Michael Crichton - Rising Sun

by Rising Sun [lit]

  I glanced at my watch. "I have a ten-thirty appointment I can't be late for, and I don't want to leave these . . ."

  "You need all of them done?"

  "Actually, just five are critical."

  "Then let's do those first."

  We ran the first few seconds of each tape, one after another, looking for the five that came from the cameras on the forty-sixth floor. As each tape started, I saw the camera image on the central monitor of Theresa's table. On the side monitors, signal traces bounced and jiggled like an intensive care unit. I mentioned it.

  "That's just about right," she said. "Intensive care for video." She ejected one tape, stuck in another, and started it up. "Oops. Did you say this material was original? It's not. These tapes are copies."

  "How do you know?"

  "Because we got a windup signature." Theresa bent over the equipment, staring at the signal traces, making fine adjustments with her knobs and dials.

  "I think that's what you got, yes," Sanders said. He turned to me. "You see, with video it's difficult to detect a copy in the image itself. The older analog video shows some degradation in successive generations, but in a digital system like this, there is no difference at all. Each copy is literally identical to the master."

  "Then how can you say the tapes are copies?"

  "Theresa isn't looking at the picture," Sanders said. "She's looking at the signal. Even though we can't detect a copy from the image, sometimes we can determine the image came from another video playback, instead of a camera."

  I shook my head. "How?"

  Theresa said, "It has to do with how the signal is laid down in the first half-second of taping. If the recording video is started before the playback video, there is sometimes a slight fluctuation in the signal output as the playback machine starts up. It's a mechanical function: the playback motors can't get up to speed instantaneously. There are electronic circuits in the playback machine to minimize the effect, but there's always an interval of getting up to speed."

  "And that's what you detected?"

  She nodded. "It's called a windup signature."

  Sanders said, "And that never happens if the signal is coming direct from a camera, because a camera has no moving parts. A camera is instantaneously up to speed at all times."

  I frowned. "So these tapes are copies."

  "Is that bad?" Sanders said.

  "I don't know. If they were copied, they might also be changed, right?"

  "In theory, yes," Sanders said. "In practice, we'd have to look carefully. And it would be very hard to know for certain. These tapes come from a Japanese company?"

  "Yes."

  "Nakamoto?"

  I nodded. "Yes."

  "Frankly I'm not surprised they gave you copies," Sanders said. "The Japanese are extremely cautious. They're not very trusting of outsiders. And Japanese corporations in America feel the way we would feel doing business in Nigeria: they think they're surrounded by savages."

  "Hey," Theresa said.

  "Sorry," Sanders said, "but you know what I mean. The Japanese feel they have to put up with us. With our ineptitude, our slowness, our stupidity, our incompetence. That makes them self-protective. So if these tapes have any legal significance, the last thing they'd do is turn the originals over to a barbarian policeman like you. No, no, they'd give you a copy and keep the original in case they need it for their defense. Fully confident that with your inferior American video technology, you'd never be able to detect that it was a copy, anyway."

  I frowned. "How long would it take to make copies?"

  "Not long," Sanders said, shaking his head. "The way Theresa is scanning now, five minutes a tape. I imagine the Japanese can do it much faster. Say, two minutes a tape."

  "In that case, they had plenty of time to make copies last night."

  As we talked, Theresa was continuing to shuffle the tapes, looking at the first portions of each. As each image came up, she'd glance at me. I would shake my head. I was seeing all the different security cameras. Finally, the first of the tapes from the forty-sixth floor appeared, the familiar office image I had seen before.

  "That's one."

  "Okay. Here we go. Laying it onto VHS." Theresa started the first copy. She ran the tape forward at high speed, the images streaky and quick. On the side monitors, the signals bounced and jittered nervously.

  She said, "Does this have something to do with the murder last night?"

  "Yes. You know about that?"

  She shrugged. "I saw it on the news. The killer died in a car crash?"

  "That's right," I said.

  She was turned away. The three-quarter profile of her face was strikingly beautiful, the high curve of her cheekbone. I thought of what a playboy Eddie Sakamura was known to be. I said, "Did you know him?"

  "No," she said. After a moment she added, "He was Japanese."

  Another moment of awkwardness descended on our little group. There was something that both Theresa and Sanders seemed to know that I did not. But I didn't know how to ask. So I watched the video.

  Once again, I saw the sunlight moving across the floor. Then the room lights came up as the office personnel thinned. Now the floor was empty. And then, at high speed, Cheryl Austin appeared, followed by the man. They kissed passionately.

  "Ah ha," Sanders said. "Is this it?"

  "Yes."

  He frowned as he watched the action progress. "You mean the murder is recorded?"

  "Yes," I said. "On multiple cameras."

  "You're kidding."

  Sanders fell silent, watching events proceed. With the streaky high-speed image, it was difficult to see more than the basic events. The two people moving to the conference room. The sudden struggle. Forcing her back on the table. Stepping away suddenly. Leaving the room in haste.

  Nobody spoke. We all watched the tape.

  I glanced at Theresa. Her face was blank. The image was reflected in her glasses.

  Eddie passed the mirror, and went into the dark passageway. The tape ran on for a few more seconds, and then the cassette popped out.

  "That's one. You say there are multiple cameras? How many all together?"

  "Five, I think," I said.

  She marked the first cassette with a stick-on label. She started the second tape in the machine, and began another high-speed duplication.

  I said, "These copies are exact?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "So they're legal?"

  Sanders frowned. "Legal in what sense?"

  "Well, as evidence, in a court of law— "

  "Oh, no," Sanders said. "These tapes would never be admissible in a court of law."

  "But if they're exact copies— "

  "It's nothing to do with that. All forms of photographic evidence including video, are no longer admissible in court."

  "I haven't heard that," I said.

  "It hasn't happened yet," Sanders said. "The case law isn't entirely clear. But it's coming. All photographs are suspect these days. Because now, with digital systems, they can be changed perfectly. Perfectly. And that's something new. Remember years ago, how the Russians would remove politicians from photographs of their May Day line ups? It was always a crude cut-and-paste job — and you could always see that something had been done. There was a funny space between the shoulders of the remaining people. Or a discoloration on the back wall. Or you could see the brush-strokes of the retoucher who tried to smooth over the damage. But anyway, you could see it — fairly easily. You could see the picture had been altered. The whole business was laughable."

  "I remember," I said.

  "Photographs always had integrity precisely because they were impossible to change. So we considered photographs to represent reality. But for several years now, computers have allowed us to make seamless alterations of photographic images. A few years back the National Geographic moved the Great Pyramid of Egypt on a cover photo. The editors didn't like where the pyramid was, and they thought it would compose better if it was move
d. So they just altered the photograph and moved it. Nobody could tell. But if you go back to Egypt with a camera and try to duplicate that picture, you'll find you can't. Because there is no place in the real world where the pyramids line up that way. The photograph no longer represents reality. But you can't tell. Minor example."

  "And someone could do the same thing to this tape?"

  "In theory, any video can be changed."

  On the monitor, I watched the murder occurring a second time. This camera was from the far end of the room. It didn't show the actual murder very well, but afterward, Sakamura was clearly visible as he walked toward the camera.

  I said, "The image could be changed how?"

  Sanders laughed. "These days, you can make any damn change you want."

  "Could you change the identity of the murderer?"

  "Technically, yes," Sanders said. "Mapping a face onto a complex moving object is now possible. Technically possible. But as a practical matter, it'd be a bitch to do."

  I said nothing. But it was just as well. Sakamura was our leading suspect and he was dead; the chief wanted the case finished. So did I.

  "Of course," Sanders said, "the Japanese have all sorts of fancy video algorithms for surface mapping and three-dimensional transformations. They can do things that we can't begin to imagine." He drummed his fingers on the table again. "What is the timetable of these tapes? What's their history?"

  I said, "The murder happened at eight-thirty last night, as shown on the clock. We were told the tapes were removed from the security office around eight forty-five p.m. We asked for them, and there was some back-and-forth with the Japanese."

  "As always. And when did you finally take possession?"

  "They were delivered to division headquarters around one-thirty a.m."

  "Okay," Sanders said. "That means they had the tapes from eight forty-five to one-thirty."

  "Right. A little less than five hours."

  Sanders frowned. "Five tapes, with five different camera angles, to change in five hours?" Sanders shook his head. "No way. It just can't be done, Lieutenant."

  "Yeah," Theresa said. "It's impossible. Even for them. It's just too many pixels to change."

  I said, "You're sure about that."

  "Well," Theresa said, "the only way it could be done that fast is with an automated program, and even the most sophisticated programs need you to polish the details by hand. Things like bad blur can give it all away."

  "Bad blur?" I said. I found I liked asking her questions. I liked looking at her face.

  "Bad motion blur," Sanders said. "Video runs at thirty frames a second. You can think of each frame of video as a picture that's shot at a shutter speed of one-thirtieth of a second. Which is very slow — much slower than pocket cameras. If you film a runner at a thirtieth of a second, the legs are just streaks. Blurs.

  "That's called motion blur. And if you alter it by a mechanical process, it starts to look wrong. The image appears too sharp, too crisp. Edges look odd. It's back to the Russians: you can see it's been changed. For realistic motion, you need the right amount of blur."

  "I see."

  Theresa said, "And there's the color shift."

  "Right," Sanders said. "Inside the blur itself, there is a color shift. For example, look there on the monitor. The man is wearing a blue suit, and his coat is swinging out as he spins the girl around the room. Now. If you take a frame of that action, and blow it up to its pixels, you will find that the coat is navy, but the blur is progressive shades of lighter blue, until at the edge it seems almost transparent — you can't tell from a single frame exactly where the coat ends and the background begins."

  I could vaguely imagine it. "Okay . . ."

  "If the edge colors don't blend smoothly, you will notice it immediately. It can take hours to clean up a few seconds of tape, as in a commercial. But if you don't do it, you will see it like that." He snapped his fingers.

  "So even though they duplicated the tapes, they couldn't have altered them?"

  "Not in five hours," Sanders said. "They just didn't have time."

  "Then we are seeing what actually happened."

  "No doubt about it," Sanders said. "But we'll poke around with this image, anyway, after you go. Theresa wants to fiddle with it, I know she does. So do I. Check in with us later today. We'll tell you if there's anything funny. But basically, it can't be done. And it wasn't done here."

  ☼

  As I pulled into the parking circle at the Sunset Hills Country Club, I saw Connor standing in front of the big stucco clubhouse. He bowed to the three Japanese golfers standing with him, and they bowed back. Then he shook hands with them all, tossed the clubs into the back seat, and got into my car.

  "You're late, kōhai."

  "Sorry. It's only a few minutes. I was held up at U.S.C."

  "Your lateness inconvenienced everyone. As a matter of politeness, they felt obliged to keep me company in front of the club while I waited for you. Men of their position are not comfortable standing around. They are busy. But they felt obligated and could not leave me there. You embarrassed me very much. And you reflected poorly on the department."

  "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."

  "Start to realize, kōhai. You're not alone in the world."

  I put the car in gear, and drove out. I looked at the Japanese in the rearview mirror. They were waving as we left. They did not appear unhappy, or in a rush to leave. "Who were you playing with?"

  "Aoki-san is the head of Tokio Marine in Vancouver. Hanada-san is a vice-president of Mitsui Bank in London. And Kenichi Asaka runs all of Toyota's Southeast Asian plants from K.L. to Singapore. He's based in Bangkok."

  "What are they doing here?"

  "They're on vacation," Connor said. "A short holiday in the States for golf. They find it pleasant to relax in a slower-paced country like ours."

  I drove up the winding drive to Sunset Boulevard, and stopped to wait for the light. "Where to?"

  "The Four Seasons Hotel."

  I turned right, heading toward Beverly Hills. "And why are these men playing golf with you?"

  "Oh, we go way back," he said. "A few favors here and there, over the years. I'm nobody important. But relationships must be maintained. A phone call, a small gift, a game when you're in town. Because you never know when you will need your network. Relationships are your source of information, your safety valve, and your early warning system. In the Japanese way of seeing the world."

  "Who asked for this game?"

  "Hanada-san was already intending to play. I just joined him. I'm quite a good golfer, you know."

  "Why did you want to play?"

  "Because I wanted to know more about the Saturday meetings," Connor said.

  I remembered the Saturday meetings. On the video we had seen at the newsroom, Sakamura had grabbed Cheryl Austin and said: You don't understand, this is all about the Saturday meetings.

  "And did they tell you?"

  Connor nodded. "Apparently they began a long time ago," he said. "Nineteen eighty or so. First they were held in the Century Plaza, and later in the Sheraton, and finally in the Biltmore."

  Connor stared out the window. The car jounced over the potholes on Sunset Boulevard.

  "For several years, the meetings were a regular event. Prominent Japanese industrialists who happened to be in town would attend an ongoing discussion of what should be done about America. Of how the American economy should be managed."

  "What?"

  "Yes."

  "That's outrageous!"

  "Why?" Connor said.

  "Why? Because this is our country. You can't have a bunch of foreigners sitting around in secret meetings and deciding how to manage it!"

  "The Japanese don't see it that way," Connor said.

  "I'm sure they don't! I'm sure they think they have a goddamn right!"

  Connor shrugged. "As a matter of fact, that's exactly what they think. And the Japanese believe they have earned the right to decid
e— "

  "Christ— "

  "Because they have invested heavily in our economy. They have lent us a lot of money, Peter; a lot of money. Hundreds of billions of dollars. For most of the last fifteen years, the United States has run a billion dollars of trade deficit a week with Japan. That's a billion dollars every week that they must do something with. A torrent of money roaring toward them. They don't especially want so many dollars. What can they do with all their excess billions?

  "They decided to lend the money back to us. Our government was running a budget deficit, year after year. We weren't paying for our own programs. So the Japanese financed our budget deficit. They invested in us. And they lent their money, based on certain assurances from our government. Washington assured the Japanese that we would set our house in order. We would cut our deficit. We would improve education, rebuild our infrastructure, even raise taxes if necessary. In short, we would clean up our act. Because only then does an investment in America make sense."

  "Uh-huh," I said.

  "But we did none of those things. We let the deficit get worse, and we devalued the dollar. We cut its value in half in 1985. You know what that did to Japanese investments in America? It fucked them. Whatever they invested in 1984 now paid half its previous return."

  I vaguely remembered something about this. I said, "I thought we did that to help our trade deficit, to boost exports."

  "We did, but it didn't work. Our trade balance with Japan got worse. Normally, if you devalue your currency by half, the cost of everything imported doubles. But the Japanese slashed prices on their VCRs and copiers, and held their market share. Remember, business is war.

  "All we really accomplished was to make American land and American companies cheap for the Japanese to buy, because the yen was now twice as strong as it had been. We made the biggest banks in the world all Japanese. And we made America a poor country."

  "What does this have to do with the Saturday meetings?"

  "Well," Connor said, "suppose you have an uncle who is a drunk. He says if you lend him money he'll stop drinking. But he doesn't stop drinking. And you'd like to get your money. You want to salvage what you can from your bad investment. Also, you know that your uncle, being a drunk, is likely to get loaded and hurt somebody. Your uncle is out of control. So something has to be done. And the family sits down together to decide what to do about their problem uncle. That's what the Japanese decided to do."