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.
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."