East is East

by Emma Lathen

  The two men were ancient allies, their association dating back to shared military service and their fledgling efforts in the business and legal worlds. Now, after twenty-five years of favors given and received, Mike was the one who owed the most.

  “Just what did you have in mind, Carl? After all, I’ve been making speeches against Japan-bashing as long as I can remember.”

  “Sometimes what you say isn’t half as important as when you say it,” Kruger drawled. “The thing is, Mike, we’ve got one of those big, fancy receptions tomorrow night. . . .”

  Mike understood. “I’m flying out to L.A. this evening to talk to the Chamber of Commerce. I could give them a barn-burner about how it’s getting harder for the U.S. to defend open markets without a show of good faith from our trading partners. Would that do it?”

  “Perfect. And it’s sure to be picked up by the wire services.”

  Mike could do better. “I’ll have my people release the text real early.”

  Kruger had learned the importance of political homework. At the embassy gala he might not be able to pronounce the names, but a mental printout would enable him to identify new acquaintances as For, Against, or, most important of all, Undecided.

  “Right now the establishment’s thinking in terms of the domestic heat,” he enlarged. “Whether or not they want to side with Yonezawa against Shima. I’d like to remind the fence sitters about the rest of the world.”

  “I get your drift, Carl. So why don’t I end by saying we’ve all waited a long time for a signal from Japan. If we don’t get one soon, we may lose the fight.’’

  Kruger’s voice was velvet with satisfaction. “I do like hitting them on the blind side.’’

  “I haven’t forgotten.’’ Mike sounded rueful. “Before the bailout, you had every single private lender, bondholder, stockholder, subcontractor calling Washington. And while we were fielding that flak, you threw the unions at us.”

  Carl Kruger was not apologizing for his tactics.

  “If you hit people from different directions, they’re too busy ducking to mount a counterattack. It works in war, and it works in business.”

  But Mike had known his friend a long time.

  “There’s more to it than that.” He chuckled. “Because while they’ve got their heads down, Carl, they can’t see what you’re really up to.”

  Chapter 7

  On Wednesday morning Tomaheko Matsuda was already in the chair when John Thatcher and the other participants arrived at the critical MITI hearings. Ignoring the flurry of bowing and handshaking, Matsuda consulted subordinates until the newcomers sorted themselves out.

  At the dramatic last moment, Fumitoshi Arai appeared in the doorway, sketched a salute, then allowed aides to help him to a chair. A gentle wave of his hand indicated that the proceedings could now begin.

  Mr. Matsuda remained imperturbable.

  “We are ready to open these hearings,” he announced through an interpreter. “However, before addressing the first items on today’s agenda . . .”

  One leftover from earlier sessions was Yonezawa Trading Company’s wish to introduce statements from other firms about Japan’s urgent need for robotics.

  “I, too, have a supplementary filing,” said Noriko Iwamoto.

  From Mr. Matsuda’s cautious study of the signatures on these documents, Thatcher inferred that both sides had found additional allies.

  “These items shall be entered into the record,” said Matsuda, preparing to move ahead. Then he flicked through the contents of his portfolio and frowned. “Summon Mr. Ushiba.”

  Almost immediately, a small, worried-looking man appeared.

  “Ushiba, your report was supposed to be available for distribution this morning,” said Matsuda sternly. “Where is it?”

  “I deeply regret that the material will not be ready for several hours,” Ushiba said. Then, after a pause, he added: “Unfortunately the delay was unavoidable. The drafts submitted by the financial and technical staff did not address the nonprofitability of Midland Research. In the interests of comprehensiveness, I am including study of this point.”

  Matsuda frowned magisterially. “This matter is not central, but I agree it must be considered. We will therefore study your report after Mr. Ali Khan’s demonstration of his work. Three o’clock at the latest.”

  “Without fail,” said Ushiba, backing out of the room.

  “In the meantime,” Matsuda said, turning to Thatcher, “I am sure we would all be grateful for an overview of Lackawanna’s financial position, from the creditors’ point of view.”

  “I’ll be happy to provide what general assistance I can,” Thatcher replied. “But I don’t have specific details at hand.”

  From across the table, Pamela Webb spoke up. “I have all the financials here,” she announced. “I can supply any figures you want.”

  Subsequently Thatcher was amused to note that whenever Matsuda aimed a question at Lackawanna, Carl Kruger let Pamela do the talking.

  Then Iwamoto spoke up.

  “But is it prudent to permit a bankrupt corporation to make commitments in Japan that may be beyond its capacity?” he demanded hostilely.

  During the subsequent exchange, Thatcher decided that Lackawanna was winning on points. Pamela Webb provided all the information requested and volunteered nothing. Yet somehow her replies lured Iwamoto into unwise rebuttal. The upshot was that despite the sniping, Miss Webb made a strong case to prove that Lackawanna’s resources were adequate by anybody’s standards.

  But debates about capital reserve do not enthrall everybody. Ali Khan, with his own contribution postponed until the afternoon, bore up as long as he could, then excused himself and fled. A few minutes later, Bennet Alderman followed suit.

  Iwamoto was still struggling to discredit Pamela’s facts, figures, and projections when Fumitoshi Arai suddenly intervened. In a plaintive whisper, he requested clarification of a point he could not possibly have misunderstood. This gave Pamela the opportunity to reply with a glowing summation on behalf of Lackawanna.

  Before Iwamoto could fire back, Matsuda stepped in. “And does that accord with the creditors’ view?” he asked Thatcher.

  Thatcher replied that the creditors knew of no undisclosed problems.

  “Are there any further questions for Mr. Thatcher?”

  Iwamoto had not given up. “At the moment, no,” he said stubbornly. “But we have not yet seen your staff’s analysis.”

  “Very true.” Matsuda returned to Thatcher. “May we impose further on your time? We would be grateful if you could join our discussion this afternoon.”

  There was only one reply possible. Today the Sloan Guaranty Trust was a bystander. But if SloanCorp had a future in Japan, cooperating with MITI was essential.

  “It will be a pleasure,” said Thatcher.

  “Then perhaps we might enter your affidavit into the formal record at this point.”

  More was required than a simple signature. Thatcher produced the customary swatch of documents. First there was the statement, duly notarized, that he was the official representative of the creditors of Lackawanna Electric Company. Then there was an imposing document from the State of New York, certifying that the notary in question was in fact authorized to perform this function. Finally there was a certificate bristling with the official seal of the United States of America, in which the secretary of state informed the Japanese government that the State of New York knew what it was doing and had the right to do it.

  As every sheet of paper was handed to Matsuda, he studied it gravely. Only then did he produce the release, consulting his watch while Thatcher scrawled his signature.

  “This will conclude our meeting this morning,” said Matsuda. “I see we have run fifteen minutes overtime. So we will reconvene at two-fifteen—not two o’clock as originally announced.”

  Lunch, from John Thatcher’s point of view, was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Now committed to returning to MITI, he accompanied th
e three remaining Lackawanna representatives to a nearby restaurant. Each gave evidence of being in his own internal holding pattern. Occasionally one of them emerged to make brief comments that never quite synchronized with anybody else’s.

  When Hodiak raised his glass to Pamela, congratulating her on her handling of Noriko Iwamoto, it was a moment before there was any response from Kruger.

  “She was great, but it’s still Yonezawa versus Shima,” he said absently, before returning to his own thoughts.

  As for Pamela herself, she produced an automatic smile of acknowledgment but showed no desire to expand the subject. Fiddling with her napkin, she continued some private calculation, until she suddenly said:

  “I don’t see how they can come up with anything else this afternoon.”

  Nobody inquired who they were, and nobody seemed to care. Battling the prevailing abstraction, Thatcher remarked that it had been interesting to observe Matsuda in his official role. Don Hodiak, jerking his attention back to the table, obligingly described his private meeting at MITI the previous morning.

  “Matsuda isn’t all that different when you’ve got him one-on-one.”

  He was giving his impression of Ushiba, when Kruger suddenly interrupted to say that he was eager to meet Arai’s new supporters at the embassy reception.

  Thatcher, recalling his first sight of the threesome at the Hilton, recognized that they were still united in a common purpose. But functionally they had split, with each of them withdrawing to his own concern. Presumably they were used to working this way, and it did not bother them.

  It did, however, discourage general discussion. Abandoning the attempt, Thatcher ate his meal, wondering what the afternoon would bring.

  After lunch they found that the conference room had been transformed. The long table remained, but panels had been moved and partitions rearranged. There were screens for graphics of every description.

  “If Ali wanted to show his stuff with stereophonic sound, they’ve got the gimmicks,” said Alderman, the room’s solitary occupant. “It makes our setup back at Lackawanna look prehistoric. We really should upgrade, Carl.”

  “Join the club,” said Don Hodiak with a grin.

  “Holding down expenses at Lackawanna isn’t the easiest job on earth,” Kruger told Thatcher.

  Thatcher thought a reminder was in order. “Nobody likes budget cuts,” he commented. “Except the banks and other creditors.’

  “Touché,” Kruger replied.

  “Say, I thought we were supposed to start at two,” Alderman broke in. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.”

  “You shouldn’t have ducked out,” said Hodiak. “Matsuda changed the time to two-fifteen. But here they come now.”

  There were familiar faces in the crowd that began filing in, and others Thatcher had never seen before. Mr. Matsuda, bringing up the rear, paused to explain that MITI had drafted technical experts to evaluate Ali Khan’s claims.

  Khan himself had slipped into the room with an armful of notebooks, accompanied by two men in coveralls who set about drawing shoji blinds across the vast expanse of glass. They had just finished when Pamela Webb arrived, hair and makeup in perfect repair.

  “Sorry to be late,” she said. “But I forgot how far away the women’s lounge is.”

  Just then Ali Khan flicked off the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

  “Is that necessary?” Matsuda demanded.

  “I need maximum definition,” Khan replied. “You can all pull your chairs around to get a good view.”

  At the push of the button, his film began. The early footage illustrated, even to an ignoramus like Thatcher, a dramatic advance in the state of the art. What was more, an inspired photographer had caught sequences of precision and dexterity that rivaled the grace and fluidity of ballet. Alas, the entertainment did not last long. Now that he was dealing with peers instead of laymen, Ali Khan let loose. Freezing every other frame, he launched into a discourse that was incomprehensibly protracted.

  Carl Kruger, sitting at Thatcher’s side, muttered an excuse and left. Soon, under cover of darkness, other forms began drifting off. After half an hour, Thatcher reached his limits. He headed for the Western-style plumbing fixtures discreetly adjoining the coatroom.

  Along the way he encountered Matsuda, trying to look as if he were hurrying back so as not to miss a single word. Thatcher, however, had no intention of hearing more of the lecture, and he was not alone. Outside the conference room, Don Hodiak and Rick Iwamoto were deep in conversation.

  “Hi, Thatcher,” Hodiak greeted him. “In case you’re wondering, Ali’s still going strong. I figure there’s no point going back until he runs out of steam.”

  “I can’t understand a word your man is saying,” Noriko Iwamoto complained. “Furthermore, nobody doubts the value of his work. Shima is simply questioning how it’s acquired. Matsuda should skip this.”

  Thatcher could not agree. “Even if there were no outside objection, I daresay Mr. Matsuda would want the ministry to be convinced.”

  “Sure, but his backroom boys could go over all this without wasting our time.”

  But somebody had not been wasting time. Carl Kruger emerged from a nearby office.

  “Made a few calls while I had the chance,” he explained. “I see Ali’s still at it.”

  “You don’t feel he needs any moral support?” Thatcher asked.

  Kruger shrugged. “Not at the rate he’s going. Besides, Bennet and Pamela are keeping an eye on him.”

  Finally the welcome sounds of general conversation emerged. The four men marched into a scene of confusion. Chairs were scattered all over the room, equipment was being dismantled, and models were being packed. Most experts were leaving, while a few had gathered around Ali with last-minute questions. An interpreter was leaning against the wall and smoking a cigarette, no doubt exhausted by his recent effort. But he roused himself quickly when Matsuda spoke.

  “Go to the duplicating room and collect Mr. Ushiba’s report. If it is not ready, find out why.”

  Business out of the way, Matsuda rose.

  “As it is now three-thirty and it will take several minutes to restore order, this seems the natural moment for our afternoon break,” he announced. “Tea will be served in the reception room across the way.”

  He then marched to the door and began politely ushering his guests toward the refreshments. With both doors open, and people milling everywhere, the air was suddenly rent by one shrill scream after another.

  For a moment Matsuda froze. Then he plunged toward the cries, with his guests at his heels. They pounded down the corridor, past the coatroom, to a small office around the corner. There, a young woman, her hands pressed to her temples, and her eyes glazed, stood shrieking uncontrollably.

  Thatcher and Carl Kruger were almost abreast of Matsuda when he flung open the door. All three came to an abrupt halt.

  Little Mr. Ushiba lay in a crumpled heap, the upper side of his head battered in, the lower side nestled in a giant, gleaming pool of blood. And standing over him, his cane splayed at a wide angle, his glance studying the dead man with clinical detachment, was Mr. Fumitoshi Arai.

  Chapter 8

  Mr. Matsuda, appalled by his discovery, acted with gallant efficiency to contain the crisis. The hysterical typist vanished as if by magic, the door to Mr. Ushiba’s office was firmly closed upon a medical team, and everybody else was hustled into the reception room where tea and cakes appeared instantly.

  By and large the gathering behaved admirably. Nobody went into shock, nobody had a heart attack, and nobody evinced a compulsive desire to discuss what they had just seen. But when Matsuda, after explaining that a police officer would appear in due course, tried to pretend that this was a social gathering, he did not receive support from either man or nature. In this room the shoji blinds had not been drawn, and wide windows afforded a view of the sodden gloom outside. Matsuda’s face was shadowed by the prevailing murk, and his resolute co
mmonplaces were accompanied by the sound of endless dripping.

  His companions were no help. Mr. Arai, in a high-back chair behind which his aides hovered solicitously, sat with hands on knees, his eyes closed. As far as Thatcher could tell, he was engaged in Zen meditation. Carl Kruger and Pamela Webb, sitting apart from the others, paid no attention to Matsuda as they exchanged low-voiced comments. Noriko Iwamoto did not air his impatience, but it was manifest as he jerked his cup down, stubbed out a cigarette, and turned to the door at every noise. Hodiak, arms folded, stared into space, while Bennet Alderman wrote in a notebook. Most disruptive of all, Ali Khan roamed morosely around the room.

  The arrival of an English-speaking police inspector was a relief. He introduced himself as Inspector Hayakawa, expressed a desire to minimize unavoidable inconvenience, and got down to work.

  “. . . and brief statements from you may be of immeasurable assistance to our investigation.”

  First he explained the relevant geography.

  “As you will have observed, Mr. Ushiba’s office is just around the corner from the visitors’ coatroom. Unfortunately, on his own corridor, several maintenance areas intervene between him and the other workers. I am therefore interested in the possibility that someone using the coatroom may have heard or seen something.”

  He then proceeded to a discussion of time.

  “At twelve-thirty Mr. Ushiba told a messenger from the duplicating department that he would be working through lunch. That was the last time he was seen alive. So we are tentatively concentrating on the period between one-thirty and three-thirty. As that coincides with your return from lunch, I ask if you noticed anything unusual.”

  There was a flurry of negatives in English and Japanese.

  Undaunted, Hayakawa moved on. “Perhaps some of you may have visited the coatroom later in your session?” he suggested.

  Thatcher was the first to answer.

  “Yes,” he said, “but I am afraid I saw and heard nothing.”