Thomas Hoover - The samurai strategy

"You'd damned well better, or you could be looking at a long interlude of pastoral delights up at the Danbury country club." He was still dumbstruck. Finally he grinned. "After parole, though, you could probably sell your memoirs to Newsweek for a couple of million and land a guest slot on Carson."

There was a long pause as silence filled the room, broken only by the distant sound of a siren from the street below. For a minute I had the paranoid fantasy it was the first wave of the police SWAT team heading downtown to shoot it out with us.

Finally Bill turned back and fixed me with a questioning look. "Are you really serious about this asshole idea?"

"It's not without appeal."

"Walton, you dumb fuck, do this and you'll never work in this town again."

"I'm well aware of that."

"Nobody'd hire you to fight a dog summons, let alone a takeover." Bill turned to Tam. "Talk sense to this man."

"It was my idea."

"You're both crazy." He walked over to the bar and poured some more Scotch into his glass. "But what the hell. I've seen enough to know we'd damned sure better start taking this country back into our own hands one way or another."

"So you'll help?" She was watching him like a hawk.

"Well, now, what's life for, gentle lady"-he grinned-"except to kick ass now and again. Somebody's got to throw a monkey wrench into Noda's operation. If you think you can do it, then count me in. If nothing else, maybe we can cause a few waves down on the Potomac."

What am I hearing? I found myself wondering. Dr. William J. Henderson, capitalism's pillar of sober reappraisal, entertaining a scenario straight from a CIA handbook?

Of course, Bill still hadn't heard the second half of the play.

"Fine, we could use your help on the setup." I glanced at the row of CRT screens behind the bar. "First there's the matter of getting control of DNI's supercomputer, and then we'll need somebody with trading experience. Is there any chance you could bring in one of your boys to oversee that end?"

"How do you figure on running it?"

"I'd guess our best shot is to stay off-exchange as much as possible. Use Jeffries, third-market outfits like that. And also keep the money offshore, international, with a lot of separate bank connections to handle the transfers. Maybe also float some of the interim liquidity in overnight paper to cover our tracks, just so we can generally keep the lid on everything as long as we can."

"Then it so happens one of my boys might just fill our bill. That's his thing. He operates freelance now, but he's good. Damned good. Trouble is, he knows it, and he don't come cheap anymore."

"I think we can cover a few consulting fees. Can he keep his mouth shut?"

"If he couldn't, we'd both probably be in jail by now." He drained his glass. "Though remember, you'll be moving a lot of bucks, and there are folks who keep track of such things. But I know a few smokescreens that'll hold the SEC and that crowd at arm's length for a little." He looked at me for a second, his face turning quizzical. "What was that you said just now? About parking the money overnight? What are you going to do with it after that?"

"You're getting ahead of things," Tam replied calmly.

"Bill, why don't we head on over to Mortimer's?" I looked out at the park one last time. "You may need a stiff drink for the rest of this."

"Jesus, I'm dealing with maniacs." He got up and headed for his coat. "Let's move it."

Bushido. Take it apart, bu-shi-do, and you have "military- knight-ways," the rules of chivalry that governed every moment of a samurai's existence. This code of honor of the warrior class, this noblesse oblige, was also known as 'the way of the sword.' For a samurai the sword was a sacred icon, an emblem of strength and inner resolve. Casual handling was unheard of. You never stepped over a sword, you never treated it with insouciance or irreverence. It was an extension of your character. A samurai regarded his katana as the symbol of his caste: a weapon, yes, but also a constant reminder of who he was, his obligations as well as his rights.

Which was why I needed the prize of my collection in hand when we entered our final battle with Dai Nippon. I wanted to face Matsuo Noda with classic dignity, with the Japanese honor he had scorned, to let him know he had a worthy opponent, one who understood the meaning of bushido. I also wanted in that process to stick those DNI guards' Uzis up their ass. I'd be needing a katana.

Our meeting with Henderson was Monday night. Tuesday morning we all buckled down and began working around the clock, each of us handling a separate area, Tam called in some favors with the head of the NYU computer center and adapted an off-the-shelf program for stock transactions to suit our unique requirements. She then booked time and scheduled a few debugging runs. In the meantime Henderson was taking care of our banking preparations, opening a string of accounts, mostly offshore where we could move with comparative anonymity. Also, we all got together at his place a couple of times and blocked out exactly what we wanted to unload first, names and dates.

While Tam and Henderson were setting up the financial end, the electronics were my responsibility. I was on the phone all day Tuesday knocking heads with Artie Wilson, an old friend who operated a maritime radio business down on the island of St. Thomas. Together we assembled a piece of gear needed to address one of the essential telemetry elements, and Wednesday night he took his boat over to St. Croix to install it.

I think I've already mentioned the marvelous Caribbean beach house that had practically fallen into my and Joanna's hands a few years back. It also sported, as do a lot of island places, a TV satellite dish, and it so happens this one was massive, a twenty-footer. Now, what is not commonly appreciated is that those concave parabolas can be used to broadcast as well as receive.

Artie and a couple of his cronies worked all Wednesday night and got it rigged the way I wanted it, including a deadeye bead on the commercial satellite currently being used by DNI for proprietary communications with Noda's Kyoto office. I figured it like this: if "Captain Midnight" could override Home Box Office's satellite network using a receiving station in Florida and broadcast a Bronx cheer to Time-Life, we could by God knock out DNI's high-security channel for an hour or so. Artie would be on standby Friday, ready to flip the switch.

Noda was apparently still in Japan, presumably busy throwing obstacles in MITI's path, or maybe searching for the remains of his silver case. Let him. We were about to start handling his communications with the DNI office for him, via a setup of our own devising.

One nice thing about global electronics is that if you get a network far-flung enough, nobody can trace anything-which was what we were counting on. After we'd killed Noda's primary communications system, we intended to substitute some Japanese hardware we'd had installed at Henderson's-together with a little help from a mutual friend in Shearson Lehman's Tokyo office. The arrangement was complicated, but it looked workable on paper. Thing was, though, we'd have to get it right the first time. No dry runs.

All of which tended to make me uneasy. You don't leave anything to chance when you're playing our kind of game; you need to have a backup. This feeling brought to mind an admonition in an old sixteenth-century text on swordsmanship, the Heiho Kaden Sho, something to the effect that "you should surprise your opponent once, and then surprise him again." So, strictly on my own, I went about a bit of bushido lawyering, using that power of attorney Noda gave me back when we started out to set up a fallback position in case Tam's scheme somehow failed. This twist, however, I decided to keep under wraps. Nobody needed to be diverted just then worrying about worst-case scenarios. That's what corporate counsels are for.