The Miko - 02 (35 page)

“I’ll look into it immediately, sir.”

“Good.” Ōda seemed genuinely pleased. “My secretary will provide you with all the information you need on your way out.” He sipped at his tea again. He had ceased to watch Nangi with such scrutiny and, in fact, had turned partially away from him to watch the busy streets through the window behind his desk.

“
Tsūshō daiichi-shugi.
” He said it softly, almost as if he had forgotten Nangi’s presence. “An admirable goal…and a necessary one. But, really, it seems to me that in this new atmosphere of what we must term high-speed growth we will require an entirely new ministry.” He spun around to face Nangi suddenly, his eyes dark and penetrating. “What do you think of that idea, Nangi-san?”

“I…would have to hear more about it, sir,” Nangi said, to cover his shock.

Ōda waved a meaty hand. “Oh, you know, a ministry whose primary function was to oversee and control all foreign trade, technology. It would have the power to dispense preferential financing to those industries the government had chosen for development, and to grant those industries tax breaks to make their growth easier and speedier.” Ōda was back to his careful inspection of Nangi. “Does this kind of ministry sound feasible to you, Nangi-san?”

Nangi was caught between a rock and a hard place. How should he answer? Was Ōda-san friend or foe? Certainly he was an enemy of Nangi’s superiors at MCI, but that was not really the issue at hand because from the moment he and Makita had formulated their long-range plans in the prison courtyard, Nangi had for all intents and purposes ceased to work for MCI. At least in his heart.

The issue now was whether or not Ōda was inimical to their plans. He could be an enormous aid to Nangi and Makita if he agreed with their theories. However, if Nangi leaked any part of the plan to this man and Ōda turned out to be antagonistic to it, he would certainly destroy the nascent plot immediately.

What to do?

“It seems clear to me,” Nangi said cautiously, “that until the Occupation Forces leave Japan we are bound to them hand and foot. However, I have heard rumblings from Korea. If the Communists there carry out their threats to reclaim all of their country, I believe America will drag us into that conflict with them.”

“Oh?” Oda’s eyes were heavy-lidded and the overhead lighting made it impossible now to see them clearly. Nangi made a mental note to remember the effect. “How so?”

“I think they will have no choice, sir. Obviously they will need all the paraphernalia of war: uniforms, vehicles, communication equipment, ammunition, and so forth. Korea is a long way from America. We are close. It is my opinion that they will use our economy and put it to work for them.”

“That will be good for us.”

“Yes and no,” Nangi said, knowing he was taking a chance.

“What do you mean?” Ōda’s face was absolutely impenetrable, and Nangi cursed the lighting.

“Precisely this, sir: of course the business we will get will be good for our economy because there will be a high degree of turnover and therefore profits will blossom like cherry petals in April. However, there is a danger inherent in the very speed required. Our companies are all undercapitalized, and it seems to me that even a six months’ delay in payment will be enough to send them into bankruptcy. The business could kill us.”

“More tea?” Ōda was refilling his own cup. Nangi shook his head; he had already done his duty on that score.

Ōda slowly stirred his tea with a tiny filigreed spoon. “How would you avoid the, er, negative aspects of this situation, Nangi-san?”

“Your new ministry would do nicely, sir.” There, it was done, Nangi thought, willing himself not to sweat. It had been said yet not been said. Now it was Ōda-san’s move, and depending on what it was, Nangi would have his answer.

“You know, young man, that your own Vice-Minister Shimada would oppose the creation of a new ministry.”

“He is no longer my vice-minister, sir,” Nangi said, neatly sidestepping the trap.

“Ah, yes.” Ōda put down his cup. “Of course that is true. It had slipped my mind for the moment.”

And now Nangi had his answer and his heart soared. Carefully he kept his surging emotions off his face. “The ministers of MCI struck me as perhaps a trifle overzealous in their protection of their own power.”

“Perhaps they have a right to be, Nangi-san. Those most afraid of losing their power are always the most, er, sensitive about supposed threats to its security.”

He and Yoshida are thinking of closing down MCI! Nangi thought. It was the only possible explanation for the line of this conversation.

“If you were in my shoes, Nangi-san,” Ōda said, his voice neutral, “who would you choose to be the chief of this new ministry dealing with international trade?”

Now Nangi had to make his decision. He had to decide for himself whether Ōda was friend or foe, for he knew that once he answered the question there would be no turning back.

Nangi knew that there was no one in MCI he could turn to; knew, too, that as many friends as Makita had, their influence would not be enough to project him into the center of this new ministry without the blessing of Ōda and Yoshida.

All of a sudden he felt released, his decision made for him. “My choice would be Yoichiro Makita,” he said without hesitation.

For a time there was silence in the office. Ōda tapped the bottom of the spoon against his pursed lips. At last he said, “Vice-Minister Shimada would never stand for such a thing.”

“He won’t be happy about the formation of the new ministry, either,” Nangi pointed out.

“Oh, but this is different, Nangi-san. Shimada and Makita are bitter enemies. Creating the new ministry is one thing. Installing Makita at its center is quite another.”

“May I inquire, sir, as to whether Makita-san would meet with your approval.”

“Well, it hardly matters, Nangi-san, you can see that. There are things we all would wish for but cannot have. One must learn to flow with the tide lest one be pulled out to sea and become lost to land.”

In the gathering gloom of the late afternoon outside, Nangi thought of his
mabiki
file and the list of incriminating evidence he had amassed against Shimada. “Correct me if I am wrong, sir, but in
kanryōdō
there is a continual weeding-out process.”

“At the lower levels, yes, of course,” Ōda said. “The outgoing vice-minister selects his replacement, and all others at the ministry from the new man’s university class resign in order to give him a clear field of unquestioned authority.”

“And yet,” Nangi said carefully, “at the upper echelons there is, from time to time, also
mabiki.
”

“Oh, yes,” Ōda said, “but there we are generally talking of a scandal of some major proportions. I can recall a time when those things could be manufactured…” A small smile creased his face. “There were artists for everything in those days.” His expression sobered and he shrugged. “But in the present there is always the Occupation Forces, and like hawks in the sun they are ever over our left shoulders, hovering, scrutinizing.” He shuffled some papers. “In any event, all the old artisans are gone.”

“If I understand you correctly,” Nangi said, his pulse racing wildly as he approached the heart of the matter, “you are speaking now of
manufacturing
a scandal out of smoke and pine needles.”

“Poetically put, Nangi-san. And essentially correct.”

“I take it, then,” Nangi said, keeping the tremor he felt inside out of his voice, “that the Occupation Forces would give us no trouble over a quite
real
scandal.”

A telephone rang somewhere in an adjacent office, muted voices could be heard for a moment just beyond the closed door. Minister Oda’s almond eyes glittered like dark gems behind the round lenses of his spectacles.

The stillness in the room was so palpable that Nangi felt as if he was swathed in blankets. Now every motion, ever word, every look became a clue to the outcome of this meeting.

“Scandal, it seems to me, Nangi-san, can mean many things to many people. I think it imperative that one comes to some clearcut understanding of, er, definition.”

Nangi locked his eyes with the minister’s and said, “Disgrace for our enemies.”

After a time, Ōda reached downward, producing a bottle half full of amber liquid. “May I offer you a brandy?”

Nangi nodded his assent, and there was silence in the room while they both drank. Outside, a typewriter had begun, working at a fast-clipped pace.

Carefully, Ōda put down his cup. “It seems to me, Nangi-san,” he said, “that Shimada-san was most generous in transferring you into my purview.”

“Perhaps, but he was also stupid,” Nangi said with uncharacteristic candor.

Ōda shrugged his shoulders. “It is said that the Chinese cannot believe that a foreigner can speak their language so that on those occasions when one does, he is not heard. Vice-Minister Shimada reminds me of the Chinese.” He refilled their cups. “He may not have acute insight but he has many friends and allies.”

Nangi knew what his minister was obliquely implying. “None of them have enough power to save him from his own blunders. Hiroshi Shimada has been a very greedy bureaucrat.”

“Not the American way.”

“Oh, no,” Nangi said, getting into the spirit of the play. “Not in the least.”

“Good. Perhaps we may even experience some help from that quarter.” Torazo Ōda rubbed his hands together. “As for the, er, business aspects, I trust we have come to a mutually satisfactory agreement.”

“Pardon me, sir, but I believe we have one more matter to decide.”

Ōda, in the midst of rising preparatory to dismissing Nangi, paused. His face was calm. “And what might that be? You have my permission to continue.”

“With all due respect, sir, my own position has yet to be worked out.”

Ōda laughed as he sat back down, his great belly shaking as if with convulsions. Behind him the first gusts of rain began to bead the windowpane, obscuring the hurrying pedestrians far below. “Young man, I do believe I have the measure of you now.” He chuckled. “I shall not underestimate you again. Let’s see.” He tapped a pudgy forefinger against his pursed lips. “It is clear that you are far too clever to remain here at the BOT.

“You will be my eyes and ears at the new ministry. Makita-san will appoint you chief of the Secretariat. There you will weed through all of the applicants to the new ministry, approving those who are loyal to Makita-san’s—and my—policies.

“Slowly we will transform the face of the entire bureaucracy. Slowly we will melt away those who oppose us, those who do not understand the nature of trade number one-ism. It will be the two-hundred-year Tokugawa Shōgunate reborn!”

Nangi recognized the fierce, cold light of the fanatic turning the minister’s eyes into beacons, and he found himself wondering what it was Ōda had occupied himself with during the war.

Makita-san and I will have to treat this one carefully, he thought as he rose and bowed formally. “Thank you, sir.” He turned to leave, but Oda-san’s voice stayed him.

“Nangi-san, you were quite correct about Vice-Minister Shimada. He was twice a fool. Once to underutilize that fine brain of yours. Second to send you of all people to spy on me.”

MCI did not disappear as Nangi had suggested, but the Ministry of International Trade and Industry’s creation did sound its death knell.

Nangi and Makita pored over the
mabiki
file and, as had been planned, Makita took Nangi’s information officially to Ōda. Because Shimada was a vice-minister and this did have at first whiff the scent of a major scandal, Ōda felt obliged to pass on all the damning evidence to the Prime Minister. Six days after Yoshida received the documentation of Shimada’s transgressions, which included manipulation of ministry funds, use of ministry classified information to obtain jobs for several of his family, and the unearthing of a mistress, a
geisha
, as well as a wife, he was forced to dismiss the vice-minister and make the circumstances of his firing public. SCAP demanded such a procedure in order to ensure continued public support for the government and in order to bring home to the Japanese populace at large that they were indeed living in a democracy where nothing was concealed.

Yoshida was, of course, against such a public humiliation and fought it, knowing what the end result would have to be. He was overruled by members of the Occupation Forces, and at last, after stalling long enough to return to him most of his lost face, he released the documents to the press.

Less than twenty-four hours later, Hiroshi Shimada, kneeling on a fibrous
tatami
, clad in a kimono of ash gray field and smoke wheels, directed his
wakizashi
toward the muscled ridge of his lower belly, slashing left to right, then upward, his body quivering with effort, control, and face. His wife, Kaziko, was found by his side, pools of their already browning blood amassed and mingled, their last and only testament.

“I wonder how much Colonel Linnear hated Shimada.” Yoichirō Makita knelt on the
tatami
while across from him Nangi reclined in a minimum of pain, his spine against a folded
futon.

Nangi was surprised. “You mean the
gaijin
who depurged you? How is he involved?”

Makita looked far better than he had in Sugamo. His body had begun to fill out, while his face had most of its former bloat. He now appeared much as he had in the newspaper photograph Nangi had seen years ago, a figure of almost iconic proportions, an aggressive and powerful
samurai
-bureaucrat.

“During my long weeks with the English Colonel he revealed much to me,” Makita said thoughtfully, “though far less than many other
gaijin
would. He has the gift of patience, that man.”

“You sound as if you admire him.”

Makita smiled. “Oh, nothing so strong as that, surely. But still…for a
gaijin
…” His voice trailed off for a moment, and his gaze retreated to an inner stare.

“You think he knew Shimada personally,” Nangi asked after a time, “as you did?”

Makita’s eyes snapped back into focus and he was with Nangi again. “Oh, there was something between them, all right. I have no doubt about that. Colonel Linnear was the man on MacArthur’s staff who most vociferously fought to have the facts in the scandal made public knowledge.”