Thomas Hoover - The samurai strategy

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.