by Emma Lathen
“The Prime Minister has expressed his interest in meeting
you, Mr. Thatcher. He would be pleased if you could spare him some time,” he said impressively.
“It would be an honor.”
Thatcher was obediently turning when the aide continued:
“And perhaps Mr. Fleming could accompany you to interpret?”
Thatcher privately wondered which one of them was actually being accorded the interview. This thought was immediately echoed by Stan Zaretski.
“Neat,” he rumbled. “Gene’s too low on the totem pole to rate an audience, but the PM’s curious about him. This way he gets two for the price of one.”
The Prime Minister was not the only one getting an unofficial bonus. Within the secluded alcove stood Tomaheko Matsuda, clearly basking in this sign of special favor. Displaying far more affability than had surfaced at MITI, he was delighted to see Thatcher again, delighted to meet Mr. Fleming . . . in fact, delighted about everything.
The formal conversation followed predictable lines. Fleming, as grave as a judge, went through his paces. The Prime Minister asked questions, to which Thatcher replied suitably. Then the exchange ended with a few recollections by the PM of his last visit to the United States.
As soon as they had retired from the Presence, Gene Fleming announced his conclusions.
“No wonder Matsuda is on top of the world! The PM must have made his decision.”
“About what?”
“The permanent secretary of MITI is seriously ill and expected to resign soon. All the oddsmakers in Tokyo have been wondering which deputy secretary will get the nod. That performance we just saw means Matsuda has the inside track. They must like the way he’s handling the hearings.”
One serious flaw in Matsuda’s chairmanship occurred to Thatcher. “Having us stumble across a corpse doesn’t make any difference?”
“Why should it? It’s not his fault that some nonentity got himself killed.”
Thatcher agreed, then reverted to his own schedule.
“Two more names to go, and we can leave,” he said.
But Fleming shook his head. “Not a chance, John. Nobody goes home until the guest of honor does, and he’s notorious for actually enjoying these shindigs. He always stays late.”
In any event, it took longer than Thatcher had expected to reach their last two prospects. Everyone in the room seemed to know Fleming and welcome his appearance. As they moved from one group to another. Gene maintained a running commentary on figures of note.
“You see the guy next to the cultural attache, just taking some champagne? He’s the next one the prosecutor’s expected to arrest.”
And the portly gentleman surrounded by sycophants was also not to be envied.
“For three years he was in the running to be next head of the LDP. Now that’s gone with the wind, poor fish!”
It was a relief to reach an industrialist whose world was still intact. Unfortunately he was so outraged by the U.S. budget deficit that he could talk of nothing else. Thatcher only hoped that the general irritation did not spill over onto U.S. banks.
Inconsequent thoughts were speedily banished, however, when they tracked down the last name on the list. Gene Fleming’s fame had preceded him, and the prospect admitted that he had been thinking of making an appointment. After announcing that he planned some acquisitions in the Common Market, he produced a shopping list guaranteed to stop any banker in his tracks.
The conversation proceeded sedately through a joint automotive venture in Italy, a shipyard in Scandinavia, a pharmaceutical firm in Germany. It was a final item that was mystifying.
“A china manufacturer in France?” Thatcher repeated expressionlessly.
The small, tidy figure facing him vibrated with anticipation.
“A personal enthusiasm,” he apologized. “This would be a small self-indulgence.”
Thatcher sincerely hoped this meant something on a par with Arai’s second-rate vineyard. If they were talking about Limoges, the result could be blood in the streets. National pride can set unpredictable limits.
“I would be delighted to have our people investigate the possibilities,” he promised, wondering if the Sloan had an expert on porcelain.
Another shot in the arm followed this satisfactory interview, when Stan Zaretski stopped to say that the Prime Minister had left unexpectedly.
“Splendid!”
Gene Fleming, casting a knowledgeable eye over the salon, was not so enthusiastic. “Something must have happened. It’s not just the PM. The whole damned government’s gone.”
“That’s what I was going to tell you,” Zaretski continued. “They’ve been slipping quietly away, one by one.”
“What the hell can it be?”
Stan Zaretski was inclined to be playful.
“The public prosecutor strikes again?” he suggested.
“Or another of his key witnesses has committed suicide,” Fleming said more seriously.
But Thatcher, with freedom in sight, saw no reason for idle speculation. “We aren’t going to find out anything by bouncing possibilities off each other,” he observed. “And even that we could do someplace else.”
Fleming suggested adjourning to his house for a nightcap, but Zaretski declined.
After taking formal leave of the ambassador, the men from the Sloan were free to depart. Thatcher, pausing for a last glance at the gathering, discovered that Gene Fleming had overlooked one important Japanese official.
Conspicuously alone, Tomaheko Matsuda was almost obscured by a potted palm as he stared at the depleted scene with a puzzled frown.
Thatcher always enjoyed encountering his Tokyo manager’s wife. Haru Fleming was as great an anomaly as her husband. On the street, in a fur coat, she looked like the wife of
a Japanese businessman. At any gala function that she could be persuaded to attend, she seemed, in her dress kimono, like a charming survival from the past. She was, of course, neither. Haru had successfully bridged two cultures. She spoke both languages, was at home in the United States and Japan, and had spent years ensuring that her children reap the benefits, rather than the disadvantages, of their double inheritance.
A tiny, delicate woman, she was often silent in company for long stretches, content to occupy herself extending hospitality and listening. Then, weary of the labored pace of the conversation, she would suddenly produce swallowlike flights that soared far ahead of her guests.
Tonight, displaying no alarm at being surprised in slacks and a shirt, she welcomed Thatcher and automatically produced Scotch rather than sake. She did not come to life until Gene began a familiar refrain.
“. . . yet still retaining their traditional way of life.”
“Pooh!”
It was a soft puff of sound. Nonetheless it conveyed Haru Fleming’s abundant contempt.
“You don’t agree?” Thatcher turned expectantly to his hostess. She was, he knew, an indefatigable reader of the American and Japanese press. Were her articles different from his?
“Look at this room,” she invited, pointing to the sofa and chairs. “When Gene and I first set up housekeeping in Tokyo, we had two main rooms, the Western one for Gene’s friends and the normal one for my family. Now we still have two rooms, but my family comes here. The other one is for foreigners who want a touch of the old Japan. And as for food! When my parents go out, they wouldn’t think of ordering anything but French or Italian.”
“But that’s just prosperity, Haru,” her husband protested. “Like having a VCR or stereo. It doesn’t change the fundamentals.”
She swept on. “Every family with a child tries to give him a room of his own. And as it isn’t public, it usually has a permanent bed. When people change the way they sit, sleep, and eat, you’re introducing basic alterations.”
Thatcher did not really believe that attacking a veal cutlet with a knife and fork radically altered one’s orientation.
“Those can scarcely be called major social
changes,” he said.
“No?” she challenged. “When I grew up, the home was a place shielding its members from the outside. There was no such thing as privacy from each other. You don’t think introducing a small child to that concept is a departure?”
“I can’t begin to imagine the difference it would make,” Thatcher confessed.
“Neither can I,” she said cordially. “But I do know that the idea of family is changing daily and nobody wants to admit it.”
Gene Fleming was frankly enjoying his wife’s rigor about tribal custom.
“You’re a fine one to talk,” he teased. “After marrying me.”
“I ceased to be Japanese that day,” she said with dignity. “But I recognized the consequences of what I was doing. Apparently nobody else will—”
Before she could continue, there was a knock on the door, and within seconds Stan Zaretski was making perfunctory apologies.
“Sorry to barge in on you, but I thought you’d want to know right away.”
In his rumpled penguin outfit, Zaretski loomed over them, filling the small room.
“That murder at MITI this afternoon has opened up a real can of worms,” he said. “While the police were rummaging through the victim’s papers, they found a lulu in his Midland Research file. There was an envelope containing part of a letter in German. That’s what held things up.”
“German?” Thatcher repeated blankly.
Zaretski’s face was grim. “From Switzerland. A financial agent over there was certifying the arrival of one million dollars. It would be deposited in a numbered account for the letter’s recipient as soon as the agreed-upon conditions were satisfied. And scrawled at the top, the initials MR.”
There was a throbbing silence.
Finally Thatcher asked the most important question. “Any names?”
“Absolutely none. It was a middle sheet, you see. So it’s anyone’s guess who was bribing who. They don’t even have the name of the agent.”
“Jesus Christ!” Fleming breathed softly. “No wonder the Prime Minister skipped out. They’ll have to burn the midnight oil on this one.”
“I see what you mean,” Thatcher agreed. “If Mr. Ushiba was killed because he found out somebody was getting a million dollars for the right Midland Research decision, then the murder has become a political hot potato.”
Fleming looked at him with excitement. “It’s a lot bigger than a simple murder. The LDP has been through enough pressure to bring down several cabinets, so they’ve learned how to live with scandal. But this is too damned blatant. MITI is the lodestar of the Japanese miracle, a sort of holy of holies. It’s supposed to be above reproach.”
“What steps do you think the government will take?” Thatcher asked.
Both the experts spoke at once, their answers colliding in midair. Fleming’s higher pitch won out.
“They’ll try to keep the lid on. Not that they can for long.”
“They’ve already taken their first step,” Zaretski announced impatiently. “How the hell do you think I know all this? The ambassador has been told informally that Carl Kruger is no longer persona grata.”
Fleming nodded vigorously. “Of course. That’s the natural line of defense. A foreign barbarian pulled this stunt, so it has nothing to do with the powers that be. A wonderful ploy, when you come to think about it.”
“Wonderful for them, but not so hot for me.” Zaretski was already foreseeing a difficult morning. “I’m the lucky one who gets to break the news to Kruger.”
Haru Fleming, diligently refilling glasses, was bright-eyed with interest.
“I wonder how he’ll take it,” she mused.
John Thatcher bitterly resented the fact that he was the first one to find out. When he returned to the Hilton he made the mistake of detouring to the desk for his messages, only to discover Carl Kruger before him. For once the president of Lackawanna ignored appearances. He was reading and rereading a single sheet of paper.
Without replying to Thatcher’s greeting, he lifted a frowning face and, after a moment’s hesitation, extended the communication.
“This just came by special messenger. What the hell do you think it means?”
Thatcher rapidly scanned the formal language. With every circumlocution possible, MITI first congratulated Lackawanna on its splendid presentation, then brightly declared the nature of Mr. Ali Khan’s work to be so unusual that only physical demonstration of the robots and their manufacture could establish the value of the technology. They were, therefore, suspending further evaluation and proposing a meeting two weeks from date in Birmingham, U.K. Given the shortness of the notice, they realized it would be necessary for Mr. Kruger and his staff to depart at once. With profound apologies for any inconvenience occasioned by this decision, they remained. . .
Kruger was hoarse with shock. “This is some kind of bullshit. Nobody’s ever had any doubts about the value of the robotics. I’ll bet Iwamoto’s gotten himself a phony technical expert.”
The path of duty was all too clear.
“No, that’s not it.” Thatcher took a deep breath. “You see, Carl, something has happened.”
Chapter 10
When John Thatcher arrived in the international departure lounge at ten-thirty the next morning, the first thing he saw was a storm center around which most travelers were making a wide detour. At the heart of the turmoil stood Carl Kruger. Flushed and angry, he was snarling at the pack surrounding him, for all the world like the traditional stag at bay. Three or four men, whose placatory tones marked them as members of the American Embassy, were ranged against him. Behind them lurked the second string, ready to go into action if required. Bennet Alderman darted here and there, desperately trying to engage the attention of men who would not listen. Slightly removed from the conflict, Pamela Webb and Don Hodiak had slumped against a post, looking shell-shocked.
It was all a far cry from the many pictures of Kruger’s arrival at this same airport. Apart from other differences, there was not a single Japanese in his vicinity. As far as the visuals went, Kruger was being ejected by his own countrymen.
One of the outriders, catching sight of Thatcher, detached himself from the controversy and lumbered across the hall.
“We’ve been at it all night, and it’s been a real bitch,” Stan Zaretski reported wearily. “Kruger started calling his pals back home as soon as he got MITI’s letter. Then they called their pals in the State Department and the White House. After that the calls were going back and forth across the Pacific nonstop. It must have been four o’clock before the ambassador finally got his go-ahead.”
“It’s hard to believe the result was ever in doubt.”
“Of course not. Kruger may be important, but American foreign policy still cuts some ice. If doomsday comes for the LDP, it’s not going to be Washington that lights the fuse. But try telling Kruger that.”
Thatcher pointed out the obvious.
“He doesn’t care about foreign policy. He’s thinking about his deal.”
“So he’s explained to us. Over and over again. At first his line was that the ambassador didn’t have the guts to stand up to the Japanese. Now he’s cursing the whole administration.”
“It’s characteristic of him to want to stay and protect his position.”
Zaretski shrugged. “Oh, he’s a smart cookie. The ambassador can feed him that pap about giving the Japanese time to clean house, but Kruger knows damn well that they’re hoping to load it all on him. And once he’s branded, he can kiss his MITI approval good-bye.”
At this point one of the men from the embassy incautiously reached for the suitcase at Kruger’s feet. The ensuing burst of vituperation made Alderman grab Kruger’s arm and start pleading. Kruger shook him off with one galvanic heave.
“If Alderman isn’t careful, he’s going to get swatted,” Thatcher predicted.
Zaretski was tolerant. “That’s a PR man for you. Alderman’s scared how all this will look if some roving cameram
an passes by. Nobody else gives a damn.”
“Kruger certainly doesn’t, and I’m afraid he isn’t giving an inch.”
“He’ll be on that plane to San Francisco if I have to hoist him on bodily,” Zaretski growled. “I plan to be in bed fifteen minutes after this flight leaves.”
As the critical moment approached, Thatcher was privileged to observe the tactics of diplomats acting as riot police. The whole group shrank inward and began surging toward the departure desk. Kruger, in the middle, was inexorably hustled forward in spite of his protests. Ignored by everybody, Hodiak and Pamela Webb shouldered their belongings and trudged along.
The clerk at the counter took one look at what was headed his way and buried his head in his work. Stretching out a blind hand for documentation, he ripped and stamped at record speed while pretending not to notice the commotion.
Zaretski waited until the last suitcase had been thrust into airline custody. Then he uttered a hasty farewell and added his bulk to the compact mass that was slowly making its way to the departure gate.
Thatcher’s last glimpse of Carl Kruger was confined to a clenched fist, extended over the surrounding heads.
Thatcher was on board his own plane before he realized that he would be traveling with another member of Lackawanna’s delegation. There was a scurry near the entrance, and the stewardess’s voice could be heard urging a last-minute passenger to take his seat. Then Ali Khan plumped down next to Thatcher and began strapping himself in.
“Good morning, Mr. Khan.”
As Ali looked up, his eyes widened.
“Did they throw you out too?” he asked baldly.
“I was already scheduled to leave on this flight,” Thatcher replied, stifling the sudden vision of himself on the receiving end of Stan Zaretski’s muscular attentions. “But isn’t the polar route the long way around for London?”
“It’s worth the extra time not to travel with the others.”
When the thrusters had done their work and they were airborne, Ali unbuckled his seat belt, stretched his long legs as far as he could, and sighed. “You wouldn’t believe how they’re carrying on,” he continued. “Carl is so bloody mad he’s flailing out at anybody within reach, and Alderman is yapping like a Pomeranian.”