"Uh-huh." Connor must have heard the skepticism in my voice.
"Look," he said, "Get this conspiracy stuff out of your head. Do you want to take over Japan? Do you want to run their country? Of course not. No sensible country wants to take over another country. Do business, yes. Have a relationship, yes. But not take over. Nobody wants the responsibility. Nobody wants to be bothered. Just like with the drunken uncle — you only have those meetings when you're forced to. It's a last resort."
"So that's how the Japanese see it?"
"They see billions and billions of their dollars, kōhai. Invested in a country that's in deep trouble. That's filled with strange individualistic people who talk constantly. Who confront each other constantly. Who argue all the time. People who aren't well educated, who don't know much about the world, who get their information from television. People who don't work very hard, who tolerate violence and drug use, and who don't seem to object to it. The Japanese have billions of dollars in this peculiar land and they would like a decent return on their investment. And even though the American economy is collapsing — it will soon be third in the world after Japan and Europe — it's still important to try and hold it together. Which is all they're trying to do."
"That's it?" I said. "They're just doing the good work of saving America?"
"Somebody needs to do it," Connor said. "We can't go on this way."
"We'll manage."
"That's what the English always said." He shook his head. "But now England is poor. And America is becoming poor, too."
"Why is it becoming poor?" I said, speaking louder than I intended.
"The Japanese say it's because America has become a land without substance. We let our manufacturing go. We don't make things anymore. When you manufacture products, you add value to raw materials, and you literally create wealth. But America has stopped doing that. Americans make money now by paper manipulation, which the Japanese say is bound to catch up to us because paper profits don't reflect real wealth. They think our fascination with Wall Street and junk bonds is crazy."
"And therefore the Japanese ought to manage us?"
"They think someone ought to manage us. They'd prefer we do it ourselves."
"Jesus."
Connor shifted in his seat. "Save your outrage, kōhai. Because according to Hanada-san, the Saturday meetings stopped in 1991."
"Oh?"
"Yes. That was when the Japanese decided not to worry about whether America would clean up its act. They saw advantages in the present situation: America is asleep, and inexpensive to buy."
"So there aren't Saturday meetings any more?"
"There are occasional ones. Because of nichibei kankei: the ongoing Japanese-American relationship. The economies of the two countries are interlocked by now. Neither country can pull out, even if they wanted to. But the meetings are no longer important. They are basically social functions. So what Sakamura said to Cheryl Austin is wrong. And her death had nothing to do with the Saturday meetings."
"What does it have to do with?"
"My friends seemed to think it was personal. A chijou no motsure, a crime of passion. Involving a beautiful, irokichigai woman and a jealous man."
"And you believe them?"
"Well, the thing is, they were unanimous. All three of these businessmen. Of course Japanese are reluctant to express disagreement among themselves, even on the golf course of an underdeveloped peasant country. But I have learned that unanimity toward a gaijin may cover a multitude of sins."
"You think they were lying?"
"Not exactly." Connor shook his head. "But I had the impression they were telling me something by not telling me. This morning was a game of hara no saguriai. My friends were not forthcoming."
Connor described his golf game. There had been long silences all morning. Everyone in the foursome was polite and considerate, but spoken comments were rare and reserved. Most of the time, the men walked over the course in complete silence.
"And you had gone there for information?" I said. "How could you stand it?"
"Oh, I was getting information." But as he explained it, it was all unspoken. Basically, the Japanese have an understanding based on centuries of shared culture, and they are able to communicate feelings without words. It's the closeness that exists in America between a parent and child — a child often understands everything, just from a parent's glance. But Americans don't rely on unspoken communication as a general rule, and the Japanese do. It is as if all Japanese are members of the same family, and they can communicate without words. To a Japanese, silences have meaning.
"It's nothing mystical or wonderful," Connor said. "For the most part it is because the Japanese are so hemmed in by rules and conventions, they end up unable to say anything at all. For politeness, to save face, the other person is obliged to read the situation, the context, and the subtle signs of body posture and unstated feeling. Because the first person feels he can't actually put anything into words. Any speaking at all would be indelicate. So the point must be gotten across in other ways."
I said, "And that's how your morning was spent? Not talking?"
Connor shook his head. He felt he had quite clear communication with the Japanese golfers, and wasn't troubled by the silences at all.
"Because I was asking them to talk about other Japanese — members of their family — I had to frame my questions with great delicacy. Just as I would if I were asking whether your sister was in jail or any subject that was painful or awkward for you. I would be attentive to how long it took you to answer, and the pauses between your statements, the tone of your voice — all sorts of things. Beyond the literal communication. Okay?"
"Okay."
"It means you get the feeling by an intuition."
"And what was the intuition you got?"
"They said, 'We are mindful that you have performed services for us in the past. We feel a desire to help you now. But this murder is a Japanese matter and thus we are unable to tell you everything that we might like to. From our reticence, you may draw useful conclusions about the underlying issue.' That's what they said to me."
"And what is the underlying issue?"
"Well," Connor said. "They mentioned MicroCon several times."
"That high-tech company?"
"Yes. The one that's being sold. Apparently it's a small company in Silicon Valley that makes specialized computer machinery. And there are political problems about the sale. They referred to those problems several times."
"So this murder has something to do with MicroCon?"
"I think so." He shifted in his chair. "By the way, what did you learn at U.S.C. about the tapes?"
"For one thing, that they were duplicated."
Connor nodded. "I assumed that," he said.
"You did?"
"Ishiguro would never give us the originals. The Japanese think everybody who is not Japanese is a barbarian, They mean it, literally: barbarian. Stinking, vulgar, stupid barbarian. They're polite about it, because they know you can't help the misfortune of not being born Japanese. But they still think it."
I nodded. That was more or less what Sanders had said, too.
"The other thing," Connor said, "is that the Japanese are extremely successful, but they are not daring. They are plotters and plodders. So they're not going to give us the originals because they don't want to take any chances. Now. What else did you learn about the tapes?"
"What makes you think there was something else?" I said.
"When you looked at the tapes," he said, "I'm sure you noticed an important detail that— "
And then we were interrupted by the telephone.
"Captain Connor," said a cheerful voice, over the speaker phone. "This is Jerry Orr. Over at Sunset Hills Country Club? You left without taking the papers with you."
"The papers?"
"The application," Orr said. "You need to fill it out, Captain. Of course it's just routine. I can assure you, there won't be any problem with it, cons
idering who your sponsors are."
"My sponsors," Connor said.
"Yes, sir," Orr said. "And congratulations. As you know, it's almost impossible to obtain a membership at Sunset these days. But Mr. Hanada's company had already bought a corporate membership some time ago, and they have decided to put it in your name. I must say, it's a very nice gesture from your friends."
"Yes, it is," Connor said, frowning.
I was looking at him.
"They know how fond you are of playing golf here," Orr said. "You know the terms, of course. Hanada will purchase the membership over five years, but after that time, it'll be transferred to your name. So when you retire from club membership, you're free to sell it. Now: will you be picking up the paperwork here, or should I send it to your home?"
Connor said, "Mr. Orr, please convey my heartfelt appreciation to Mr. Hanada for his very great generosity. I hardly know what to say. But I will have to call you back about this."
"That's fine. You just let us know where to send it."
"I'll call you back," Connor said.
He pushed the button to end the call, and stared forward, frowning. There was a long silence.
I said, "How much is a membership at that club worth?"
"Seven fifty. Maybe a million."
I said, "Pretty nice gift from your friends." I was thinking again of Graham, and the way Graham had always implied that Connor was in the pocket of the Japanese. There didn't seem to be much doubt of it now.
Connor was shaking his head. "I don't get it."
"What's not to get?" I said. "Jesus, Captain. Seems pretty straightforward to me."
"No, I don't get it," Connor said.
And then the phone rang again. This time, it was for me.
"Lieutenant Smith? It's Louise Gerber. I'm so glad I was able to reach you."
I didn't recognize her name. I said, "Yes?"
"Since tomorrow is Saturday, I was wondering if you had any time to look at a house."
Then I remembered who she was. A month earlier I had gone out with a broker to look at houses. Michelle is getting older, and I wanted to get her out of an apartment. To get her a backyard if I could. It was pretty discouraging. Even with a real estate slump, the smallest houses were four and five hundred thousand. I couldn't possibly qualify for that, on my salary.
"This is a very special situation," she said, "and I thought of you and your little girl. It's a small house in Palms — very small — but it's a corner lot and it has a charming backyard. Flowers and a lovely lawn. The asking is three hundred. But the reason I thought of you is that the seller is willing to take back all the paper on it. I think you could get it for very little down. Do you want to see it?"
I said, "Who is the seller?"
"I don't really know. It's a special situation. The house is owned by an elderly woman who has gone into a nursing home and her son who lives in Topeka intends to sell it, but he wants an income flow instead of an outright sale. The property's not formally listed yet, but I know the seller is motivated. If you could get in tomorrow, you might be able to do something. And the backyard is charming. I can just see your little girl there."
Now Connor was looking at me. I said, "Miss Gerber, I'd have to know more about it. Who the seller is, and so on.
She sounded surprised. "Gee, I thought you'd jump at it. A situation like this doesn't come along very often. Don't you want to look at it?"
Connor was looking at me, nodding. He mouthed, say yes.
"I'll have to get back to you about this," I said.
"All right, Lieutenant," she said. She sounded reluctant. "Please let me know."
"I will."
I hung up.
"What the hell is going on?" I said. Because there wasn't any way to get around it. Between us, we had just been offered a lot of money. A lot of money.
Connor shook his head. "I don't know."
"Is it to do with MicroCon?"
"I don't know. I thought MicroCon was a small company. This doesn't make sense." He looked very uneasy. "What exactly is MicroCon?"
I said, "I think I know who to ask."
☼
"MicroCon?" Ron Levine said, lighting a big cigar. "Sure, I can tell you about MicroCon. It's an ugly story."
We were sitting in the newsroom of American Financial Network, a cable news operation located near the airport. Through the window of Ron's office, I could see the white satellite dishes on the roof of the adjacent garage. Ron puffed on his cigar and grinned at us. He had been a financial reporter at the Times before taking an on-camera job here. AFN was one of the few television operations where the on-camera people weren't scripted; they had to know what they were talking about, and Ron did.
"MicroCon," he said, "was formed five years ago by a consortium of American computer manufacturers. The company was intended to develop the next generation of X-ray lithography machines for computer chips. At the time MicroCon started up, there were no American manufacturers of lithography machines — they'd all been put out of business in the eighties, under intense competition from the Japanese. MicroCon developed new technology, and has been building machines for American companies. Okay?"
"Okay," I said.
"Two years ago, MicroCon was sold to Darley-Higgins, a management company in Georgia. Darley's other operations were foundering; the company decided to sell MicroCon to raise cash. They found a buyer in Akai Ceramics, an Osaka company that already made lithography machines in Japan. Akai had plenty of cash, and was willing to acquire the American company for a high price. Then Congress moved to stop the sale."
"Why?"
"The decline of American business is starting to disturb even Congress. We've lost too many basic industries to Japan — steel and shipbuilding in the sixties, television and computer chips in the seventies, machine tools in the eighties. One day somebody wakes up and realizes these industries are vital for American defense. We've lost the ability to make components essential to our national security. We're entirely dependent on Japan to supply them. So Congress starts to worry. But I hear the sale is going through, anyway. Why? Do you guys have something to do with the sale?"
"In a sense," Connor said.
"Lucky you," Ron said, puffing on his cigar. "If you're involved in a sale to the Japanese, it's like striking oil. Everybody gets rich. You two are looking at some pretty big gifts, I imagine."
Connor nodded. "Very big."
"I'm sure," Ron said. "They'll take care of you: buy you a house or a car, get you cheap financing, something like that."
I said, "Why would they do that?"
Ron laughed. "Why would they eat sushi? It's the way they conduct business."
Connor said, "But isn't MicroCon a small sale?"
"Yeah, pretty small. The company's worth a hundred million. Akai's buying it for a hundred and fifty. On top of that, they probably have another twenty million in incentives to the current corporate officers, maybe ten million in legal, ten million in consultant fees spread around Washington, and ten million in miscellaneous gifts for people like you. So call it two hundred million, in total."
I said, "Two hundred million for a hundred-million company? Why are they paying more than it's worth?"
"They're not," Ron said. "As far as they're concerned, they're getting a bargain."
"Why"
"Because," Ron said, "if you own the machines that are used to make something, like computer chips, you own the downstream industries that depend on those machines. MicroCon will give them control over the American computer industry. And as usual, we're allowing it to happen. Just the way we lost our television industry, and our machine-tool industry."
"What happened to the TV industry?" I said.
He glanced at his watch. "After World War II, America was the world's leading manufacturer of televisions. Twenty-seven American companies like Zenith, RCA, GE, and Emerson had a solid technological lead over foreign manufacturers. American companies were successful around the world, except
in Japan. They couldn't penetrate the closed Japanese market. They were told if they wanted to sell in Japan, they had to license their technology to Japanese companies. And they did, reluctantly, under pressure from the American government, which wanted to keep Japan as a friendly ally against Russia. Okay?"
"Okay . . ."
"Now, licensing is a bad idea. It means Japan gets our technology for their own use, and we lose Japan as an export market. Pretty soon Japan begins to make cheap black-and-white TVs and exports them to America — something we can't do in Japan, right? By 1972, sixty percent of American black-and-white sales are imports. By 1976, one hundred percent are imports. We've lost the black-and-white market. American workers don't make those sets any more. Those jobs are gone from America.
"We say it doesn't matter: our companies have moved on to color. But the Japanese government starts an intensive program to develop a color-television industry. Once again, Japan licenses American technology, refines it in their protected markets, and floods us with exports. Once again, exports drive out American companies. Exactly the same story. By 1980 only three American companies still make color TVs. By 1987, there's only one, Zenith."
"But Japanese sets were better and cheaper," I said.
"They may have been better," Ron said, "but they were only cheaper because they were sold below production cost, to wipe out American competitors. That's called dumping. It's illegal under both American and international law."
"Then why didn't we stop it?"
"Good question. Especially since dumping was only one of many illegal Japanese marketing techniques. They also fixed prices: they had something called the Tenth-Day Group. Japanese managers met every ten days in a Tokyo hotel to set prices in America. We protested, but the meetings continued. They also pushed distribution of their products by collusive arrangements. The Japanese allegedly paid millions in kickbacks to American distributors like Sears. They engaged in massive customs fraud. And they destroyed the American industry, which could not compete.
Michael Crichton - Rising Sun Page 20
