Bushido. Take it apart, bu-shi-do, and you have "military- knight-ways," the rules of chivalry that governed every moment of a samurai's existence. This code of honor of the warrior class, this noblesse oblige, was also known as 'the way of the sword.' For a samurai the sword was a sacred icon, an emblem of strength and inner resolve. Casual handling was unheard of. You never stepped over a sword, you never treated it with insouciance or irreverence. It was an extension of your character. A samurai regarded his katana as the symbol of his caste: a weapon, yes, but also a constant reminder of who he was, his obligations as well as his rights.
Which was why I needed the prize of my collection in hand when we entered our final battle with Dai Nippon. I wanted to face Matsuo Noda with classic dignity, with the Japanese honor he had scorned, to let him 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 all buckled down and began working around the clock, each of us handling a separate area, Tam called in some favors with the head of the NYU computer center and adapted an off-the-shelf program for stock transactions to suit our unique requirements. She then booked time and scheduled a few debugging runs. In the meantime Henderson was taking care of our banking preparations, opening a string of accounts, mostly offshore where we could move with comparative anonymity. Also, we all got together at his place a couple of times and blocked out exactly what we wanted to unload first, names and dates.
While Tam and Henderson were setting up the financial end, the electronics were my responsibility. I was on the phone all day Tuesday knocking heads with Artie Wilson, an old friend who operated a maritime radio business down on the island of St. Thomas. Together we assembled a piece of gear needed to address one of the essential telemetry elements, and Wednesday night he took his boat over to St. Croix to install it.
I think I've already mentioned the marvelous Caribbean beach house that had practically fallen into my and Joanna's hands a few years back. It also sported, as do a lot of island places, a TV satellite dish, and it so happens this one was massive, a twenty-footer. Now, what is not commonly appreciated is that those concave parabolas can be used to broadcast as well as receive.
Artie and a couple of his cronies worked all Wednesday night and got it rigged the way I wanted it, including a deadeye bead on the commercial satellite currently being used by DNI for proprietary communications with Noda's Kyoto office. I figured it like this: if "Captain Midnight" could override Home Box Office's satellite network using a receiving station in Florida and broadcast a Bronx cheer to Time-Life, we could by God knock out DNI's high-security channel for an hour or so. Artie would be on standby Friday, ready to flip the switch.
Noda was apparently still in Japan, presumably busy throwing obstacles in MITI's path, or maybe searching for the remains of his silver case. Let him. We were about to start handling his communications with the DNI office for him, via a setup of our own devising.
One nice thing about global electronics is that if you get a network far-flung enough, nobody can trace anything-which was what we were counting on. After we'd killed Noda's primary communications system, we intended to substitute some Japanese hardware we'd had installed at Henderson's-together with a little help from a mutual friend in Shearson Lehman's Tokyo office. The arrangement was complicated, but it looked workable on paper. Thing was, though, we'd have to get it right the first time. No dry runs.
All of which tended to make me uneasy. You don't leave anything to chance 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-century text on swordsmanship, the Heiho Kaden Sho, something to the effect that "you should surprise your opponent once, and then surprise him again." So, strictly on my own, I went about a bit of bushido lawyering, using that power of attorney Noda gave me back when we started out to set up a fallback position in case Tam's scheme somehow failed. This twist, however, I decided to keep under wraps. Nobody needed 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 we were ready, assembled at Henderson's place and poised for battle. Using his new hardware, we got on line to Shearson's Tokyo office, Bill cashing in a decade of stock tips with a longtime acquaintance. We then fed him the MITI ID codes we'd picked up from Ken during that ill-fated episode at the Tsukuba Teleconferencing Center, and he used these to patch 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 usual designer jeans, a blue silk shirt, and had her DNI flight bag freshly packed for the long days ahead.
"That thing says 3:28:37." Henderson was watching one of his monitors behind 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. Croix was still open.
"Ready, Artie?"
"Say the word, my man," the voice from the box came back. "We got the watts."
"You on frequency?"
"Loud and clear. Sound like they runnin' some kind of coded transmission. 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, exactly twenty-seven seconds from now, go to transmit."
"No problem."
"Stay on channel, Artie. Don't wipe out The Old Ttme Gospel Hour or something. 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 just some oyster-shuckin' jive nigger don't know shit."
… Except, I found myself thinking, how to make a monkey out of the U.S. Coast Guard and DEA and God knows who else for ten years. Artie was the best.
Disconcertingly, I might also add, Artie Wilson had demanded cash in advance for our job, which didn't exactly reflect a high degree of confidence in the endeavor. However, there was no way we could test what 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. They eatin' 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 I have to do is put in the DNI code, then request the connection over to Third Avenue."
She tapped away on Henderson's keyboard, sending the ID through Shearson's communications center in Tokyo, then back through JETRO on Sixth Avenue, from whence it was routed into the communications room at DNI's Third Avenue offices. Since she was using the standard DNI transmission format, we would look authentic. Right now, with their primary satellite channel gone, the JETRO link should be DNI's only high-security connection to the outside world. She began the transmission, in Japanese kana.
Attention: Eyes only; J. N. Tanaka. Special instructions regarding operations. Please confirm routine satellite communications channel currently inoperative.
Moments later the message came back: Confirm communications malfunction.
Then Tam: Due to technical difficulties with transmitter, weekend operations terminated. Staff advise alert number, message J9.
That last was DNI's special setup that caused the computer to automatically dial the home number for all members of the staff, giving special instructions. Message J9 told everybody not to come in until further communication. God, was DNI efficient! The mainframe just kept dialing each number till somebody picked up. It even talked to answering machines. We figured that would head off most of the next crew. All we needed was a window of a few minutes between the goings and comings.
Then a message came back. As Tam began translating for us, though, a strange look was spreading across her face.
Operations already suspended as of 2:57 NY time per security-link instructions. Staff leave of absence. Is this confirmation? Repeat. Is this confirmation?
"What in hell." Henderson stared at Tam, then me. "Whose damned instructions?"
"Matt, what do you think's going on?" Tarn's fingers were still poised above the keyboard. "Why on earth would DNI Kyoto order a shutdown here?"
"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 and began 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 further instruction.
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 the speakerphone 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'ment honkie'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 of our 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 and driver 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 else from reaching DNI's message center." I was putting on my coat. "Where's that package?"
"Right here." He reached behind the bar and retrieved the one item I wanted with me when we confronted security. It was nicely wrapped in brown 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 immediately ahead. For some reason I found myself remembering Yukio Mishima, who once voiced a very perceptive observation on the nature of swordsmanship. He claimed that the perfect stroke must be guided toward a void in space, which, at that instant, your opponent's body will enter. In other words your enemy takes on the shape of that hollow space you have envisioned, assuming a form precisely identical with it.
How does that happen? It occurs only when both the timing and placement of a stroke are exactly perfect, when your choice of moment and the fluidity of your movement catch your opponent unawares. Which means you must have an intuitive sense of his impending action a fraction of a second before it becomes known to your, or his, rational mind. The ability to strike intuitively before your logical processes tell you your opponent's vulnerable moment has arrived requires a mystical knowledge unavailable to the left side of the brain, because by the time that perfect instant becomes known to your conscious mind, it has already passed.
The point is, if you allow yourself to think before you strike, you blow it. Which is why one of the primary precepts of bushido is "To strike when it is right to strike." Not before, not after, not when you rationally decide the moment has come, but when it is right. That moment, however, is impossible to anticipate logically. It can only be sensed intuitively.
My intuition, as we rode the elevator up toward Dai Nippon's center of operations, was troubled. The offices had been cleared in advance of our arrival by somebody from DNI's Kyoto operation. We had struck at the proper void in space, all right, but our opponent had deliberately created that opening. Things weren't supposed to happen that way.
Then the elevator light showed eleven and the door glided open. We were there. Before us lay the steel doors of The Kingdom. While Tam gave the computer a voice ID, I stood to the side readying the surprise I planned for Noda's security twosome. Off came the brown paper, then the scabbard, and in my hand gleamed a twelfth-century katana from the sword-smith who once served the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto. The prize of my collection. It was, arguably, the most beautiful, sharpest, hardest piece 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 metal detector, the latter a walk-through arch like you see in airports. Then past that were the second doors, beyond which were stationed the two Uzi-packing guards. The detector was set to automatically lock the second doors if metal was detected on the persons of those passing through, and the wires leading out of it were encased in an aluminum tube, attached there on the left. This would have to be fast.
The sword was already up, poised, and as we entered, it flashed. Out went the electronic box with one clean stroke, the encased wires severed at the exact point where they exited from the gray metal. There was no alarm, not a sound. We'd iced it.
Beautiful.
I figured there would be time for exactly two more strokes, but they had to be right, intuitively perfect. So at that moment I shut down my rational mind, took a deep breath, and gave my life to Zen. Mental autopilot.
The connecting doors slid open, and there stood the guards. We'd caught them both flat-footed. So far, so good. Now the sword…
Yukio Mishima, whom I mentioned earlier, once asserted that opposites brought to their logical extremes eventually come to resemble one another, that life is in fact a great circle. Therefore, whenever things appear to diverge, they are actually on a path that brings them back together-an idea of unity captured visually in the image of the snake swallowing its own tail. According to him there is a realm wherein the spirit and the flesh, the sensual and the rational, the yin and yang, all join. But to achieve this ultimate convergence you must probe the edge, take your body and mind to the farthest limits.
I'd been reflecting considerably on what this meant to us. Noda's two heavies personified brute physicality, the body triumphant; Tam and I were meeting them with the power of the mind and, I hoped, finely honed intuition. Whereas these may seem the farthest of opposites, as with the symbol of the snake, they merged at their extremities. They became one. I knew it and the two startled guys now staring at us understood it as well. Mind and body were about to intersect. The circle had joined.
Their Uzis-about two feet long, black, heavy clip, metal stock-were hanging loosely from shoulder straps several inches away from their hands. I saw them both reach for the grip, but that sight didn't really register. My cognitive processes were already shut down.
While the first man's left-hemisphere neurons were telling his right hand to reach downward, the sword was already moving, milliseconds ahead. 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 a razor-sharp katana, you don't get a fallback try. However, the second guard, dark eyebrows and bald head, now had time on his side. Up came the automatic, one-handed.
Right here let me say you've got to admire his pluck. If I'd been staring at a four-foot katana that could have bisected me like a noodle, I might have elected to pass. But he'd weighed the odds and concluded he had a chance. Again, though, his rationality bought us time. The neurons firing in his brain were setting in motion a sequence of logic. He was thinking.
The sword wasn't. My blank mind was centered on the void, the place where the Uzi would be when it was leveled at my chest. The overhead stroke 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 Yoritomo Minamoto's swordsmith parted the Uzi's perforated black barrel like Hotel Bar butter, bifurcated it into identical slices. Guard number two just grunted as it clattered to the floor.
By my reckoning we'd been in the inner chamber for about three quarters of a second, but Noda's two human mountains were now standing there holding nothing but time in their hands. Nobody had to draw them a picture. The game was over. Bushido.
I motioned Tam toward the first guard's weapon.
"Matthew…" She hesitated a moment, then snapped into action. "You weren't kidding about that sword. I never realized-"
"Let's go."
"Right." She now had the one remaining automatic. The other was no longer usable. Didn't matter. One was all we needed.
We now had to kill the automatic ID on the outer door and put it on manual. Otherwise the two guards upstairs might come calling. While Tam stood there with the Uzi, I went back out and yanked the wires that hooked the voice reader to the computer. There was probably a scientific way to turn it off, but who had time for science? Besides, just then my veins were still pumping pure adrenaline. Facing the business end of an Uzi, even for a fleeting instant, is no way to begin an evening.
Tam ordered the guards to open the last door and in we marched. Tanaka was 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, pausing just long enough to kill the phone wires. As he began to recover, he commenced 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 exactly 4:48 P.M. He arrived, along with his Georgia Mafia computer expert, at 5:17, and Tam met them at the security doors.
I wasn't actually there to welcome them aboard, since I was guarding Tanaka 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 Dai Nippon, I advised, was a few short days away from becoming everybody's lead story, featured as the Japanese executive who'd (apparently) rebelled against his homeland. Noda was no stranger to headlines, of course, but he preferred to engineer them himself, so this definitely wasn'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 of New York operations, I sensed he was definitely less than enthusiastic about 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 a while.
It was still a bit difficult to believe what had happened. Or even more, what was next. But sometimes reality can have a way of outstripping your wildest powers of imagination-a Space Shuttle explodes, a nuclear meltdown in the Ukraine, ten-dollar oil, all of it too farfetched to make credible fiction. It could only exist in the realm 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 Noda figured out a way to stop us, we were going to adhere to a schedule that covered the most vital sectors first-those outfits whose R amp;D Tam considered strategic to America's future technological leadership. Our goal for the first day was five billion, worldwide.
Thus the countdown began. Henderson's financial artist loaded Tam's new program tape onto DNI's big NEC supercomputer and cranked up. We had roughly sixty hours till the opening bell on Monday.