CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bushido. Take it apart, _bu-shi-do_, and you have "military- knight-ways," the rules of chivalry that governed every moment of a samurai'sexistence. This code of honor of the warrior class, this noblesseoblige, was also known as 'the way of the sword.' For a samurai thesword was a sacred icon, an emblem of strength and inner resolve.Casual handling was unheard of. You never stepped over a sword, younever treated it with insouciance or irreverence. It was an extensionof your character. A samurai regarded his _katana_ as the symbol of hiscaste: a weapon, yes, but also a constant reminder of who he was, hisobligations as well as his rights.
Which was why I needed the prize of my collection in hand when weentered our final battle with Dai Nippon. I wanted to face Matsuo Nodawith classic dignity, with the Japanese honor he had scorned, to lethim know he had a worthy opponent, one who understood the meaning of_bushido_. I also wanted in that process to stick those DNI guards'Uzis up their ass. I'd be needing a _katana_.
Our meeting with Henderson was Monday night. Tuesday morning we allbuckled down and began working around the clock, each of us handling aseparate area, Tam called in some favors with the head of the NYUcomputer center and adapted an off-the-shelf program for stocktransactions to suit our unique requirements. She then booked time andscheduled a few debugging runs. In the meantime Henderson was takingcare of our banking preparations, opening a string of accounts, mostlyoffshore where we could move with comparative anonymity. Also, we allgot together at his place a couple of times and blocked out exactlywhat we wanted to unload first, names and dates.
While Tam and Henderson were setting up the financial end, theelectronics were my responsibility. I was on the phone all day Tuesdayknocking heads with Artie Wilson, an old friend who operated a maritimeradio business down on the island of St. Thomas. Together we assembleda piece of gear needed to address one of the essential telemetryelements, and Wednesday night he took his boat over to St. Croix toinstall it.
I think I've already mentioned the marvelous Caribbean beach house thathad practically fallen into my and Joanna's hands a few years back. Italso sported, as do a lot of island places, a TV satellite dish, and itso happens this one was massive, a twenty-footer. Now, what is notcommonly appreciated is that those concave parabolas can be used tobroadcast as well as receive.
Artie and a couple of his cronies worked all Wednesday night and got itrigged the way I wanted it, including a deadeye bead on the commercialsatellite currently being used by DNI for proprietary communicationswith Noda's Kyoto office. I figured it like this: if "Captain Midnight"could override Home Box Office's satellite network using a receivingstation in Florida and broadcast a Bronx cheer to Time-Life, we couldby God knock out DNI's high-security channel for an hour or so. Artiewould be on standby Friday, ready to flip the switch.
Noda was apparently still in Japan, presumably busy throwing obstaclesin MITI's path, or maybe searching for the remains of his silver case.Let him. We were about to start handling his communications with theDNI office for him, via a setup of our own devising.
One nice thing about global electronics is that if you get a networkfar-flung enough, nobody can trace anything--which was what we werecounting on. After we'd killed Noda's primary communications system, weintended to substitute some Japanese hardware we'd had installed atHenderson's--together with a little help from a mutual friend inShearson Lehman's Tokyo office. The arrangement was complicated, but itlooked workable on paper. Thing was, though, we'd have to get it rightthe first time. No dry runs.
All of which tended to make me uneasy. You don't leave anything tochance when you're playing our kind of game; you need to have a backup.This feeling brought to mind an admonition in an old sixteenth-centurytext on swordsmanship, the Heiho Kaden Sho, something to the effectthat "you should surprise your opponent once, and then surprise himagain." So, strictly on my own, I went about a bit of _bushido_lawyering, using that power of attorney Noda gave me back when westarted out to set up a fallback position in case Tam's scheme somehowfailed. This twist, however, I decided to keep under wraps. Nobodyneeded to be diverted just then worrying about worst-case scenarios.That's what corporate counsels are for.
It was the most hectic week of our lives, but by three P.M. Friday wewere ready, assembled at Henderson's place and poised for battle. Usinghis new hardware, we got on line to Shearson's Tokyo office, Billcashing in a decade of stock tips with a longtime acquaintance. We thenfed him the MITI ID codes we'd picked up from Ken during that ill-fatedepisode at the Tsukuba Teleconferencing Center, and he used these topatch back through to their New York JETRO offices. Finally we got St.Croix on the phone, holding.
"Time to synchronize everybody's watches." Tam was wearing her usualdesigner jeans, a blue silk shirt, and had her DNI flight bag freshlypacked for the long days ahead.
"That thing says 3:28:37." Henderson was watching one of his monitorsbehind the bar, now blinking off the seconds.
"Then let's all get ready to set at 3:29," said Tam.
Which we did.
"Okay, time to roll." I punched the speakerphone. The line to St. Croixwas still open.
"Ready, Artie?"
"Say the word, my man," the voice from the box came back. "We got thewatts."
"You on frequency?"
"Loud and clear. Sound like they runnin' some kind of codedtransmission. Don't read."
"Double-check, Artie. We can't mess up. You're on 26RF- 37558JX-10,right?"
"Yo, my man. Who doin' this?" He bristled. "Think I can't hit nothing'less it got hair round it?"
"Just nervous up here, okay? Settle down. At three-thirty, exactlytwenty-seven seconds from now, go to transmit."
"No problem."
"Stay on channel, Artie. Don't wipe out The Old Ttme Gospel Hour orsomething. We're about to be in enough trouble as it
is."
"You the one 'bout to be up to yo' ass in bad news, frien'. Me, I justsome oyster-shuckin' jive nigger don't know shit."
. . . Except, I found myself thinking, how to make a monkey out of theU.S. Coast Guard and DEA and God knows who else for ten years. Artiewas the best.
Disconcertingly, I might also add, Artie Wilson had demanded cash inadvance for our job, which didn't exactly reflect a high degree ofconfidence in the endeavor. However, there was no way we could testwhat we planned to do. This was it.
"You've got fifteen seconds."
"One hand on the switch, boss, other on my--"
"Artie, stay focused--"
"Thing is, jus' hope I remember which one to yank."
"The big one."
"That's what you think, white boy . . . zero. Blast off . . . yooeee,they gone." Pause, then: "Yep, we pumpin'."
"Got it?"
"Just hit that little birdy with enough RF to light up San Juan. Theyeatin' garbage. They decoder up in Apple town's gotta be goin' apeshit.They can't be readin' no telex, no nothing."
"Okay, keep it cranking." I turned to Tam. "You're on."
"We're already patched through, on hold."
"All the way through Tokyo and back?" It was still a bit dazzling.
"We're going to look just like an auxiliary MITI transmission. All Ihave to do is put in the DNI code, then request the connection over toThird Avenue."
She tapped away on Henderson's keyboard, sending the ID throughShearson's communications center in Tokyo, then back through JETRO onSixth Avenue, from whence it was routed into the communications room atDNI's Third Avenue offices. Since she was using the standard DNItransmission format, we would look authentic. Right now, with theirprimary satellite channel gone, the JETRO link should be DNI's onlyhigh-security connection to the outside world. She began thetransmission, in Japanese _kana_.
Attention: Eyes only; J. N. Tanaka. Special instructions regardingoperations. Please confirm routine satellite communications channelcurrently inoperative.
Moments later the message came back: Confirm communicationsmalfunction.
Then Tam: Due to techni
cal difficulties with transmitter, weekendoperations terminated. Staff advise alert number, message J9.
That last was DNI's special setup that caused the computer toautomatically dial the home number for all members of the staff, givingspecial instructions. Message J9 told everybody not to come in untilfurther communication. God, was DNI efficient! The mainframe just keptdialing each number till somebody picked up. It even talked toanswering machines. We figured that would head off most of the nextcrew. All we needed was a window of a few minutes between the goingsand comings.
Then a message came back. As Tam began translating for us, though, astrange look was spreading across her face.
Operations already suspended as of 2:57 NY time per security-linkinstructions. Staff leave of absence. Is this confirmation? Repeat. Isthis confirmation?
"What in hell." Henderson stared at Tam, then me. "Whose damnedinstructions?"
"Matt, what do you think's going on?" Tarn's fingers were still poisedabove the keyboard. "Why on earth would DNI Kyoto order a shutdownhere?"
"That's a big question." One that had no answer. "Better just fake it,and fast."
"What else can we do?" She revolved back around to the keyboard andbegan to type.
Confirmation. What personnel remain?
Back came Tanaka's reply: As instructed, security personnel only.
"Tam, get off the line. This feels wrong."
She wheeled back again. Transmission concluded. Standby for furtherinstruction.
Tanaka's reply was brief and to the point. A man of few words:Confirmed.
"Whatever's going on, we've got to get over there." I hit thespeakerphone line again. "Artie, keep them jammed till five oh five.That should do it. If we're not in by then, we're dead."
"You got it, boss," came back the voice. "Any longer, some gov'menthonkie's gonna put on a trace. Be our ass. Correction, yo' ass."
"Just pack up your gear and haul out of there. The FCC's the least ofour problems at the moment."
"You the man. Down again soon?"
"Can't rule it out. Take care." I punched off the phone.
Tam was already headed for the door. Downstairs waited the car anddriver we'd hired. No point trying to hail a cab in rush hour,particularly with so much depending on the next thirty minutes.
"Okay, Bill, keep that Shearson link up. Maybe it'll block anybody elsefrom reaching DNI's message center." I was putting on my coat. "Where'sthat package?"
"Right here." He reached behind the bar and retrieved the one item Iwanted with me when we confronted security. It was nicely wrapped inbrown paper. "Look out for yourself, Walton. I got a few good drinkin'years left. Be a shame to have to do it all by myself."
"Your guy ready?"
"Says he's on his way. Due here inside fifteen minutes."
Without further farewells we headed for the elevator.
The trip over brought forth various thoughts on what lay immediatelyahead. For some reason I found myself remembering Yukio Mishima, whoonce voiced a very perceptive observation on the nature ofswordsmanship. He claimed that the perfect stroke must be guided towarda void in space, which, at that instant, your opponent's body willenter. In other words your enemy takes on the shape of that hollowspace you have envisioned, assuming a form precisely identical with it.
How does that happen? It occurs only when both the timing and placementof a stroke are exactly perfect, when your choice of moment and thefluidity of your movement catch your opponent unawares. Which means youmust have an intuitive sense of his impending action a fraction of asecond before it becomes known to your, or his, rational mind. Theability to strike intuitively before your logical processes tell youyour opponent's vulnerable moment has arrived requires a mysticalknowledge unavailable to the left side of the brain, because by thetime that perfect instant becomes known to your conscious mind, it hasalready passed.
The point is, if you allow yourself to think before you strike, youblow it. Which is why one of the primary precepts of _bushido_ is "Tostrike when it is right to strike." Not before, not after, not when yourationally decide the moment has come, but when it is right. Thatmoment, however, is impossible to anticipate logically. It can only besensed intuitively.
My intuition, as we rode the elevator up toward Dai Nippon's center ofoperations, was troubled. The offices had been cleared in advance ofour arrival by somebody from DNI's Kyoto operation. We had struck atthe proper void in space, all right, but our opponent had deliberatelycreated that opening. Things weren't supposed to happen that way.
Then the elevator light showed eleven and the door glided open. We werethere. Before us lay the steel doors of The Kingdom. While Tam gave thecomputer a voice ID, I stood to the side readying the surprise Iplanned for Noda's security twosome. Off came the brown paper, then thescabbard, and in my hand gleamed a twelfth-century katana from thesword-smith who once served the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto. The prize ofmy collection. It was, arguably, the most beautiful, sharpest, hardestpiece of steel I had ever seen. With the spirit of the shoguns.
"Ready?" She glanced over as the doors slid open.
"Now."
Awaiting us just inside the first doors were the X-ray and metaldetector, the latter a walk-through arch like you see in airports. Thenpast that were the second doors, beyond which were stationed the twoUzi-packing guards. The detector was set to automatically lock thesecond doors if metal was detected on the persons of those passingthrough, and the wires leading out of it were encased in an aluminumtube, attached there on the left. This would have to be fast.
The sword was already up, poised, and as we entered, it flashed. Outwent the electronic box with one clean stroke, the encased wiressevered at the exact point where they exited from the gray metal. Therewas no alarm, not a sound. We'd iced it.
Beautiful.
I figured there would be time for exactly two more strokes, but theyhad to be right, intuitively perfect. So at that moment I shut down myrational mind, took a deep breath, and gave my life to Zen. Mentalautopilot.
The connecting doors slid open, and there stood the guards. We'd caughtthem both flat-footed. So far, so good. Now the sword . . .
Yukio Mishima, whom I mentioned earlier, once asserted that oppositesbrought to their logical extremes eventually come to resemble oneanother, that life is in fact a great circle. Therefore, wheneverthings appear to diverge, they are actually on a path that brings themback together--an idea of unity captured visually in the image of thesnake swallowing its own tail. According to him there is a realmwherein the spirit and the flesh, the sensual and the rational, the yinand yang, all join. But to achieve this ultimate convergence you mustprobe the edge, take your body and mind to the farthest limits.
I'd been reflecting considerably on what this meant to us. Noda's twoheavies personified brute physicality, the body triumphant; Tam and Iwere meeting them with the power of the mind and, I hoped, finely honedintuition. Whereas these may seem the farthest of opposites, as withthe symbol of the snake, they merged at their extremities. They becameone. I knew it and the two startled guys now staring at us understoodit as well. Mind and body were about to intersect. The circle hadjoined.
Their Uzis--about two feet long, black, heavy clip, metal stock--werehanging loosely from shoulder straps several inches away from theirhands. I saw them both reach for the grip, but that sight didn't reallyregister. My cognitive processes were already shut down.
While the first man's left-hemisphere neurons were telling his righthand to reach downward, the sword was already moving, millisecondsahead. It caught the gun's heavy leather strap, parting it like paper,and the Uzi dropped, just eluding his fingers. He stood naked.
That was all for him and he immediately knew it. If you're looking at arazor-sharp _katana_, you don't get a fallback try. However, the secondguard, dark eyebrows and bald head, now had time on his side. Up camethe automatic, one-handed.
Right here let me say you've got to admire his pluck. If I'd beenstaring at a four-foot katana that could h
ave bisected me like anoodle, I might have elected to pass. But he'd weighed the odds andconcluded he had a chance. Again, though, his rationality bought ustime. The neurons firing in his brain were setting in motion a sequenceof logic. He was thinking.
The sword wasn't. My blank mind was centered on the void, the placewhere the Uzi would be when it was leveled at my chest. The overheadstroke caught it just where intuition said it would be, point-blank,his finger a millimeter from the trigger.
Cheap Israeli steel. The eight-hundred-year-old katana of YoritomoMinamoto's swordsmith parted the Uzi's perforated black barrel likeHotel Bar butter, bifurcated it into identical slices. Guard number twojust grunted as it clattered to the floor.
By my reckoning we'd been in the inner chamber for about three quartersof a second, but Noda's two human mountains were now standing thereholding nothing but time in their hands. Nobody had to draw them apicture. The game was over. _Bushido_.
I motioned Tam toward the first guard's weapon.
"Matthew . . ." She hesitated a moment, then snapped into action. "Youweren't kidding about that sword. I never realized--"
"Let's go."
"Right." She now had the one remaining automatic. The other was nolonger usable. Didn't matter. One was all we needed.
We now had to kill the automatic ID on the outer door and put it onmanual. Otherwise the two guards upstairs might come calling. While Tamstood there with the Uzi, I went back out and yanked the wires thathooked the voice reader to the computer. There was probably ascientific way to turn it off, but who had time for science? Besides,just then my veins were still pumping pure adrenaline. Facing thebusiness end of an Uzi, even for a fleeting instant, is no way to beginan evening.
Tam ordered the guards to open the last door and in we marched. Tanakawas standing outside his office, his dark eyes glazed, his bristle-covered skull rosy with shock. He turned even redder when he saw the_katana_. Nobody had to tell him what it could do.
"Mr. Walton, why are you here?"
"We're about to undertake some corporate restructuring."
Tam proceeded to herd Tanaka and the guards into Noda's office, pausingjust long enough to kill the phone wires. As he began to recover, hecommenced sputtering about legal action and jail and general hellfire.Who cared? As of this moment, the offices and computer of Dai Nippon,International belonged to us.
Henderson was informed of our progress when his phone rang at exactly4:48 P.M. He arrived, along with his Georgia Mafia computer expert, at5:17, and Tam met them at the security doors.
I wasn't actually there to welcome them aboard, since I was guardingTanaka just then and engaged in a small one-on-one with the man,explaining to him that Matsuo Noda's ass was ours. The president of DaiNippon, I advised, was a few short days away from becoming everybody'slead story, featured as the Japanese executive who'd (apparently)rebelled against his homeland. Noda was no stranger to headlines, ofcourse, but he preferred to engineer them himself, so this definitelywasn't going to be his style. Matsuo Noda was, albeit unwillingly,about to make history. As I broke this news to Dai Nippon's chief ofNew York operations, I sensed he was definitely less than enthusiasticabout the prospect. Well, he'd have a few days to get used to the idea,since nobody was going to enter or leave the eleventh floor for awhile.
It was still a bit difficult to believe what had happened. Or evenmore, what was next. But sometimes reality can have a way ofoutstripping your wildest powers of imagination--a Space Shuttleexplodes, a nuclear meltdown in the Ukraine, ten-dollar oil, all of ittoo farfetched to make credible fiction. It could only exist in therealm of the real.
We were about to start moving billions and billions of dollars, fast.And since we didn't know how long we could continue before Matsuo Nodafigured out a way to stop us, we were going to adhere to a schedulethat covered the most vital sectors first--those outfits whose R&D Tamconsidered strategic to America's future technological leadership. Ourgoal for the first day was five billion, worldwide.
Thus the countdown began. Henderson's financial artist loaded Tam's newprogram tape onto DNI's big NEC supercomputer and cranked up. We hadroughly sixty hours till the opening bell on Monday.
The Samurai Strategy Page 36