The Samurai Strategy

by Thomas Hoover

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  As we rode, I tried to get into mental fighting trim. It wasn't easy.Walton, I kept telling myself, you're too old for this kind ofintrigue. And why drag this innocent woman in. You're not shufflingpaper and cutting deals and then going out for a drink with the otherside's counsel after you've both finished impressing your clients byshoving each other against the wall. You're about to start foolingaround with guys who carry submachine guns. When you wouldn't know whatto do with an Uzi if somebody handed you one. If these boys startshooting, there won't be a lot of polite inquiries concerning dueprocess.

  Tam was leaning against my shoulder, still perfumed from the bubblebath, and totally relaxed. She seemed to know what she was doing. Ormaybe she didn't want to think about the risk we were taking. As forme, this Sam Spade number was definitely not part of my legal arsenal.

  My thoughts, however, kept coming back to her. Tam Richardson was thefirst woman I'd felt this comfortable with for a long, long time. Shewas a mixture of tough and soft, and she was smart. What I'd alwaysbeen looking for. Exit Donna, enter Tam. Maybe life was going to giveme another inning.

  If we both lived that long.

  We'd headed uptown on Sixth Avenue, rutted with slush; at FourteenthStreet we hung a right, east toward Third. The snowplows were out,together with the salt machines, while abandoned cars were lodged infurrows of ice all along the curb. This was definitely shaping up asthe storm of the year. Since most of Tanaka's staff lived in theJapanese "ghetto" up in Hartsdale and Eastchester (where there's even aJapanese PTA these days), they surely must have caught the "OrientExpress" out of Grand Central before the trains got stopped dead by theweather. Certainly tonight of all nights the DNI offices would beempty. This had to be our shot. So shape up, Walton, and go for it.

  While we listened to the sleet bounce off the back window, our Jamaicandriver proceeded to compare New York City unfavorably with every armpithe'd ever known, as well as a few arctic locales he doubtless wasacquainted with only by reputation. I finally tuned him out and beganasking myself one question over and over. What exactly are we going todo if we figure out there's some kind of skullduggery afoot? Is thereany way to stop them, even if we wanted to?

  Probably nothing short of Congress's cracking down could keep Noda'smoney out of the country, and who's going to support that kind oflegislation? Most solons, in fact, were hailing DNI and its Japanesebillions as the salvation of America. No lawmaker was staring at thecameras and "viewing with concern" this new godsend of cash. Ditto thestock exchange. They were nervous downtown, sure, but given the avowedpurpose of Wall Street--attracting money--there wasn't exactly agroundswell of sentiment against Dai Nippon's massive investments. Nodahad come into the market at its darkest moment and begun shoveling incapital. How could this be anything but positive? So every time anotherJapanese billion rolled in and prices ticked up some more, everybodymerely leapt for joy. The Japanese were coming to rejuvenate our land,cheered the Journal. Billions from the cash-rich Japanese capitalmarkets were voting with their feet to be part of America's resurgence.

  Maybe they're right, I told myself. About the only discordant voices inthis chorus of hesitant hallelujahs belonged to a few op-ed sour-grape academics. I recalled one piece in particular from late lastweek. Who was it: Robert Reich, Lester Thurow, "Adam Smith"?

  This must be how it felt all those years in Europe as they helplesslywatched the invasion of American money. Has the U.S. now joined theThird World, capitalized by rich "Yankees" from the East? Now at lastwe realize that setting up plants here for "co-production" was merelythe foot in the door. Does it matter if U.S. industry is owned byAmerican pension funds or Japanese insurance companies? Guess not,unless you happen to care whether we still control our own destiny.America, soon to be the wholly owned subsidiary . . .

  The writer was just blowing smoke and knew it. These days a harangue inthe Times and a token will get you on the subway. Even Henderson wastaking a new look at Noda-- astounded by his market savvy. The Georgiapo' boy who once summarized his own trading style as the four F's("find 'em, fleece 'em, fuck 'em, and forget 'em") had met his match.What a play Noda had made! To Bill, my new client had acquired the auraof some omnipotent invader from the depths of space--The Creature ThatAte Wall Street. His eyes glazed over whenever he reflected on Noda'smasterful one-two punch. Billions skimmed inside a week.

  "Tam, take a good, long look." I was pointing up into the night as weemerged onto the slippery sidewalk. "The house that Noda built. Did allof this happen since only late September?"

  "Time flies when you're having fun." She slammed the door and headedfor the lobby, calm as could be. Okay, Walton, you'd better toughen uptoo.

  I rewarded our grumbling cabbie with a vulgar tip and watched thevehicle slowly roll off into the sleet, tires crunching, to end anotherof those passing New York intimacies so vivid yet so forgettable.

  As it turned out, lobby security was a breeze, since yours truly hadapproved the application of the night guard personally right after DNItook over. Eddie Mazzola, blue uniform and grasping a Styrofoam cup ofcoffee, glanced up from the Sunday Daily News, his face generic StatenIsland.

  "What brings you out on a night like this, Mr. Walton? Nothing wrong, Ihope?"

  "Do me a favor, Eddie. Burn this place down. We'll split the insuranceand both retire to Miami Beach. Who needs New York?"

  He concurred the idea had merit. I then went on to mention that we'djust come from uptown; Dr. Richardson here had forgotten some kind ofgobbledygook up on twelve, and we wouldn't be a minute.

  "Tell you the truth, Eddie, my fingers are too damned numb to bothersigning the visitor's book."

  He saluted and returned his concentration to the Knicks' perennialslump.

  We took the night elevator up, and somewhere around the time we passedthe ninth floor, we managed to settle on a story. Noda, we would say,had called Tam and asked her to hurry up a special report on one of thefirms for Monday. We'd just left a dinner party on the East Side,thought we'd drop by and pick up some printouts since she wanted towork at home tomorrow. Shouldn't be more than a minute.

  As the number above the door hit twelve, I tried to remember how topray.

  In the hallway we waved at the TV eye and the steel door opened.Standing there was Shiro Yamada: cropped hair, trifle burly, grayuniform. One of the regulars. He shifted his Uzi as we came through.Then he recognized Tam and bowed low.

  By the wildest of good fortune Yamada only spoke Japanese, a linguisticlimitation that turned out to be crucial. Tam began by observing theniceties: she commiserated with him about the weather, the late hour,would the next shift be able to get through and relieve him. He was allbows and deference and _hai, hai_.

  Finally she worked around to why we were there, almost as though thatwere a nuisance and the real reason had been to drop by for a chat. Bythe way, she added, there were a couple of things she needed from heroffice. She gave him the story.

  Yamada listened, bowing, _hai, hai_, then sucked in his breath todemonstrate we'd presented him with a serious conflict of obligations--which for a Japanese is the most disturbing prospect imaginable. Thissituation entails great difficulty, he said, drawing in more airthrough his front teeth. _Honto ni muzukashii desu_.

  _Muzukashii deshoo ka_? Enquired Tam. Difficulty?

  _Hai, so desu_. Yes, and he was deeply apologetic. Lots of _sumimasen_,very sorry.

  At first I thought he just hadn't bought the story. But then it turnedout that there were these rules, you see. No one was allowed on thefloor weekends without a pass signed personally by Tanaka-san. Heglanced at his watch. It was nearly two A.M. More heavy intakes of airand _muzukashii's_. Of course the honorable Dr. Richardson-san, beingan honorable director herself, should be able to come and go as shepleased, but the rules . . .

  He seemed to be pleading with Tarn to help him find a resolution forthis towering dilemma.

  "What's the problem, Tam?" I enquired, sotto voce.

  "
No fucking pass."

  After an extremely awkward pause a light bulb clicked on in my simplemind. With great theatrics I suddenly slapped my own forehead, gave Tama tip-off in English, and began rummaging my pockets. When we left thehouse I'd grabbed an old topcoat, not worn since that rainy night I metNoda, and in it somewhere was . . .

  She started explaining that Walton-san may have brought the pass withhim and merely let that fact slip his mind.

  Then I felt what I was looking for, in the bottom of the inside pocket.Noda's _meishi_, his business card, complete with the English notescribbled across the back.

  "How stupid of me," I apologized. "Had it all along. Noda- san's 'toppriority' pass. He gave it to me only yesterday."

  Yamada took the business card and studied it with a puzzled look. Whatdid this have to do with anything?

  That's when I impatiently turned it over and pointed to the Englishscribbling on the back. Noda's initials, I groused, right there at thebottom.

  "_Hai, wakarimasu_." He understood that Noda-sama surely had writtenthis, but so what? It wasn't the official form that the rulesspecified. More _muzukashii_.

  Noda-san was in a rush, I apologized again. Didn't have time to locatethe regular form. Tam passed that along in better Japanese.

  "_Soo desu . . ._" Yamada thoughtfully agreed that such oversightssometimes happened. Everybody knew the big _daimyo _had a tendency tooverride official channels. He shifted his Uzi uncertainly.

  "Noda-sama insisted I finish this report by Monday," Tam stressed. "Weshould only be a minute."

  Yamada scrutinized the back of the card a moment longer, holding it upto the light. What was he going to do?

  Finally he handed it back, bowed reluctantly, and looked the other way.It was a go.

  "God, that was close." Tam closed the door behind us and clicked on thelights. "You don't know how lucky we were. If Morikawa had been on dutytonight, forget it. He'd never have bought that cock-and-bull routine."

  About a dozen computer workstations had been installed

  on twelve to link up with the mainframe and data center on eleven. Aswe moved quickly past the sleeping screens, blind eyes staring vacantlyinto space, there was an eerie, ghostlike abandonment to the place, allthe more so because of its hectic motion during regular hours. Thephantoms of regimented analysts seemed to haunt the rows of emptydesks. Tam remarked she'd never seen it like this: the nerve center offduty. Only the storm of the decade, together with two A.M. Sundaymorning, could create such solitude. It took God to shut down DaiNippon.

  "Okay, time to move fast. Let's hit Mori's lair." I was whispering aswe neared the corner office. Ahead was the closed door, solid oak. Itook a deep breath and reached for the knob.

  It was locked.

  "No dice." I looked around at Tam, who was still wearing her lamb coat,gray against her dark hair, sleet melting on the shoulders.

  "Let me try." She gave it a twist. Nothing. "I don't suppose we'd bevery smart just to kick it in. Though that's what I feel like rightnow, after all our trouble." She turned to me. "Maybe there's a keysomewhere in Noda's office? Think there's a chance?"

  "Could be." I was rummaging my pockets. "First, though, let me checksomething."

  I pulled out a ring and began to flip through it. "I ended up with amaster, courtesy of the RM&S floor manager that day they turned intheir keys. Now, if this internal door lock hasn't been changed yet,maybe . . ."I selected one and kissed it for luck. "Here goes."

  The key, a large silver model, was resistant, the way masters alwaysare. Undeterred, I wiggled it forcefully, and slowly it slipped intothe knob. A couple of jiggles more and the thing began to revolve undermy hand.

  We emitted matching sighs of relief as Tam shoved the door wide andreached for the light switch. "Now I've got to regress into the past. Alot of their reports are in Japanese." She went on to explain thatalthough she could read the _kana _syllabaries easily enough, she'dforgotten a lot of the _kanji_ ideograms. She could piece togetherenough to work through a simple newspaper story, but heavy technicalprose was always tough.

  She quickly sorted through the papers piled in neat stacks

  atop Mori's desk, but who knew what most of them said? Nothing lookedlike my stolen list. Next she checked the drawers of the desk. Onecontained a heavily marked printout; the others, nothing.

  Time was ticking. If Yamada decided to make the rounds, no quantity ofcreative fiction would save us.

  She quickly grabbed the printout. At least we had one item that mightgive us something. What, though, we still weren't sure. Nothingresembled the page I'd lifted, but locating that document now appearedincreasingly like a long shot anyhow. Guess everything seems easy tillyou actually try doing it.

  Where else to look?

  I glanced around the room, wondering about the file cabinet. Probablylocked, and besides . . .

  That's when I saw it. On a side table next to some technical books wasan item we'd both failed entirely to notice. A large leather attachecase.

  "Tam, I think we've hit pay dirt. Check that out. Do you suppose shecould have forgotten it last night when they shut the place down?"

  "Maybe she didn't need it. Anything's possible. I remember seeing hercarrying it around yesterday afternoon."

  "Well, could be this is our find." I lifted it . . . and realized itwas empty.

  "Shit." I slammed it down, and just then detected a faint rattleinside. Hold on a minute.

  I carefully shook it again and listened. "Tam, there's something inhere."

  "I vote we take a peek."

  Which is what we did. No harm, right? I mean, the darned thing was justlying there. No "break and entry."

  Guess what was inside. Not paper. Not a MITI report. Not lunch. Nothingin fact except for a shiny little compact disk, a CD.

  "What the hell is this doing in here? Did she bring along some BeachBoys?"

  "Matt, that's an optical disk, a CD-ROM." She suddenly seemed verypleased.

  "Huh?"

  "Compact disk, read-only memory. Except this one looks to be erasableand writable. This is the latest thing in computer storage technology."She held it up to the light, which reflected a rainbow of colors offits iridescent surface. "Maybe we've found what we came for. Let's takeit and go."

  "Is this like the CDs in record stores? The ones you play back usingsome kind of laser gizmo?"

  "Same technology, only this is for text and data, not music. These canhold five-hundred megabytes, about one hundred and fifty thousandpages."

  "Then I have some disquieting information to impart. I saw somebodycome in here one day after shopping at Tower Records, and a CD he'dbought tripped the metal detector out there in Yamada's anteroom likehe was wearing sleigh bells. Down inside this shiny plastic must bealuminum or something. We can't take it out." I turned it in my hand."And besides, what would we do with it anyway? Stick it in a Walkmanand listen to all the little digits spin by? In hi-fi?"

  "I've got a reader at home . . . but wait, there's a better way." Shelifted it from my grasp and headed out onto the floor. "Ever hear ofcomputer crime?"

  "In passing."

  "Good. Then what you're about to witness won't shock you."

  I watched as she kicked on one of the NEC desk stations and loaded in aprogram. Next she walked over, flipped a switch on a little box, and adrawer glided out. In went Mori's shiny disk. Another button waspushed, the drawer receded, and the disk was spinning silently.

  Well, I thought. You want peaches, you shake the tree, right? Maybeshe's about to kick hell out of the orchard.

  "I'm going to dump this into the memory of the mother ship downstairs."She did some fiddling, then typed in her password to sign on themainframe on eleven. "Beam us down, Scottie." In moments she and allthose silicon cells below us were beeping away at each other. Shedidn't look up, just kept typing away, the hollow click-clack that'sbecome the signature sound of our computer age. Finally she leaned backand breathed. "Okay, it's reading the disk. After it's in memor
y downthere, we can pull up the contents here on the screen and see whatwe've got."

  I don't know how long it took to read the thing. Probably no more thana minute or so, though it seemed forever. Finally something flashed onthe screen and told us the disk had been dumped. Tam took it out of itslittle player and passed it to me.

  "Here, put this back in her case. While I start pulling up the file."

  I'd just finished snapping it shut when I heard an expletive from outon the floor that would not be judged suitable for family audiences.

  "Watch your language."

  She was sitting there staring at the screen. Finally she turned andlooked at me. "So close, yet so far. It's encrypted'."

  "It's what?"

  "Come and look."

  I did. On the screen was a mass of numeric garbage. What was this allabout?

  "Matt, when this disk was written, whatever went on it was scrambledusing some key, probably the DES system, the 'data-encryptionstandard.' It keeps unauthorized intruders like us from snooping."

  "How does anybody read it?"

  "A decrypting key must be in the hardware down on eleven. But we can'tget through to that level of the machine without an 'access code.'Which we don't have."

  "Very smart. The electronic keys to the kingdom." I watched, wonderingall the while what Yamada was doing out there. Should I blunder out andchat him up with my Berlitz Japanese, just to keep him occupied? Theclock above the door was ticking away.

  "Tam, why not just try activating the key using your own password asthe access code? Maybe it'll get you into that level on the mainframe."

  She gave it a go, without much enthusiasm. Predictably the message cameback, 'ACCESS CODE NOT RECOGNIZED.'

  "Well, try some others." I was grasping. "Hit it with 'NODA' or'MORI.'"

  She did, but after both were rejected the workstation suddenly signedoff. Click, out of the system.

  "What's happened now?"

  "More bad news. I forgot the mainframe is programmed so that you getthree tries at a protected code and then it breaks the connection.That's to keep crackers like us from sitting here all day and runningpasswords at random. Another security precaution."

  "Three chances to guess the secret word and then you're

  out. Sounds like a game show." I just stood there and scratched myhead. Seemed we were, to be blunt, shit out of luck. "What now,Professor? I assume there are about a hundred million alphanumericcombinations they could use."

  "Close." She was clicking away at the keyboard. "So let's think aminute." She glanced back at me. "Why don't we assume for a minute thatthis is a MITI disk."

  "Safe bet."

  "So the decryptor key in the machine here would be from MITI, right,since Mori obviously brought the disk to be read?"

  "Sounds good."

  "You know, I was in Ken's office once, and I recall watching some ofhis staff playing around with the information on one of these disks.Don't know why I still remember this, but the password they used was... I think MX something, three letters, followed by six digits. Thedigits were always changing, but the prefix was the same."

  "So if your wild guess about this being a MITI disk is right, and thefirst two letters of the three-letter alpha part are still MX, thatmeans there are exactly, what--twenty-six letters in the alphabet timesa million numbers--twenty-six million combinations. We're looking forone number in twenty-six million? So if it takes, say, five seconds totype one in and try it, we're talking roughly a hundred and thirtymillion seconds to go the course." I glanced again at the door."Besides which, we get kicked off after every third try. Working aroundthe clock, we ought to have it sometime about, what, 2001?"

  She glanced back at the screen, then suddenly whirled around, a funnylook on her face. "What do you have in your office?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't you have a PC downtown?"

  "Just a little IBM AT, 512K. And also a Mac, a toy I use to drawcutsey-poo pictures now and then and do covers for reports."

  "How about a telephone modem?"

  "Built in. How else could I handle all that trading?"

  "And it's up?"

  "The IBM? Never turn it off. Little twitch left over from playing theHong Kong exchanges. Habits die hard."

  "Okay, I'm going to try and use it to crack the code in DNI'smainframe."

  Honestly, for a second there I thought my hearing had gone. "My littleIBM against that monster? How, forchrissake? There're twenty-sixmillion--"

  "We'll have to do something not very nice. Since the Japanese aren'tused to hackers, those bearded malcontents in firms who screw upbusiness computers for spite, these workstations aren't buffered offsensitive parts of the system. We are now going to exploit that trustin Japanese culture. We're going to organize these terminals, hook themto your computer, and then direct that network against the mainframedownstairs. Something no Japanese would ever dream of doing." She gotup and went down the row clicking on machines. "There's a list of namesin my office, there by the phone. Can you bring it?"

  "Coming up." I fetched it. It was a temporary "phone book" of the staffon the floor. She took the list and went back down the line ofstations, typing something on each keyboard.

  "What are you doing, Tam? This is crazy."

  "It'll just take a second. Everybody here has a password to sign on tothe mainframe, but it's just the name of the person." She came back tothe first workstation. "Now the mainframe thinks ten people just signedon to the system. We'll use these terminals to try access codes on themain computer. Your PC will control them so that each terminal hits itwith two codes and then the next one goes on line. That way we'll neverget kicked off. It should get around the 'three times and you're out'filter downstairs." She began frantically typing again.

  "What are you doing now?"

  "We could try alphanumerics sequentially or randomly. I think randomlyis probably better. It'll be faster. So I'm writing a little programfor the mainframe, a random-number generator. It'll start making uprandom access codes of MX followed by a letter and six digits andsending them to your PC downtown, which will immediately feed them backin pairs to these terminals. Out one door, in another. Maybe that willfool it."

  "Christ, woman, you've got a criminal mind. Is this the kind of stuffyou teach at NYU?"

  "What's your number downtown?" She was typing away again.

  I wrote it down and handed it to her. "I don't have the foggiest ideahow you're going to be able to swing this."

  "That's all right. I do. Just let me get your IBM networked into theseterminals here. Fortunately it's compatible, and all it's going to bedoing for now is bouncing back numbers generated by the mainframe." Sheflipped some switches, then typed my number onto the screen. Imomentarily wondered if the sleet had knocked out the phone system. Ithadn't.

  Again the seconds crawled by, but as soon as she'd finished her chatwith my IBM downtown, the row of terminals suddenly started beepingaway. Two shots, beep, the next one came alive; two shots, beep, rightdown the row.

  "Okay, your computer is running the show now. Sooner or later maybesomething will click." She punched a couple more keys, then got up.

  "It's done?"

  "Ready to rock and roll." She was putting on her coat. "We'll berunning millions of numbers."

  "Isn't anybody going to know you've pulled this?" I was, I confess,totally dumbfounded.

  "Not unless they discover my little program in the mainframedownstairs. But it's just a random-number generator, something anysophomore could write. The trick is, we're hitting it with so manyterminals it won't be programmed to keep track of all these littleelves trying to sneak in. And when we're through we'll turn them alloff using your modem downtown."

  "Good God, whatever happened to pen and pencil?" I was still dazed.She'd done it all so fast. "If you can find the decryptor key and getinto the files, then what? You going to dump all the info on Mori'ssexy little CD down at my place?"

  "I hope you've got lots of paper. Who knows
what's on it." She wasshutting off the lights. "Come on, let's get out of here."

  "Aye, aye, Professor." I walked back, clicked off the light in Mori'soffice, then paused to double-check the lock.

  "We came for printouts, remember. We only have Mori's." I was joiningher. She glanced at the stack on her desk, then grabbed a pile andhanded them to me.

  "You'd better carry these. And don't be put off by my 'ugly American'routine at the door. It'll be for a purpose."

  After she'd doused the rest of the overheads, we passed

  through the first security door and greeted Yamada. While I fiddledwith Tam's printouts, she proceeded to give him a very Japanese-styledressing down, disguised as a series of pale compliments. She reviewedall her work for Dai Nippon, just happening to mention Noda-sama thisand Noda-sama that every other breath. The hapless guy sucked in hisbreath and bowed a lot and _hai, so_-ed about once a second and then_sumimasen_-ed some more. By the time the elevator appeared, she'ddestroyed him. He'd lost so much face he'd never dare mention our visitto Noda or anybody.

  About two minutes later we were out on the sleet-covered sidewalk,looking for a cab. It was a heroic effort, but eventually we wereheaded back downtown. Secure and holding.

  Although my upstairs office was freezing, I was mesmerized watching theflashing green numbers spin on my little IBM screen. It was likeplaying one of those "fruit machines" at the local bars, except we weresitting there witnessing a gigantic intelligence turned against itself,searching for the crack in its own armor. There was something ironicabout the fact that the Japanese were such a homogenous, disciplinedpeople they didn't need vast arrays of American-style safeguards tokeep crazies off their computers. Unfortunately for them, they weren'texpecting a couple of American criminals with no such scruples.

  By four A.M. we had watched three million random numbers tried; byfirst light we were up to six.

  "Tam, I'm beginning to get this sinking feeling MITI must have changedthe prefix." I was bringing a new pot of coffee, half staggering up thecarpeted stairs. "Or maybe we should have done it sequentially."

  "Maybe, but that would mean wasting a lot of time on numbers that areimprobable. This is our best chance." She poured another cup of javawhile I just stretched out on the floor. "Damn. I wish I could rememberwhat the other alpha was. MX what? That could save us days."

  "We don't have days." I closed my eyes. "Try hypnosis."

  She sat staring at the screen for a few moments, then slowly wheeledaround. "I know why I couldn't remember it. It was a repeat. Matt, itwas X."

  "Go with it."

  "Hang on." She did some quick typing and hit the play

  button. Her face was showing the strain, but I loved her looks. What achamp. We were together; us against the beast. Unfortunately, though,the beast was still ahead.

  At seven-thirty Ben roused himself and lumbered expectantly up thestairs. With a silent curse I put on my boots and took him out for astroll on the ice. He hated it. When we came back, I decided to give upand crash. Come on, this was insane, a billion-to-one shot and wedidn't even know what the prize was at the bottom of the box. We weregetting nowhere. MITI had changed the code and screwed us. Fortunately,however, I heroically vowed to try and stay awake till eight A.M. Thatwas it. The end.

  At exactly 7:49 the numbers abruptly stopped. "ACCESS CODE MXX909090CONFIRMED--DECRYPTOR KEY ACTIVATED." Confidential MITI memos startedscrolling in orderly green clumps up the screen.

  "My God, Matt, turn on your printer."