by Emma Lathen
Fair-mindedly willing to share the gold on the streets of Tokyo, Thatcher regarded his own schedule as basically unaltered. The first order of business was to nudge the Alaska deal forward. Then he and Gene Fleming would swim through the embassy reception, touting the services of SloanCorp. In between these serious endeavors, he would make time to attend the MITI hearing on Wednesday and formally present his affidavit.
But, at Narita Airport, newsstand after newsstand displayed the same face. There was Carl Kruger gravely testifying before a congressional committee; Carl Kruger in shirtsleeves, conferring across a desk with Pamela Webb; Carl Kruger in a hard hat at Cape Canaveral; and, on three separate covers, Carl Kruger standing at the top of an airplane’s steps, his arms outstretched in wide greeting.
The driver in the car waiting for Thatcher was the first to confirm the prevailing fervor.
“I myself saw Mr. Kruger’s arrival,” he began chattily before sweeping to his impressive conclusion. “And I even saw Pamela Webb.”
In the back seat, Thatcher grimaced. By the time Miss Webb was a household name, his own agenda was threatened. Instead of being recognized as the visible symbol of the Sloan Guaranty Trust, he was all too likely to be viewed as a bit player in the great Kruger campaign.
This premonition received support when he followed his luggage into the lobby of the Hilton, where the staff was galvanized by his name.
“Yes, yes, Mr. Thatcher,” they chorused. “We have been anticipating your arrival and are holding a letter for you.”
There was no question of rummaging through the everyday pigeonholes. Instead the desk clerk reached into some more hallowed recess to produce a thick, creamy envelope addressed in calligraphy so beautiful that it was a rebuke to the entire Roman alphabet.
“And,” he continued eagerly, “the messenger from Yonezawa Trading Company awaits your reply.”
Glancing in the direction indicated, Thatcher encountered the deepest bow of his life.
The communication was just as stately. Would Mr. Thatcher do Fumitoshi Arai the inestimable honor of lunching with him today? Since Thatcher’s sojourn in Japan was to be lamentably brief, might Mr. Arai be pardoned the discourtesy of such short notice? His driver would, of course, hold himself ready to await Mr. Thatcher’s convenience. With profoundest respect, etc., etc.
Thatcher could recognize high-pressure tactics, even when they came gift-wrapped, but usually he knew what was being sold. Today he was baffled. A giant of Japanese industry, with whom he was personally unacquainted, had not only ascertained his flight time and hotel accommodation but also stationed a messenger with obvious instructions to preempt other overtures. Curiosity dictated his reply, but prudence suggested an interval to permit other developments.
Lifting a finger, Thatcher fetched the driver to his side.
“Tell Mr. Arai it will give me great pleasure to lunch with him, and you may pick me up in one hour.”
Thatcher normally allowed himself a substantial breather after a major flight. With this indulgence seriously curtailed, he decided to soak himself in a steaming tub. He had just enough time to review what he knew about his luncheon host. Yonezawa was not one of Japan’s ancient trading companies, with a Baron This or a Baron That in its lineage. It was a postwar phenomenon, the single-handed creation of Fumitoshi Arai. Having started as a maverick, he was now, after forty years’ unbroken success, a pillar of the industrial establishment.
But what did he want with the Sloan Guaranty Trust? Lunch, presumably, would tell.
Yonezawa was headquartered in an industrial park north of the city. At the arched entrance from the highway, small letters beneath the exotic script read YONEZAWA TRADING COMPANY. Thereafter the limousine cruised past Yonezawa Concrete, Yonezawa Steel, Yonezawa Marine, and Yonezawa Financial Services before arriving at another Yonezawa Trading Company. The individual buildings were not inordinately large, but the massed effect was impressive.
The autocrat responsible for all this was a fragile, parchment-thin patriarch who moved haltingly. After initial courtesies, Fumitoshi Arai apologized.
“I very much regret that I do not speak English,” he said through an interpreter.
The private dining room to which he led Thatcher was furnished with museum-quality Louis Quatorze, and the paintings on the wall had come by way of Sotheby’s.
A waitress materialized, bearing a bottle of champagne and glasses.
“You may be amused to learn that this comes from a vineyard that I own,” said Arai in a silvery whisper. “It is not a first-rate champagne, but I enjoy indulging in it.”
“Very natural,” said Thatcher, reflecting that if it had been single-malt Scotch, Arai would probably own the distillery.
They reached consommé topped with caviar before Arai raised any relevant topic.
“I am told that the Sloan Guaranty Trust has dealt with Carl Kruger and Lackawanna in many capacities,” he said.
“Quite correct,” said Thatcher, thinking that he saw light. “In addition to the loans we made during the emergency, we have a long history of acting for Lackawanna.”
Thatcher delivered his testimonial unresentfully. Arai had a legitimate interest in Lackawanna. If Kruger’s scheme to distribute through Yonezawa bore fruit, the two companies would be marching in lockstep. Before he took the plunge, Arai wanted reassurance that Lackawanna could pull its weight.
Thatcher was willing to provide a banker’s general endorsement. Whether this was enough for the enigmatic Mr. Arai remained to be seen.
“There are many indisputable advantages in the acquisition of MR,” said Arai. “However, the case for our distributing Lackawanna’s products may be somewhat more problematical.”
Bracing himself, Thatcher continued eating his excellent sirloin. To his surprise, Arai did not press for privileged information. On the contrary, he divulged some of his own.
“There is, as you may know, considerable opposition to the introduction of the Lackawanna product line,” he said. “It is necessary to obtain official sanction. In addition, here is political pressure involved as well. Fortunately I think I may confide that Yonezawa has useful friends in the government.”
He paused for a sip of iced water, making comment from Thatcher necessary.
“I am sure that bodes well for the likelihood of your coming to terms with Kruger,” said Thatcher cautiously. Arai’s candor struck him as out of character.
“However, other people also have friends in high places.” Arai resumed, looking into space. “They are organizing a major campaign to convince certain members of the ministry that it is critically important to protect the domestic electrical equipment industry from American competition.”‘
“Is that so?” said Thatcher helpfully.
“And the leadership of these forces has been assumed by Shima Trading Company, which has been successful in the past in ensuring this protection.”
Thatcher realized that he should have seen this one coming. Shima was the Japanese partner that the Sloan was bringing together with Ridgeway, Ridgeway & Hall of Anchorage. By fair means or foul, his aged host had gotten wind of this arrangement.
“It would be highly unfortunate, indeed disastrous, if Shima prevents Lackawanna from selling in Japan,” Arai observed. “And we would go far toward deflecting protectionist sentiment in your great country by liberalizing the Japanese market.”
Rather than rehash arguments about quotas and trade deficits, Thatcher struck out for new ground.
“The Sloan has not had the honor of dealing with Yonezawa,” he remarked. “But our preliminary discussions with Shima have impressed us very favorably.”
Arai inclined his head.
“However,” Thatcher continued, “our involvement with Shima is confined exclusively to a projected wood-pulp undertaking in Alaska. I know, of course, that they are a major manufacturer of electrical equipment and, hence, a potential competitor to Lackawanna. But in that area, we at the Sloan do not envisage doing a
ny business with them.”
If the interpreter was worth his salt, the verbiage would convey a simple message: What did Arai expect Thatcher and the Sloan to do?
Once again the old man took refuge in indirection.
“It is always difficult,” he philosophized, “when, in balancing many interests, a conflict appears to arise. Then true wisdom is required.”
Thatcher was left to make of this what he could.
“Obviously he is a man who appreciates the exercise of power,” Thatcher was saying late that afternoon.
Carl Kruger, when finally tracked down, denied instigating the overture from Arai.
“Hell, I didn’t even know the Sloan was involved with Shima. And I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“To anybody not familiar with American banks, it might seem like a conflict of interest. And these days I suppose they’re sensitive about that kind of thing.”
Kruger veered off on a tangent. “I don’t know about that, but it seems as if you’ve spent more time with Arai than we have. I met him for about fifteen minutes and then got shuffled downstairs. You’d think that MR and Lackawanna weren’t worth his attention.”
“I doubt if he would be preparing to ram through a major revolution in Japanese practice if that were the case.”
The famous Kruger grin surfaced. “That’s what I’m banking on. I want this deal so much I can taste it. But believe me, we walk soft when it comes to Fumitoshi Arai. It’s practically like dealing with the emperor.”
Thatcher agreed that Japanese formality, carried to the nth degree, could be unsettling.
“Oh, it’s not that.” Kruger waved broadly. “I’ve got nothing to complain about with the Japanese. They’ve done very well by me. We know what we’re proposing goes against the grain with a lot of them, but everybody in the government has bent over backward to be cooperative.”
Examining his companion critically, Thatcher recalled the atmospherics of the great Lackawanna bailout. Unrelentingly optimistic, Kruger had stage-managed a major restructuring without admitting for one moment the scope of what he was doing. The same process seemed to be going on now. Kruger’s public line was that the Japanese were wonderful, simply dying to be of assistance to this stranger in their midst. Like Arai, Carl Kruger was not going to say one single word about the Recruit scandal. The sunshine approach had worked once, and it was being tried again.
“I’m sure they’re cooperating,” Thatcher said. “Otherwise you couldn’t have progressed so rapidly.”
“If you think the Japanese feel they’re being rushed, you should hear my people. Don Hodiak—you’ve met him, haven’t you? he’s the head of production—is so busy seeing all the obstacles, he can’t see the benefits.”
Kruger’s tone was indulgent, but Thatcher was interested to learn of a nonenthusiast in the Lackawanna camp.
“Pamela says she’s barely had time to scrape the financials into shape, and Benny Alderman, our PR man, said a couple of days wasn’t enough to prepare a media blitz.” Kruger laughed outright. “If this isn’t a blitz, I’d like to see one.”
Thatcher agreed that the unknown Alderman had done a smashing job.
“What about the people at MR?” he asked. “This means the most to them, after all.”
“That’s Ali Khan. He’s the boy genius at MR who developed these robotics. He’s still in shock at being tumbled into a plane at Heathrow and dumped down in Tokyo. But he’s never pretended to understand business decisions, and he’s tickled pink that the whole world wants his brainchild.”
“That’s certainly understandable,” Thatcher murmured, wondering if an unnerved staff was what Kruger needed.
But communication with Carl Kruger was pursuing a familiar course. Even as Thatcher thought of a problem, Kruger was moving to dispel it.
“None of this really makes any difference,” he argued. “Ali was getting ready to speak at some technical conference in England next week, so he could handle our presentation here in his sleep. And Pamela is our liaison with Midland Research. She had to rush a little to update the last quarter’s figures, but nobody gives a damn about MR as a company. It’s their robotics that Yonezawa wants.”
“I’m surprised they’re buying the company. Wouldn’t acquiring the technology satisfy their needs?”
“It would satisfy theirs but not mine,” Kruger said bluntly. “Arai would have been pleased to shell out a mint just for a license and call it quits. But I want the Japanese market for Lackawanna. MR’s technology is the bait to get it.”
How typical of Kruger! Enormous frankness about his deal with Yonezawa while he allowed one member of the Lackawanna team to slip away from consideration.
Matching innocence with innocence, Thatcher sounded as if he were automatically running down a list.
“So that leaves Hodiak.”
“Don doesn’t really enter the picture until we have MITI approval. Then, of course, he’ll be central to the final arrangements with Yonezawa, which gives him plenty of time to adjust.”
In other words, everything was for the best in this best of all possible worlds.
“You see, Don’s the kind of guy who doesn’t like novelty,” Kruger continued. “Propose something new to him, and his first instinct is to dream up every possible contingency that can go wrong. But by the time you’ve talked about it so long it doesn’t sound new anymore, he climbs aboard.”
A lesser man might have misjudged Kruger. But Thatcher was inclined to think that he was like an actor who insists on staying in character, even off the set. How the performance was viewed by someone like Fumitoshi Arai, it was impossible to say. Either the Japanese were baffled by the success of this smiling simpleton or, more likely, they ascribed to him depths of cunning that would boggle the Western mind.
“Hodiak will have to, won’t he?”
Kruger’s grin was a challenge. “Show me the division manager who seriously objects to skyrocketing sales with a healthy profit margin.”
Here, at least, they were on solid ground.
“You have a point,” Thatcher conceded.
“I’m not worried about my people. But I sure as hell would like to know why Arai is suddenly nervous. Three days ago he was so calm, he was practically dead.”
Thatcher reviewed his seance at Yonezawa. “Not exactly nervous,” he corrected. “Thoughtful and very alert. I made a point of emphasizing that the Sloan’s connection with Shima began long before I knew of Lackawanna’s application to MITI But while that may have assured him of our good faith, he is certainly expecting some action by your opposition.”
Kruger nodded. “I’d better get my people fanning out in case there are any rumors floating around.”
Surprised, Thatcher pointed out that the Japanese grapevine was not likely to be accessible to transient visitors.
“Hell, no. That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking of.”
Kruger proved his point ten minutes later, when they were joined by two of his staff.
“How did things go at Yonezawa?” he asked, immediately after the introductions.
Don Hodiak accepted a drink and sank into a chair. “Oh, they seem cooperative enough,” he said grudgingly. “On paper, we’ve got a reasonable program for spare parts and warranty compliance. What it would be like in practice is something else again.”
After depositing a mountain of financial data on a table, Pamela Webb joined them. “The accountants over there are right on target. We got through more than I expected.”
“Well, they’ve already seen most of the figures for MR,” Kruger remarked.
“Come off it, Carl.” She laughed. “Nobody cares about those figures. If Shima has a brain in its head, it will present Lackawanna as an undesirable element in Japan. That’s sure what Yonezawa is anticipating.”
Suddenly Hodiak’s expression lightened. “You should have seen their faces when they realized that lunch was going to have to include Pamela.”
“They adjusted fast e
nough,” she said with amusement. “I’ve had more trouble with Austrians.”
Silently watching the threesome at work, Thatcher was impressed by the camaraderie of the Lackawanna team. Differences in opinion, age, and sex seemed immaterial. Kruger was lounging lazily, while Hodiak slumped on his spine, with his legs outstretched. Pamela added to the general informality by kicking off her shoes, plumping down on the settee, and neatly folding her long legs beside her.
With his staff ready and waiting, Kruger moved to the matter at hand.
“Something else has come up,” he began, explaining Thatcher’s audience with Arai. “Don, why don’t you use this program you worked out with Yonezawa as an excuse to go over to MITI tomorrow morning? And, Pamela, they say that Zaretski, the commercial attaché, keeps his ear to the ground. You’d better touch base with him. If there’s anything really out there, one of you should pick up tremors.”
As it happened, John Thatcher got there before either of them.
The unexpected eruption of Mr. Arai had forced Thatcher to delay contacting the Sloan’s Tokyo office. But as he returned to his hotel room later that evening, he decided it was time to call in his secret weapon on the Pacific Rim.
Eugene Fleming was a unique member of the Sloan’s far-flung empire. He not only bridged a vast cultural chasm, he had learned to do it as an adult in a commercial context. Twenty-five years before, he had been snatched by his draft board and assigned for two years to Japan. An enthusiastic motorcyclist, he had spent his time off at local rallies, at one of which he met the daughter of a small motorcycle manufacturer. Ultimately Fleming returned to Buffalo, taking his bride with him. By the time he earned his MBA, the Japanese motorcycle was making its first foreign inroads. Fleming’s mother-in-law missed her daughter, and her husband conceded that an American in the business might be useful. From these small beginnings Gene Fleming never looked back. He was worth every penny of the exorbitant sum he demanded from the Sloan.
He was also quick on the uptake. Before Thatcher had shed his tie, the phone rang and Fleming was apologizing for the lateness of the hour.