The Samurai Strategy Part 10

He punched in the code, called up the receiving routine, and waited for the message.

There had been a call from s.h.i.+p-to-sh.o.r.e phone, the communications line linking him directly with Dr. Shozo Takahas.h.i.+, director-in-charge of his top secret "project" in the Inland Sea. The director was requesting that Noda-sama contact him immediately via scrambler. Top security. He felt his pulse begin to race as he digested the news.

It had been so easy. Almost too easy.

He sat perfectly still for that timeless, historic moment, gazing at the photograph of Akira Mori. A promise kept, from long, long ago. Four decades now, and he had never forgotten what he had said he would do for her.

He called down for tea, waited till it had been delivered, then punched on the phone and switched it to the security mode.

But even on the scrambler, Takahas.h.i.+ began circ.u.mspectly. As the esteemed Noda-sama was aware, their "project" had, over its three years, contended with great difficulties and many disappointments. They were working at the very limits of undersea technology. As Noda-sama also knew, he went on, their early attempts at seismic vertical profiling had been a complete failure. Takahas.h.i.+ took personal responsibility for that. Next they had changed strategy and utilized state-of-the-art microwave radar, hoping that minuscule changes in density along the bottom might indicate what they sought. That too, Takahas.h.i.+ apologized, had been unproductive from the start as Noda-sama had been informed, and he, Takahas.h.i.+, took full blame for the failure.

Noda cut in at that point, impatient and wanting to circ.u.mvent the litany of apologies. Why was Takahas.h.i.+ calling?

The director paused dramatically, then declared he wished to inform the august Noda-sama that their latest approach, the use of a new digital magnetometer, had at last borne fruit. Only this morning they had detected and brought up an "item." In the treacherous straits east- northeast of s.h.i.+koku. It was a water-tight gold case embossed with what appeared to be a sixteen-leaf chrysanthemum or _kiku_. The imperial insignia.

Other confirming inscriptions? Noda nervously reached out and clicked off the humming computer.

Yes, the formal script across one end appeared to be no later than tenth century. Although they dared not open the gold case for fear of damaging its contents, at this moment preliminary a.n.a.lytical procedures were underway and the early results, including a makes.h.i.+ft attempt at s.h.i.+pboard X-ray crystallography, suggested that the steel inside, which clearly showed traces of copper alloy, contained less than a hundredth of one percent of iron oxide. In short, it was possible the "item"

might be perfectly preserved.

It was theirs, Takahas.h.i.+ said, in that breathy, clipped language inferiors use to signify great importance and great deference. It was his extreme honor to announce to the esteemed Noda-sama that the most important archeological find in the history of j.a.pan now belonged to Nippon, Inc., and they--

"_Chigau_," Noda cut him off, in the curt tone expected of superiors.

Incorrect: it belonged to its rightful owner and would now be returned.

And furthermore, he added, Nippon, Inc. had just ceased to exist. Since the name for ancient j.a.pan was Dai Nippon, "Great j.a.pan," as of this moment Nippon, Inc. had just become Dai Nippon, International. A complete reorganization would begin immediately.

Finally he ordered a total blackout. Radios silenced. No sh.o.r.e leave for crew or scientists.

He clicked off the phone and repressing a tremble, descended the stairs.

And there on the garden veranda, using a new brush and perfumed _sumi_ ink from his rare collection, Matsuo Noda composed a very elaborate letter, long swirls of black down a perfect sheet of thick, flowered paper hundreds of years old. It was then sealed in a silver case and hand delivered by special messenger to a fortress in, the center of Tokyo.

Five days later its recipient read it before a nationally televised press conference, and j.a.pan exploded.

CHAPTER FIVE

"_Kami wo araitai no desu ga. Ii desu ka_?" Tam peered through the doorway and nodded h.e.l.lo to the girl in the blue Imperial Hotel uniform. The hair salon was almost empty. Perfect.

"_Hai, so_." The girl, startled at the _gaijin's_ accentless j.a.panese, bowed to the waist. "_Dozo_."

"_Manikyua mo onegai s.h.i.+masu_." What the heck, Tam thought, why not go all the way, get a manicure too.

"_Hai. Dozo_." Another bob as the girl ushered her forward.

There was the plush, padded chair. Big, gray, and voluptuous. She sighed and settled back. Heaven. Perfect peace in the middle of hectic Tokyo. She knew that here for an hour or so she would be an honored guest, smothered with attention. One of the most incredible experiences in j.a.pan.

While three of the girls began shampooing her hair, they went back to chattering about the new husband a matchmaker had just arranged for the pet.i.te a.s.sistant in the back. The bride-to-be was blus.h.i.+ng and there were plenty of giggles all around, hands over mouths. Tam realized, though, that the girls were being a little circ.u.mspect. Who was this strange brunette _gaijin_, speaking j.a.panese with no accent. Maybe she understood what they were saying.

She did.

The woman who would become Tam Richardson was born Tamara no-name in Kobe, j.a.pan, the somewhat embarra.s.sing result of an evening's diversion for an anonymous GI. Her mother, equally anonymous, had prudently given her over for adoption rather than face the social awkwardness of raising a fatherless, half _gaijin _child.

She was eventually adopted by Lieutenant Colonel Avery Richardson, U.S.

Air Force, and his wife Mary, proud Iowa

stock, six years after she'd been stuck in the orphanage. That was during the latter days of the Occupation, but they'd stayed on in j.a.pan through '54 while Lieutenant Colonel Richardson served as adviser for the rearming of what would be the j.a.panese Self Defense Forces. He'd also become a j.a.panophile by then, so he left her in a j.a.panese school rather than subjecting her to the "army brats" on the base. Finally they returned to the States, with a dark-eyed little daughter who'd spoken j.a.panese for almost a decade and being the achiever she was, read it virtually as well as a high-school graduate.

The thing she remembered best from all those years, though, was one word. _Gaijin_. It wasn't exactly that the modern j.a.panese consider _gaijin_ inferior. They no longer dismiss Westerners as "red-bearded Barbarians." No, _gaijin _were merely unfortunate, luckless folk not part of the earth's elect tribe. You were either born a part of j.a.pan, a full _nihon-jin_, or you were forever outside of it, _gaijin_.

But knowing it was one thing, and living it as a kid was something else. She wasn't one of them, and they made sure she got the message.

Finally, however, she discovered the hidden secret of j.a.pan. Most j.a.panese get very uncomfortable around a _gaijin _too fluent in their language or customs, since that outsider has penetrated their life without the constraint of relations.h.i.+ps and obligations. No _gaijin _can ever entirely belong to their seamless culture for one simple reason: no outsider could ever be held accountable to the powerful social and family interdependencies that allow a population half that of the U.S. to get along in a place functionally smaller than California. So to survive there if you're not _nihon-jin_, you just play that fact for all it's worth. Then, like everybody else, you've got a niche; yours merely happens to be outside the system. As an almost-_nihon-jin _you're threatening; as a _gaijin_, you're safe.

She'd finally learned this the hard way, from all those unsmiling little girls in blue school uniforms who used to hiss "_gaijin_." But thanks to them, Tam Richardson learned to be a permanent outsider. And a survivor.

Well, here she was again, ready for another bout. Round- eyed "Tama- _chan_" all grown up and still on the outside.

Though she knew Tokyo well from times past, she was still trying to readjust. After checking into the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo's Hibiya section, she'd showered, changed, and headed out for some jogging--the best way she knew to see a lot of the

city quick. Her major puzzle: where to look for the new impulse behind j.a.pan's big drive, their meteoric move toward the target of _dai ichi_, "number one" in the world. Try to feel the vibes, she told herself, be a tourist and see the "New j.a.pan" through fresh eyes. If it had been winter, she'd have gone straight over to s.h.i.+n.o.bazu Pond in Ueno Park to watch the migratory Siberian waterfowl diving for fish among the clumps of floating ice. In spring she would have first monitored the radio to find out which park had the finest cherry blossoms, then gone somewhere else to avoid the sake-swilling crowds. And if it had been summer, she probably would have headed for the cool of the Imperial Palace East Gardens to catch the pink and red azaleas.

Autumn, though, was a time for swallowing the city whole. She started with the Meiji Shrine, that garish tribute to j.a.pan's Westernization, then moved on to the Imperial Palace, itself a place that, like Tokyo itself, had something for all seasons. She pa.s.sed through the East Gardens watching provincial honey- mooners snapping pictures for the parents back home, then worked her way across toward the Sakuradamon Gate so she could follow the Palace moat as she made her circuit back to the hotel. Along the way she pa.s.sed the Diet Building and the Supreme Court, then decided to look in on the Yasukuni Shrine, buried in its own exquisite grove of cherry trees and mixed foliage. The ma.s.sive bronze _torii _arch leading into the shrine was always surrounded by stalls selling those marvelous little rice cakes, sweet and leaden, she remembered as a kid. She stopped and bought two.

By then she was experiencing advanced jet lag, so she decided to head on back to her crisp-sheeted bed at the Imperial. Tokyo this time around was as impossible as always, maybe more so. Where do you start?

The garish Ginza, the self-conscious trendiness of Roppongi, the skysc.r.a.pers of s.h.i.+njuku, solemn Marunouchi--all of it engulfing, awesomely materialistic. Each trip the city seemed to get bigger, louder, more everything. More cars, more neon, more . . . yes, more money. She could remember, almost, a time when this town was a burned- out ruin. Now . . .

She needed some time to think, to work out a game plan. Sure, clues to the phenomenon of modern j.a.pan were everywhere--drive, self-confidence, competence--but how did they fit together? Change was coming like an avalanche. Who could keep track?

The best thing, she'd told herself, was to start with a clear head.

Back off for a while. After all, the last year had been much toil and little play, with the latest book coming out, ha.s.sles at the university. She needed some unwinding. Maybe a little time spent thinking about nothing would be best of all.

So for a day she lived off room service, immersed herself in the local papers, magazines, TV, and just relaxed. She let Allan's hints about some ominous new development slip way down the scale.

One of the things she couldn't help noticing, though, was an odd stirring in the newspapers, something very much between the lines but all the more real for that very reason. In typical fas.h.i.+on, signals were going out that a major event was in store. The government, she knew, always used a kind of early-warning system for important s.h.i.+fts.

Very j.a.panese. If the Bank of j.a.pan was about to raise or lower interest rates, a move that would impact thousands of businesses and banks, for days in advance various unidentified "officials" would be quoted as speculating that maybe a change in rates might be possible.

Of course they didn't actually say it was going to happen; they merely hinted it could be an idea to consider, it was plausible, conditions might well warrant . . . Anybody with any sense knew immediately this meant the decision was already made and citizens were being alerted to cover themselves posthaste.

Consequently, if "government sources" start hinting an event is conceivably possible, you can usually a.s.sume it's as good as fact.

But what was this about, she wondered, all these allusions to a new "interest" of the Emperor's? The standard elements were all there: leaks, guesswork, columns, unnamed "high sources." No doubt, something major was pending. And just to make sure n.o.body missed the importance of whatever it was, there was even speculation His Majesty might actually hold a press briefing.

That last possibility, she decided, was clearly farfetched. Just not done. A picture session, maybe, but that was it.

After a day of unwinding, she was ready to get out and start gathering some information. This time around, however, she wanted a different image. A s.h.i.+ft from the staid-professor look to high-tech j.a.pan. Start with a few clothes, something smas.h.i.+ng/expensive/designer j.a.panese. And the hair. Right. A cut, a different style, a something.