The Miko - 02 (6 page)

“Very little business,” the Japanese industrialist was saying now. “Of course you must still be fatigued by your journey and it is, after all, late in the day. But still”—he bowed formally to them both—“it is Monday and the preliminaries cannot wait. Do you agree, Tomkin-san.”

“Let’s get on with it, by all means.” Even though he was closer to Nicholas, Tomkin’s voice sounded odd and muffled.

“Excellent,” Sato said shortly. His bullet head nodded. “Until then.”

When they were alone, Nicholas sat up, the towel draped across his loins. “You’ve been very quiet,” he said into the gloom.

In the brief pause, the girls shuffled away, rustling like reeds in the wind.

Tomkin slid off the table. “Just getting a feel for the territory.” He wrapped himself in his large towel. “Sato seemed busy talking to you; I let him. What’s it to me, right? I was thinking about who was with him.”

“Any ideas?” Nicholas said as they walked through into the shower room.

Tomkin shook his head. “You know Jap industry. God alone knows how they run things here and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that even He gets confused once in a while.” Tomkin shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Whoever he was, he’s a big one, to be allowed into Sato’s inner sanctum like that.”

Seiichi Sato’s office was almost entirely Western in aspect—comfortable sofas and chairs grouped around a low black lacquer coffee table with the ubiquitous Sato logo etched into its center, and, farther away toward the sheets of window looking out on Tokyo, a large rosewood and brass desk, low cabinets, all atop deep pile champagne colored carpet. Woodblock prints were on the walls, all, Nicholas saw, from twentieth-century artists.

Yet as he accompanied Tomkin across the expanse of carpet Nicholas noticed a half-open door beyond which he saw a
tokonoma
—a traditional niche into which was placed fresh flowers every day in a small, simple arrangement. Above it on the wall was an old scroll with some of its original gilt powder still on it. Nicholas could not read the inscription as the angle was too acute but he knew it would be a Zen saying, written by an ancient master.

Seiichi Sato came around from behind his desk in quick, confident strides. He was, as Nicholas had gathered, a rather short man though not overly so. Through his Ralph Lauren suit Nicholas could make out the great bulge of muscles across his shoulders and upper arms like a mantle of iron and he thought, The man works out religiously. He searched Sato’s face, pockmarked and rather angular, with slab cheeks that rose high into his eye sockets and a wide, sleek forehead topped by coarse, brushcut hair. There was nothing subtle about the man’s physiognomy. Nor was he a particularly handsome individual, but what his face lacked in beauty and subtlety it more than made up for by the sheer force of its inner drive and strength of will. His spirit was enormously powerful.

Smiling, Sato held his hand out to each of them in a very American form of greeting. Behind his great looming shoulder Nicholas was amazed to see the summit of Fuji-yama. He knew on clearer days it was visible from the top of the new International Trade Center building at Hamamatsu-chō Station, where the monorail leaves for Haneda. But here in the heart of Shinjuku: fantastic!

“Come,” Sato said, gesturing, “the sofa offers more comfort for the weary traveler.”

When they were seated, Sato made a small noise in the back of his throat, no more than if he were clearing the passage, but immediately a figure appeared through the half-open door to the
tokonoma.

The man was fairly tall and rail thin. He had about him the air of the sea, changeless and formidable. He could have been ten years older than Sato, in his sixties, but that was difficult to judge. His hair was graying and wispy, almost frondlike. He wore a neat, immaculately clipped mustache that was yellowed by smoke tar along its lower rim.

He came across to them in jerky, almost somnambulent strides as if he did not quite have total control of all his muscles. As he came close, Nicholas saw that something had been done to his right eye for the lid was permanently locked in a semiopen position and the gleaming orb within, though his own and not a piece of glass, was clouded and milky like a damaged agate.

“Allow me to introduce Mr. Tanzan Nangi.” The one-eyed man bowed formally, and Nicholas returned it. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a faint pinstripe, brilliantly white shirt, and a plain gray tie. Nicholas recognized him immediately as one of the old school: conservative and wary of any foreign businessman, perhaps not unlike Sahashi of MITI.

“Nangi-san is chairman of the Daimyō Development Bank.”

That was all Sato had to say. Both Nicholas and Tomkin knew that almost all multimanufacturing
keiretsu
in Japan were ultimately owned by one bank or another because that was where all the money resided; it was quite logical. The Daimyō Development Bank owned Sato Petrochemical.

Miss Yoshida brought in a tray laden with a steaming porcelain pot and four delicate cups. Carefully, she knelt beside one end of the coffee table and, using a reed whisk, slowly prepared the green tea.

Nicholas watched her, noting the competence, the strength held tightly in check, the grace of the fingers as they handled the implements. When all of the men had been served, she rose and silently left. At no time had she looked directly at anyone.

Nicholas felt Nangi’s hard stare and knew he was being sized up. He had no doubt that the bureaucrat knew all about him; he would never come to a meeting such as this without being properly briefed. And Nicholas also knew that if he was indeed as conservative as he appeared outwardly he would hold no love for one such as Nicholas Linnear: half-Oriental, half-English. In Nangi’s eyes, he would be below the status of
gaijin.

Together, as was traditional, they lifted their small cups, brought the pale green froth to their lips, drank contentedly. With amusement, Nicholas saw Tomkin wince slightly at the intensely bitter taste.

“Now,” Tomkin said, abruptly setting his cup down and hunching forward as if he were a football lineman ready to leap across the line of scrimmage at the sound of the snap, “let’s get down to business.”

Nangi, who held his upper torso as stiffly as he used his legs, carefully extracted a filigreed platinum case from his inside breast pocket and, opening it, extracted a cigarette with a pair of thin, pincerlike fingers. Just as carefully, he clicked a matching lighter and inhaled deeply. Smoke hissed from his wide nostrils as he turned his head.

“‘Softlee, softlee, catchee monkey.’” He said the words as if they had the bitterest taste on his tongue. “Isn’t that how the British often put it out here in the Far East, Mr. Linnear?”

Inwardly appalled, Nicholas nevertheless held his anger in check. There was nothing but the hint of a benign smile on his lips as he said, “I believe some of the old Colonials may have used that phrase borrowed from the Chinese.”

“Corrupted,” Nangi corrected.

Nicholas nodded his acquiescence; it was quite true. “That was a long time ago, Nangi-san,” he continued. “Times have changed and brought with them modern, more enlightened values.”

“Indeed.” Nangi purred away, apparently annoyed that he had no ready rejoinder to that.

Sato stepped in to guide the conversation away from the friction. “Mr. Tomkin, you and Mr. Linnear are only just arrived here. Mr. Greydon, your legal counsel, is not due until 11:15 tomorrow morning. Shall we then limit ourselves to agreeing to the outlines of the merger. There is time enough for details. I—”

“The percentage split afforded Nippon Memory in this country is totally unacceptable,” Nangi broke in. He ground out the stump of his cigarette, began almost immediately on another one. “It’s a case of attempted robbery, pure and simple.”

“Considering the revolutionary nature of the new chip Sphynx is bringing to this merger,” Nicholas said before Tomkin could open his mouth, “I hardly think a fifty-one-forty-nine split is a high price to pay. Think of the enor—”

“I am a banker, Mr. Linnear.” Nangi’s clipped voice was as cold as his blinkless stare. “Though our
keiretsu
owns many different kinds of
konzerns,
including trust and insurance companies, trade and real estate associations as well as the Sato Petrochemical group, they are all linked by two factors.” He puffed casually at his cigarette, certain he had once again regained control of the conversation.

“One: they are all dependent on the money the Daimyō Development Bank makes for them. Two: they are all based on profitability; when that goes so, too, do they.”

“And profitability is precisely what this merger is offering you, Nangi-san.”

“It affords us no ready capital and I know nothing of computer chips,” Nangi said shortly, as if dismissing the subject.

“To understand the tremendous importance of what we have,” Nicholas said evenly, “it’s essential to get an overview. The computer memory chip is a tiny slice of silicon that, for want of more accurate terminology, is composed of microscopic bins within which are stored bits of information. For instance, the most common chip, a 64K RAM, is composed of sixty-four thousand bins in a space about the same size as your fingertip.”

Nangi crossed his legs at the knee and continued to smoke as if he were at a social tea. He said nothing and Nicholas went on. “RAM stands for random access memory. These chips are most often used because they are very fast and when a computer is at work speed is essential. The problem with RAMs is that when power is cut off to them they lose all their memory and they have to be reprogrammed from scratch.

“That’s why ROMs were invented. These are read-only memory chips which are totally non-volatile. That means their bins are either filled or empty—permanently. That, of course, is their drawback. They must be taken out of the computer in order to be reprogrammed.

“For years, the computer technician’s dream has been for a non-volatile RAM: a speedy, readily reprogrammable chip that won’t lose its memory when the power is turned off.”

Nicholas looked at everyone before he went on; no one seemed bored. “Recently, the industry has come up with a partial solution to the problem: E-squared PROMs, or electrically erasable programmable read-only memory chips. The problem with them is that they’re just too slow to replace RAMs in the heart of a computer.

“Xicor, one of our competitors, has even gone one step further. They’re beginning to combine a RAM with an E-squared PROM to allow the RAM to do all the fast calculations, then to transfer its memory to the E-squared PROM just before the power is cut. But they are unwieldy, expensive, and still cannot do a full range of functions. Further, disk or tape data-storage systems, mechanical switches, or just RAMs with battery backups can still do much of what this tandem chip can do.”

Nicholas put his hands together and concentrated on the banker. “In other words, Nangi-san, the elusive, non-volatile RAM which will change the face of the computer industry for all time was still not available. Until now.” His eyes lit up. “Sphynx has it. Sato-san’s own people have validated the test data. There can be no doubt. We have it, and we are offering it to you on an exclusive basis.”

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “Naturally, such a monumental discovery cannot remain exclusive for long; imitations will surely come. But in the meantime Sphynx-Sato will have the head start that is essential to cornering the market. Our production plants will already be in full swing filling orders while the other
konzerns
are still scrambling to work out the electronics.”

“There is your profitability base,” Tomkin said. “Within two years, we should be looking at a combined net profit of one hundred and fifty million dollars. That’s—”

“Thirty-six billion, six hundred and sixty million yen,” Nangi said. He stubbed out his butt with the formality of an aloof professor confronted by a group of vociferous but inferior pupils. “Do not attempt to teach me about money, Mr. Tomkin. But this is all in the future and these are your figures, not ours. Their astronomical nature is problematical.”

Tomkin apparently had had enough. “Now, look, Sato,” he said, pointedly ignoring the banker. “I came here in good faith thinking we had a deal to iron out. I am prepared for problems along the way; that’s part of all business ventures.” He gestured. “But not this nonsense. I’m hearing talk here like I’m in the middle of a MITI meeting.”

“Nangi-san was vice-minister of MITI,” Sato said with a kind of wolfish smile, “until seven years ago when, as a
ronin
, he helped found Daimyō and, quite directly of course, Sato Petrochemicals.”

“I’m not surprised,” Tomkin said, furious. “But you can tell him for me that this isn’t a case of the foreign devil trying to undermine Japan’s economic balance. Each’ve us’s got something the other wants—and needs. I’ve got the goods and you’ve got the wherewithal to manufacture it at the right price. It’s profits for all.” He abruptly switched his gaze to the banker’s odd masklike face. “Get it, Nangi-san?”

“I understand quite well,” Nangi said, “that you come here wanting a good sized piece of our
keiretsu
’s property in Misawa, land we have already designated for Niwa Mineral Mining’s new expansion. Land is at a premium here, the expense unimaginable for such as you who sprawl like hedonists in your multi-acre estates with pools and stables and gatehouses.

“It is what you ask us to give up; it is what you always expect us to give up.” His eyes were glittery, as hard as obsidian. “And for what? The technology of the future. But I ask you directly: will this ‘new technology’ ease the enormous land problem here; will it make Japan more independent of the fuel-rich nations who seek to bleed us dry; will it free us from our heinous obligation to the United States to be its guardpost against the encroachment of Communism in the Far East.”

He rose up even straighter, an adder about to strike. “Times have indeed changed, as you yourself pointed out. We are no longer your vanquished foe, subject to the blind acceptance of your demands.”

“Listen to this,” Tomkin said. “I’m bringing you the key to millions and you’re preaching reactionary politics at me.” His stubby forefinger pointed at his own chest. “I’m non-political, see? I’m a businessman, that’s the beginning and the end of it right there. You wanna pull this, I gotta think about going elsewhere. Like to Mitsubishi or Toshiba, for instance.”