The Kaisho (50 page)

“I don’t feel an overabundance of distress at his passing,” Kozo said as he circled the pool like a cat waiting for his moment to pounce. “I felt he had gained too much power. I had always held that the Kaisho was just another way to usurp power. We
oyabun
have always ironed out our differences at council.” He peered into the depths of the pool, at his prized collection. He placed one finger in the water, perhaps testing the temperature. “Yes, there was the occasional disagreement. But war and bloodshed, history has shown, invokes a positive influence on mankind. Survival of the fittest, that should be the Yakuza motto,
neh?”
He giggled like a child. He wiped his hands. They were preternaturally large; Nangi had the odd, fleeting thought that they had come from some American lumberjack and had been grafted onto Kozo’s wrists.

Kozo stopped abruptly, looked up at Nangi, as if remembering he was there. “The advent of the Kaisho changed all that. The power that had been the council’s flowed to one man: Mikio Okami. That kind of concentration of power too often brings with it its own peril.” He put his hands behind his back, nodded. “The management of power, there’s the riddle that has baffled mankind throughout the ages,
neh?”

Nangi stood, his feet apart, slightly braced, his hands wrapped around the dragon’s head of his cane. He had been offered neither a seat nor tea. This was Tomoo Kozo’s way: interview by intimidation.

Kozo shrugged now. “Perhaps Okami-san received a message. Who knows?” He took his hands from behind his back, rubbed them together. “In any event, I have a message for
you,
Nangi-san.”

“Is it from you?”

“From me?” Kozo appeared startled. “Nangi-san, I am merely the humble messenger.”

“Then you have used curious means to bring us together.” Nangi was watching the men who had brought him here, stationed in the shadows at the corners of the room. He did not yet know how hostile Kozo might become, but the fact that Okami was missing, perhaps dead, was a very bad sign. “You could have phoned me.”

“Phoned you?” The small man giggled again, a high, disconcerting sound. “But, oh, no, that would not have done. We don’t publicize our relationships, do we? And then, of course, there is my principal, for whom the tightest security is of the utmost importance.”

“And who might that be?” Nangi said.

“Do you not recognize us?” said a voice.

Nangi became aware of a figure moving out of the shadows toward the ellipse of filtered light generated through the skylight.

In a moment, a slight man with the ramrod-straight bearing of a military officer pierced the curtain of light, which, falling upon him from above, gave him a rather frightening mien.

“Ushiba-san,” Nangi said in a hushed voice.

Naohiro Ushiba bowed slightly, a man in his midforties, fit and hard, with a face that could only be called beautiful. In other cultures he might be described as effeminate and therefore be an object of derision. In Japan, the opposite was true. There was, in fact, a history of Japanese heroes, known as
bishonen,
young Adonises, who were invariably taken under the wing of an older protector.

As like a
bishonen
as he was in many ways, Naohiro Ushiba needed no older protector. Though it was true that in Japanese society power resided in the aggregate rather than the individual, perhaps Ushiba was the exception that proved the rule.

He was Daijin, chief minister of MITI, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry, the controlling and coordinating body for all of Japan’s export policies, for which Nangi himself had worked many years ago before “retiring” from the bureaucracy into the business sector.

Against Kozo’s unconventionality, Ushiba’s almost painfully austere formality was striking indeed. He was dressed in a black silk-and-wool suit, polished black wingtips. Against this background, his snow-white shirt positively glowed, and his tie, a stylized black-and-white spiral with a dot of red near the bottom, set off everything around it. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut close to his temples, almost straight across the top.

And then there was his beautiful face, graceful as a girl’s, with no sharp edge or heavy plane to mar the almost fragile whole. The full lips, the curving cheek, the sculpted nose, the heart-shaped jawline, the long-lashed, wide-apart eyes, all contributed to the curious sense of beauty that transcended gender.

“There are those in MITI who still speak of your many accomplishments, Nangi-san,” Ushiba said carefully, “though those occurred many years ago.”

It was just like Ushiba, Nangi thought, to couch a rebuke inside a compliment.
Watch out, old man,
he was saying.
I know you were clever, but that was a long time ago.

“I am grateful that something I did has stood the test of time.” Only Nangi himself knew his smile was artificial.

“We often think of contacting you,” Ushiba said from across the expanse of the glittering
koi
pond, “for a quiet lunch somewhere out of the way”—he shrugged—“but our schedule is so impossible, well”—he smiled in the Japanese manner, without showing his teeth—“perhaps you have forgotten what life inside was like.”

The insult was like a blow across Nangi’s face. He kept his composure, however, for he knew to have this man as an enemy could be an insurmountable obstacle to his business.

“Once inside,” Nangi said, his voice neutral, “one never forgets.” His smile matched Ushiba’s. “There will come a day, I have no doubt, when the Daijin will understand better than he does now. I was in your position, once, and I can tell you from experience that there is ignorance inside, as well as out.”

Ushiba’s smile widened an inch, and his beautiful head dipped just slightly in recognition of Nangi’s cleverly barbed reply.
Perhaps he is not my enemy after all,
Nangi thought. But then he saw Kozo staring fixedly down into the depths of his
koi
pond and he was not heartened.

“We can only agree,” Ushiba said, his smile stitched to his face, “if only because we must deal with such ignorance every day.” Like a star in a film production, the Daijin had chosen his key light well. Flushed with the sunlight streaming down through the lens of the skylight, he stood out in the dim atmosphere of this strange, disturbing room.

“We have much to discuss,” Ushiba continued, his lips pursed. “About the Hive Computer, which is so important to us, and the reasons for its being stalled. About charges of the most serious nature being leveled against your company and, especially, Linnear-san.”

It was as if he were deliberately thrusting himself into Nangi’s full attention, and Nangi was instantly suspicious. He continued to listen to Ushiba while keeping Kozo well within the range of his peripheral vision, because he believed now that the
oyabun’s
reactions could tell him far more about what was happening here than the chief minister’s words.

“We find all of this utterly distasteful,” Ushiba said with all the pain of a teenage girl who has been jilted by her lover. “Disgraceful, actually. We had counted on Linnear to obtain for Sato the contract for the American Hive Computer and then absorb Hyrotech-inc. A coup for Japan, in the area of international public relations as well as technological advance. Now, however, we must begin to formulate other plans—without the inclusion of Sato.”

“But Linnear-san has done all that and more,” Nangi said.

“Then why has the United States government blocked Sato’s attempt to buy Hyrotech-inc? Why has your American representative, Harley Gaunt, been subpoenaed by the most powerful and feared congressional committee to answer charges of illegal business practices and treason? Why is Linnear himself currently in hiding so that he will not himself be served with a subpoena?” Ushiba moved his beautiful head from side to side. “These are questions of the most serious nature, Nangi-san. They cannot be made to disappear with a few clever sentences.”

“Linnear-san is not in hiding,” Nangi said, knowing his words seemed as transparent as paper.

“No?” Ushiba skewed his head around, and sunlight flooded across his face.

“His journey out of the country is entirely unrelated to the American subpoena.” Nangi knew that no one would believe this now.

“Ah, I am heartened to learn this fact, Nangi-san. Tell me, where is he? Do you know? Can you present him to me today, tonight, tomorrow, even the day after that?” He grunted. “How could you? Elements of the American government have been looking for him ever since your office responded to their subpoena.” A look of satisfaction made his face effervescent—a girl with her new boyfriend, crossing paths with her old beau. “Ah, yes, they have been keeping us fully informed of their enquiries. Why not? I am certain their congressional committee will want our cooperation in their investigation of Sato-Tomkin, and I am fully prepared to give it to them.”

The light put a crease in Ushiba’s features, making it seem more than ever a two-dimensional paradigm, an illustration in some glossy fashion magazine. “You see, Nangi-san, we are in the midst of an exceedingly delicate game of perception with the United States, and it is one we are determined to win. If, to do so, we are obliged to sacrifice a pawn here or there—or even a rook or a bishop—we will do just that.

“At this moment, Sato-Tomkin and Nicholas Linnear are what the Americans want to tear down. We will say, ‘Let them.’ And why not? Sato has disappointed us. It has turned a potential coup into a full-fledged disaster.”

“You’re ignoring what is really happening behind the scenes,” Nangi said rather more desperately than he wanted. “Linnear-san believes that the U.S. government—”

“None of that concerns me,” the Daijin said flatly. “This is strictly a matter of perception. We must avoid at all costs any negative repercussions with the Americans.”

The chief minister struck a pose, as if news cameras were trained on his face. Beside him, Kozo had found a fascinating
koi
to hold his attention fast. “Public relations, Nangi-san, is a game we have come into late in the day. But it is a game we mean to master in the quickest possible order. Whatever has to be done to make this possible will be done, believe me. In fact, it is being done, even as we speak. The American senator Rance Bane is receiving all the dossiers he has requested from us, and we are transferring them in the most public manner.” Ushiba raised a hand. “Photo ops are primary to our strategy. The more open and helpful we are with the senator, the more wind we take out of his anti-Japanese sail while showing the entire world how we have changed.”

Nangi was appalled. His blood ran cold at the thought of what the Daijin—all of Japan—was in the process of doing to him and to Nicholas. “So you’re throwing my company—my entire life—to the dogs.” It was a pathetic statement, so impotent it filled Nangi with disgust and self-loathing.

Ushiba must have caught a whiff of that. “How bitter you sound, Nangi-san. But of course we will take care of you. You are an ex-minister of MITI, after all, you have been one of us. Linnear, however, is another story.”

The Daijin was an exemplar of icy calm, the eye of the cyclone that swung out from him, extending its wicked arms to smash Nangi, Nicholas, and all they held dear into shards. And with a sinking heart, Nangi knew there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it. Still, he knew he must try.

“What has Linnear-san done to deserve this grossly unjust fate? He has fought many times, taken on great personal risk against the enemies of Japan, both in the United States and in Russia.”

“We are aware,” Ushiba said. “And there are those inside who have fought to try to save him, in memory of his father—and what he has done. But in the end, the present must overweigh the past. This is our judgment.”

Nangi was filled with a sudden dread. He had a presentiment that they had now come to the core, the real reason Ushiba had sent for him in such humiliating fashion. “The present. What do you mean?”

“We are speaking now of the Chi Project, the secret program, the brainchild of Linnear-san. It is up and running, Nangi-san, without your knowledge. Its products have been built and assembled in Sato’s own Saigon facilities, and your own man, Vincent Tinh, has quite quietly been selling them to the highest bidder for several months now.”

Nangi felt his heart lurch. The Daijin knew of the Chi prototype. “I know nothing of this.”

“Unfortunately, there’s more,” the Daijin said coldly. “The Chi technology has turned up in a new generation of computer-controlled guided missiles bound for Iraq, Syria, and Afghanistan. Thanks to the Chi technology, these new weapons of war your company is selling are able to think, to outmaneuver the cleverest evasive action by even the fastest target.”

Nangi opened his mouth to say something, but not one word emerged. This was news of the very worst kind.

Ushiba’s line of reasoning was inexorable. “The Chi Project is directed by Linnear; that fact has been highly publicized. Now you can see how sacrificing Linnear to Bane and his committee will be of extraordinary psychological and public-relations use to us. He is, when we stop to think about it, the perfect scapegoat, and we shall ride him all the way down until he disappears from sight, digested by Senator Bane and his very nasty committee.”

Holding the .38-caliber handgun, Harley Gaunt recalled the times his father would take him hunting. Crisp autumn weekends, the smell of wood smoke and burning leaves in his nostrils, the rustling peacefulness of the forest in the Virginia hills, the golds, bitter oranges, ochers, in the trees and underfoot, a sweet odor emanating from the springy forest floor that his father once told him was decay.

Manny Mannheim, a fat, balding man with a two-day growth peppering his jowls, and trousers so low the top of his butt peeked out, said, “You okay with this, Harl? I’ve never seen you with a gun before. Hate to think you’d pull the trigger and blow your toe off—or some part slightly more vital.”

Gaunt smiled as he looked around Manny’s pawnshop. The place hadn’t changed much from the time he had first followed his mother in here. By then, drink had changed her so much that she was selling things precious to her—the diamond-and-platinum Tiffany necklace Gaunt’s father had given her on their tenth wedding anniversary, the heirloom sapphire brooch left to her by her mother, even, once, her gold wedding ring. When Gaunt’s mother had begun to drink heavily, she had lost her job, and humiliated, she had turned to pawning her possessions rather than allow her family to know what had happened.