Thomas Hoover - The samurai strategy

"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.