The elevator stopped on the second basement level, where they passed through a steel door into a restricted area and entered the control center located beneath the opera hall stage. Seigo Kurata greeted them with only a bow, his expression tense with worry.
The letter lay open on a table. It was an ordinary sheet of B5-size letter paper. When Shiroyama looked closely, the handwritten characters, apparently drawn with a ballpoint pen using a ruler, leapt out at him.
ready to make the payment? if so, take out an ad with the words, “father forgives kyoko” in the may 5th issue of nikkan sports.
—lady joker
Shiroyama had to run his eyes over the letter three or four times. Partly it took time to sink in because suddenly all the events leading up to this point seemed to have lost their sense of reality. Or the cryptic name, “Lady Joker,” may have been what confused him.
“Well, then—we’ll follow the manual and this will be handled by the control center. Are we all good on that?”
Shiroyama had expected easy agreement, but instead Kurata parried. “May I have a word?” He gestured with his eyes toward the door, then stood up and left the room first. Shiroyama followed after him, stunned.
The suggestion that Kurata presented, in the dark hallway beneath the stage, was completely mind-boggling: consulting the board.
“I myself went back and forth many times before reaching this conclusion. If we don’t take the time now to reconfirm the board’s decision, including the specifics of disbursing the money and how the paperwork will be manipulated, we’ll lose control of things if and when something goes awry.”
“What are you saying . . . ? If we decide to consult the board now, it’s possible that the consensus we worked so hard for three weeks ago will have been for nothing.”
“That’s exactly right. Which is why I’m saying this to you now. If we entrust this matter entirely to the control center and only get the board’s approval after the fact, it could give the wrong impression to certain individuals. Sakakibara, Otani, Yoshikawa, Shinozaki, Isaka . . .” Kurata rattled off the names of executives at the main office, then continued with more names at the level of branch and factory managers. “Yamamoto, Tsuboi, Takasaka, Moriwaki . . .”
While they had worked toward that earlier consensus, there had been various opposing viewpoints about bending to the criminals’ demand. In addition, executives from certain divisions felt a sense of alarm related to the possibility of the manufacturing sector being sacrificed as pieces were being strategically positioned for impending subsidiary spinoffs. Finally, there were executives who, despite having mentally processed the numerous structural reforms that Shiroyama had forged ahead with over the last five years, still could not accept them emotionally. Shiroyama was all too familiar with the current status of the board, a complicated tangle of interests, emotions, and logic that went well beyond simple categorization into Shirai or Kurata factions and which defied a simple count of votes.
Kurata, who most feared damage to the company’s beer, who had meticulously calculated the potential losses in a worst-case scenario, and who had taken such a forceful lead with the board, was now suggesting they do the exact opposite of what he had said before. Shiroyama wracked his brain futilely, trying to figure out Kurata’s true intentions.
“If we just consent to the criminals’ demand now, then down the line we’ll have no choice but to go along with Okada’s demand too. Tamaru is saying that the land deal is for four billion . . .”
“When did he mention that price?”
“In February. Since I’m not responding to him, it’s possible Tamaru will attempt to negotiate directly with you. I intend to do my best to prevent that, but if he were to point out the fact that we had caved to the criminals’ demand, we’d lose our negotiating edge. No matter what, we must avoid a situation where we end up shelling out six billion—Tamaru’s sum plus what the criminals are demanding.”
“Let’s keep the issue with Tamaru separate from the criminals’ demand. If we were to refuse to cooperate and there were some kind of damage to our product, the losses incurred would run into the billions—that was your prediction. What would be the point of jeopardizing the board’s decision?”
“I’m not saying that we shouldn’t consent to their demand. But even if we do go along in the end, it won’t do to give the executives the impression that we’re simply putty in the hands of the criminals. That’s why I’m saying we should involve the board.”
“But even if we consult with them about how to handle this letter, we’re still back to a simple yes or no.”
“Once we let the executives air their opinions on the issue, why don’t we buy some time by telling the board that we want to exercise caution by reporting it to the police and conferring with them about what our response should be? Even the most fastidious executives would consent to that. Your position would be protected too. Please, I’d like for us to do this. I’ll be responsible for directing the board.”
His strong tone left no room for hesitation. Shiroyama admitted he had neither the willpower to push back nor the ability to evaluate the pros and cons in the matter. As the logic that he had mentally imposed upon the circumstances began to unravel, the sheer force of his anxiety compelled him to reply with, “I suppose so.”
Perhaps Kurata had seen through this, for he cracked a slight smile. “Shiroyama-san. My opinion is entirely the same as yours. You know I would never allow for a contingency that would, for example, prevent us from shipping the orders for forty-nine million cases of beer for the months of May and June.”
“I suppose not.”
“The police probably want to force a move by the criminals, so I assume they’ll tell us to go through the motions of complying with the criminals’ demand. Which is perfectly convenient for us. Pretending to go along with what the criminals want will also enable us to negotiate a backroom deal down the line.”
Ultimately they agreed to call a board meeting by the end of the day, as Kurata had suggested, and they parted ways. Once alone, however, Shiroyama sighed deeply, contemplating just how delicate the situation now was.
The bridge that Shiroyama and Kurata had to cross was blocked on one end by extortionists who called themselves “Lady Joker” and by the Okada Association on the other. For now, they were trying to move toward the extortionists while holding off Okada, but reaching their destination would require them to pass constantly through the board’s indeterminate checkpoints. It would come down to whether they could deceive the executives in order to engineer a consensus. More than just a gambit to avoid being the target of a later investigation, they needed to take into consideration the delicate situation brought on by their scandal from 1990, so that in the end they would be able to keep one hand free to negotiate with the Okada Association.
Moreover, Kurata, the man laying each piece in place, was in just as delicate a position, and it was clear to Shiroyama that he was wavering between either a full-scale confrontation or a compromise with Okada. Kurata had never revealed his hand to Shiroyama in this way before, and that in itself was a vivid indication of the change in him. This revelation had struck Shiroyama a month ago, the night after he was released, and now it was certain Kurata was not entirely his former self. The fact that Shiroyama had no choice but to entrust everything to him exposed his supreme vulnerability.
Shiroyama had a busy schedule for the rest of the day, but he spoke with Shirai on the phone and solicited his opinion about consulting the board.
“Kurata has convinced you, hasn’t he?” Shirai said.
“You’re a step ahead,” Shiroyama said. “My point is, I’m not sure how this will play out. And it doesn’t help that you refuse to disclose the name of the thief who stole the meeting minutes.”
“I expect the thief will confess to you directly. More importantly, I fully understand the thorny position Kurata is in. The tr
uth is, most of the executives—myself included—never thought the criminals would actually make contact, and the matter with Okada makes for a problem situation, not to mention our stock . . .”
“What about our stock?”
“Kurata has been nervous about it, but I’m about to meet with someone from a brokerage house, so I’ll report back later with what I learn. In any case, let’s hope Kurata knows what he’s doing. I’ll do my best to get carte blanche from as many executives as possible too.”
Following this conversation, Shiroyama inferred that Shirai had decided to leave everything up to Kurata, the better to observe what would unfold from the sidelines. That was no doubt the wisest course of action.
At seven o’clock that evening, when the impromptu board meeting convened behind closed doors in the thirtieth-floor conference room, fifteen of the twenty-eight internal board members, including Shirai, were absent but had given carte blanche, leaving thirteen members in attendance. Sugihara was nowhere in sight. Everyone other than Shiroyama and Kurata looked aloof, as if the issue did not concern them. Perhaps the name “Lady Joker” had deprived the proceedings of a sense of reality, for the mood of the room felt as if they were stuck dealing with an annoying prank.
Shiroyama began his remarks, stating that he wished to consult the board as to whether it would be right, as previously agreed, to take out an advertisement in accordance with the criminals’ demand without reporting it to the police, but before he finished speaking, the board members around the oval table began to look ill at ease. Sakakibara, the corporate secretary and executive director of general affairs, raised his hand and declared, “It’s been three weeks since the board agreed to that resolution, and the circumstances in which we find ourselves continue to shift. I think it’s necessary to assess the situation once again.”
Several voices chimed in their agreement.
Sakakibara went on, “There have been pervasive rumors over the past month that Hinode has connections to the underworld, and that the company has already made a backroom deal and paid off the criminals. We can’t deny that’s an understandable response. If we were to accommodate the criminals’ demand, and if word ever got out about it, the damage to the Hinode brand would be immeasurable.”
In terms of the market effect on their corporate image, the board had already determined that whatever harm might befall their products outweighed any advantage they would gain by refusing the criminals’ demand. The projected losses amounted to over a hundred billion yen. But a month without incident had been enough to lull the group’s mindset.
“My position is that we should defer to the results of the risk assessment from our previous meeting.” This was Shiroyama’s only response.
Taking the opportunity to lay out a far more fundamental doubt, Otani, managing director of the pharmaceutical business division, spoke up. “What I want to know is whether this Lady Joker or whoever they are merits our gathering together like this and debating how to deal with them. A demand such as this is utterly ridiculous. It amounts to a blank check.”
Shiroyama reminded him that the criminals were demanding a ransom of two billion yen, but Otani rejected this. “They only ask if we’re ready to pay—they didn’t specify an amount. It doesn’t sit right with me.”
Shiroyama had to admit that Otani was right. He loathed Lady Joker for not specifying the amount in their letter, but all he could do was reiterate that the criminals had indeed told him two billion. A hushed yet noncommittal bafflement fell over the oval table.
Over the last month, there had been whispers among the board members about the tape from 1990 that had been reported in the newspapers after the incident, particularly the details of how the student who had left in the middle of his employee interview had been intimately involved with the daughter of Takeo Sugihara, as well as the fact that they had heard board meeting minutes from 1947 had gone missing. Obviously, the cause for the board members’ ambivalence—more than the strange name, “Lady Joker”—was the scandal involving his family, which clung to the circumstances surrounding the incident.
Kurata, according to plan, made a suggestion. “Well, then, in the meantime, why don’t we report the letter to the police?”
The members were taken aback, but as Kurata had anticipated, ultimately the board came to the hasty conclusion that they would report it to the police and see what came about, thereby delaying their decision for the time being.
After the meeting was adjourned, Shiroyama thanked Kurata, taking the opportunity to broach the subject of their stock, which Shirai had mentioned. Shiroyama’s state of mind was such that the smallest thing caused him to worry.
“Our stock price had been pretty high since the beginning of April, the parity price for convertible bonds has been going up as well, and our margin account position has been increasing about hundred thousand per week, so . . .”
“I’m aware of all that.”
“Yesterday’s preliminary figures showed that margin buys were over two million, so when I asked them to investigate the source I was told that purchases were coming in from various brokerages all over. It seems word on the street is that in early fall we’ll be adding a chain of convenience stores into our business affiliates, but perhaps that information had come from . . .”
Kurata stopped short, as if regretting what he had been about to say, and instead sighed grimly. Shiroyama had to urge him to continue.
“This is nothing more than gossip, but the name of an investment management company operating under the umbrella of the Seiwakai has surfaced. They’re among the G.S.C. group.”
“Does this have to do with Okada?”
“I don’t know. Two million stocks don’t amount to much in the grand scheme of things, but given the times we’re in, we ought to be wary of any high-risk moves.”
Although Shiroyama could not fully comprehend the substance of Kurata’s concerns, he was sure that only a man who had glimpsed the shadow world could have hunches like these. The thought gave rise to yet another tangible worry, piled up on top of the others.
On the morning of Saturday, April 29th, while the majority of the board members were out at the Matsuo Golf Club for Hinode’s Kantō regional competition, police investigators disguised as Tokyo Electric Power Company maintenance workers entered the main office, which was deserted for the holiday weekend, and retrieved the letter from “Lady Joker.” Shiroyama was informed of the details of this interaction when he arrived at the office on the morning of Tuesday, May 2nd. The police had explained their plan to carry on as before without disclosing anything—including the arrival of the letter—to the public.
Two mornings later, Shiroyama received a call from the usual officer from Investigation Headquarters. He wondered why the officer sounded so stiff and formal, and then the head of MPD’s First Investigation Division, Chief Inspector Kanzaki, came on the phone to request a meeting with Shiroyama in person. Shiroyama replied that he had no time to spare, but Kanzaki insisted that the matter took precedence over everything else, so that ultimately Shiroyama relented, agreeing to meet him during lunchtime.
久保晴久 Haruhisa Kubo
It was before noon, and in the Nanashakai kisha club at MPD the Toho press nook was tranquil, now that the follow-up report on the arrest of the cult leader-mastermind behind the subway poison-gas terror attack a week ago had been put to bed. The front-page headline on the evening’s early edition pronounced holiday refreshment alongside a color photo of the beaches of the Boso Peninsula. Although the deadline for the third edition loomed, hardly any articles needed to be replaced, and the direct line to the news room had been pretty quiet. Kubo had taken the opportunity to begin organizing his notebooks; beside him, Kuriyama flipped through a travel magazine, attempting some armchair escapism.
Just then, a call came in on the outside line. “This is Yamane, from the post in front of Hinode’s main office!”<
br />
The beat reporter’s energetic voice jolted Kubo out of his reverie—he was startled by mention of Hinode, whose name he hadn’t heard in a while.
“A car with the head of First Investigation just entered the underground parking lot,” the reporter continued. “There was no time to stop him and talk. What should I do now?”
“Keep watch by the parking lot entrance! I’m on my way. If I don’t make it there in time, do whatever you can to stop the car as it comes out of the lot. Make small talk, doesn’t matter what you say—just call out to him and be sure to take note of his expression. He tends to avoid eye contact when something’s up. Got it?” Kubo had already grabbed his day pack by the time he hung up the phone. “Chief, it seems the head of First Investigation’s inside Hinode’s main office. There may be some action on the case.”
No sooner had Kubo said the words than he rushed out of the press nook, propelled by a feeling of freedom after these last few days of boredom. If he sped, it would take him half an hour to get to Kita-Shinagawa, where Hinode’s office was. Kanzaki had only returned to his official residence in Himonya twice during the first few weeks of April, so there was no reason to think he had time to be making courtesy visits to Hinode. Perhaps they’d received the criminals’ demand. Kubo’s instinct stirred. There is no doubt about it, the criminals have made their move, he thought to himself.
城山恭介 Kyosuke Shiroyama
In a private room at the beer restaurant on the fortieth floor of the building that housed Hinode’s main offices, Shiroyama welcomed Hidetsugu Kanzaki, the head of MPD’s First Investigation Division. During their phone call early that morning, Shiroyama had been unable to surmise what the police business was, so he had suggested that they have lunch together, an offer that Kanzaki had readily accepted with a simple word of thanks.
Kanzaki’s appearance was ordinary enough, but the overall impression he gave—the head of gray hair, clipped short, with its formidable, weather-beaten forehead and small, steadfast eyes beneath—reminded Shiroyama of a non-commissioned army officer he saw once long ago. Whenever Shiroyama encountered Kanzaki, he became even more convinced that the man was a different breed from Iwami at the National Police Agency—Kanzaki had the face of a commander of a combat unit.
Lady Joker, Volume 1 Page 58
