The Miko - 02 (7 page)

“What you must try to understand,” Sato said calmly, “is that historically it’s a difficult position for us to be in. Japan has not nearly the space and, er, elbow room attendant with what the United States has. There is, therefore, quite a different attitude toward foreign companies who want a slice of the Japanese pie.”

“But that’s just it,” Tomkin said angrily. “I’m not interested in Japan. Last year the big three U.S. supercomputer companies sold only two mainframes to Japan out of a total output of sixty-five. It’s the
world
market I’m thinking of. And so should you. You’re so busy erecting what you call ‘safeguards’ to your business that you’ve all got a severe case of tunnel vision.

“These so-called safeguards are nothing more than barriers to international trade.” He was just beginning to hit his stride now. “I think it’s high time Japan came out of its global infancy and owned up to its responsibilities as a nation of the world.”

Nangi appeared unruffled. “If, as you say, these safeguards were precipitously withdrawn, the effect on the Japanese economy would be disastrous. But beyond that, the overall effect on American imports into this country would increase by no more than—uhm—eight hundred million dollars. Even you, Mr. Tomkin, can see that would hardly be a drop in the bucket in solving your country’s massive trade deficit.”

“I think you guys’d better wise up,” Tomkin said, his face beginning to flush around the jowls. “Your reactionary insular trade policies’re beginning to isolate you from the rest of the world community. You’re much too dependent on foreign energy sources to allow that. Stop flooding our market with your products while hindering our own from sale here, or you’re likely to become prosperous orphans in the international arena.”

“Why must the Japanese be constantly castigated,” Nangi said, “for manufacturing superior products. We have no armhold on your American public; no one has made them buy our products. The simple—and for you sad—fact is we make things better and more cheaply. Americans trust our know-how more than they do the advances of their own companies.”

But Tomkin was far from finished. “Right now,” he said softly, “Sato Petrochemicals is not one of the six major Japanese computer firms. It is my understanding that you are looking for an entree into that charmed circle.

“Sphynx’s non-volatile RAM is your key. My sources tell me that MITI has ordered a project meant for completion by 1990: a machine capable of performing ten billion operations a second, which would make it a hundred times faster than the state-of-the-art supercomputer Cray Research currently has on the market. MITI has allocated up to two hundred million dollars a year for the project.”

He paused. Neither of the Japanese had made a move, and Tomkin knew he had scored with them.

“Further,” he said, “we know of another ministry-financed project to build a supercomputer capable of understanding human speech, making it incredibly easy to use.” He laced his fingers together. “Now let’s get down to the bottom line, which is that our non-volatile RAM would give Sato the edge in
both
projects. MITI would be forced to come to you for help, and that would mean the big six over here would become the big seven.”

He looked from one foreign face to another; one bleak, forbidding countenance to the next. They’re just businessmen, he told himself. Nothing more. Nangi said nothing, which, in Tomkin’s opinion, was a giant step forward.

“Proposals and counterproposals must not be made in haste,” Sato said. “The war is often lost through the impulsiveness of an intemperate nature. As Sun Tzu so wisely tells us, ‘When the strike of a hawk breaks the body of its prey, it is because of timing.’”

He stood up and bowed as Nicholas and Tomkin rose automatically. Nangi rose awkwardly, stood swaying slightly. “At tomorrow afternoon’s meeting,” Sato continued, “we will discuss this further when associates and legal counsel are all present to add their wisdom to our own. For now, I would hope you will find time to enjoy our city.” They murmured their assent and he said, “Good. My car will be at the Okura at two
P.M.
tomorrow to bring you here.”

He bowed again, formally, and Nangi did the same. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen. I wish you a restful evening.” Then he took Nangi out of the room before another word could be spoken.

“That goddamned sonuvabitch Nangi.” Tomkin paced his hotel room. “Why didn’t my people brief me about him?” Back and forth while Nicholas watched. “That bombshell he laid on us about having been a MITI vice-minister, Christ. Do you think he’ll actually block the merger?”

Nicholas ignored Tomkin’s agitated state.

Tomkin answered his own question. “I know he’s for sure gonna try to sweeten their percentage.”

Nicholas had picked up a large square buff envelope off the writing desk. He flicked its stiff corner with a fingernail.

“Stop playing and tell me what you think, goddamn it.”

Nicholas looked up. “Patience, Tomkin,” he said softly. “I told you in the beginning that pulling this merger off would require patience—perhaps more patience than you have.”

“Bullshit!” Tomkin came over to where Nicholas was standing. His eyes narrowed. “You saying they’re outmaneuvering me?”

Nicholas nodded. “Trying to, at least. The Japanese are never open about negotiation. They won’t come to terms until the very last instant because they’re looking to see what will happen in the interim. Nine out of ten times, they feel, something will occur to their benefit. So until then, they’ll do their best to keep us off balance.”

“You mean like Nangi,” Tomkin said thoughtfully. “Put a fox in the henhouse.”

“And see what evolves.” Nicholas nodded again. “Quite right. Perhaps, they reasoned, the friction would bring out your real anxiety in making the deal and they could negotiate better terms tomorrow or Monday.” He tapped the envelope against his finger. “The Japanese knew that you never come to a negotiation showing your true nature. To deal effectively with you, they must find this out. It’s called To Move the Shade. It’s from the warrior Miyamoto Musashi’s guide to strategy. He wrote it in 1645 but all good Japanese businessmen apply his principles to their business practices.”

“To Move the Shade,” Tomkin said thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“When you cannot see your opponent’s true spirit, you make a quick decisive feint attack. As Musashi writes, he will then show his long sword—today we can transform that into meaning his negotiation spirit—thinking he has seen your spirit. But you have shown him nothing of value and he has instead revealed his inner strategy to you.”

“And that’s just what happened a few minutes ago with Sato and Nangi?”

Nicholas shrugged. “That depends on how much they actually drew you out.”

Tomkin touched the tips of his fingers to his temple. “Well, it doesn’t matter worth a damn,” he said a little breathily. “I have you, Nick, and between us we’re gonna squeeze these bastards into the box I have waiting for them—Musashi’s strategy or not.”

“Like the disparity in profit figures?” Nicholas said sardonically. “You told me Sphynx’s share would come to a hundred million but the figures you gave Sato indicate that Sphynx and the Sato
kobun
will be splitting a hundred and fifty million between them.”

“Ah, what’s fifty mil more or less,” Tomkin said, massaging his temple with some force. He grimaced. “Goddamn migraines.” He looked at Nicholas wearily. “My doctor says it’s purely a product of the world I live in.” He made a rueful smile. “You know what he prescribed? A permanent Palm Springs vacation. He wants me to rot by the side of a pool like the rest of those flyblown palms.” He winced at the pain. “But he ought to know, all right. He’s writing a book called
Fifteen Ways to a Migraine-Free Life.
He thinks it’s going to be a bestseller. ‘Everyone gets migraines these days,’ he says. ‘God bless stress.’”

Tomkin went and sat down on the edge of the plush sofa. He opened the small refrigerator just beyond, poured himself a drink. “What’ve you got there?”

“It’s a hand-delivered invitation. I got one as well.”

Tomkin put down his drink. “Let’s see it.” He tore open the flap, pulled out a stiff, engraved card. “It’s in goddamned
kanji
,” he said angrily, pushing it back at Nicholas. “What’s it say?”

“You and I, it seems, are invited to Sato’s wedding. It’s on Saturday.”

Tomkin grunted, downed the remainder of his drink in one gulp. “Christ,” he murmured, “just what we need now.” He looked up as he poured himself another. “How about you?”

Nicholas shook his head and Tomkin shrugged. “Just trying to get your liver in shape. These sonsabitches drink their Suntory Scotch like it was water. You go out with them of an evening, you’d better be prepared for the onslaught.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Nicholas said coldly. “I’m well aware of their habits.”

“Sure, sure,” Tomkin said. “Just trying to be friendly. You did all right on the battlefield with those two jokers.” He gestured with his glass. “You speak to Justine yet?”

Nicholas shook his head. “She didn’t want me to take this trip at all.”

“Well, that’s only natural. I’m sure she’s missing you.”

Nicholas watched Tomkin wade through his second Scotch on the rocks and wondered if that was an antidote to his migraines. “It’s more than that,” he said slowly. “When Saigō got to her he used
saiminjutsu
on her, a little-known art even among ninja.”

“A kind of hypnosis, wasn’t it?”

“In a way, in Western terms. But it went way beyond that.” He sat down next to Tomkin. “She tried to kill me. It was the hypnotic suggestion Saigō planted within her, but still.” He shook his head. “My healing broke the
saiminjutsu
spell, but the deep remorse she feels…I was not able to erase.”

“She blames herself? But it’s not her fault!”

“How many times have I assured her of that.”

Tomkin swirled the dregs of his drink around and around. “She’s a tough one. Take it from me, I know. She’ll get over it.”

Nicholas was thinking of how badly Justine had taken his decision to work for her father. Her bitterness toward what she saw as her father’s manipulation of her life up until just several years ago was understandable to him. They were, he felt, two people unable to communicate with each other. Tomkin had expected certain things from her and, not finding them, had reacted in his typical overbearing manner. Justine simply could not forgive him for his various intrusions into her life.

Repeatedly he had used bribes or threats to discourage a succession of boyfriends. “My father’s a master manipulator, Nick,” she had told him over and over again. “He’s a bastard without a heart or a conscience. He’s never cared about anyone but himself, not me, certainly not Gelda; not even my mother.”

Yet, Nicholas knew, Justine was blind to the kind of men she had been attracted to. They had been manipulators all—far worse than her father ever had been. No wonder Tomkin had been so hostile toward him when they had first met. He naturally assumed that Nicholas was another in the long line bent on using his daughter.

It was impossible to make Justine see that it was his very love for her that obliged him to interfere in an area that, up until now, she had been unable to handle. This did not absolve Tomkin, but it seemed a realistic starting point for the two of them to come together and possibly understand each other.

The tirade that had followed Nicholas’ announcement of his going to work for Tomkin Industries, if only temporarily, had been followed by days of uncomfortable silence; Justine had simply not wanted to talk about it further. But in the last days before his departure it had seemed to Nicholas as if she had relented a bit, and was more at ease with his decision. “After all,” she had said as she saw him off, “it’s only for a while, isn’t it?”

“What?” he said now, setting his concern for her back in its niche in the shadows of his mind.

“I asked who Sato’s marrying,” Tomkin said.

Nicholas looked down at the invitation. “A woman named Akiko Ofuda. Do you know anything about her?”

Tomkin shook his head.

“She’s the newest major interest in your partner’s life,” Nicholas said seriously. “I think it’s time you thought about hiring a new team of researchers.”

With great difficulty Tanzan Nangi turned fully around. At his back the snow-clad slopes of Fuji-yama were fast disappearing into a vast golden haze the consistency of bisque. Tokyo buzzed at his feet like a giant
pachinko
machine.

“I don’t like him,” he said, his voice like chalk scraping a blackboard.

“Tomkin?”

Nangi arched an eyebrow as he extracted a cigarette from its case. “You know very well whom I mean.”

Sato gave him a benevolent smile. “Of course you don’t, my friend. Isn’t that why you assigned Miss Yoshida—a
woman
—to meet them at the airport? Tell me which Japanese business associate of ours you would have insulted in that fashion. None, I can tell you! You even disapprove of the amount of responsibility I accord her here because it is, as you say, man’s province, and not the traditional way.”

“You have always run this
kobun
as you have seen fit. I begrudge you nothing, as you know quite well. But as for these
iteki,
I saw no earthly reason why we should lose valuable man-hours by reassigning an upper-echelon executive for their convenience.”

“Oh, yes,” Sato said. “Tomkin is a
gaijin
and Nicholas Linnear is something far worse to you. He’s only half Oriental. And then it has never been determined to anyone’s satisfaction how much of that is Japanese.”

“Are you saying that I am a racist?” Nangi said, blowing out smoke.

“Not in the least.” Sato sat back in his swivel chair. “Merely a patriot.” He shrugged. “But in the end what does Cheong Linnear’s lineage mean to us?”

“It’s a potential lever.” Nangi’s odd triangular eyes blazed with a dark light. “We are going to need every weapon in our arsenal to bring down these brash
iteki
—these barbarians who think of us as so much rice they can gobble up.” Nangi’s shoulders quivered at odd moments as if they had a will of their own. “Do you think it means anything to me that his father was Colonel Linnear, the ‘round-eyed savior of Japan’?” His face screwed up in contempt. “How could any
iteki
feel for us, Seiichi, tell me that.”