me. "You know,

Matthew, I think you and Tam ought to be gone from here, too, as soon

as possible. There's a copter pad by the hotel. I'm going to phone for

a MITI chopper to pick you up and take you straight to Narita." He

patted his briefcase. "After we've transmitted the contents of this, I

want you back in New York. I'll call my secretary and have her book the

next flight out; we'll just have somebody bumped if it's full."

"Why don't you come with us? No need for you to face Noda alone."

"Not yet." He hit the ignition. "But I'll be there in spirit."

How prophetic.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Our major concern at that point was time. We had a lot to do, and we

weren't sure how long we had to do it. Furthermore, it would be

foolhardy to assume everything was going to proceed smoothly. That

apprehension was, in fact, soon to be thoroughly vindicated.

First, it wasn't all that simple to track down Tam. We finally

discovered she'd already left the Robotics Lab and was back at the

Tsukuba Hotel lunching with Matsugami and some of his senior staff.

Returning there, however, did provide a perfect opportunity to grab our

bags. Ken dragged her from the lunch with a phony excuse, and minutes

later we were checked out, solving at least one logistics problem.

Unfortunately, it also tipped off Matsugami and anybody else who might

be interested that we were departing.

Next were the details of arranging for the chopper. While we were

driving around trying to locate Tamara, Ken was busy on his car phone

pulling strings to commandeer one of the two MITI helicopters. After

three calls he managed to locate one at their auxiliary pad, currently

being refueled and serviced. I listened to him lean on the service

people, doing his diplomatic but firm deputy minister routine. End of

long story: it would be on its way shortly, arriving in about an hour

and a half.

Good, we thought. Plenty of time to handle the transmission of the

still-unseen documents in Noda's silver case. In the car we brought Tam

fully up to date on the extraordinary circumstances by which it had

fallen into our possession, including its potential for use as leverage

against Noda. Then we headed for the Teleconferencing Center, where we

planned to open the thing, scan the contents with a reader, and bounce

the pages to New York via satellite. Ken revealed the ministry had a

high-security channel it used to communicate with the New York offices

of JETRO, the Japan External Trade Organization over on Sixth Avenue,

MITI's public relations arm. He declared we would just link up with

that office and have them patch us through to the DNI computer. Nothing

to it.

Which was correct, theoretically. When we marched in, Ken again

flaunting his deputy minister walk-on priority, the white-shirted staff

bowed to the floor, led us to the hard-copy scanner, turned it on, and

diplomatically excused themselves, closing the security door. The place

was ours.

Don't know why, but until that moment none of us had really wanted to

know what was in Noda's case. Maybe a part of me still didn't, even

then. Whatever the reason, however, none of us had bothered to take it

out of Ken's briefcase for examination. Turned out that was a mistake.

He settled his satchel onto the desk, clicked it open, and out came the

box for our first real look. As he wiped off the smoke, my initial

reaction was to be dazzled. It was magnificent, a silversmith's

masterpiece, engraved with all manner of mythological beast and fowl. A

work of art in every sense. Never seen anything remotely like it.

The problem was, it wasn't merely locked. It was soldered shut. The

silver lid had literally been welded on, leaving it essentially a solid

piece. Noda, it turned out, left nothing to chance. Only a silversmith

could crack the seal and divulge the contents. So we still had no idea

what was inside, and worse, we'd managed to fritter away a valuable

half hour coming to that fruitless discovery. Now what?

"Shit," said Tam. "When will we ever get a break?"

"Looks like we've got two choices," Ken announced ruefully, gazing down

at the intractable chunk of metal in his hands. "We can do what we

probably should have done in the first place: simply stash this for the

moment and let Noda think we know what's in it. Or we can drive into

Tokyo and locate somebody there who can open it, then transmit from

MITI headquarters downtown."

Neither of these plans seemed particularly inspired. The first gave us

nothing but presumptions for leverage, and the second could take hours.

Noda, we all realized, was not a man who dallied.

"Actually"--Tam spoke up--"there's a third option. Surely Noda's going to

find out sooner or later we came here to the

Center. Believe me, he always learns everything eventually. So why not

transmit something else now, anything, and then after you get the case

open you can send the real data?"

"You mean, give him circumstantial cause to assume we've got the goods

on him?" Sounded good to me. "Buying ourselves more time?"

"Right. It'll take him awhile to find out exactly what was transmitted.

All he'll know for certain is that we sent something. In the meantime

Ken can go on to Tokyo and proceed with plan B: open the case there and

transmit the real contents."

He looked skeptical. "That might deceive everybody for a while, but not

for long. There're too many links in the chain between here and DNI's

New York office."

"But sending something now will gain time. It has to. Then you can go

on to Tokyo and do what you need to from there. Tomorrow."

"Maybe." He still wasn't totally convinced. "But all right--rather than

waste time arguing, let's just go ahead and do it. No harm in any

instance."

She peeked into his briefcase, a jumble of documents. "What have you

got in here that we could send?"

"Today's _Asahi Shimbun _. . ." He laughed.

"Ken."

"Okay, okay." He laid the newspaper aside and was riffling through his

paperwork. "How about a few MITI memos?"

"Nothing to do with Marketshare - 90, I hope," said Tam.

"Promise."

The apparatus was already humming, so he put through the connection to

JETRO's New York office, whereupon Tam took over and gave them

instructions for the phone link over to the DNI mainframe. It probably

required all of a couple of minutes. Welcome to the Brave New World of

global information technology.

Since we were just shooting in the dark, they transmitted some twenty

or twenty-five pages. Actually it would have been almost better to send

too few rather than too many. At four pages a minute, though, we were

finished in no time. As something of a joke, Tam suggested using the

file name Nipponica, homage to Noda's takeover pipe dream. Somehow it

seemed poetic justice.

Whether the transparency of our ruse would be immediately evident to

Matsuo Noda remained a big unknown. But . . . maybe Noda would have no

real way of discovering we'd sent garbage, at least not for a while.

The transmission done, we signed off, zipped up Ken's briefcase, and

marched out as if we knew what we were doing. Still, it was only a

bluff, and a shaky one at that. Which set me to thinking.

"Ken, it seems to me yours is the critical path in this play now." We

were walking back to the executive parking lot where we'd left his car.

"It's more important to have a real copy of the data stashed somewhere

than it is for us to blow the country in the next two hours. Which

means maybe you ought to take the chopper back yourself, send the stuff

today, and let us just drive down to Narita in your car?"

"I agree." Tam nodded concurrence. "We can leave it there and you could

have somebody pick it up tomorrow."

"That's dangerous, for both of you."

"Maybe so," she said, "but he's going to come after this case, guns

blazing, as his first priority. Ken, you're the one who's going to have

to stay out of his way now, not us. The quicker you move, the better."

"You've got a point. All right, if you want me to, then I could take

the copter back to Tokyo myself and you can use the Toyota." He was

fishing for his keys. "In fact, maybe you should just leave now."

"Let me check the schedule." I'd asked his secretary for a listing of

the afternoon and evening flights in case we got delayed. It was now

one-thirty. The next flight that looked like a sure thing was a United

at seven forty-two, or maybe the JAL at nine. Then there was a

Northwest at ten-fifteen. Loads of time.

"Look, we can wait for the chopper and at least see you off. Why don't

we head back over to the hotel and have a drink. Solemnize the

occasion--the final nailing of Matsuo Noda."

"Fine." He started the car. "But both of you get only one, at least

whoever's driving does. I want you back in one piece."

The hotel bar was beginning to feel like a second home, though now it

was deserted, the lunch trade long departed. Our ceremonial libation

also provided my first real opportunity to study Ken Asano at leisure.

I sat sipping my Suntory while he repeated once again the details of

his upcoming political move at MITI. Given any kind of luck, the flap

would render Noda's takeover a worldwide scandal.

Good. Tam and I had been Noda's point men, had done everything we knew

to assist him, and now it was clear he'd been using us all along for

his own ends. He was bent on bringing American industry back to life

for the sole purpose of skimming the cream.

What other reason could there be? Noda's noble intention supposedly was

to help rejuvenate those American corporations doing basic research--but

the price was then to let Japan lift that R&D and translate it into

consumer technology, thereby keeping for his team all the elements of

real economic value in the chain from laboratory to cash register. They

would be the ones refining their strategic capacity to transform new

ideas into world-class products and economic leadership. Japan would

retain the advanced engineering segment of product development, while

tossing a few low-skill assembly plants to the U.S. to make us think we

were still part of the action. It would, of course, be a fatal

delusion. The high-tech hardware of tomorrow's world increasingly would

be Japanese, while America became an economy of paper-shuffling MBAs

and low-paid grease monkeys assembling products we no longer were able

to design or engineer.

That depressing conclusion required the space of one Scotch. By then I

was ready to order a second, hoping it would bring forth a solution to

the problem the first had evoked with such alarming clarity.

But there wasn't time. At that moment we heard the MITI copter settling

onto the pad next to the hotel parking lot.

"Ken, here's to success." I saluted him with the last melting ice

cubes.

He toasted back, then signaled for the bill. Time to get moving.

The chopper was a new Aerospatiale AS 365N Twin Dauphin, big and white,

a VIP four-seater. Single pilot, capable of 180. (The Japanese love

those high-rotor French copters.) Guess Ken had called in a lot of

chips to arrange this customized three-wheeler for a couple of_

gaijin_. The seat-mile costs alone must have been staggering. But there

it was, fully serviced and set to go.

He walked over, ducking the rotor, and advised the pilot that there had

been a slight change of plans. They'd be returning directly back to

Tokyo. The man, wearing a blue uniform, bowed and gave him a little

salute. They seemed to be old friends. Well, I thought, if deputy

ministers don't use this gold-plated extravagance, then who's it for?

Then he returned to pick up his briefcase (Noda's silver box safely

therein), have a brief farewell, and give us his keys.

"Tamara, telex me the minute you get back. We'll proceed immediately.

Full speed."

"Let's go for it." She smiled and drew his face down for a long,

languorous kiss. I then shook his hand, and we headed for the car.

Since our bags were just little carry-ons, we looked solid to catch the

United flight with a couple of hours to spare, assuming traffic

cooperated.

"Tam, how about taking the wheel? This left-hand-side-of- the-road

driving takes practice. I almost hit somebody once in England."

"Sure." She reached for the keys, then turned back to wave to Ken. But

he was already climbing aboard and didn't notice.

"Isn't it odd?" I mused, "We still haven't heard zip out of Noda. He

must have realized by now we have his silver case. What's he planning

to do? Where'll he try to head us off?"

"Good question." She turned the key in the ignition. "I'm not going to

feel safe till we've got the actual goods on his phony sword. Not just

some dummy data."

"My guess is he'll try and nail us at the airport. It'd be his best

shot."

"At least Ken was smart enough to make the reservations under fake

names, so he won't know which flight to watch."

"There're not that many. He could be covering them all. On the other

hand, he'll assume we're arriving via the MITI chopper, so maybe we can

dodge his hit squad."

"I feel like I've been run through a wringer." She was pulling out of

the slot, backing around to begin making her way through the rows of

staff vehicles, all with special Tsukuba parking stickers.

"You can say that again. Who could have guessed all the . . ."

I'd reached around to check the back window, hoping to get the heat

going, when my field of vision turned an incandescent orange, bright

and glaring, as though the sun had just come in for a close encounter.

Before I could turn to see what . . . the dashboard rose up and slugged

me in the teeth, as a shock wave flung us both against the seat belts.

We're dead, I thought. We've been bombed. Noda's just dropped . . .

Then I looked up.

The MITI Aerospatiale, about two hundred feet off the ground, had

become a blazing sphere, a grotesque nova. Now its rotor blades were

clawing the air, askew, while it circled downward like a wounded bird.

An instant later it nosed into the parking lot behind us, hurtling

fragments of tail assembly through several empty staff cars.

I sat mesmerized as a second ball of fire erupted where it had crashed.

One of the fuel tanks had ignited, just like in the movies.

"Ken!" Tam let out a choked cry after the first few seconds of

disbelief. Then she slammed the transmission into 'Park' and began

ripping off her seat belt.

Where's she going? Doesn't she realize--?

Her door was open and she was stumbling out. That's when I finally came

to my senses, which included the sobering thought that there might be

more fuel tanks, such as the auxiliary, that hadn't yet blown.

"Wait!" I'd ripped off my own seat harness by that time and had rolled

out to begin running after her as she stumbled across the snowy stretch

of asphalt separating us from the flames.

She was moving like a gazelle, but I managed to catch up about thirty

yards from the wreckage. Using a modified shoulder block, I pulled her

around and tried to get a grip.

"Tam, nobody could survive that. We've got to stay back . . ."

At which point we both slipped and collapsed in a patch of snow . . .

just as the last fuel tank detonated with the impact of a sonic boom.

Memory can be a little unreliable under such circumstances, but I still

remember more wreckage sailing past us, including a strut off the

landing gear that gouged a furrow in the asphalt no more than ten feet

from our heads.

"Tam, he never knew what hit him. It had to be instantaneous." I was

trying to brush the wet snow off her face as I slipped my arm around

her shoulders. She was still holding back the tears, but only just.

"We didn't even have a real good-bye." Her words were jagged. "There

were so many things . . . I was hoping we . . ."

Her voice trailed off into tears.

"Look, I only knew him for a day, but that was enough to learn some

things. Kenji Asano was a wise and noble soul. Everything about him was

good."

She took my hand and held it against her cheek. "Matt, he was so kind.

That was what . . . He was . . . all that I . . ." Her eyes were

reflecting back the flames, now billowing into the pale afternoon sky.

Around us the labs were emptying as technicians raced toward the lot,

white coats fluttering.

"You know, he said something to me today. About you . . ."

"What?" She glanced up, her face streaked. "What did he

say?"

"He must have known there was danger. He sort of asked me to look out

for you."

"Danger?" She looked back at the wreckage, and a new tear trailed down

her left cheek. "I guess we don't really know for sure, do we? Maybe it

was just a fuel tank rupture, or . . ."

"You don't believe that."

"No." The tears, abruptly, were gone. "Matsuo Noda just took away the

one . . . Matt, I'm going to kill him."

It was a sentiment I shared in buckets. The question was merely how.

Medieval torture seemed too kind. I started to say something inane, and

then, finally, the shocking truth landed with the force of that last

explosion.

"Tam, that was supposed to be us." I was gazing at the flames, watching

talons of metal contort in the heat. "Noda thought we were going to be

on that copter."

"My God, of course."

"We've got to get out of here. Now. There's nothing anybody can do for

Ken."

"I'm not leaving till I've settled the score."

"Be reasonable. There's no way we can do it here. This is Noda's turf."

I was urging her to her feet. "We'll find a way. All I ask is that he

know we were the ones who did him in."

"But how can we just leave?"

"What else are we supposed to do? There's nothing left." I tried to

take her hand. "Come on."

She finally relented and, with one last tearful stare, turned to follow

me back to the car. By then a crowd of technicians was surging in

around us.

Ken's blue Toyota was still running. Without a word she buckled in,

shoved the stick into gear, and turned for the exit, whereupon she

barely avoided colliding with the first racing fire engine.

"Look, are you okay? I can drive if you . . ."

"Matt, don't say anything more, please." The tears had vanished. "Can I

just think for a while? Just give me some quiet to think." She was

gripping the wheel with raw anger. "Please."

"You've got it."

By the time we reached the highway, she was driving mechanically but

with absolute precision, almost as though tragedy had somehow sharpened

her reflexes, her logical processes.

It's a curious thing, but different people respond differently to

disaster, and Tam was one of those rare few who become harder, not

softer. I could see it in her eyes. As the minutes ticked by, and we

reached the packed thoroughfare that would take us south, it even got

to be a little unsettling. What in hell was going through her head?

Finally, after about an hour of bumper-to-bumper freeways, I couldn't

take the silence any more. Without asking anybody's permission, I

reached over and clicked on the radio. It was set for a classical

station, the music Chopin. Was this Ken's regular fare? I wondered. Was

he a romantic at heart or a classicist? Guess I'd never know . . .

that, or much of anything else about him. Which thought brought with it

a renewed sadness. Kenji Asano was a man of the East who was as much of

the West as anybody I'd ever met in Japan. I'd wanted him for a friend.

When you get to be my age, you don't make too many new friends, not

real ones. After forty, it's acquaintances. The roots of true

friendship extend so deep that there's never really time to plant them

if you start too late. Maybe it's because there's always a part

missing, that shared experience of being young and crazy and broke.

Those times back when you both still believed anything was possible.

New friends can't begin sentences with "Remember that weekend before

you were married when we got drunk and . . ." Getting old is tough, and

that's one of the toughest parts. But somehow I felt, with Ken, that

I'd known him forever. Could be that's absurd, but I really did. So

quite apart from the tragedy of his death, I felt cruelly robbed. It

sounds selfish, maybe, but it's the truth. A sad but true truth.

I was still thinking those thoughts when the four-o'clock newscast came

on. For a moment neither of us noticed, but then Tam snapped alert and

turned up the volume. The report was opening with a live remote from

Tsukuba Science City. I couldn't really follow very well, but she

realized that and began to translate as it went along.

". . . was the first tragedy of its kind for the ministry, and there

are widespread calls for an official inquiry. Dr. Kenji Asano,

nationally known director of The Institute for New Generation Computer

Technology, died today here at Tsukuba Science City when a MITI

helicopter, an Aerospatiale Twin Dauphin, crashed due to a malfunction.

No cause has yet been ascertained for the accident, which also took the

life of the pilot, Yuri Hachiro, a MITI veteran with fifteen years of

service. The condition of the wreckage has made it impossible to

determine how many other passengers may have been on board, although

MITI sources report that two visiting American scientists are also

thought to have been traveling with Dr. Asano. Their names are being

withheld by the ministry at this time, pending the completion of a full

investigation. . . .

Next came an interview with a MITI official, after which the reporter

offered a wrap-up.

". . . believe Dr. Asano's death represents a significant blow to

several vital sectors of MITI's computer race with America. However,

the vice minister has assured NHK that MITI's research effort will

redouble its commitment to . . ."

Tam clicked it off. "Two birds with one stone."

"What?"

"Matt, by bringing down the 'copter with all three of us in it, he was

planning to stop MITI and us both. Now he may think he did."

"You're right." I looked at her, and finally understood the real import

of the crash. "Which means we're now officially dead. If nobody else

knows we weren't on that chopper, why would Noda?"

She didn't answer for a long moment. Finally she said, "Maybe that

gives us the time we'll need."

"Time to nail him."

"Right. I've been thinking. About what it all means."

"Noda's play?"

"Not just that. I'm talking about Japan. Everything. You know, this

country could lead the world someday, maybe even now, if it wanted. It

has the finest schools, the most disciplined people; it's not hung up

on a lot of 'superpower' male-macho bullshit. It could be a beacon in

the dark, a force for good. But what has Noda done? He's turned it all

upside down. He's exploited the noble things about Japan for his own

selfish ends. Greed and power."

"Lucifer, the fallen angel. Who walked out on the Kingdom?"

"I guess so. But I'm also thinking about what he did to me. He

exploited the fact I was part Japanese, that I understand the potential

this country has. He made me think that's what I would be helping him

realize. But all along he intended to pervert it. He's perverted us,

Matthew. Both of us. Perverted us and used us. And now that we're no

longer needed, he's tried to kill us."

"High time we evened things out."

"Damned right. I learned a lot when I lived here. About the Japanese

mind. And you understand legal tactics. Swordsmanship. I think we're

ready."

"Ready?"

"To turn our knowledge against him."

"Start probing for the niche in his armor?"

"No. There's no time for that." She was silent for a moment, as though

preparing her words. "We've got to just sink him. Obliterate Dai Nippon

totally. And with it Matsuo Noda."

"You mean . . . go public about the sword? The problem with that is . .

."

"Exactly. Everything's destroyed. So why not forget about the sword for

a while? Whatever you know about it, at this point that's just your

word against his. I mean we have to bring the whole thing down."

"Tam, we're talking billions of dollars. This could take a while. That

number is a little hard to argue with."

"But what if that's both his strength and his weakness." She glanced

over at me. "Look, I've been thinking about what we might try. Maybe

there is a way."

"To assault him on the money front?"

"Right, but we'll need your friend Bill Henderson. Think he'd help?"

I nodded. "If you want him, I'll see that he pitches in."

"Good." She turned her eyes back to the road. "Matt, I'm

Fujiwara. Did I ever tell you that? And a Fujiwara's duty is to protect

the emperor of Japan. For a thousand years it's been their job."

She'd cracked. Begun talking gibberish. "What's that got to do with--?"

"Noda thinks he's going to exploit the Emperor. Well, he's got a big

surprise in store. I am now going to use Dai Nippon to destroy him and

then drive a stake into DNI's heart. Matthew, I'm going to make Matsuo

Noda's billions just disappear."

"That's impossible."

"Watch me."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Guess Tam's Shinto _kami _were on our side, since we made it through

Narita Airport with no hassles; or maybe being dead keeps you off

anybody's hit list. Now that MlTI was determined not to release our

names until they located our remains, we looked to be in limbo as far

as Matsuo Noda and Dai Nippon were concerned. Given the fact the

chopper had been demolished and then burned down to metal, nobody knew

anything. Yet.

The scenario Tam laid out on the 747 flying back, while we drank a lot

of airline cognac in the upstairs lounge, was destined to be yet

another first in the annals of American finance, one way or the other.

If we bungled it--and lived to face the consequences--would we end up

like those grim-faced executives you see being hustled into the federal

courthouse downtown, flanked by G-men in cheap trench coats? Later,

eyeing the network cameras, we'd have to smile bravely and declare that

American justice, in which we had full confidence, would surely

vindicate us after all the facts, etc.

To go with her play meant we were headed either for the history books

or jail, or both. But we would definitely need

Henderson and his "Georgia Mafia." My questions were actually pretty

simple: (1) Could it be done, and if so, (2) how and how fast?

We got back Monday, the day before New Year's, and the first person I

called after Amy was Henderson, casually mentioning that something

potentially very disrupting to the Street was in the works.

"Bill, fasten your seat belt. Bumpy weather ahead."

That captured his attention in a flash. What in hell, he inquired, was

I talking about?

"We need to get together, tonight." I continued.

"Where?"

"How about your place? Matter of fact, there's a real question just

now, at least in Japan, concerning whether Tam and I are actually

alive."

"Walton, what in God's name is going on?"

"In the fullness of time, friend, all things will be known. Now we see

as through a glass darkly . . . well, actually we're seeing through the

smudgy windows of the Plaza, suite three twenty-five, where we're

presently holed up. But we've got to stay low profile for a few more

days."

"Whatever you say," he replied, still puzzled. "Then how about dropping

by here tonight for a quick one, and then afterward we can all mosey

over to Mortimer's on Lex for a quick bite?"

"Okay. As long as we go late. I want to miss the happy-hour crowd."

This did not please him, but he agreed. My suspicions were he wanted to

use the occasion to reconnoiter the glittery, jet-set ladies at the

bar. Henderson, whose style and drawl undoubtedly distinguished him

from the B-school competition there like a white-maned palomino in a

herd of draft horses (investment drones who wore a beeper on their belt

and used "bottom-line" as a verb), surely found the place a fertile

hunting ground. Mortimer's was custom-made for his idiosyncratic style.

About nine that evening Tam and I slipped out of the Plaza's Fifty-

ninth Street entrance and headed up Fifth Avenue toward Bill's. He was

headquartered in one of those solid, granite-faced buildings near the

Metropolitan that are constructed like small fortresses--presumably so

New York's upper one tenth of one percent can repel the long-feared

assault of the homeless hordes at their feet. In the lobby, Henderson

vouched for us over the TV intercom, after which we were given a visual

search by the doorman, his uniform a hybrid of Gilbert & Sullivan and

crypto-Nazi, and shown the elevator.

A quick doorbell punch and the man from Georgia greeted us, Scotch in

hand. His little pied-a-terre was about three thousand square feet of

knee-deep carpets, Old Masters (I loved the Cezanne and the Braque),

and masculine leather furniture. A padded wet bar, complete with mirror

and a bank of computer monitors--for convenient stock action--stretched

across one side of the living room, while the sliding glass doors

opposite faced onto a balcony that seemed suspended in midair over

Central Park. While Tam, with her designer's eye, was complimenting him

politely on the understated elegance of his Italian wallpaper, French

art, and English furniture, I tried not to remember all those early

years back in New Haven when his idea of decor was a feed-store

calendar featuring a bluetick hound.

Although the balcony doors were open, the living room still had the

acrid ambience of a three-day-old ashtray. He poured us a drink from a

half-gallon of Glenfiddich on the bar, gestured us toward the couch,

and offered Havana cigars from a humidifier. I took him up on it, out

of olfactory self-defense.

"So tell me, ladies and gents, what's the latest?" He settled himself

in the leather armchair and plopped his boots onto an antique ottoman.

"How're the Jap assault forces doing these days? They gonna take over

the Pentagon next?"

"Not that we've heard." I was twisting my Havana against the match.

"Though it might reduce procurement costs on toilet seats and ashtrays

if they did."

Henderson sipped at his drink, then his tone heavied up. "Who are we

kidding, friends. My considered reading of the situation is your boys

on Third Avenue are unstoppable. They can do whatever they damn well

please from here on out."

"That's not necessarily in everybody's best interest, Bill." I strolled

over to look down at the park. "Got any new thoughts?"

"Can't say as I do. Our IBM play didn't get to first base; Noda saw us

coming a mile away. Thank God I didn't get in deep enough to get hurt."

He leaned back. "What makes it so damned frustrating is the market's

tickled as a pig in shit. Ain't nobody too interested in dissuading

your friends from buying up everything in sight. Street's never seen

anything like this kind of bucks before. It's a whole new ball game

downtown."

"That's right, Bill," I mused aloud. "The question is, whose ball game

is it?" Tam still hadn't said anything.

"Damned good question. What happens when foreigners start owning your

tangible assets? The answer, friend, is they end up owning _you_."

"Henderson, all that could be about to change."

"Says who?" He leaned back. "Looks to me like Noda's going all the

way."

"Bill, let's talk one of those hypothetical scenarios you like so much.

What if Dai Nippon suddenly had a change of plans? Switched totally?

And instead of buying, they started selling?"

That pulled him up short. He even set down his glass. "Come again?"

"Call it a hypothetical proposition. I'm asking what would happen on

the Street if Dai Nippon decided, unannounced, to make a significant

alteration in its portfolio? All of a sudden started divesting?

Massively."

"When'd this happen!" He squinted. "How much action we looking at?"

I didn't want to say it for fear he might need CPR for his heart.

Finally Tam set down her drink and answered him. "All of it."

"Christ." He went pale. "What's that add up to, total?"

"We figure it'd run to several hundred billion," I answered.

He sat there in confusion. "Over what kind of time period?"

"That's part of the reason we wanted to see you. If, strictly as a

hypothesis, they were to do something like that, as fast as possible,

how long would it take? Just throw your hat at the number, wild guess."

"Time, you mean?"

"Exactly."

"Well, let's look at it a second here. I'd guesstimate that all the

exchanges together--Big Board, American, Merc, CBOT, NASDAQ, Pacific,

the rest--probably have a dollar volume upwards of . . . how many

billions a day? Say twenty billion, easy, maybe more, the way volume's

climbing. But that figure's purely hypothetical. If Dai Nippon dumped

all those securities on the table at once, the value of their portfolio

would go to hell."

I glanced at Tam.

"That's how we see it too," she said. And nothing more.

"What are you two suggesting?" He was visibly rattled. "Noda'd never

pull anything that crazy."

"Bill, with all due respect, let's proceed one step at a time here with

this hypothesis," I went on. "Assuming, just for purposes of

discussion, he did decide to do something like that, unload everything,

what's the fastest way?"

"Hell, I'd have to think."

"Come on, man. Financial derring-do is your special trade," I pressed

him. "What if DNI's mainframe was used to set up a global trading

network? Began dumping worldwide?"

"Well, that'd probably be the quickest approach." He was slowly coming

awake. "Jesus Christ! It's not Noda we're talking about." He looked at

me, then at Tam. "It's you. You're going to try and . . ."

"Possibly."

"Then we sure as hell are talking theory, 'cause you'd never be able to

do anything like that without Noda's gettin' wind of it."

"Henderson, as usual you're not listening. Plausibility is not the

topic under discussion. Right now we're looking at the impact."

"Well, you'd damned well better start with some plausibility." He

settled back. "Say you could get around Noda. The next problem is, the

minute word hits the Street DNI's dumping, all hell's liable to break

loose. It'd be front page. And first thing you know, the market's going

to be headed the wrong way. If you've got a heavy block of shares you

want to divest, you damn well do it on the QT, 'cause its price can

start to nosedive. Folks tend to figure you know something they don't.

The Street's about ninety percent psychology and ten percent reality .

. . if that much."

"Just concentrate on the technical part, Henderson."

"Well, friends, any way you cut it, we're talking what I'd call a very

dubious proposition. Those Jap institutions would lose their shirt if

DNI dumped all at once." He exhaled quietly. "You start rolling

billions and billions in Japanese money, how you plan on keeping the

thing from blowing sky-high? You'd have Nips climbing all over your ass

in ten minutes flat, you tried something like that."

"Henderson, relax. What if we did it anonymously? Like I said. Used the

DNI mainframe, funneled orders through accounts everywhere, dummy

accounts in banks all over the place? Wouldn't that give us some elbow

room?"

"Maybe, maybe. If you played it right. I'd guess a few wise guy

analysts would probably sniff something in the wind, but nobody'd have

a handle on the real action, at least not for a while. Things might

stay cool temporarily."

"Are you saying that, in theory, the market side is doable, at least

initially?" Tam pressed him.

"I'm just guessing it's vaguely conceivable." He got up to freshen his

drink. "Be that as it may, though, the real problem is the Japanese

end. I'd guess the shit's going to be all over the fan in Tokyo the

minute you start selling. Those pension funds are not going to roll

over and let you wreck their portfolio."

"Bill"--I spoke up--"they're not going to be able to stop us. Count on

it. DNI holds the stock as trustee. Noda's rules. Ironclad power of

attorney."

"So?"

"So," I said very carefully, "we are going to take over Dai Nippon."

"What the hell are you talking about!"

We told him. The Rambo part.

"Jeezus!" He stared at the two of us. "What you're proposing is a major

felony. I could get accessory and five years for just listening to

this."

"Who's going to file charges?"

"How about Mr. Matsuo Noda for starters?"

"Bill, we just happen to have a little leverage with Mr. Noda-san at

the moment. The minute he finds out we're still alive--"

"You'd damned well better, or you could be looking at a long interlude

of pastoral delights up at the Danbury country club." He was still

dumbstruck. Finally he grinned. "After parole, though, you could

probably sell your memoirs to Newsweek for a couple of million and land

a guest slot on Carson."

There was a long pause as silence filled the room, broken only by the

distant sound of a siren from the street below. For a minute I had the

paranoid fantasy it was the first wave of the police SWAT team heading

downtown to shoot it out with us.

Finally Bill turned back and fixed me with a questioning look. "Are you

really serious about this asshole idea?"

"It's not without appeal."

"Walton, you dumb fuck, do this and you'll never work in this town

again."

"I'm well aware of that."

"Nobody'd hire you to fight a dog summons, let alone a takeover." Bill

turned to Tam. "Talk sense to this man."

"It was my idea."

"You're both crazy." He walked over to the bar and poured some more

Scotch into his glass. "But what the hell. I've seen enough to know

we'd damned sure better start taking this country back into our own

hands one way or another."

"So you'll help?" She was watching him like a hawk.

"Well, now, what's life for, gentle lady"--he grinned--"except to kick

ass now and again. Somebody's got to throw a monkey wrench into Noda's

operation. If you think you can do it, then count me in. If nothing

else, maybe we can cause a few waves down on the Potomac."

What am I hearing? I found myself wondering. Dr. William J. Henderson,

capitalism's pillar of sober reappraisal, entertaining a scenario

straight from a CIA handbook?

Of course, Bill still hadn't heard the second half of the play.

"Fine, we could use your help on the setup." I glanced at the row of

CRT screens behind the bar. "First there's the matter of getting

control of DNI's supercomputer, and then we'll need somebody with

trading experience. Is there any chance you could bring in one of your

boys to oversee that end?"

"How do you figure on running it?"

"I'd guess our best shot is to stay off-exchange as much as possible.

Use Jeffries, third-market outfits like that. And also keep the money

offshore, international, with a lot of separate bank connections to

handle the transfers. Maybe also float some of the interim liquidity in

overnight paper to cover our tracks, just so we can generally keep the

lid on everything as long as we can."

"Then it so happens one of my boys might just fill our bill. That's his

thing. He operates freelance now, but he's good. Damned good. Trouble

is, he knows it, and he don't come cheap anymore."

"I think we can cover a few consulting fees. Can he keep his mouth

shut?"

"If he couldn't, we'd both probably be in jail by now." He drained his

glass. "Though remember, you'll be moving a lot of bucks, and there are

folks who keep track of such things. But I know a few smokescreens

that'll hold the SEC and that crowd at arm's length for a little." He

looked at me for a second, his face turning quizzical. "What was that

you said just now? About parking the money overnight? What are you

going to do with it after that?"

"You're getting ahead of things," Tam replied calmly.

"Bill, why don't we head on over to Mortimer's?" I looked out at the

park one last time. "You may need a stiff drink for the rest of this."

"Jesus, I'm dealing with maniacs." He got up and headed for his coat.

"Let's move it."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Bushido. Take it apart, _bu-shi-do_, and you have "military- knight-

ways," the rules of chivalry that governed every moment of a samurai's

existence. This code of honor of the warrior class, this noblesse

oblige, was also known as 'the way of the sword.' For a samurai the

sword was a sacred icon, an emblem of strength and inner resolve.

Casual handling was unheard of. You never stepped over a sword, you

never treated it with insouciance or irreverence. It was an extension

of your character. A samurai regarded his _katana_ as the symbol of his

caste: a weapon, yes, but also a constant reminder of who he was, his

obligations as well as his rights.

Which was why I needed the prize of my collection in hand when we

entered our final battle with Dai Nippon. I wanted to face Matsuo Noda

with classic dignity, with the Japanese honor he had scorned, to let

him know he had a worthy opponent, one who understood the meaning of

_bushido_. I also wanted in that process to stick those DNI guards'

Uzis up their ass. I'd be needing a _katana_.

Our meeting with Henderson was Monday night. Tuesday morning we all

buckled down and began working around the clock, each of us handling a

separate area, Tam called in some favors with the head of the NYU

computer center and adapted an off-the-shelf program for stock

transactions to suit our unique requirements. She then booked time and

scheduled a few debugging runs. In the meantime Henderson was taking

care of our banking preparations, opening a string of accounts, mostly

offshore where we could move with comparative anonymity. Also, we all

got together at his place a couple of times and blocked out exactly

what we wanted to unload first, names and dates.

While Tam and Henderson were setting up the financial end, the

electronics were my responsibility. I was on the phone all day Tuesday

knocking heads with Artie Wilson, an old friend who operated a maritime

radio business down on the island of St. Thomas. Together we assembled

a piece of gear needed to address one of the essential telemetry

elements, and Wednesday night he took his boat over to St. Croix to

install it.

I think I've already mentioned the marvelous Caribbean beach house that

had practically fallen into my and Joanna's hands a few years back. It

also sported, as do a lot of island places, a TV satellite dish, and it

so happens this one was massive, a twenty-footer. Now, what is not

commonly appreciated is that those concave parabolas can be used to

broadcast as well as receive.

Artie and a couple of his cronies worked all Wednesday night and got it

rigged the way I wanted it, including a deadeye bead on the commercial

satellite currently being used by DNI for proprietary communications

with Noda's Kyoto office. I figured it like this: if "Captain Midnight"

could override Home Box Office's satellite network using a receiving

station in Florida and broadcast a Bronx cheer to Time-Life, we could

by God knock out DNI's high-security channel for an hour or so. Artie

would be on standby Friday, ready to flip the switch.

Noda was apparently still in Japan, presumably busy throwing obstacles

in MITI's path, or maybe searching for the remains of his silver case.

Let him. We were about to start handling his communications with the

DNI office for him, via a setup of our own devising.

One nice thing about global electronics is that if you get a network

far-flung enough, nobody can trace anything--which was what we were

counting on. After we'd killed Noda's primary communications system, we

intended to substitute some Japanese hardware we'd had installed at

Henderson's--together with a little help from a mutual friend in

Shearson Lehman's Tokyo office. The arrangement was complicated, but it

looked workable on paper. Thing was, though, we'd have to get it right

the first time. No dry runs.

All of which tended to make me uneasy. You don't leave anything to

chance when you're playing our kind of game; you need to have a backup.

This feeling brought to mind an admonition in an old sixteenth-century

text on swordsmanship, the Heiho Kaden Sho, something to the effect

that "you should surprise your opponent once, and then surprise him

again." So, strictly on my own, I went about a bit of _bushido_

lawyering, using that power of attorney Noda gave me back when we

started out to set up a fallback position in case Tam's scheme somehow

failed. This twist, however, I decided to keep under wraps. Nobody

needed to be diverted just then worrying about worst-case scenarios.

That's what corporate counsels are for.

It was the most hectic week of our lives, but by three P.M. Friday we

were ready, assembled at Henderson's place and poised for battle. Using

his new hardware, we got on line to Shearson's Tokyo office, Bill

cashing in a decade of stock tips with a longtime acquaintance. We then

fed him the MITI ID codes we'd picked up from Ken during that ill-fated

episode at the Tsukuba Teleconferencing Center, and he used these to

patch back through to their New York JETRO offices. Finally we got St.

Croix on the phone, holding.

"Time to synchronize everybody's watches." Tam was wearing her usual

designer jeans, a blue silk shirt, and had her DNI flight bag freshly

packed for the long days ahead.

"That thing says 3:28:37." Henderson was watching one of his monitors

behind the bar, now blinking off the seconds.

"Then let's all get ready to set at 3:29," said Tam.

Which we did.

"Okay, time to roll." I punched the speakerphone. The line to St. Croix

was still open.

"Ready, Artie?"

"Say the word, my man," the voice from the box came back. "We got the

watts."

"You on frequency?"

"Loud and clear. Sound like they runnin' some kind of coded

transmission. Don't read."

"Double-check, Artie. We can't mess up. You're on 26RF- 37558JX-10,

right?"

"Yo, my man. Who doin' this?" He bristled. "Think I can't hit nothing

'less it got hair round it?"

"Just nervous up here, okay? Settle down. At three-thirty, exactly

twenty-seven seconds from now, go to transmit."

"No problem."

"Stay on channel, Artie. Don't wipe out The Old Ttme Gospel Hour or

something. We're about to be in enough trouble as it

is."

"You the one 'bout to be up to yo' ass in bad news, frien'. Me, I just

some oyster-shuckin' jive nigger don't know shit."

. . . Except, I found myself thinking, how to make a monkey out of the

U.S. Coast Guard and DEA and God knows who else for ten years. Artie

was the best.

Disconcertingly, I might also add, Artie Wilson had demanded cash in

advance for our job, which didn't exactly reflect a high degree of

confidence in the endeavor. However, there was no way we could test

what we planned to do. This was it.

"You've got fifteen seconds."

"One hand on the switch, boss, other on my--"

"Artie, stay focused--"

"Thing is, jus' hope I remember which one to yank."

"The big one."

"That's what you think, white boy . . . zero. Blast off . . . yooeee,

they gone." Pause, then: "Yep, we pumpin'."

"Got it?"

"Just hit that little birdy with enough RF to light up San Juan. They

eatin' garbage. They decoder up in Apple town's gotta be goin' apeshit.

They can't be readin' no telex, no nothing."

"Okay, keep it cranking." I turned to Tam. "You're on."

"We're already patched through, on hold."

"All the way through Tokyo and back?" It was still a bit dazzling.

"We're going to look just like an auxiliary MITI transmission. All I

have to do is put in the DNI code, then request the connection over to

Third Avenue."

She tapped away on Henderson's keyboard, sending the ID through

Shearson's communications center in Tokyo, then back through JETRO on

Sixth Avenue, from whence it was routed into the communications room at

DNI's Third Avenue offices. Since she was using the standard DNI

transmission format, we would look authentic. Right now, with their

primary satellite channel gone, the JETRO link should be DNI's only

high-security connection to the outside world. She began the

transmission, in Japanese _kana_.

Attention: Eyes only; J. N. Tanaka. Special instructions regarding

operations. Please confirm routine satellite communications channel

currently inoperative.

Moments later the message came back: Confirm communications

malfunction.

Then Tam: Due to technical difficulties with transmitter, weekend

operations terminated. Staff advise alert number, message J9.

That last was DNI's special setup that caused the computer to

automatically dial the home number for all members of the staff, giving

special instructions. Message J9 told everybody not to come in until

further communication. God, was DNI efficient! The mainframe just kept

dialing each number till somebody picked up. It even talked to

answering machines. We figured that would head off most of the next

crew. All we needed was a window of a few minutes between the goings

and comings.

Then a message came back. As Tam began translating for us, though, a

strange look was spreading across her face.

Operations already suspended as of 2:57 NY time per security-link

instructions. Staff leave of absence. Is this confirmation? Repeat. Is

this confirmation?

"What in hell." Henderson stared at Tam, then me. "Whose damned

instructions?"

"Matt, what do you think's going on?" Tarn's fingers were still poised

above the keyboard. "Why on earth would DNI Kyoto order a shutdown

here?"

"That's a big question." One that had no answer. "Better just fake it,

and fast."

"What else can we do?" She revolved back around to the keyboard and

began to type.

Confirmation. What personnel remain?

Back came Tanaka's reply: As instructed, security personnel only.

"Tam, get off the line. This feels wrong."

She wheeled back again. Transmission concluded. Standby for further

instruction.

Tanaka's reply was brief and to the point. A man of few words:

Confirmed.

"Whatever's going on, we've got to get over there." I hit the

speakerphone line again. "Artie, keep them jammed till five oh five.

That should do it. If we're not in by then, we're dead."

"You got it, boss," came back the voice. "Any longer, some gov'ment

honkie's gonna put on a trace. Be our ass. Correction, yo' ass."

"Just pack up your gear and haul out of there. The FCC's the least of

our problems at the moment."

"You the man. Down again soon?"

"Can't rule it out. Take care." I punched off the phone.

Tam was already headed for the door. Downstairs waited the car and

driver we'd hired. No point trying to hail a cab in rush hour,

particularly with so much depending on the next thirty minutes.

"Okay, Bill, keep that Shearson link up. Maybe it'll block anybody else

from reaching DNI's message center." I was putting on my coat. "Where's

that package?"

"Right here." He reached behind the bar and retrieved the one item I

wanted with me when we confronted security. It was nicely wrapped in

brown paper. "Look out for yourself, Walton. I got a few good drinkin'

years left. Be a shame to have to do it all by myself."

"Your guy ready?"

"Says he's on his way. Due here inside fifteen minutes."

Without further farewells we headed for the elevator.

The trip over brought forth various thoughts on what lay immediately

ahead. For some reason I found myself remembering Yukio Mishima, who

once voiced a very perceptive observation on the nature of

swordsmanship. He claimed that the perfect stroke must be guided toward

a void in space, which, at that instant, your opponent's body will

enter. In other words your enemy takes on the shape of that hollow

space you have envisioned, assuming a form precisely identical with it.

How does that happen? It occurs only when both the timing and placement

of a stroke are exactly perfect, when your choice of moment and the

fluidity of your movement catch your opponent unawares. Which means you

must have an intuitive sense of his impending action a fraction of a

second before it becomes known to your, or his, rational mind. The

ability to strike intuitively before your logical processes tell you

your opponent's vulnerable moment has arrived requires a mystical

knowledge unavailable to the left side of the brain, because by the

time that perfect instant becomes known to your conscious mind, it has

already passed.

The point is, if you allow yourself to think before you strike, you

blow it. Which is why one of the primary precepts of _bushido_ is "To

strike when it is right to strike." Not before, not after, not when you

rationally decide the moment has come, but when it is right. That

moment, however, is impossible to anticipate logically. It can only be

sensed intuitively.

My intuition, as we rode the elevator up toward Dai Nippon's center of

operations, was troubled. The offices had been cleared in advance of

our arrival by somebody from DNI's Kyoto operation. We had struck at

the proper void in space, all right, but our opponent had deliberately

created that opening. Things weren't supposed to happen that way.

Then the elevator light showed eleven and the door glided open. We were

there. Before us lay the steel doors of The Kingdom. While Tam gave the

computer a voice ID, I stood to the side readying the surprise I

planned for Noda's security twosome. Off came the brown paper, then the

scabbard, and in my hand gleamed a twelfth-century katana from the

sword-smith who once served the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto. The prize of

my collection. It was, arguably, the most beautiful, sharpest, hardest

piece of steel I had ever seen. With the spirit of the shoguns.

"Ready?" She glanced over as the doors slid open.

"Now."

Awaiting us just inside the first doors were the X-ray and metal

detector, the latter a walk-through arch like you see in airports. Then

past that were the second doors, beyond which were stationed the two

Uzi-packing guards. The detector was set to automatically lock the

second doors if metal was detected on the persons of those passing

through, and the wires leading out of it were encased in an aluminum

tube, attached there on the left. This would have to be fast.

The sword was already up, poised, and as we entered, it flashed. Out

went the electronic box with one clean stroke, the encased wires

severed at the exact point where they exited from the gray metal. There

was no alarm, not a sound. We'd iced it.

Beautiful.

I figured there would be time for exactly two more strokes, but they

had to be right, intuitively perfect. So at that moment I shut down my

rational mind, took a deep breath, and gave my life to Zen. Mental

autopilot.

The connecting doors slid open, and there stood the guards. We'd caught

them both flat-footed. So far, so good. Now the sword . . .

Yukio Mishima, whom I mentioned earlier, once asserted that opposites

brought to their logical extremes eventually come to resemble one

another, that life is in fact a great circle. Therefore, whenever

things appear to diverge, they are actually on a path that brings them

back together--an idea of unity captured visually in the image of the

snake swallowing its own tail. According to him there is a realm

wherein the spirit and the flesh, the sensual and the rational, the yin

and yang, all join. But to achieve this ultimate convergence you must

probe the edge, take your body and mind to the farthest limits.

I'd been reflecting considerably on what this meant to us. Noda's two

heavies personified brute physicality, the body triumphant; Tam and I

were meeting them with the power of the mind and, I hoped, finely honed

intuition. Whereas these may seem the farthest of opposites, as with

the symbol of the snake, they merged at their extremities. They became

one. I knew it and the two startled guys now staring at us understood

it as well. Mind and body were about to intersect. The circle had

joined.

Their Uzis--about two feet long, black, heavy clip, metal stock--were

hanging loosely from shoulder straps several inches away from their

hands. I saw them both reach for the grip, but that sight didn't really

register. My cognitive processes were already shut down.

While the first man's left-hemisphere neurons were telling his right

hand to reach downward, the sword was already moving, milliseconds

ahead. It caught the gun's heavy leather strap, parting it like paper,

and the Uzi dropped, just eluding his fingers. He stood naked.

That was all for him and he immediately knew it. If you're looking at a

razor-sharp _katana_, you don't get a fallback try. However, the second

guard, dark eyebrows and bald head, now had time on his side. Up came

the automatic, one-handed.

Right here let me say you've got to admire his pluck. If I'd been

staring at a four-foot katana that could have bisected me like a

noodle, I might have elected to pass. But he'd weighed the odds and

concluded he had a chance. Again, though, his rationality bought us

time. The neurons firing in his brain were setting in motion a sequence

of logic. He was thinking.

The sword wasn't. My blank mind was centered on the void, the place

where the Uzi would be when it was leveled at my chest. The overhead

stroke caught it just where intuition said it would be, point-blank,

his finger a millimeter from the trigger.

Cheap Israeli steel. The eight-hundred-year-old katana of Yoritomo

Minamoto's swordsmith parted the Uzi's perforated black barrel like

Hotel Bar butter, bifurcated it into identical slices. Guard number two

just grunted as it clattered to the floor.

By my reckoning we'd been in the inner chamber for about three quarters

of a second, but Noda's two human mountains were now standing there

holding nothing but time in their hands. Nobody had to draw them a

picture. The game was over. _Bushido_.

I motioned Tam toward the first guard's weapon.

"Matthew . . ." She hesitated a moment, then snapped into action. "You

weren't kidding about that sword. I never realized--"

"Let's go."

"Right." She now had the one remaining automatic. The other was no

longer usable. Didn't matter. One was all we needed.

We now had to kill the automatic ID on the outer door and put it on

manual. Otherwise the two guards upstairs might come calling. While Tam

stood there with the Uzi, I went back out and yanked the wires that

hooked the voice reader to the computer. There was probably a

scientific way to turn it off, but who had time for science? Besides,

just then my veins were still pumping pure adrenaline. Facing the

business end of an Uzi, even for a fleeting instant, is no way to begin

an evening.

Tam ordered the guards to open the last door and in we marched. Tanaka

was standing outside his office, his dark eyes glazed, his bristle-

covered skull rosy with shock. He turned even redder when he saw the

_katana_. Nobody had to tell him what it could do.

"Mr. Walton, why are you here?"

"We're about to undertake some corporate restructuring."

Tam proceeded to herd Tanaka and the guards into Noda's office, pausing

just long enough to kill the phone wires. As he began to recover, he

commenced sputtering about legal action and jail and general hellfire.

Who cared? As of this moment, the offices and computer of Dai Nippon,

International belonged to us.

Henderson was informed of our progress when his phone rang at exactly

4:48 P.M. He arrived, along with his Georgia Mafia computer expert, at

5:17, and Tam met them at the security doors.

I wasn't actually there to welcome them aboard, since I was guarding

Tanaka just then and engaged in a small one-on-one with the man,

explaining to him that Matsuo Noda's ass was ours. The president of Dai

Nippon, I advised, was a few short days away from becoming everybody's

lead story, featured as the Japanese executive who'd (apparently)

rebelled against his homeland. Noda was no stranger to headlines, of

course, but he preferred to engineer them himself, so this definitely

wasn't going to be his style. Matsuo Noda was, albeit unwillingly,

about to make history. As I broke this news to Dai Nippon's chief of

New York operations, I sensed he was definitely less than enthusiastic

about the prospect. Well, he'd have a few days to get used to the idea,

since nobody was going to enter or leave the eleventh floor for a

while.

It was still a bit difficult to believe what had happened. Or even

more, what was next. But sometimes reality can have a way of

outstripping your wildest powers of imagination--a Space Shuttle

explodes, a nuclear meltdown in the Ukraine, ten-dollar oil, all of it

too farfetched to make credible fiction. It could only exist in the

realm of the real.

We were about to start moving billions and billions of dollars, fast.

And since we didn't know how long we could continue before Matsuo Noda

figured out a way to stop us, we were going to adhere to a schedule

that covered the most vital sectors first--those outfits whose R&D Tam

considered strategic to America's future technological leadership. Our

goal for the first day was five billion, worldwide.

Thus the countdown began. Henderson's financial artist loaded Tam's new

program tape onto DNI's big NEC supercomputer and cranked up. We had

roughly sixty hours till the opening bell on Monday.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"It's the worst of times, buddy, and the best of times. Whatever dude

once said that didn't know the half of it. He oughta be around now to

check out the Street."

That was Henderson's Georgia Mafia co-conspirator, an irritatingly smug

young man with red hair and acne who dressed entirely in white, right

down to his skinny Italian tie. We were told he went by the handle of

Jim Bob. As he meditated upon Wall Street's macroeconomic

incongruities, he punched a Willie Nelson tape into his boom box and

popped a Coors, pregame warm-up for programming a full-scale assault on

the U.S. securities markets.

Jim Bob allowed as how he'd arrived in the Big Apple four years earlier

with a cardboard suitcase, a finance degree from Georgia Tech, and a

larger than regulation endowment of natural cunning. After a couple of

years' toil in Henderson's quasi-legal vineyards, he'd gone out on his

own, whereupon he'd parlayed his winnings with Bill and the remnants of

a baseball scholarship into what was now a high six-figure "haircut,"

the name options players use for their grubstake. The way he figured

it, he was just hitting his stride.

How, I inquired at one point during that long weekend, had he managed

it?

"Chum, it's idiot simple. You buy into fear, sell into greed, and fuck

fundamentals. Main thing is, if something makes sense, don't do it.

America's in the all-time shit, and Wall Street's oblivious. It's like

everybody's bidding up standing room on the Tttanic. But who cares? You

play options like I do and all you have to worry about is not getting

stupider than the herd. Which ain't necessarily much of a trick."

Stock options, he went on to assert, were like having a credit card in

a whorehouse--a ton of action for what amounted to tip money up front.

No wonder Las Vegas was in trouble, when Wall Street was beckoning our

high rollers to take odds on the direction of the market. Only widows

and orphans, he observed, bought actual securities anymore. That action

was reserved for the halt and lame.

While country singers twanged beer hall soliloquies on the general

increase in faithless women, Jim Bob coded in the brokerage houses and

offshore banks we'd be using, the catalog of stocks in the DNI

portfolio, and our sequence of transactions.

As noted earlier, the financial setup had been handled by Henderson and

friends. Using his connections, he'd opened accounts for hundreds of

dummy corporations in about two dozen offshore banks. He stuck to the

usual no-questions-asked operations like Banca della Svizzera Italiana

and Bank Leu in the Bahamas--the latter a Swiss-owned Nassau laundry

that had, in years past, reportedly destroyed records and lied to the

Securities and Exchange Commission as a favor to certain of America's

more inventive inside traders.

Since the volume of money to be moved was staggering, it would all be

handled by sophisticated telecommunications networks. We would pass it

through the anonymous accounts we'd established, accessed both ways by

computer, and it would never be touched by human hands. DNI's cash

would flash in and out with total cover. Added to that, anybody who

tried to trace us would first have to break through a traditional Swiss

stone wall.

To dump the stock we were planning to exploit fully the new

"globalization" of the financial scene. Now that the National

Association of Securities Dealers had struck a deal with the London and

Tokyo stock exchanges to swap price quotes, worldwide market makers

were buying and selling American securities around the clock. Plenty of

active market-making was happening off the exchange floors as well, at

places like Jeffries out on the coast, which had recently handled a

massive Canadian takeover of an American company overnight, entirely

off-exchange. With all the avenues available it was almost impossible

to track the movement in a given issue. DNI's computers would be

routing sell orders to brokerage firms around the globe, a block here,

a block there, none of them in quantities that would raise eyebrows.

Maybe I also should add that none of the "corporations" Henderson had

set up would be allowed to show a profit, which would simplify Treasury

Department reporting requirements. As a matter of fact, before we were

through, DNI was going to lose billions. But it would all be done

legally, in accordance with SEC regs. It would also lead to a world

financial flap of notable proportions. Nobody would ever take Noda's

money for granted again.

While Tam went over her new program with Jim Bob, pointing out her

special features, Henderson and I found ourselves at reasonably loose

ends. We sat around drinking green tea (God, how I came to hate that

stuff) and puzzling how we'd all managed to get into such a mess. The

major plus, however, was that we finally had Matsuo Noda by the short

and curlies.

Or so we hoped. The problem was, he'd been a player longer than any of

us, and he'd already demonstrated plenty of stamina. How would he

counterattack? The question wasn't if, it was when. For the moment,

though, we seemed to be on our way with clear sailing; in fact, the

communications link with Kyoto was entirely empty. Tanaka also had

clammed up, refusing to talk--beyond a rather firm prediction that our

wholesale divestiture of DNI's assets was an insane act doomed to

failure. I might also add he didn't appear nearly as concerned as the

circumstances would seem to merit. In fact, he was so complacent I

started getting a little uneasy. Finally Bill and I ran his prediction

past young Jim Bob. Could somebody get through to Tam's program and

devise a way to shut us down?

Henderson's increasingly glassy-eyed protege took out enough time from

popping "uppers" and swilling Coors to assure us to the contrary.

"Hell, no way you could stop what we're settin' up here. We got

ourselves what you call a closed system. Everything's

going to be handled by that green-eyed monster over there in the

corner. We got these numbered brokerage accounts all over the place.

Zip, in go the sell orders; zap, out go confirmations. And since none

of the cash sits around, our bank accounts are all just gonna churn.

We'll have billions of buckaroos rollin' at the speed of light. Ain't

nobody gonna be able to get a bead on the action, take my word for it."

Our computer-generated buying and selling, he went on to declare, was

conveniently similar in appearance to the "program" trading of the big

institutional investors, the arbitrage players who routinely sold

millions of dollars of securities in minutes using computers. Thanks to

them, the market these days had been conditioned to accept huge,

unaccountable trades as part of the territory. If somebody dumped

massive blocks of stock unexpectedly, it could mean anything--such as,

the spread between those stocks' prices and some "index future" had

gotten momentarily out of sync. Shuffling securities like poker chips

was the name of the game on the Street these days, so nobody would

really notice or care. The turnover we'd be generating would merely

suggest to the market that various investment-house arbitrage desks

were unwinding positions.

What the heck, I said to Tam, maybe we could unload the better part of

DNI's holdings before Noda struck back. The real key to our attack on

Dai Nippon, however, depended on what happened to that cash after we

turned it around. When I mentioned that, she just crossed her fingers.

By late Sunday night the DNI offices were a clutter of empty Chinese

take-out containers, Kentucky Fried Chicken boxes, and computer

printouts. However, Jim Bob claimed the system looked like a go. He'd

completed a long sequence of test runs, and he was predicting he could

probably swing at least four billion the first day, something in the

nature of a warm-up for grander things to come.

Jim Bob, I should say, was fully as efficient as advertised by

Henderson. Even if he was now flying higher than a moon shot, thanks to

all the pills. He worked methodically, carefully analyzing the program

at every step, double-checking the codes, poring over his verification

printouts for obscure glitches. Mainly, though, he kept one unfocused

eye on the clock, saying he always delivered on time. Point of honor.

Thus it was that, when Monday morning rolled around, we

were primed to move on Wall Street. Tam's program was poised inside the

mainframe like some lurking id, ready to be unleashed. We decided to

start modestly, sticking to the exchanges in New York, and only later

in the day expanding outward as we gained firmer footing.

At the stroke of nine-thirty A.M. Jim Bob inaugurated our maiden run

with yet another beer. Henderson and I poured ourselves a bourbon. Tam

even joined us, accepting a respectable shot.

"Fasten your seat belts, boys and girls." Jim Bob shakily peeled back

the tab on his Coors. The screen in front of him focused our attention

down to one small flashing green dot.

"Ignition."

He hit a key on the terminal, and Merrill Lynch got a computerized

"sell" order for ten thousand shares of Texas Instruments. The time was

exactly 9:31.

It was a textbook lift-off. Rows of green numbers began to scroll up

the screen, only to blink and disappear. By God, the thing seemed to be

working. We had just pulled the plug on DNI. All that was left now was

to sit back and watch it sink.

As the morning wore on, Tam fielded phone calls from staffers, always

claiming that Tanaka was not available just then. Of course, we weren't

sure how long we could get away with that excuse, but for now none of

us wanted to set the man free to start jabbering in Japanese on the

phone. On the other hand, we were loosening up a bit on security.

Partly, I guess, because we were all increasingly wrecked, but also

because it seemed to fit the situation. By Monday, Tanaka and his two

retired sumo bone-crushers appeared to have grown resigned, one might

even say philosophical, and I don't mind admitting it bothered me a

lot. Tanaka was watching us destroy Noda's grand design right before

his very eyes, yet he just sat there as though none of it mattered. How

could this be? All he did was busy around brewing tea for everybody.

(Except, of course, for Jim Bob, who stuck to Coors.) However, I was

too tired by then to think much about it.

Around two-thirty Henderson began complaining of a splitting headache

and declared he had to go home and get some rest. I started to protest,

but the man looked half dead. Tam and I weren't much better off, so we

flipped a coin to see who would take the first watch. She won, which

was great by me, since the long hours without sleep were really

starting to unravel my concentration.

To understand what happened next, you have to try and envision the

scene. It was three P.M. and things were going letter perfectly. The

dollars were sailing through the accounts we'd set up and along about

noon we'd even kicked in our buy program.

Yes, buy. That's not a typo. You see, we had to lose billions, not

necessarily a trivial task. Think about it. If you merely want to drop

a few million, all you have to do is just invest in some high-flying

start-up and then sit there till the venture craters. But billions?

That's the part where Tam really showed her mettle (no pun intended).

Look, she said, the Brothers Hunt managed to blow millions by trying to

corner silver, bidding up the price and then seeing it collapse. But

we've got to get rid of some serious money, so why don't we do the same

thing, only with a commodity worth something?

Platinum.

All life's great ideas have an inevitable simplicity. That's right, we

were programmed to sell DNI's stock and buy platinum. From anybody,

anywhere, at any price. We were planning to just swallow the worldwide

commodity markets in the stuff, starting at the NY Merc and ending at

Capetown. Of course, what we were also doing was boosting its price

into the stratosphere--we were even bidding against ourselves through

different brokerage houses. Anything to drive it up. I mean we had a

lot of money to get rid of. We figured that by the time we were

finished, DNI would be the proud owner of a couple of hundred billion

in platinum metal, platinum futures, platinum mining stocks, platinum

storage companies, platinum dealerships, platinum reserves, platinum

investment coins. All of it at a price as high as we could push. I was

betting on two thousand dollars an ounce by Friday.

The nice part was, what central bank was going to step in? Platinum was

strategic, sure, but it wasn't a monetary metal. And if we had to bid

against governments, so much the better. We were playing a drunken

speculator's dream, going all out for the most volatile of all the

world's commodities. After we'd squeezed that scam for every ounce it

was worth, we would deliberately puncture the bubble and let the price

nosedive. We were going to destroy the cancer of Dai Nippon by gorging

Noda's takeover machine with financial poison. The eventual collapse

should wipe out Matsuo Noda totally.

Platinum. I asked Jim Bob to check the waning moments of Monday's spot

market, the latest prices down at the NY Merc, and he reported it had

scooted up about twenty dollars an ounce. A little slow maybe, but then

we were just starting out. I figured it would probably double in a

couple of days.

Such was my fond hope as I drifted off for a nap on my desk. Tam was in

Tanaka's office, half-nodding in her chair, while Jim Bob was sitting

before his monitor, still nourishing himself with beer and colored

pills. I gave him the Uzi and told him to help Tam out by keeping an

eye on Tanaka and the two guards, all now sleeping like a baby. My last

vision was of Jim Bob sitting there, the Uzi draped over his wrinkled

white lap, clicking away at the keyboard.

I slept right through Emma's four-o'clock phone call from my office

downtown. When I awoke around nine P.M. Jim Bob mentioned she'd rung.

No message, he said. Then don't worry about it, I mumbled to myself;

get back to her in the morning.

Tam didn't seem to remember the call, which momentarily troubled me.

Had we both been dozing at the helm? Well, who could blame her? In

spite of my own nap I still felt like hell, so I dragged myself up,

stretched, wandered around the office, drank some more green tea, and

inquired of Jim Bob how things seemed to be proceeding.

"Looking good." He grinned. He was now working Hong Kong and the Asian

exchanges, limbering up the satellites as he flashed our (DNI's) money

around the globe. Anybody heard from Henderson? Not a word, he said in

a tone that seemed disconcertingly pat.

I briefly toyed with heading down to the street and trying to locate an

early "bulldog" Times to see what kind of a splash we were making in

the press, but since Tam was now sound asleep, I figured I'd better

stick to duty.

I vaguely recall stumbling into my office to rummage for an old box of

NoDoz stashed somewhere there in the desk, and thinking how nice it

would be just to lean back in the chair. . . .

A phone was jangling in my ear. As I pulled erect, the clock on my desk

was reading ten-thirty--My God, A.M.--and I felt as if I'd been run over

by an eighteen-wheeler. What the hell was in that green tea Tanaka had

been brewing?

Inside the receiver at my ear was Emma, and what she had to say brought

me awake like an ice-cold shower. In a voice

brimming with triumph, she announced she'd just resigned and I could

consider this official notice thereof. In fact, she was price-shopping

Florida condos this very minute--what did I think of Coral Gables?--and I

was lucky she'd bothered to take out time to inform me of her intended

plans. By Wednesday she expected to be able to loan money to the

Rockefellers, in case they should need a little liquidity on short

notice.

How'd you come by this sudden fortune? I asked. Where, she snapped

back, have you been? The Dow Jones average was about to double, if it

hadn't already. Funny, but the rest of the market was going nowhere.

Oddest thing she'd ever seen. However, it only went to show what she'd

always told me, and if I'd listened to her instead of those smarty-

pants uptown brokers, I'd be rich now too. Stick with the blue chips.

IBM was up thirty percent since yesterday, AT&T was flying, GM was

selling for a price that would make you think they were back in the car

business.

What the hell was she talking about! That's when I noticed a copy of

Tuesday's New York Times lying there on my desk, right next to the

phone. Only at first it didn't seem like the Times. Or maybe Punch

Sulzberger had just been swallowed whole by Rupert Murdoch, because I

hadn't seen a headline that arresting since the Posts immortal "Coed

Jogger Slain in Bed." It was banner, right across the top; the Times'

headline writer was practically orgasmic. But whereas the Post gets off

on mere sex, the good gray Times reserves its libidinous juices for

that ageless aphrodisiac, money.

_New York Stock Exchange Prices Explode

NEW YORK--Volume skyrocketed on the floor of the New York Stock Exchange

yesterday, as buyers for Big Board issues responded worldwide to a

renewed confidence in American industry. Analysts are calling this the

first leg of the Great Bull Market of the 1990s, saying this surge has

been overdue for a decade. Leading the phenomenal rally were a number

of America's foremost corporations. . . .

_I came off my chair like a shot and headed for Tam's office. "Is

anybody following what's going on outside?"

Her face was down on the desk, dark hair tousled across her cheeks. She

looked up and rubbed her eyes, obviously knocked out too. Strange.

"What . . . ?" Her voice was slurred.

"Something's gone crazy," I yelled. "Where's Henderson?"

Then I remembered he wasn't there. However, I did locate Jim Bob easily

enough. He was in Noda's corner office, wideawake and still carrying

our Uzi. Only now there were two of those long black automatics

present, the other lying atop the wide teakwood desk.

One more thing. Seated behind that desk, his silver hair framed by the

sunlight streaming through the wide back windows, was . . . Matsuo

Noda.

The Shogun had arrived.

And with him came the dawn of a new, powerful reality. My drugged mind

was flooded with the ramifications. Matsuo Noda, I now realized, had

been on to us from the start. Once again he had used us. He had been

the one who had emptied the office, the better to lure us in.

But the guards . . .

Noda-san, I bow to a true samurai. A swordsman's swordsman. Of course,

it was as simple as it was elegant. You were testing us, allowing us a

plausible opening, just difficult enough to force us to reveal our true

strategy. The dictum of the masters: "If you want to strike your enemy,

let him try to strike you first. The moment he strikes you, you have

already succeeded in striking him." Pure _bushido_.

Everything up till now had only been feints. What I assumed was the

battle turned out to have merely been staking out terrain, jockeying

for position. At last, though, we were ready for the real engagement.

Trouble was, Matsuo Noda had just secured the high ground.

"Come on in and have yourself a seat, Walton." Jim Bob beckoned toward

the vacant chair as he sipped from a glass of California champagne, its

plastic-looking bottle stationed on the floor beside him. Coors time

was over.

"Jim Bob, what's happening with the market?" I was ignoring Noda for

the moment, trying to get a firmer grasp on the new "prevailing

conditions."

"'Bout what we figured," he replied, his white suit now greasy and

wrinkled. "Yep, looks like we're roughly on schedule."

"It's a relief to know there's a timetable." I finally turned to Noda.

"Wouldn't want this takeover to be half-cocked."

"Mr. Walton, if you would be so kind." He smiled and indicated the

chair. "It would be well for you to join us."

Jim Bob waved me over with his Uzi. "Fact is, we're all about due for a

little show and tell." He glanced up as Tarn entered the doorway. "Be a

good idea if you got up to speed on what we're doing here, too."

"I just scrolled some prices," she said, glaring groggily at Noda, the

morbid realization descending rapidly now. "You don't have to tell me

anything. I know exactly what you're doing."

"What we're doing is, we're pulling this country out of the shit.

That's what we're doing. We're saving this country's ass. Which is more

than anybody else here's doing," Jim Bob continued, satisfaction in his

voice. "How in hell did you ever think you could pull something like

you were trying? Mr. Noda here could squash you all just like a june

bug anytime he gets a mind, take my word for it."

Noda still hadn't amplified the new Dai Nippon scenario, but he didn't

really need to bother.

"Jim Bob, don't spoil the fun and tell me. Let me try to guess." I

glanced over at Noda, then back at him. "He suckered you in with his

'Rescue America' spiel. World peace at a price."

"Well, tell you the truth, the man did buy me lunch."

"I'll bet that's not all he did, you opportunistic son of a bitch."

I examined Noda. "How does it feel to have Japan about to be sole owner

of IBM and AT&T and GM and . . . guess I could just check the

supercomputer out there for the full list."

"Certain strategic corporations." Noda smiled benignly. "It had become

the only meaningful direction to proceed, Mr. Walton. I'm afraid our

other measures were clearly too little, too late."

"Why bother with the small fish, right? If you're going to buy up

American technology, do it right."

"Mr. Walton, we both know it is inevitable. Neither you nor I can alter

the tides of history." He sighed. "Perhaps Japan can provide the

management guidance required to save America's industrial base, but it

cannot be achieved merely by dabbling. Stronger measures, much

stronger, were required. I finally came to see that. The problem was

how to do it without a major psychological disruption of the market and

more Japan bashing. Then by the greatest of good fortune, you solved my

problem for me." He nodded toward Tam. "Your new trading program, Dr.

Richardson, which allowed us to operate anonymously, was ideal. Why not

make use of it? Particularly since Mr. Henderson had the personnel to

render it operational."

While digesting that, I returned my attention to Jim Bob. "Let me guess

some more. Ten to one you bought 'call' options on the Big Board issues

he was planning to take over."

"Well, they were bound to go up." He flashed a reptilian grin as he

adjusted the Uzi, now a bolt of black against his rumpled white suit.

"If you're standing by the road and a gravy bus comes along, what are

you going to do?"

"Terrific. Be a pity for this insider windfall to go to waste. Just

wanted to make double sure you got a piece for yourself."

"Does a bear crap in the woods?" he inquired rhetorically, then tipped

back his head and drained the champagne glass.

"Right. So naturally you bought call options on the Blue Chips, locking

in a cheap price just before Noda's money boosted them into the

clouds."

"Safe and simple. Of course, some traders go for index options, S&P

500*s and indicators like that, but that's always been too airy-fairy

for me. When the market's set to head up, I just buy calls. Heavy

leverage. No risk."

I concurred. "Nothing too abstruse."

"The thing of it is, I'm more comfortable dealing with reality," he

went on. "I like to kick the tires, check under the hood, so that index

crap's not my style. Like I always say, if you've got hold of something

you can't figure out how to drink, drive, or screw, maybe you oughta

ask yourself what you're doing with it."

A pragmatic criterion, I agreed. 'Though it's rather a pity you didn't

cut me in on the play. I could have used the money."

"Walton," he replied, "it downright pains me to have to be the one

breakin' the news to you, but you could have used the money more than

you think. Whose bank balances do you figure I've been using to test

out that platinum program?"

"In the spirit of intellectual curiosity, Jim Bob, does our new system

for blowing capital show promise?"

"From the looks of my early churning, I'd say you got yourself a

winner."

The fucker. How in hell did he get access to my money? I decided to

just ask, whereupon he obligingly explained.

"Well, we're hooked into every bank computer in town." He was

unblinking, a drugged-out zombie. "Account numbers aren't exactly a

state secret, given the right phone call. Same goes for trust funds."

Trust funds?

"Let me be sure I've got this straight. You've also wiped out my

daughter Amy's college money? She's now penniless too?"

"We're close, real close." He reached down and retrieved the bottle,

then sloshed more of the cheap bubbly into his glass. "I'm figuring I

can have everything down to a goose egg by sometime round about . . .

lunch, probably."

I decided then and there I was going to kill him, and Matsuo Noda, with

my own bare hands. The only question was whether to do it at that

moment or later.

"Jim Bob, for the record, you two've just fucked with the wrong guy.

When somebody starts messing with Amy's future, I tend to lose my sense

of proportion."

"Nothing personal, Walton. You just had to be stopped, that's all." He

grinned. "Figured it'd get your attention. Besides, way I see it, this

man here's absolutely right. He's got the only answer that makes any

sense."

"As long as sellout artists like you get rich in the process."

"It's in the grand American tradition, buddy. Enlightened self-

interest, better known as looking out for number one. Everybody else

here's hocking this country's assets to Japan and gettin' rich doing

it. So why not? Besides, we've still got a ways to go. Time to give

you-all a piece of this thing too."

"If we play ball?"

"Exactly."

"You greedy prick." I was considering just strangling him on the spot,

nice and uncomplicated. "Noda's not here for anybody but himself. He's--

"

"That's not the way I see it." He glanced over toward The Man, who was

still silent as a sphinx.

"You wouldn't have the brains to understand even if we told you. But

maybe there's something you can comprehend." I glanced at the metal

grip of the Uzi on Noda's desk. One lightning move and it was in my

hand. "I'm not going to let you do this."

"It's already done, pal." He lifted his own Uzi and leveled it at my

forehead, grinning, his little idea of a joke. "I've got that NEC

mainframe out there programmed for weeks of trading. Billions . . .

Pow!" He jerked the barrel upward, then continued, "Way I've got it

rigged, ain't nobody can turn it off now. We'd just as well all go

fishing."

"Jim Bob, take care with that gun. Somebody might just decide to ram it

down your scrawny throat."

"Ain't gonna be you, buddy." He reached for the champagne bottle again,

no longer grinning.

"Mr. Walton." Finally Noda spoke again. "I assure you this is for the

best. What you two were planning was very ill-considered. Not to

mention that, if I'd actually permitted you to sink Dai Nippon's

capital into some volatile commodity and then manipulate the markets,

you might have given our institutional investors an enormous loss of

confidence in my program. I have a responsibility to make sure that

never happens." He studied Tam. "Dr. Richardson, you especially

disappointed me. You betrayed my trust, something I always find

unforgivable."

"You betrayed my trust." She looked ready to explode. "Lied to me,

exploited me, used me. You perverted everything I had planned--"

"As I've explained, this had become necessary. There was no other way."

"How about Ken, and probably Allan Stern?" she interrupted. "Was taking

their lives 'necessary' too?"

"You have no proof of that," he continued smoothly. "I would further

suggest that too much speculation is not a healthy pursuit, Dr.

Richardson. In the marketplace or in life."

"I'm not speculating."

"As you wish. In any case I think we both realize it is never prudent

to meddle in matters beyond one's concern."

"There's a small detail you may have overlooked, Noda-san," I broke in.

"That bogus sword. What are you planning to do when we blow the

whistle?"

"My timetable for Nipponica is now proceeding on schedule, Mr. Walton."

He glanced at the Uzi on the desk, his voice ice. "Consequently you are

expendable as of this moment."

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

_If the swordsman casts aside two thoughts, life and death,

nothing can defeat his mind.

_That was the credo of the formidable warrior-samurai Bokuden, who

lived during the early seventeenth century. Focus on Noda, I told

myself, not on staying alive. What we had to do was overcome him and

the money of Japan by the power of mind. By beating him at his own

game. That was the only way we could win.

As I saw it, we might actually have the advantage. We knew his

strategy, so all we had to do now was move inside his defense

perimeter. In a way we were even closer than he realized. Noda was

obsessed with Nipponica, and a samurai concentrating on his sword is

not able to attack. The thing to remember was rhythm, the beat. We had

to get out of sync with him, disrupt his pacing.

When Tam and I retreated to my office, I noticed that my _katana _was

missing. No surprise, but it didn't really matter. We would be using

the "no sword" technique anyway, moving under his hilt, then going in

for the kill. Jim Bob would be our new weapon.

At the moment Noda's new hatchet man was strolling around the floor in

his dingy white suit, toting his Uzi and monitoring us with an

occasional vacant stare as he watched the terminal's flash. His bumpkin

facade, incidentally, had to be the best acting job I'd seen since the

Royal Shakespeare. He may have been a spaced-out options hustler at

heart, but he could coach Machiavelli on duplicity. A worthy opponent.

"Just hit nine percent of IBM." He glanced at a CRT screen as he ambled

down the row next to my office, swinging the automatic. "Telephone

looks good for twelve percent by

opening bell tomorrow. Good thing we've got a computer and these fake

accounts. Otherwise we might have to cut the SEC in on the news a

little too early."

Well, DNI was nothing if not organized; "global trading" was on a roll.

There would be no way to trace Noda--or to stop him. By the time anybody

realized what was afoot, he'd be well on the way to having us literally

bought out. God knows, Japan had the money.

"Jim Bob," I yelled across. "Mind telling me what the hell it is you

really think you're up to?"

"I'm making history." He grinned and waved his Uzi in the air. "You're

getting to watch the dawn of a new age."

"For your wallet." I beckoned him over. "Tell me something. You didn't

actually sell any of the high-tech stocks on Tam's list after all, did

you?"

"Hell, no." He was still grinning. "All we did was play games a little.

Whenever I sold anything, I just turned around and bought it back a few

minutes later."

"So where's all the money coming from for this big blue chip takeover?"

"We got a whole new financial network in place. Mr. Noda worked it out

with the pension funds over there."

"Well, it seems to me you ought to be doing this thing right. Why think

small? Pick up some more shares of those high-tech issues in the old

portfolio too."

He stared at me with his bloodshot eyes. "How come we'd want to bother

with that?"

"Just thought maybe you'd like to make a score."

"Huh?"

"Besides, down the line it'd probably impress hell out of Noda. The man

admires initiative."

"What was it you said about a score?" He was blinking in erratic

bursts, still flying on uppers.

"Forget it. Just a crazy idea that crossed my mind." I turned and

walked back into the office . . . where Tam was waiting.

"What was that all about?"

"Tam, did you hear what those bastards did?" I was steaming. 'They blew

my daughter's college money."

"I heard."

"Well, it pisses me off like I can't begin to describe."

"I gathered that." She looked at me strangely. "He finally

got to you, didn't he? Noda finally pulled your cork. No more Mr.

Cool."

"You got it, lady."

She continued to study me, and into her eyes crept a kind of affection

I didn't even know they possessed. "Guess that makes two of us, Matt.

He found out how to get to me, and now he's found out the one thing you

care about."

"Guess he did at that."

"Well, now you know how I feel."

"He broke the rules, Tam. That's not part of the game. But do you

understand what this means? Now I'm free to do anything I want. Honor

is out the window."

"This isn't a game."

"You're right. It's a battle. But even battles have rules."

"My God, macho to the end."

"Call it what you want. But I am now going to destroy them both,

totally. Wipe them out. They've given me no choice."

"How exactly do you propose doing that?"

"I made the opening move just now. Next I'm . . . later." I glanced up

to see Jim Bob approaching. He was staring at me, glassy-eyed.

"What was that you were saying a while ago?"

"Don't remember, Jim Bob."

"Something about a score."

"Oh, that. Nothing really."

"Don't start getting cute, Walton." He sighted his Uzi around the

office.

"Nobody screws with you, right?"

"Better believe it, sport."

"Well, I was just wondering, since Noda's tied up at the moment, if you

might want to go ahead and make a little money on the side."

"I'm not doing so bad."

"Fine. Since you're not interested anyway, we can just skip it. No big

deal."

"Hang on a second." His eyes seemed to be trying to focus as he stared

through his gunsights. "What's the play?"

"Merely a wild idea, that's all. I was wondering what would happen if

you bought a few call options on those stocks already in the portfolio,

then boosted the prices on those too?"

"You mean on those high-tech outfits we were supposed to start

selling?"

"Well, the setup's just sitting out there. You've got all that

Japanese pension money and Noda's computer. No reason not to kite those

high-tech issues a little and pick up some pocket change. Fun and games

to while away the time. But then maybe you've already made all you want

to."

"Hey, asshole, there's two things you can't ever get too much of, and

one of them's money." He was rocking mechanically. "Matter of fact,

this action we're generating is driving up the March calls for our new

buys to the point where the price is getting way out of line."

"Had to happen. Everybody else in town has figured out somebody's

driving the market. They're getting on the options bandwagon too,

bidding them up. So why not play a little market shell-game with those

issues already in the portfolio, buy some calls and then kite the price

on them as well? Show Noda a thing or two."

"Kind of stick it to the boss man." He paused.

"Think of it as insurance. Just to make sure you come out of this play

whole. Tell you a secret about Noda. With that guy, you know you've got

a deal when the check clears."

"He's a crafty fucker, grant you."

"You might want to give it some thought. But if you're going to make a

move, it's probably now or never. Be the early bird or forget it."

All this time Tam was looking at me as if I'd gone over the edge. I

began to deeply regret not having filled her in on the fallback

scenario.

The door to Noda's office was now closed, his two guards posted

outside. Guess even a samurai needs some rest and tranquility after

flying halfway around the globe in a chartered Concorde.

"Well, gotta admit it's an idea." Jim Bob continued to weave

unsteadily. His motor mechanisms were now on automatic, along with his

venal corn-pone brain.

"Matt, what in hell are you doing?" Tam was pulling me back into the

office.

"Stay cool. Swordsmanship is like Zen. You can't ever let your mind get

attached to anything. Do that and you're stuck; your mind stays with

the past and makes you neglect what lies ahead. So I figure the best

thing to do here is to adjust to the new 'prevailing conditions.'" I

glanced out at Jim Bob, now just beyond the door and absently humming

some Waylon Jennings tune as he swayed solo.

"Well, I want to know what you're up to."

"Okay, here's the play. While you were setting up your sell-off scheme,

I did some fiddling on my own. Remember back when we started out, I

fast-talked Noda into giving me power of attorney? Well, it finally

paid off. Last week I convened an instant shareholders' meeting for

every company where DNI owns a majority of the stock and personally

voted through a new set of resolutions."

"Mind filling me in on what they were?"

Before I could reply, Jim Bob came dancing in, licking his pale lips.

"Walton, tell you what. Think I'm gonna go for it."

"What?" I looked up.

"That options play. Comes a time you gotta look out for yourself and

fuck everybody."

"That's the kind of thinking made this country what it is today, Jim

Bob. Right on."

"Fuckin' A, baby." He did a quick dance step. "Go for the gold."

"You know, as long as we're at it, how about a little piece of the

action for me too? Nothing big. Just a couple of bucks for old times'

sake."

"Why the hell not!" He let out a whoop as he turned and headed for a

terminal. "Give you sloppy seconds on this one, ace. Just long as I get

first pop."

"Matt, I don't know what you're up to, but I'll kill you if you start

helping him." She looked like she would too.

"You know, you once said you wanted to drive a stake into DNI's heart."

I turned back. "Well, this is your chance. But we've got to get moving

and do it before Noda catches on."

Whereupon we joined Jim Bob in front of his monitor. He was now busy

pulling up quotes for March calls on the Chicago Board Options

Exchange, the CBOE. He checked them over, then got on the phone

directly to the market makers on the floor. When you're operating in

hyperdrive, you don't dawdle around with brokers.

"Jim Bob, while you're doing that, I think I'll just start setting up

the buy orders for the stock. If we want to move prices, we've got to

have coordination."

"Yahoo. Let's kick some ass." He'd just entered a wholly new dimension

of exuberance. "Shit fire and save your matches; fuck a duck and see

what hatches."

My sentiments precisely. I started scrolling up DNI's

portfolio of high-tech securities, looking for the biggies. If things

went as planned, our screwing of Matsuo Noda was definitely going to be

memorable.

Now Jim Bob was chortling quietly to himself as he punched up more

numbers, moving on to bilk options traders on the AMEX.

"Matthew, you'd better finish explaining what you're up to." Tam was

standing behind me, her hand gripping my shoulder.

"Look, we have to do this fast. Switch a beat on Noda, break his

rhythm. Just trust me."

"My favorite word." She didn't move.

"Now"--I pointed to a column of green numbers on the left-hand side of

the screen--"are those the percentage holdings DNI has?"

"Looks correct."

They were about what I remembered. DNI's positions varied from around

fifty percent to the low sixties.

"Okay." I turned to face her. "Which of these do you want to knock out

first? There may not be time to torpedo them all."

"What are you going to do?" She was frowning, but I could tell the idea

had appeal.

"Set dynamite under them. Just blow them sky-high."

"How?"

"Using an obscure corporate anti-takeover tactic not many people know

about yet. Jim Bob's right. We're going to make history. Nobody's ever

done this on the scale you're about to witness. Just pick the stocks

you want detonated first, but please hurry." I shoved a pen and paper

at her, then turned to watch Jim Bob, now dancing around with a phone

in his ear, still buying calls on the old DNI portfolio. "How're we

doing over there, chief?"

"Don't want to push March too hard, tip off the market, so I'm picking

up some Junes too." He yelled my way, "We're going long, baby."

"Jim Bob, I was just wondering. Don't you think you ought to hedge a

little, just in case? Maybe buy a few puts to cover the downside?"

"With the kind of volatility I'm about to goose into this market?

You're starting to sound like some pussy, Walton. Get naked, go native.

Only way to fly." He did a twirl, then a kick. "Just buckle in, dude,

cause I'm gonna take that Jap money and pump my underlying stocks right

into orbit. This play's a lock, taking money from a baby."

"Well, I wasn't blessed with your brand of raw courage, Jim Bob. So

what do you say I do a little hedging for you? We'll be partners. I'll

cover the downside with my own money, assuming I've got any left. I'll

buy a few puts, and then if these stock prices just decide to go crazy

and crash, we can still sell at the current quotes. Protect ourselves

if things head south for some reason."

"Suit yourself. But that's the best way I can think of to piss away

what little 'haircut' you've got left." He was grinning again.

"Guess I'm a masochist. What can I tell you."

While my new "partner" was laying the groundwork for his scam, loading

up on options to buy stocks at today's prices just before he turned

around and shoved enough Japanese money into the market to send them

sky-high, I did the opposite. I got on the phone to various brokers,

including a currently jubilant Sam Kline, and started buying "at the

money" puts in Amy's name.

Jim Bob was betting the market would head up, buying calls; I was

betting it would go down, buying puts. I was laying a wager with

anybody in America who would agree, for my front money, to buy a stock

from me at today's quotes anytime through mid-March, even if the real

price had since dropped to zilch. Which I fully intended to make

happen.

Insider trading? Well . . . yes. You see, I was literally the only man

on earth who actually knew what the stock market was going to do next,

after DNI started buying more of those stocks I'd planted with land

mines. But I was a driven man just then. Maybe I'd go to jail

eventually, but by God Amy would still make college.

Amy. What was she doing today? I wondered. This was, what? Tuesday? So

she must be back at school, probably thinking about lunch. Strawberry

yogurt and a bar of Tiger's Milk "health" candy. God, I loved that

little dark-haired prize more than life itself.

Where were we headed, she and I? Was I going to learn to let go? Maybe

that wasn't going to be the problem, I thought, at least for her. Face

it, I was about to become a fixture, just a stuffy impediment to

nature's raging hormones. She'd already started rehearsing feminine

wiles on me, practicing that coy, downcast glance that didn't quite

break subliminal eye contact. Where did she learn stuff like that? And

she almost had it down cold. Next it'll probably be eye shadow and

colored bras.

Damn. This Christmas was going to be my last real chance to get to know

her, to bore her silly with all my eminently ignorable fatherly advice.

And I blew it. That in itself was enough to make me want to deep-six

Matsuo Noda forever, the bastard. The money I fully planned to recoup;

her thirteenth Christmas was gone forever.

With which somber thought, I returned to buying puts. By the time I'd

finished, Tam had her "death wish" list ready. And Jim Bob was just

wrapping up his new program of call-option acquisition. Now for phase

two.

I strolled over to his monitor, carrying her paper.

"Jim Bob, these might be a good place to start." I tossed the sheet

down beside his keyboard. "Why not just set up a lot of buy orders to

hit the market tomorrow at the opening? Doing it all at once should

drive the prices straight up."

"Right." He leaned back, twitching. "Wonder how much buying it'll

take?"

"Well, why not play it safe? Use the computer and just boost DNI's

high-tech portfolio another . . . oh, five percent, straight across the

board. Every issue. Program it and let her rip. You've already got

Tam's sell setup. All you have to do is turn it around."

"Sounds good to me." Now he was swaying to and fro, humming tonelessly.

"Then let's get rolling. You hit AMEX and the Big Board; Tam and I'll

see if we can't drop orders for a few blocks on Jeffries, the off-

exchange network. We have to make waves at the opening bell tomorrow."

"Hear you talkin'. These issues gotta look like major movers." He was

beaming from ear to ear as he revolved shakily back to his terminal.

"Damn if I don't jus' love screwing the market."

We went to work, and for the next half hour we transmitted buy orders

to the farthest reaches of the globe. Once they were posted, it didn't

matter when they'd be executed. Even if Noda killed us, a hand from the

grave would come back and destroy him. The time bomb I'd set would blow

the minute the SEC tallied up DNI's new holdings. There were about to

be a lot of rich, happy workers in this Land of the Free. But the one

man certain not to be among their number was Matsuo Noda. Speaking of

which . . .

"Mr. Walton, would you kindly explain what you are doing?"

I froze, realizing he was standing directly behind my chair. How long

had he been there? I'd been too absorbed to pay attention. Stupid,

Walton, extremely stupid.

"Tell you the truth, Noda-san." I wheeled around and looked him in the

eye, shielding the screen. "Sometimes you have to make the best of

things. Discretion's the better part of valor, so we're told."

"I'm familiar with the expression." He appeared less than convinced.

"Who knows? Maybe Nipponica is the way to go." We needed time, just a

little more time. "In any case I'm a firm believer in riding the horse

the direction it's going. So I persuaded Jim Bob to buy a few options

for me. Trouble is, the guy's a little tentative on reality just now."

"Decidedly." He glanced over at our mutual friend, now typing away

obliviously, then turned and moved on toward the water cooler next to

my office. Did he believe me? Maybe he actually thought we would just

roll over and give up.

Or possibly Noda was in that unconscious mind-state that goes along

with real mastery in swordsmanship. When a Zen archer discharges an

arrow, his concentration must never be on that shaft. It must be on

nothing. And the same is true with swordsmanship. Your mind must be in

its natural state, empty of distractions. So if Noda allowed himself to

focus on the small stuff right now, he'd forfeit his "no mind" edge.

Well, we were about through anyway. The only thing left was to keep him

occupied just long enough for Jim Bob to finish sending out the last of

our buys.

"The sword was a masterful idea, Noda-san." I got up and walked over to

join him. "How'd you manage it?"

"Mr. Walton, what exactly do you know about the Emperor Antoku's

Imperial Sword?" He sipped from a plastic cup, eyes squinting behind

his rimless specs.

"Probably more than I should."

'Then you will understand its recovery is a turning point in the

history of Japan."

I looked at him and realized he believed it. Actually believed it.

Matsuo Noda had become a legend in his own mind. Why tamper with

perfection?

"Have to admit, too, the idea of using our international bank cover to

gobble up America's blue chips incognito was a stroke of genius.

Congratulations. You're about to scare MITI and the rest of Japan half

to death. Not to mention the world. With DNI heading up the management,

who knows what could happen? You can probably write your own ticket

back home after this."

"Your friend Dr. Henderson's young colleague was invaluable."

Was?

Alas, poor Jim Bob. Did that mean he wasn't going to live long enough

to spend the new fortune he thought he was about to make? Maybe Noda

was planning to do half of my work for me.

"I guess a few of those phone taps you like so much led you straight to

him, right? You were probably at least a day ahead of everything we

did."

"Good intelligence is vital to any successful endeavor, Mr. Walton. You

should remember that from Sun Tzu's classic Art of War."

The man was right on.

"All these dummy corporations." I was still running the stall. "A

little stock bought by each one, the SEC will never suspect. You just

roll trades worldwide, till--"

"As long as necessary."

"Who knows you're doing this?" Was it possible some rogue financier

such as Noda really could pull a fast one on the whole world, use

Japanese institutional money for whatever he pleased? "Have you cleared

this with the fund managers . . . ?"

"It was not necessary, Mr. Walton. I have long since earned the trust

of my colleagues." Again he had a weird look in his eye. Matsuo Noda, I

realized, was currently operating from a distant planet.

Needless to say, our dialogue hadn't done a lot to calm my nervous

system. The obvious solution to Noda's secrecy requirements didn't

include a lengthy life span for a lot of loudmouthed gaijin. Time to

wrap up the stock market games and get back to swordsmanship.

"At this point there's only one problem left, but I suppose

you've already thought of it too. If word of this anonymous takeover

breaks too soon, the exchanges might just decide to shut down trading

and stop you. Which means we're all a threat to you at this point."

He stood unmoving. "That matter will be addressed presently."

How soon, I wondered, was "presently"?

"But haven't you forgotten somebody? Bill Henderson. The man's no fool.

The minute he figures out your play, which he surely will, he's going

to start blowing word all over the newspapers. You'll never get away

with this."

Noda smiled lightly. "It would be helpful if he were here now. Perhaps

you could be good enough to arrange for it."

So with Matsuo Noda standing over me, Uzi next to my head, I called

Henderson on my speakerphone. He picked up after eight rings.

"Bill. Getting rich?"

"Walton, what time is it? Goddam, you woke me up." He yawned into the

receiver. "Jesus, I feel like hell. What's going on? Everything still

looking okay?"

"Couldn't be better. Quite a party around here. Want to come back down

and help us celebrate?"

"Well . . . what the . . . ! It's after eleven already. Hey, let me

check out the market first. Be down there in a little."

I looked up as Noda fingered his Uzi. "Just come on over now. Don't

putz around with the market. We could use the company. And Bill . . ."

"Yeah?"

"This shindig's BYOB. So how about picking up a fifth of Scotch? That

way we can all get into the spirit of things here on the eleventh

floor."

"Walton, that's a hell of a--"

"I know bringing your own booze is not your style. But why don't you

check in with Eddie, the security chief downstairs? He always keeps me

a bottle of Suntory there in the utility room. See him about it."

"That Japanese crap. Matt, what are you talking about? You know I hate--

"

"Just ask for Eddie, Bill." I cut him off. "Tell him Matthew Walton

wants his black label Japanese juice sent up here immediately.

Understand?"

I hung up before Henderson could say anything more.

Such as tell me we both knew there was no such thing as "black label"

Suntory.

"Guess he'll be here shortly." I turned back to Noda.

"He should be here in no time at all, Mr. Walton. Two of my guards have

been posted outside his building since he returned there yesterday. For

his own safety. They will bring him."

With that chilling bit of news Matsuo Noda proceeded to yank out the

phone cord, then head back to his office. The Art of War. You leave

nothing to chance. In fact his two sumo heavies were now standing

outside my office, keeping a close eye on us. Guess he no longer had

full confidence in Jim Bob.

"Tam, did you catch what just happened?" I'd walked back over to the

terminals.

"I did." She was staring into space.

"Henderson was our best hope to get out of here alive. He has a

suspicious mind the equal of Sherlock Holmes's. But now..."

"Matt, what's he going to do to us all?"

"Don't think it'll be pretty."

"Then . . ." She'd turned and was staring at the security entrance,

wearing a quizzical expression.

I wheeled around to look too, and at first I thought I might have been

hallucinating. A female figure was emerging through the doors, wearing

an outfit whose style I couldn't quite place. Maybe it was one of those

bulky creations such as Yohji Yamamoto or some other avant-garde

Japanese designer might dream up, but it didn't resemble anything I'd

ever seen before. Silk like a kimono, yet with a flowing quality.

Ancient almost.

Then I had a vision, just offbeat enough to fit. An ink illustration

out of the The Tale of Genji flashed before my eyes, and I realized I

was seeing a _hakama_, something that hadn't been around the streets of

Japan for roughly eight hundred years.

The woman in it was wearing peculiar makeup, not punk, though it might

have been. It was pale, like the delicate ink shadings on a Heian hand

scroll. She looked for all the world like a court lady of ages past;

she'd have fit right in at some 1185 Heian linked-verse soiree. Old

Kyoto come to life.

Is this the latest neo-New Wave? What in good Christ . . .

The only uncoordinated touch was the handbag, leather and starkly

modern, with a lock attached.

Jim Bob gave her a glazed stare as she moved right past him, headed for

us. The sumo pair was bowing to the floor.

Well, well, the Emperor's most devoted courtier had finally arrived.

Into our presence on this day of days had returned none other than Ms.

Akira Mori. One look at her eyes told me she'd come to kill somebody.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Mr. Walton, where is the silver case?" She'd walked straight up to us

and now was just standing there, awaiting an answer.

"Mori-san, that silver box is long gone, thanks to Noda." I suddenly

felt as if we'd just dropped out of the twentieth century and back into

the twelfth. Time warp. "Let me tell you something. It was like the

apple in the Garden of Eden: bite into it and out would spew the

knowledge of good and evil. Better to forget the whole thing."

"You don't know anything."

"Definite point. We've just discovered there was a heck of a lot we

didn't know." I thumbed toward Noda's office. "Including the scope of

Dai Nippon's impressive new investment program."

She ignored that response entirely as she whirled on Tam, her voice

increasingly strident. "Dr. Richardson, you have betrayed His Majesty."

"Mori-san, you and everybody who's helping Noda are the ones who've

done the betraying." Tam stared her in the eye, daggers.

"Even though you are Fujiwara, you still let him continue," Mori

pressed on, oblivious. "His scheme to manipulate the Emperor, to

undermine MITI--"

"That's got nothing to do with--"

"It is the duty of a Fujiwara to protect His Majesty."

"Speaking of His Majesty," I cut in, "how much did you have to do with

Noda's fake sword? Guess that 'protected' the Emperor too. Nothing like

being handed a new lease on divinity."

"The sword was to be his gift to me." She said it hesitantly. "To

restore--"

"Perhaps we can clarify what it's really intended to restore, Mori-

san," I interrupted again. 'The shogunate, with Noda as--"

She turned on me. "And you helped him too."

"What?"

"You and Asano-san stole the only thing I could have used to stop him.

The contents of that silver case. And then this operation. After I'd

tried to warn you both."

"Mori-san, could be we're all acting under certain misunderstandings

here today. For starters, buying up every American blue chip issue in

sight was not exactly our idea."

She stared at me for a second, disbelieving. "But that is precisely

what you are doing."

"Think again." I pointed toward Noda's office. "That's his game. Helped

along by that sharpshooter over at the console." I waved to Jim Bob,

who toasted us with his champagne glass, still too zonked on uppers to

comprehend the revised ground rules. "Maybe you'd like to run through

it with them."

She seemed to notice him for the first time. "Who is that person?"

"Noda's new hired gun. We've been retired. Without even so much as a

gold watch."

"He is the one responsible?"

"He's good, tell you that. Fooled us all." I settled onto the office

couch. "Noda's got him and this supercomputer. Looks like good-bye

America."

Noda's office door, incidentally, was still firmly closed, so

presumably he wasn't yet aware of Mori's arrival. Were we about to see

history replayed before our very eyes, that fateful battle of Dan-no-

ura staged all over again, eight hundred years later, as a loyal

retainer of the emperor fought to thwart the armed takeover of a would-

be shogun? Wonder who was going to win this time around.

"Mr. Walton, this must be stopped." She was turning the

key on her new leather handbag, unlocking it. "I also insist you return

your copy of the contents of that case. Having that is the only way I

can--"

"Mori-san, not so long ago the contents of that silver box were very

dear to our hearts, which is one reason we took the precaution of

storing a facsimile on the hard-disk memory of the mainframe here. Now,

there are about ten zillion files in that computer, so all you have to

do is figure out what file name we used and you can just run off all

the copies you want." I got up and faced her. "At the moment, though,

there're more pressing worries."

"You are playing with fire, Mr. Walton." She glanced at the computer

room down at the other end of the floor.

"No kidding. This is a tough game we've got going. Maybe you'd like to

get an update from the other team too, Noda and his new crony."

"Are you saying he is the one?" She was pointing toward Jim Bob, who

was now winding up the last dispatch of our new buy orders. I noticed

it was the third time she had inquired.

"Don't take our say-so for it. Go ask him."

Without a word she spun around, leaving a cloud of exquisite floral

perfume in her wake. Tell the truth, I rather liked the designer

outfit, what you might call a real classic. What I didn't care for all

that much were the vibes. Very, very ominous.

As she strode toward Jim Bob, he watched her with an unfocused gaze. He

apparently assumed it was all some costume-party gag. Definitely a

major mistake.

"I am Akira Mori."

Probably by then he no longer knew what he was seeing. He revolved

around, adjusted the Uzi leaning against the console, and extended his

paw.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance. Jim Bob McClinton. You work for Mr.

Noda?"

"In a manner of speaking." She ignored the proffered handshake. "Is it

true you are now in his employ?"

"I was. At the moment, though, I'm taking care of myself, American-

style, if you want to know."

"Whatever you are doing, I hereby order you to terminate all activities

in this office. Immediately."

Jim Bob just stared at her, not quite sure his brain wasn't playing

more tricks. "Well, now, I'd normally like to oblige a

pretty lady like yourself, but I'm afraid I just don't have any

intention of doing that." He grinned, eyes flashing.

"Are you telling me you refuse?"

"You hear real good." He reached down for the Uzi, and his bloodshot

eyes began to blink. "Far as that goes, where I come from we're not

used to takin' orders from cute little twats. So the best thing for you

to do would be to shake your ass out of my way and mind your own

business. Or maybe go talk things over with Noda." He thumbed toward

the office. "In there."

She was opening her handbag, reaching inside.

Jim Bob, I was wanting to yell, this woman is neither "cute" nor

"little." Above all, she is definitely not a "twat." You are now face-

to-face with a world heavyweight ball-breaker. Who may be about to take

that Uzi you're so proud of and tie it around your scrofulous neck.

This game is way over your head. Can't you see where it's headed?

"Matt, what's she doing?" Tam bolted forward. . . .

Sad to say, everybody was too late, including Henderson. By probably no

more than a second or so. I watched Jim Bob swing around his automatic

. . . and then the lights went out. We heard the dull thunk of a

silencer, followed by another, and next the sound of a chair crashing

backward, an Uzi clattering across the floor. It was indeed Dan-no-ura

all over again, only this time the shogun's forces had just taken the

first hit.

But at least Henderson must have eluded Noda's gorillas. How'd he do

it?

Whatever had happened, he'd gotten the message. Suntory black. He'd had

Eddie yank the master switch for the eleventh floor. He "blacked out"

Dai Nippon.

For what good it did. Not much, as things transpired. He'd only cut the

overheads. The computer must have had its own backup power, some

circuit that didn't run through the main utility room. The office was

now eerily illuminated by CRT screens, still buying blue chips. As

usual, Noda had prepared for all eventualities.

Gingerly we inched out onto the floor. Jim Bob was sprawled beside his

console in a spreading pool of blood. Maybe he was still alive. Maybe

not. Tam reached down to check the pulse at his neck.

"It's gone." She looked up, stunned.

Who was next? More to the point, where the hell was Mori?

Then we saw her, moving like a ghostly figure in a _No _play, gliding

through the bizarre lime-colored light of the terminals. We watched as

she disappeared into Noda's office, trailed by the two dumbstruck

guards.

What a standoff, I reflected fleetingly. The would-be shogun versus the

Emperor's number one fan. This time, though, the Imperial side is

hopping mad and loaded for bear. Wonder who'll . . . ?

There was, however, something more important to think about. The next

few seconds could turn everything around. This was hardly the time for

historical meditations. With deliberate haste we might even live long

enough for some history of our own later.

In the dim glow of the screens Tam grabbed Jim Bob's Uzi, and we both

dived for Noda's office. The door, happily, had just slammed shut.

Since it was the kind that opened out, all we had to do was shove a

desk against it and they were contained.

Now, how much time did we have?

"The mainframe." She was staring through the green shadows toward the

glassed-in room that contained the massive NEC. "Matthew, we've got to

shut it down somehow. That's the only way left to stop him."

"Is there an on-off switch?" Who knew how you went about disconnecting

a twenty-million-dollar supercomputer?

"We're about to find out." She led the way.

The entry door was glass, half-inch, and locked. Beyond it stood the

string of six-foot-high modules, off-white and octagonal, lined up like

squat soldiers on flooring elevated about six inches above that

outside. The nerve center of Noda's empire rested there on its

platform, silent and secure.

"Tam, pass me that thing." I reached for the Uzi, turned it around, and

rammed the steel butt against the glass. Then again. It just bounced

off.

"Harder."

"Okay, but stand away."

I hauled back and swing at it with all my might. With a sickening

crunch the glass shattered inward, spewing shards across the icy tiles

inside. An alarm went off somewhere out on the floor, but we just

ignored it. After I'd punched away a few hanging pieces, we stepped in

and up.

I handed back the Uzi. Now what?

"It's freezing in here." She shivered from the cold, then pointed down.

"You know, all the wiring must be underneath this raised floor. There's

no way to even know where the power conduit is, let alone reach it."

"Okay, guess we'll just have to start ripping . . ."

My heart skipped a beat. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I

finally noticed what I should have seen immediately. Lying atop the big

computation module was a thin, four-foot- long bundle, swathed in silk.

So there's where he decided to put it--in the one room that would always

be locked. Or maybe he thought it should be kept in the most powerful

location on the premises.

I reached up and retrieved it, then pulled away the silk. The blade had

just been freshly oiled, and it literally glistened in the dim light.

It was every bit as razor-sharp as the day it had been consecrated

eight hundred years ago at the zenith of samurai metallurgy.

Guess Noda knew a prize when he saw it. And this _katana _was

definitely a one-of-a-kind piece--an Old Sword, _koto_, from the Sanjo

branch of the Yamashiro school of swordsmiths, late Heian. Signed by

Munechika, said to have fashioned samurai swords for the Shogun

Minamoto Yoritomo himself, the man who destroyed the Imperial forces at

Dan-no-ura. No wonder Noda had treated it with special reverence.

"Welcome." I held it up.

"Why do you suppose he put it in here?" She was admiring it too.

"You know, I think I understand. But it's the kind of thing that can't

be explained in words."

"Well, at least you've got it back again. Samson's hair. Are you

pleased?"

"Maybe Noda was trying to tell me something. Send a message. But now

I'm going to send one back."

"Do you really think . . . ?" She was already ahead of

me.

"Guess we're about to find out." I bowed to the blade ritually, then to

the NEC's head-high main processor. "From the first shogun to the

last."

This, I muttered silently, is for Amy. Her answer, Noda- san.

The great masters of swordsmanship all will tell you something very

ironic. If you train for years and years, all your

moves eventually become instinctive; you literally no longer "know"

what you are doing. You become oblivious of your mind, as unknowing,

consciously, of technique as the day you started. Thus the greatest

masters and the rankest beginners actually share something very

similar. Both are totally unaware of technique.

Was I closer to the mindless beginner or the "no mind" master? Friends,

that's one confession you'll need medieval torture to extract.

I will, however, admit to thinking about which stroke to use. There are

several that might have done the job. Of them all, though, the _kesa_

seemed best for some reason. It slices diagonally, from the left

shoulder down and across to the right, and a swordsman pure in spirit

can literally bisect a man, slice him right in half.

As the blade sang through the cold and struck with a ring true as a

bell, I felt nothing, thought nothing.

The hexagonal computation unit standing in front of us wasn't halved,

not even close, but it was severely disoriented. I felt a small tingle

in my fingertips as the sword sailed through the outer steel casing and

severed its first layer of silicon neurons, sending forth a shower of

sparks.

It wasn't dead, but then the sword had some backup. There is a long

tradition in Japanese culture of cooperation, support from others. For

example, in _seppuku_, the ritual disembowelment sometimes called

_hara-kiri_, there is always a second participant who stands behind you

and ceremonially lops off your head as your body topples forward. It is

an honored assignment.

My action may have been satisfying symbolically, but it wouldn't do the

job alone. Fortunately it didn't have to. There was one simple way to

disengage Noda's electronic brain, now and forever. Tam didn't even

hesitate.

For a second there it could have been the Fourth of July. An Uzi

blasting away in the dark is a marvel. I watched spellbound as she

emptied about twenty rounds into the processor bank as well as into

everything else in sight, continuing until smoke started to pour out of

the flooring below, followed by the crackle of electrical shorting.

Then several storage modules began to arc, their high voltage mating in

midair. In moments Noda's NEC supercomputer was transformed into a

shorting, sputtering junk heap.

After that, electrical fires erupted down below, and the linoleum

squares beneath our feet proceeded to heat and buckle. Next, something

flashed somewhere in the dark, and a stack of computer printouts lying

next to the door burst into flame.

Originally I'd planned to retrieve the blade, but then I reflected a

second and decided just to leave it. The sword in the supercomputer. A

six-figure gesture, maybe, but one worth every penny in satisfaction.

Noda would definitely understand.

By the time we made our way back through the shattered glass doorway,

picking a path among the splinters, the fire was already spreading to

the main office.

"Let's get out of here." Tam was still grasping the Uzi.

"Not so fast." I reached for the grip. "You don't get to have all the

fun. How do you operate this thing?"

"Just pull there." She pointed, then raised the muzzle. "Careful. You

might need that foot someday."

I lifted it up and it coughed a burst of flame. The water cooler

outside my office exploded.

"Uh, I think you have to be Chuck Norris to do it like that. On a scale

of one to ten, that round scores down in the fractions. Better aim."

"Spoilsport." But I did. I took critical bead on a leering green

monitor, squeezed, and felt a light kick from the metal stock. Out

blinked one of the dying monster's eyes. Then I methodically took out

half a dozen more workstations, just for the hell of it. Automatic

weapons fire can be great therapy. Not to mention fun.

"Okay for a beginner . . . Matt!" She was pointing at the desk of

Noda's secretary. A phone light had just flashed on. "He's calling in

reinforcements."

"Time to make our not-so-graceful exit."

"Bring the automatic."

"You've got it . . . and, uh, I'm a little embarrassed to ask you for

money, but would you mind grabbing your purse. We may need it."

"You're now broke, right?" She dashed for her office.

"So we're told." I was wrapping the Uzi in some computer printouts that

hadn't yet caught fire. The place was really starting to blaze, thanks

to all the paper. Smoke everywhere.

While she was coming back, I decided to go over and kick

the desk away from Noda's door. Sure it was a risk, but we couldn't let

him burn to death. Or Mori. Besides, we were home free. With the NEC

supercomputer blown to pieces, as well as Jim Bob, there was absolutely

no way Noda could cancel that stack of buy orders we'd seeded all

around the globe. Nothing could stop the bomb.

As we made our way through security, we saw Mori coming out of the

office, choking through the smoke and looking crazed as ever.

Apparently the battle of Dan-no-ura, twentieth-century style, was still

raging. Then Noda appeared in the doorway behind her and just stood

there surveying the blazing ruins of his empire. With his customary

discipline, he appeared totally unperturbed by it all. Not her, though.

She lunged for the remains of the computer room, now billowing smoke

and tongues of fire. The last thing on her mind, apparently, was us.

Which was just as well, because the second we hit the hallway we heard

the elevator chime. It had to be Noda's backup forces. Without a word

we both ducked for the stairwell, and as the metal door slammed behind

us, Tanaka and a host of armed DNI security guards poured off the

elevator like gangbusters. Turns out there'd been a small army poised

downstairs just in case.

They could have the place, what was left of it. My last memory of that

office was a raging torrent of smoke and flame. Nothing remained. This

had to be the grand finale for Dai Nippon and Matsuo Noda. The end.

_Finis_.

Barring unforeseen developments.

CHAPTER THIRTY

When we emerged into the lobby calmly as we could muster, fire engines

were racing up outside, cops were crowded around the elevators, and

Eddie was so frantic yelling about the holocaust up on eleven he didn't

even bother to say hello. We searched in vain for Henderson as we

worked our way through the milling throng, headed for the pay phone in

the corner. Bill had to be somewhere; nobody else would have blacked

out the DNI offices.

My first thought, though, was that we needed to make tracks. The

brouhaha to come would best be handled from the safety of a foreign

shore. Fortunately in my pocket was just enough change for one call,

and as luck would have it, our man was in.

"Sure, Matt, no problem. But this is damned sudden."

"Right now, Patrick. And hurry. Could be the perfect moment for an

extended vacation. How about just sending the car around? Over on

Third, near--"

"That Japanese place you told me you work for?"

"Worked for, Patrick. No more. Just got laid off."

"Hell, I know where they are. It's all over the tube. I'm sitting here

right now watching Jack O'Donnell blow his stack at a press briefing

down in D.C. Wish you could see the guy. It's live on CNN. Is this

thing for real? What was that Dai Nippon outfit trying to do? Buy up

every--"

Incredible. Henderson had really come through.

"Patrick."

"Yeah."

"Fill you in on all the details over a drink someday. Right now,

though, we could really use Charlie and the car ASAP. We'll be waiting

outside."

"We?"

I looked at the smoke-smeared woman standing beside me. "Truthfully,

I'm hoping for some company."

Tam smiled, then reached out and took my hand. Not a word about

"strictly business."

"Okay, Matt, Charlie just walked in. I'll send him straight on over."

"Thanks a million. Owe you a big one."

As we moved on out through the revolving doors, we finally spotted

Henderson, wearing his gray topcoat and mingled in among the crowd on

the sidewalk. The lowest of low profiles. For a second I almost didn't

recognize the man. He looked a wreck, standing there shading his eyes

and squinting up. Then I followed his gaze and realized smoke was

pouring out of the windows on eleven. Seems we'd demolished a little

exterior plate glass, too, along with everything else.

"Bill." I signaled. "Over here."

"Walton, thank God." He waved and pushed our way. "I was worried stiff

you two might still be up there. What in hell happened? Did you just

blow up--"

"Long story. There was a small war, a new one and an old one. But how'd

you get here? Noda said he was having your place watched. A couple of--"

"Yeah, I saw those two apes. They were in my lobby in handcuffs, being

grilled by New York's Finest when I came through. Our doorman figured

they were casing us for a robbery and called the cops. What's Noda

think--I live in a fucking tent? I pay for top security, friend. The

best."

"Anyway, nice work with the lights. Much appreciated. The bad news is,

you might want to get out of town for a while. Maybe go skiing

someplace. The whole thing fell apart. Noda just brought in a whole new

load of funding."

"Hell, I figured that out the minute I saw the Times lying there

outside my door. Only one place the market could be getting this kind

of dough. Tokyo pension funds. So I went back in and called Jack."

"You made the right move, tipping him off."

"Maybe he can get trading shut down. Stop it somehow."

"We stopped it ourselves," Tam interjected, then indicated the paper

bundle in her hands, black metal stock protruding out of one corner.

"God Almighty." He stared around at the policemen racing by, walkie-

talkies chattering. "Where's Jim Bob? I got a good mind to--"

"Your hotshot screwed us, Bill. Noda got to him and bought him off."

"I figured that out too. Little fucker." He grimaced. "Guess I trained

him too well."

"He didn't deserve his payoff. Somebody'd better hustle a medic up

there fast."

"Let them take care of it." He thumbed at the firemen piling off their

trucks, then bent over and pecked Tam on the cheek. "Well, Professor,

it's been short and sweet. Keep 'em honest." He reached for my hand.

"Walton, you know how I hate to travel on short notice, but considering

the situation . . . St. Moritz might be nice for a while."

"Drink some Pear William for us."

"Will do. Best of luck."

"Same to you." I watched him flip up the collar on his coat as he

turned. "Oh, by the way, Bill, one last thing."

"Yeah?" He glanced back.

"Want a little insider information?"

"Wouldn't dream of listening." He returned like a shot.

"Might not be a bad idea to short every high-tech stock DNI currently

holds. There's a finite possibility all hell's going to break loose at

the opening tomorrow."

"What's the story?" He was all ears.

Tam turned to me. "Are you finally going to explain what that scam with

Jim Bob was all about?"

"Well, now there's some time. What I did was sucker him into posting

buy orders for an additional five percent of every company on your kill

list."

"I'm well aware of that." She just continued to stare.

"Which means that when the SEC reports those holdings, it'll trigger

the new provisions their majority stockholder-- with whose power of

attorney I acted with full legal authority--voted last week."

"Which was?"

"It's a little like what's being called a 'tin parachute' these days,

the latest twist on the antitakeover 'poison pill.'"

"Isn't that where managements have their boards vote that a hostile

buyout will trigger big disbursements of a company's assets to the rank

and file? What's that got to do with . . . ?"

"That's the play. Great takeover defense, by the way."

"But Noda had already taken those companies over." She frowned,

puzzling.

"Right. Obviously, nobody's supposed to institute one _after _a

takeover, but that's what Dai Nippon voted to do last Wednesday and

Thursday for every company it owns. The way it's set up now, if the

majority stockholder in any of those companies, which just happens to

be DNI, acquires another four percent or more, all that stockholder's

stock is automatically disbursed to the employees."

"Just like that?"

"Fully legal. Like a 'tin parachute.'"

"But what will . . . ?"

"Let me finish. In my version there're some strings attached. The money

can't be used to just go out and buy Toyotas. I arranged it so that all

the stock will be held in escrow for ten years and used as collateral

for loans specially earmarked to finance expansion and R and D. In

other words the employees are about to become those companies' new bank

partner."

"What in holy hell are you talking about?" Henderson appeared to have

just entered shock. His bloodshot eyes were like saucers. "Noda's piece

of those high-tech outfits is just going to be given to the troops,

then locked up as security for new financing?"

"Bill, try and think of it as a different kind of 'restructuring,' that

grand new corporate scam. But instead of the standard rip-off where

managers entrench themselves by loading up a company with debt and

bribing their shareholders with the money, I turned the whole thing

upside down. Gave the control of those companies to their workers,

who'll now have a stake in dividends and profits."

"Walton, you idiot. Stock prices for those outfits are going to

nosedive the second news of this hits the Street. It'll scare the

institutions shitless. I've never heard anything so crazy."

"Who knows what'll happen? Let the 'supply side' economists try and

figure it out. My guess is we're about to find out if anybody here

still believes in the working man. In any case it can't make things

worse, and it should be great fun to watch. At least American industry

is about to be owned by the people who punch the time clocks. Maybe

working for ourselves instead of investment bankers will help things

get rolling again."

"I don't believe you did this." Tam fell against me laughing. "Do you

realize what it really means? Noda's totally destroyed. He'll have to

sell off that new portfolio of blue chips just to have enough profit to

cover the claims of his original Eight-Hundred-Year-Fund investors.

After this, no Japanese money manager is going to give him a yen. He's

history."

"_Bushido_. When you break the rules, things like that can happen."

"Jesus, I'm not going to screw around short selling. I'm just gonna

load up on puts before the opening tomorrow. You oughta do the same,

Walton. When the Street gets wind of this and all those stocks crater,

you could clear millions." Bill headed briskly up the avenue.

"Stay well." We watched him disappear into the crowd, then started

searching for Charlie Morgan and the car.

Incidentally, the recipient of that phone call wasn't really named

Patrick. Since there are laws about smuggling firearms in and out of

countries, and we damned well were going to take along the Uzi, it

seems only right to give him a pseudonym. His charter outfit, which

works out of that hangar off to the side of the majors at Kennedy,

keeps a Lear that can make the Caribbean in one hop if it's not too

full. He even picks you up in a limo, his come-on for the carriage

trade.

About ten minutes later we saw Charlie working the Rolls around all the

fire engines double-parked on Third and waving for us.

"Good to see you again, Matt." He glanced back as we settled in.

"Christ, you two look terrible. Were you up there?"

"Just left."

"Must have been a hell of a fire from the looks of it." He hit the gas

and made a right turn. "Where to? Straight down Fifth to your place?"

"One quick stop first. Over on West Seventy-eighth."

"The West Side? In this traffic? Come on, Matt. I still haven't had

lunch."

"Just cut through Central Park. Should be a snap."

While he and Tam waited outside the West Side "Free School, I went in

to try and kidnap Amy. It wasn't easy. I finally explained to Ms.

Winters that my daughter's Christmas vacation had merely been delayed a

little this year, but better late than never. After some haggling, we

struck a deal on homework. Then, in a limo piled high with school

books, class projects, lunch boxes, and a black Israeli Uzi, we headed

downtown.

"Dad, you've gone nuts." My only offspring was in heaven.

"Honey, we're going to snorkel for two weeks solid. Think you can stand

the old man for that long?"

"Can we have a Christmas tree? You promised."

"I'll cut it myself."

"And a Christmas party too?"

"Might have to call it something else, but I suppose we can give it a

try. If you keep up on the homework." I looked at her, failing as usual

to understand the movements of her mind. "Sweetie, why do you want to

throw a party? This is supposed to be a vacation."

"Dad, really. Don't you remember that neat boy from Sweden whose

parents have that house across the bay? He was teaching me windsurfing

last summer. He's in junior year now, but if he's there, we've got to

have a party. Don't you understand?"

"Guess we'll have a party."

What can you do? Nobody said you're supposed to win them all.

Bad news, or maybe it was good news, travels with amazing speed in this

day and age. The late edition of the Tuesday New York Post found its

way to the Caribbean on an evening flight, and since it took us a while

to get out of town, it actually reached the Virgin Islands shortly

before we did. However, since we flew directly into St. Croix instead

of the main island of St. Thomas, we missed the delivery.

As it happened, though, an old acquaintance was passing the house that

night on a personal mission, and he was kind enough to drop off Rupert

Murdoch's Tuesday contribution to journalism.

The time was around ten P.M. Amy was sound asleep, conked out from

twilight windsurfing, and Tam and I were working on a pitcher of

planter's punch by the pool when there came the sound of honking out

front. I went in and unlocked the entry, then peeked out to see who it

was. The red, white, and blue jeep belonged to none other than Artie

Wilson, dressed to the nines.

"Walton, my man, you done gone and got yourself famous." He grinned

with delight, then threw a rolled-up newspaper toward the door. "Tole

you it'd be yo' ass."

"Artie, what in hell. Turn that thing off and come in for a drink.

Somebody I want you to meet."

"Hey, late for a reception at that new place down the beach. Think all

them hot New York divorcees jus' come down here for nothing but

sunshine an' vitamin D? Gotta keep the tourists satisfied." He revved

his engine and began backing out of the drive. "Tomorrow, maybe, Feds

ain't nailed yo' honkie butt by then."

With which enigmatic pronouncement he sped into the humid night.

I picked up the bundle, then snapped on the yard lights and strolled

back out where Tam was sitting, still wearing her pool robe. What was

Artie talking about?

As I settled down beside her and unrolled the paper, staring back at us

from the front page were two very familiar faces.

"Off one of my book jackets," she said. "I never much cared for it."

"Mine's from their photo morgue, during some takeover circus."

Guess we should have been keeping closer tabs on the news. Seems that

Matsuo Noda, president of Dai Nippon, Int., had held a press conference

mid-afternoon Tuesday to refute all the misinformation being spread by

Senator Jack O'Donnell. As he claimed, it was actually two Americans,

former employees of DNI, who had been responsible for Dai Nippon's

secret hostile takeover of the U.S.'s largest corporations. He made

this point to dispute Senator O'Donnell's assertion that they had been

the ones who'd stopped it. (See photo, page 1.) He went on to apologize

for what apparently had been a severe communications mix-up within DNI,

which brought about this unauthorized action, and he was pleased to

report he personally had taken steps to terminate the buy-up this very

morning, as of 11:53 A.M.

Run that whopper by Jack's subcommittee, Noda-san.

There was more. Seems the body of an unidentified male--young,

Caucasian, and badly burned--had been recovered by firemen on the

eleventh floor of DNI's offices. Noda had no idea who this person was,

perhaps a misfortunate prowler. . . .

"Matt, look!" She was pointing at a paragraph on the lower half of the

page.

There'd been a second casualty, although not as serious. The well-known

Japanese financial commentator Akira Mori had been borne, unconscious,

from the premises. Acute smoke inhalation. As of press time she was in

intensive care at Mt. Sinai Hospital.

"We saw her come out of the office. It was pretty smoky by then, but

how could . . . ?"

The answer followed. Firemen reportedly had discovered her in the

computer room near the mainframe's burned-out storage banks.

Speculation was she had been attempting to save the hard disks, the

vital DNI files.

"Mori wasn't trying to save anything." Tam tossed down the paper. "She

wanted to make sure all the disks were destroyed.

To protect the Emperor from a scandal over Noda's sword hoax."

"Another victim for the Imperial sword." I looked up at the starry sky,

a mosaic of silver and black as the Milky Way floated above us. The

night air was symphonic with the sound of crickets. "How many more?"

Then she retrieved the _Post_ and we finished the item. After Noda's

prepared statement there'd been a Q&A--during which he reaffirmed his

intention to use all available means to block Senator O'Donnell's

subpoena of DNI's remaining records, an action he declared confiscatory

and groundless. Privileged information, etc.

He did, however, manage to wrap things up on a forward- looking note.

Today's unfortunate, indeed tragic, accidental fire should be

understood as merely a momentary setback. Nothing that had happened

would in any way diminish his program of capital infusion and open-

market acquisition in America's high-tech sector. Wall Street need not

worry; Senator O'Donnell's "harassment" notwithstanding, Dai Nippon's

money was here to stay. We were now partners. His grand new alliance,

Nipponica, would shape the world to come.

"That's what he thinks." She laughed. "Wait till he wakes up tomorrow

and discovers he just donated all his high-tech acquisitions to their

employees. Don't think that fits the big strategy. One thing, though,

America's overpaid, golf-playing senior executives could have some wild

and woolly board meetings ahead."

"Life's full of surprises." I pulled her over and slipped my arm

around.

"And the biggest one for me, this week at least, has been you." She

turned and kissed me softly on the mouth, then again. My heart skipped.

Whereupon she abruptly rose and dove headfirst into the pool. Without

her suit.

Looked to be a second chance coming up this year, for us all.

AFTERWORD

Contemporary tales of technology and economics engage a moving target,

which means they must necessarily include an element of forecasting.

Inventing the world to come is always more an art than a science, and

the results can never be precise. Trends, however, do have a way of

continuing. Sometimes, in fact, you look into the crystal ball and hope

what you see never happens. This fable is offered in that spirit.

Those who have critiqued this manuscript all or in part include agent,

editors, and friends. Special thanks are due, in alphabetical order, to

Virginia Barber, Susan and Norman Feinstein, Joanna Field, Linda Grey,

Joyce Hawley, Fred Klein, and, perhaps most importantly, Gary Prideaux,

who introduced this writer to the magic of Japan two decades ago.

Others who were kind enough to offer suggestions include N. R.

Kleinfield, Pamela McCorduck, Ellen Solomon, Anna Stern, Karen Sunde,

Christopher Martin, Eric Allison, Susan Stoller, Michael Cavallo,

Makiko and Kazuyoshi Morikawa, Jim Piper, Tim Richards, Paul Bove, Eric

Bove, Charles Gordon, Janet Miller, David Palmer, Arthur Blatt, and

Malcolm Bosse. If this story succeeds in any measure, it is because of

them. Its faults are the author's alone.

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

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