The Ringmaster

by Morris West

  ‘So there will be a large shortfall in Japanese commitment.’

  ‘Which leaves the rest of us naked in a snowdrift.’ Carl Leibig was bitterly disappointed. ‘We cannot, we dare not, proceed. The risks are too great.’

  For the first time, Tanaka smiled. He locked his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, the image of relaxation and good humour.

  ‘My dear Carl, you lose heart too easily. You jump to false conclusions. I told you there will be a shortfall in Japanese investment. I did not say there would be a shortfall in the funding I have promised. I can tell you now that everything I pledged to provide is in place and available on demand.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’ Leibig was like a schoolboy suddenly given a day’s vacation. ‘Who are these fairy godmothers?’

  ‘No names, Carl.’ Tanaka’s refusal was emphatic. ‘Not yet. That is the wish of our investors. I agree with it. Secrecy is our best weapon against hostile political intervention or propaganda by American interests. I ask you simply to accept my word that the funds are committed and in place with hard cash.’

  ‘So, we can announce at the luncheon today that we are fully funded? I can give my colleagues the same news?’

  ‘Of course.’ Tanaka heaved himself out of his chair and stood challenging us both. ‘But we still do not abate our demand for the return of the Kurils to Japan. We can divorce it from these proceedings because we now have time and space to negotiate. However, once our deal is signed, then every week, every month, we tighten the screws until we get back what was taken from us.’

  It was my turn to intervene in the argument. Come lunchtime I had to be fully briefed, I had no intention of making an ass of myself in the first encounter. ‘Now that the money situation is settled, I’d like to discuss the problem of the Americans. Their Embassy in Moscow sent Vannikov a copy of Marta Boysen’s thesis. He recognised it as a provocative gesture which said that they knew exactly what was happening and were ready to muddy the waters when they chose to do so. Now we have the direct connection between Marta Boysen and Max Wylie in Tokyo. You spoke with her yesterday, Carl.’

  ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘She told me. We talked this morning. She said that she would give me her account of your meeting this evening.’

  Instantly Tanaka became the interrogator. ‘You still propose to maintain the association with her?’

  ‘I’m doing exactly what Carl requested me to do: observe all the social courtesies. Your very words, Carl, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So I need a full briefing on what passed between you and Marta. And from you, Kenji, I’d like to hear why Miko was entertaining her to tea at Takashimaya. Clearly she would not have done that without your knowledge and permission.’

  Tanaka made a small dismissive gesture and sat down at his desk. He said curtly: ‘Explain to him, Carl. I am bored with this part of the business.’

  I rounded on him then. ‘Don’t get too bored, Kenji. There are lots of trip wires around. You need as many friendly spotters as you can get! Go ahead, Carl. Tell me everything that happened with Marta.’

  ‘First, we three had agreed that your name would be kept out of the discussion, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Next, we were all of the opinion that – provided she were not actively conspiring against us – it would be better to isolate her within our group than have her as a hostile element outside it.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, I approached our meeting with these two reservations clearly defined. I recalled to her our earlier discussions about the effect of the Haushofer thesis on our negotiations. I told her that it was now our opinion, and yours, that the Americans could and would use it as a propaganda weapon against us. I told her that with a carefully revised presentation it could equally well be made to work to our advantage, as an exposition of economic co-operation instead of hostile military strategy. I then asked her whether, in the short time available to us, she could work up such an exposition.’

  ‘And she agreed to do that, of course.’

  ‘Yes. I then asked her about her own associations with Americans, in academic life, at FAO and in her personal relations.’

  ‘She didn’t object to that line of questioning?’

  ‘Not at all. I had already explained that it was relevant to our project.’

  ‘Relevant in what sense?’

  ‘Once our conference begins in Bangkok, we shall be besieged by the international press. We have decided, therefore, to set up a press and public relations office – in co-operation with the Soviets, if they will agree – to provide daily information to the international media. I proposed to Marta Boysen that she could most usefully serve in that area.’

  ‘Her reaction?’

  ‘She agreed, without hesitation. She said, in effect: “I think I’d prefer it. I’m not sure I like the atmosphere of big business. “ ’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the way you’re doing business either, Carl. I’m supposed to be negotiating for you and nobody has even bothered to mention this notion of a press office in Bangkok. I don’t disagree with it. I think it’s a damned good idea; but since I’m going to have to clean up any mess that it makes, don’t you think, both of you, that I should have been informed and consulted about its functions?’

  ‘Alongside all the other things, it’s a mere detail, Gil.’ Tanaka was sedulously casual. ‘Of course you would have been informed and consulted. But there is a question of priorities.’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap, Kenji!’ I was furious now. Discretion was out the window. ‘You’re already in the middle of a trade war. Your own colleagues in the keiretsu are standing on the sidelines waiting for you to be cut down. Propaganda’s a war weapon and you’d better be damned sure yours is in working order. Who’s going to explain to the world press about your mysterious unnamed investors? Who’s going to direct Marta Boysen? She’s a damned good academic, but she knows nothing about media manipulation. Come on, man! You’re playing games here. I don’t like it. I’ve warned you before. You can make my excuses at the Embassy. I’m not prepared to make a fool of myself because you’ve handed me a bad brief. You’ll have my formal resignation within the hour. Good day, gentlemen!’

  I walked out, seething with anger. I did not give a hoot in hell any more about protocols and politesse and losing face. I was tired of getting egg all over mine. I was sick of evasions and half-truths and distorted images. I loathed being manipulated in the name of friendship.

  I rode down alone in the elevator; but the moment it stopped, two young men in business suits stepped inside, barring my exit. Before I could open my mouth to protest one of them punched the buttons, the doors closed and we were riding up again, express to the top floor.

  The second man bowed and explained courteously: ‘Mr Tanaka regrets that your conversation was interrupted. He will not take up too much of your time.’

  I could have objected, but it would have meant nothing. Push come to shove, these two young bucks would have immobilised me in an instant and dumped me like a sack of rice on the floor. So I went with them in silence and stood, mute and angry, in front of Tanaka’s desk, while Carl Leibig, a pale and shaken spectator, sat huddled in his chair. Tanaka made a gesture of dismissal. The bodyguards bowed to him and to me, then withdrew.

  Tanaka picked up a paperknife, made like a miniature sword, unsheathed it and began toying with the naked blade. I knew he wanted me to sit down, so that we could treat at eye level, yet he would not invite me to do so for fear I might refuse. So, he avoided eye contact altogether and focused on the small, shining blade in his hands. His tone was studiously formal, as if he were a pupil reciting a lesson to his master.

  ‘I know I have offended you, my friend. It was not my intention to do so, but it is certainly my fault that it has happened. I am not sure how I can make amends.’ He put his left hand flat on the desk with the fingers splayed and laid the blade of the knife, like a guilloti
ne, across the small finger. ‘I can do the traditional thing, of course, and offer you a finger joint; but that would simply be painful to me and embarrassing to you. So I ask you, what amends do I have to make to keep your friendship and respect?’

  Once again, he had outplayed me. The words and the gesture conveyed regret and self-accusation. In fact, they were a challenge to prove myself as magnanimous as the great Tanaka who, a moment before, had sent his minions to deliver me, by force if necessary, into his presence. What he had failed to understand was that I had lost heart for the game. What had looked like a match of champions was now a shabby, sand-lot scramble, played behind a dust-screen, and I could make no sense or pattern of what was going on. My only hope was to take time out.

  I told Tanaka: ‘I’m very angry. Whatever I do or say now I shall regret later.’ Tanaka looked up. Now at least we were in eye contact. I went on. ‘So, I am not coming to lunch. I shall call the Embassy and excuse myself formally. You will hear what is said. You and Carl are fully briefed to handle the meeting with Vannikov and the Ambassador. You will make your own judgments, for or against the report I have given you this morning. Later, you will call me at the hotel. You will tell me whether you still wish me to continue. I will tell you whether and on what terms I can do so. If we part, at least we can continue as friends.’

  Tanaka leaned back in his chair. His eyes were hooded. He was still making mesmeric little passes with the paperknife. He asked: ‘How will you explain your absence from lunch?’

  ‘Very simply. A diplomatic illness. You will hear what is said.’

  ‘I do not speak Russian. Do you, Carl?’

  ‘Not well enough for a business dialogue.’

  ‘Then we’ll speak English. Vannikov is very fluent. You have an amplifier on the phone, Kenji?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then would you be good enough to call the Embassy and tell them I want to speak urgently with Boris Vannikov.’

  Two minutes later, Vannikov was on the line. I greeted him in Russian. He thanked me for a pleasant evening, cursed me for his hangover and begged to know what he could do for me. I explained that I was in the office of my principals and that, for courtesy’s sake, we should converse in English. I introduced Tanaka and Leibig. Boris slipped immediately into his best conference mode.

  ‘Good morning, my friends. This is Boris Vannikov. I am at your service.’

  ‘Boris, I’m sorry to tell you I can’t make our lunch meeting. Mr Tanaka and Mr Leibig will be there. Unfortunately I have to see my doctor.’

  ‘Nothing serious I hope.’

  ‘I hope so, too. This morning when I got up, my blood pressure was dangerously high. It may be that I’m just getting too old for these gaudy nights. Anyway, I wanted you to know that Mr Tanaka and Mr Leibig are fully briefed on our conversations last night. They are as hopeful as I am that a good solution can be found. It is possible that Mr Tanaka may release some very good news at the luncheon. On the other hand, he may decide to defer the announcement until a more public moment. However, there is good news. I expect to be back at my hotel about three-thirty this afternoon. You can call me there if you wish. My apologies to His Excellency.’

  ‘Of course. Tanya will be disappointed, too. I had promised to introduce her to you.’ Then, for a brief moment, he slipped into Russian. ‘Are you sure you’re all right, Gil? No snags, no personal problems?’

  ‘None, I promise you. I should know better than to drink late with a Muscovite! Have a pleasant lunch.’

  I put down the phone and faced Tanaka once more. ‘That’s all, I think. You heard the conversation?’

  ‘Everything but the opening and the close.’

  ‘They were courtesies only.’ Leibig assured him hastily. ‘I thought Gil handled it very well. It may even be an advantage that our first talks are held without his intervention.’

  ‘It may. It may not.’ Tanaka was terse. ‘I’ll call you Gil, before I leave the office this evening. If you decide to continue with us, I shall arrange for you to be picked up and taken to the heliport in the morning. I hope, I truly hope, we may still work together.’

  ‘That is my hope, too,’ said Carl Leibig fervently. ‘We need you, Gil.’

  I was not at all hopeful. Something had gone grievously wrong and, for the moment at least, I could not define what it was. I felt like a man drowning in a bath of feathers.

  One thing was clear: Tanaka’s colleagues in the keiretsu had declined to support his project. They had stepped back, leaving him three choices: to submit to the counsel of the group, to find his funds elsewhere, or ruin himself with a solo bid. He claimed to have found other partners. Who were they? If the United States was actively hostile, as it seemed to be, then the funds were not flowing through Wall Street. Carl Leibig had already tapped the European market through his Swiss connection. So where was the money coming from?

  The funds in question amounted to something like five billion dollars. Assuming that Tanaka picked up his original commitment of one billion – and even that would hurt him if he had no market support outside his own admittedly strong structures – that left four billion, which he claimed to have available, on call, in cash, from unnamed sources.

  I could not conceive that he had lied about it. That would have been a suicidal folly. Miko had said that he was contemplating suicide when his life became less than tolerable; but that was in another context and involved a retreat from dishonour rather than an expiation of it. All my experience of the man argued against his being a liar. That same experience warned me, however, that his concepts of truth, justice and the social moralities were written in different ideograms from mine and it was up to me to make sure I was reading the text and the subtext correctly.

  Another anomaly: Carl Leibig, the initiator of the enterprise and a full partner in it, had been clearly taken aback by Tanaka’s revelations. He, too, had been kept in the dark and forced to accept Tanaka’s assurances on the one hand and the existence of anonymous partners on the other. I was not particularly fond of the man; he could be both pompous and naive. However, I believed he was honest and his business record was sound. If this project turned sour, it could set him back half a decade. Tanaka knew that and he would not scruple to enforce a flawed bargain. I remembered his warning to me: You have to know, Gil, that one day I could be your enemy. If one or other of my historic obligations conflicts with our friendship, I have no choice.’ I wondered whether he had ever given the same warning to Carl Leibig. My guess was that he had not. He would have reasoned that Leibig was a trader whose family had been in the game long enough to teach him all the rules and all the tricks to evade them.

  Even so, this enterprise was too big and too complicated for mere trickery. The risks were great, but the potential rewards were much greater. They had all been spelled out more than half a century ago by Major-General Professor Doktor Karl Haushofer. My father, too, had spelled them out in his own eccentric fashion.

  We were in Alexandria, I remember. It was a Sunday morning. The city was fetid with heat and squalor. My father had insisted on dragging me to a noon Mass in a crumbling old Coptic church where, he said, the Mass was celebrated in the Bohairic dialect of the eleventh century. The liturgy was long and even longer was my father’s disquisition on a manuscript of the Song of Solomon, proudly displayed by the priest, which he claimed dated from the fifth century and was written in the Sahidic dialect. I was drowsy and ill-tempered and I only began to revive when he fed me cold beer and peanuts in a Greek taverna far away from the church.

  All of which is irrelevant, except as a prelude to my father’s further lecture on the rise of empires. ‘Three steps, my boy. Occupy, pacify and then crucify with taxes raised on contract by tax-farmers who pay hugely for the rights. When the taxes don’t pay the running costs of the empire, screw the tax-farmers to squeeze out more money. When the people start murdering the tax-farmers, then the empire’s already in dissolution. Pour me another beer like a good fellow.’
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  From Alexandria to Tokyo is a long hop, step and jump; but suddenly my father was there with me, a genial ghost striding along the Ginza, two steps ahead, talking back to me over his shoulder as he used to do whenever I lagged. ‘Nothing changes too much. For tax-farmer read concessionaire or franchisee; for concessionaire read monopolist exploiter and you’re right up to date in the twentieth century. The Emperor, the granter of the franchise, got his money up front with the best guarantee of all, the tax-farmer’s life. The tax-farmer got more, but in smaller instalments. The amount depended on what he could squeeze out of the locals.’

  Then I remembered a section in the Tanaka/Leibig document of proposal. It was headed ‘Granting of Sub-contracts, Leases and Franchises’ and it dealt with the right to farm out benefits acquired under the original arrangement. So the question narrowed itself a little: who were the most likely, the most practised, the wealthiest tax-farmers? To whom would Tanaka turn for funds when his prime colleagues turned him down?

  I stepped into a phone booth and called the Okura hotel to leave a message for Marta Boysen. They told me she was still in the hotel. Her phone was busy, but if I would like to wait a moment… ? I waited. I resisted two attempts to have me call back. Finally, she came on the line. I asked her to meet me at noon in my hotel.

  ‘But we’re meeting tonight.’

  ‘I know. Something’s come up. We have to talk.’

  ‘I’ve just finished talking with Miko. We’ve arranged to lunch together.’

  ‘Call her back and cancel it. Make any excuse you want, but don’t mention me. I’ve just refused to lunch at the Soviet Embassy with Tanaka and Leibig.’

  ‘But what’s going on?’

  ‘I’m not sure. That’s why we need to talk. Please?’

  ‘Of course. Twelve noon.’

  Came then the questions: What was I going to ask? How much was I going to tell? And what could I expect to gain or lose? I looked at my watch. It showed twenty minutes past ten. I still had an hour and forty minutes to make up my mind.