The Samurai Strategy

by Thomas Hoover

  CHAPTER NINE

  Tam was headed east in the black Nissan limo, listening to the talk.And thinking. Seated alongside was Kenji Asano, wearing a light tansuit and gold cufflinks, while the space opposite was occupied by twoindividuals who made her very uneasy. One was the instantly famousMatsuo Noda, the other his niece, talk-show economist Akira Mori. Nodawas wearing a black three-piece banker's suit, the perfectaccompaniment to his silver hair, and small wireless spectacles thatmagnified his penetrating eyes. Mori, in designer beige, looked as ifshe'd just stepped from the NHK studios, which in fact she had only afew hours earlier.

  Three days had passed since Noda's Imperial press conference, fourcounting today, with this sudden trip being only the latest in a seriesof unexpected events. The major new twist: getting her interviewsrolling was turning out to be a lot harder than it should have been.Before leaving New York, she'd arranged for a day with Dr. NoburuMatsugami of the Electrotechnical Institute at Tsukuba Science City togo over the latest progress of MITI's Advanced Robot TechnologyProject, now the world leader, the undisputed state of the art inrobotics. Matsugami had even volunteered to supply introductions to theother MITI labs at Tsukuba. Everything was set.

  Except now it wasn't. When she called Friday to confirm their meeting,Dr. Matsugami advised her that some unexpected schedule conflicts hadcome up. Most apologetic. Perhaps they could try again week after next.

  What's more, that was her last call for the day, because immediatelyafterward her hotel phone had gone dead for five hours. Management wasstrangely evasive about the problem. When a temporary line was finallyinstalled, it had a curious whine that made conversation all butimpossible.

  My luck, she thought. Japanese technology, the best in the world,breaks down on me.

  Consequently it was almost a relief to get out of town. Not the leastof reasons being Tokyo still had a hangover from all the swordcelebrations. Its streets were strewn with debris, and servicesremained haphazard. As planned, she and Ken departed the next afternoonon the Shinkansen bullet train-- first class, where the porters wearwhite gloves and bow after making an announcement to the car. The onlyway to travel. Finally some peace and quiet after the madness of Tokyo,she'd told herself. It felt like the Concorde, except with legroom. Sheleaned back to watch as the white peak of Mt. Fuji flashed by at ahundred and forty miles per hour and chatted with Ken, who was sittingnext to her, glancing through some MITI memos he'd brought along.

  The trip down, zipping through industrial Nagoya, had helped to settleher mind. Kyoto. For her there was nowhere else quite like it in theworld. If you knew the byways, it could be a universe away from themania of Tokyo. Time to lighten up. At least she had no reason tosuspect Ken was giving her the runaround. He'd seemed genuinelydisturbed when she told him about Matsugami's polite refusal to talk.Didn't say much: just frowned, was strangely silent for a moment, thendeclared he'd make a few phone calls and check into it when there wastime.

  Kenji Asano, she noticed, seemed to have a split personality: one forher and one for the rest of the world. In public he was all Japanese,striding ahead and ostentatiously barking opinions. But that, she knew,was merely for appearances; he'd have been the object of silentderision by elders if he'd displayed the slightest consideration forhis female companion. (She recalled that famous Japanese proverb: Theman who falls in love with his wife merely spoils his mother'sservant.) Okay, she told herself as she trailed along, when in Rome . .. Japanese men need to strut and bully their women in public; it's theonly chance they get. Everybody knows the obedient little helpmatedutifully pacing behind garnishees his paycheck and doles back whatevershe likes.

  Ken's stern, traditional public face, however, was merely one of hismany personas. Alone with her he could be as Western as any Japaneseman would permit himself. For a Japanese, of course, "Western" doesn'tmean all the glad-handing bonhomie of an American; there's always anelement of reserve. Just the same, he was nothing like the typicalsexless, oblique Japanese businessman. He had a superb body, taut andathletic, which he knew better than to bury in some cheap off-the-rackJapanese suit. No polyester; strictly silk and finest wool. He had asense of style: the power look. And he really was a widower, whose wifehad died in a freak auto crash soon after their marriage.

  In short, Kenji Asano was complex, not easy to categorize.

  The same went for Matsuo Noda. As she and Ken were coming down on thetrain, a porter had come through the car announcing "_denwa_," a callfor Dr. Asano. When he returned, he reported that Matsuo Noda needed tomake a quick trip down to the famous Shinto shrine at Ise tomorrowmorning, to review the site for the new museum Dai Nippon,International would build to house the sword, and wanted him to comealong, a good time to discuss their mutual interests.

  "He always seems to know everything that goes on." Ken smiledwistfully. "He also 'suggested' that perhaps my visiting Americancolleague would like to make the trip too."

  Oh, Tam thought, why me? That's not the way Japanese executives goabout things. Women aren't part of their high-level conferences.

  "I don't understand this, Ken." She'd been half dozing, but now she wascoming awake very rapidly. "Seems a little strange, don't you think?"

  Asano shrugged. "He just said he'd like to meet you."

  "But why? What did you tell him about me?"

  "Nothing, really . . ." He glanced away.

  "Curious." She was fully alert now. "Then how did he . . . ?"

  "Tam, don't be naive. Matsuo Noda knows who you are, believe me." Heshot her an admiring glance. "Why are you frowning? It's true. He knowsall about your work. He practically demanded you come along. He calledyou--what was it?--'that brilliant American professor.'"

  "You know, something about this doesn't add up." She was having herfirst experience of Matsuo Noda's long arm, and she found itunsettling.

  "Why not? Tamara, you of all people should know we Japanese have anational tradition of honoring guests. Noda-san is old school, throughand through." He leaned back. "Besides, he's bringing somebody elsealong to meet you. Could be very interesting."

  "Who?"

  He told her.

  So here they were in the Dai Nippon limo, a stretch, with acres of roomand green tea that flowed till she thought she would burst. What wasthat old line about the roomful of _zaibatsu _negotiators: the one withthe toughest bladder prevails.

  Seeing Matsuo Noda in person confirmed everything she'd sensed abouthim on the TV. He was a genius. Still, something about him told youthat when you sat down to cards with this man, you'd do well to cut thedeck. What really took her aback, though, was the woman alongside him,Akira Mori.

  Could be it was just her style. Tam was definitely overwhelmed. For thetrip she'd worn her softly tailored Calvin Klein suit (her only one),in shades of pale, warm gray, and set it off with some simple, starksilver picked up on a trip to Morocco. Perfect pitch. She lookedsmashing, feminine yet all business, and Ken had told her so at leastthree times. All the same she wasn't prepared for Mori's ostentatiousfashion statement.

  When the DNI limo appeared at their hotel, the International, Japan'sfavorite TV money guru was wearing one of her severe Rei Kawakuboensembles, a small ransom in gold accessories, and enough makeup for ahaute couture ramp model. It turned out she'd taped an early morninginterview show at NHK's Tokyo studios for broadcast that night, thencome down directly on the Shinkansen. She greeted Tam and Ken withscarcely more than a frosty nod. Tam found this standoffish mannerpuzzling.

  On the other hand it did fit perfectly with Ken's quick morningbriefing on Noda's famous niece. Quite a story. According to him, herfather, Dr. Toshi Noda, had been a celebrated figure in years past. Anhonors graduate of Tokyo University, he'd been the star mathematicsprofessor of Kyoto University when he was summarily conscripted byPrime Minister Tojo to take charge of wartime cryptography, codes. Tojowanted the best, and he got it. Consequently mild-mannered Toshi Nodahad been one of the minds behind the famous Purple Machine, used forJapanese ciphers during the early par
t of the war.

  Eventually, however, the project became redundant. After a time Tojoceased to trust the Purple Machine and decided to replace it with thatfamous Nazi invention, the Enigma Machine. (On that one, Ken had addedwith a touch of irony, Toshi Noda was well vindicated. The EnigmaMachine code had already been cracked by the Allies long before Hitler--declaring it unbreakable--delivered it to Tokyo.)

  Toshi Noda resembled his older brother Matsuo physically, but hediffered radically in outlook, being a devout Buddhist and a pacifist.After the stunning Japanese bloodbath at Saipan, which demonstrated thewar was clearly lost, he'd been one of those imprudent citizens who'dspoken out publicly for peace. Not surprisingly, he was immediatelyplaced under surveillance by the Kempei Tai, Japan's secret police, andshortly thereafter jailed.

  After three months' internment he was released a broken man. A weeklater he committed ritual _seppuku_, disemboweling himself for thecrime of having disgraced the family.

  Toshi Noda's diaries, published posthumously and read widely in Japan,revealed his deep repugnance for the wartime

  government. He believed that Prime Minister Tojo had become, in effect,a neo-shogun. Although the shogunate supposedly had been abolished whenEmperor Meiji took control and opened Japan in 1867, Toshi Noda saw itrestored with Tojo, another "shogun" who had come along and isolatedthe country once again. Nonetheless, he'd been a man of few words. Hisdeath poem, written only moments before he put the knife to hisstomach, was as simple and intense as his life.