The Samurai Strategy Part 42

That's when I finally realized the thing was a copy. A G.o.ddam replica of the original. Okay, a remarkably good one, but a fake nonetheless.

How did this get in my closet?

Could somebody have broken in and . . . ?

Suddenly it hit me. The robbery. Whoever had lifted my records must have also pulled a switcheroo on this _katana_, leaving this piece of Nagoya junk and disguising the deed by replacing the original grip and tsuba hand guard. I'd been too loaded to notice.

I wanted to crack the G.o.ddam fraud over my knee like in the movies, but you don't do that with a samurai sword, even a phony modern one. So instead I flung it down on Jo's Italian-marble floor and headed back upstairs to check the others. What in h.e.l.l had happened? Had they cleaned me out after all. My G.o.d, thousands . . .

I began yanking down swords, starting with the aforementioned centerpiece of the collection, scrutinizing them in the light. But after about half a dozen proved to be all right, I started calming down. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. Well, what the heck, I thought. It wasn't exactly a crippling loss. Finally I grew a little ashamed of myself and sheepishly wandered back down, collecting the ringer off the floor.

"Tam, I'm sorry. Somebody broke in a while back, and they must have stuck this fraud in my collection. It's not the one I thought it was."

"Sure." She just looked at me, with some sympathy. "Matthew, it's all right. Really. Lots of people own replicas of art. I have a few prints myself. It's not a crime." She touched my hand. "Don't worry. It doesn't matter--"

"You--" I bit my tongue to squelch the unpleasant word forming on my lips, stomped back upstairs, and returned with a real sword. Then I gave my lecture all over again, dwelling on every insignificant detail.

I was going to bore the woman till she cried uncle. Finally I succeeded.

"Okay, you win. I apologize." She leaned back in the bubbles. "You really love this hardware, don't you?"

"Tam, I love the samurai ideals. I admire craftsmanship. I revere courage. The guys who made and used these blades had it all. If I'm going to collect art, why not something that inspires me."

She just looked at me and nodded. I think she really understood.

"Then let's make a pact, Matt, you and me." She finally spoke up.

"We'll face Dai Nippon or MITI or whomever honorably. And we'll keep them honest."

"Samurai." I smiled. "Lineage to lineage. And may the best . . . person win."

I returned the sword and locked up, then lounged in the bedroom and chatted through the open door while she finished her soak. It didn't seem proper to lug a chair into the bath, and there was something too undignified about perching atop the loo. Why, I kept wondering, had somebody taken such elaborate pains to lift a single antique and plant a fake? So I wouldn't miss it? But why bother?

Finally she got into a robe and came out, whereupon we went downstairs and proceeded to put away more brandy, sleet slamming against the windows. That was when she refreshed my recollections of her early life, the peripatetic half-breed army brat. I think, truth be told, she was currently about as adrift as I was. She was too wary to admit it; I was too incapable of touching my own fractured emotions. So we talked around things, saying everything except that maybe we needed somebody.

All the while the storm outside continued to rage. But once again I was feeling those stirrings that I'd kept on ice for way too long.

Alas, though, it had to end. About one A.M. we geared up. She retrieved her coat; I banked the fire; and we straggled out into the sleet. After finally managing a cab, we headed uptown. We'd agreed on the rules; now we were off to face the beast.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

As we rode, I tried to get into mental fighting trim. It wasn't easy.

Walton, I kept telling myself, you're too old for this kind of intrigue. And why drag this innocent woman in. You're not shuffling paper and cutting deals and then going out for a drink with the other side's counsel after you've both finished impressing your clients by shoving each other against the wall. You're about to start fooling around with guys who carry submachine guns. When you wouldn't know what to do with an Uzi if somebody handed you one. If these boys start shooting, there won't be a lot of polite inquiries concerning due process.

Tam was leaning against my shoulder, still perfumed from the bubble bath, and totally relaxed. She seemed to know what she was doing. Or maybe she didn't want to think about the risk we were taking. As for me, this Sam Spade number was definitely not part of my legal a.r.s.enal.

My thoughts, however, kept coming back to her. Tam Richardson was the first woman I'd felt this comfortable with for a long, long time. She was a mixture of tough and soft, and she was smart. What I'd always been looking for. Exit Donna, enter Tam. Maybe life was going to give me another inning.

If we both lived that long.

We'd headed uptown on Sixth Avenue, rutted with slush; at Fourteenth Street we hung a right, east toward Third. The snowplows were out, together with the salt machines, while abandoned cars were lodged in furrows of ice all along the curb. This was definitely shaping up as the storm of the year. Since most of Tanaka's staff lived in the j.a.panese "ghetto" up in Hartsdale and Eastchester (where there's even a j.a.panese PTA these days), they surely must have caught the "Orient Express" out of Grand Central before the trains got stopped dead by the weather. Certainly tonight of all nights the DNI offices would be empty. This had to be our shot. So shape up, Walton, and go for it.

While we listened to the sleet bounce off the back window, our Jamaican driver proceeded to compare New York City unfavorably with every armpit he'd ever known, as well as a few arctic locales he doubtless was acquainted with only by reputation. I finally tuned him out and began asking myself one question over and over. What exactly are we going to do if we figure out there's some kind of skullduggery afoot? Is there any way to stop them, even if we wanted to?

Probably nothing short of Congress's cracking down could keep Noda's money out of the country, and who's going to support that kind of legislation? Most solons, in fact, were hailing DNI and its j.a.panese billions as the salvation of America. No lawmaker was staring at the cameras and "viewing with concern" this new G.o.dsend of cash. Ditto the stock exchange. They were nervous downtown, sure, but given the avowed purpose of Wall Street--attracting money--there wasn't exactly a groundswell of sentiment against Dai Nippon's ma.s.sive investments. Noda had come into the market at its darkest moment and begun shoveling in capital. How could this be anything but positive? So every time another j.a.panese billion rolled in and prices ticked up some more, everybody merely leapt for joy. The j.a.panese were coming to rejuvenate our land, cheered the Journal. Billions from the cash-rich j.a.panese capital markets were voting with their feet to be part of America's resurgence.

Maybe they're right, I told myself. About the only discordant voices in this chorus of hesitant hallelujahs belonged to a few op-ed sour- grape academics. I recalled one piece in particular from late last week. Who was it: Robert Reich, Lester Thurow, "Adam Smith"?

This must be how it felt all those years in Europe as they helplessly watched the invasion of American money. Has the U.S. now joined the Third World, capitalized by rich "Yankees" from the East? Now at last we realize that setting up plants here for "co-production" was merely the foot in the door. Does it matter if U.S. industry is owned by American pension funds or j.a.panese insurance companies? Guess not, unless you happen to care whether we still control our own destiny.

America, soon to be the wholly owned subsidiary . . .

The writer was just blowing smoke and knew it. These days a harangue in the Times and a token will get you on the subway. Even Henderson was taking a new look at Noda-- astounded by his market savvy. The Georgia po' boy who once summarized his own trading style as the four F's ("find 'em, fleece 'em, f.u.c.k 'em, and forget 'em") had met his match.

What a play Noda had made! To Bill, my new client had acquired the aura of some omnipotent invader from the depths of s.p.a.ce--The Creature That Ate Wall Street. His eyes glazed over whenever he reflected on Noda's masterful one-two punch. Billions skimmed inside a week.

"Tam, take a good, long look." I was pointing up into the night as we emerged onto the slippery sidewalk. "The house that Noda built. Did all of this happen since only late September?"

"Time flies when you're having fun." She slammed the door and headed for the lobby, calm as could be. Okay, Walton, you'd better toughen up too.

I rewarded our grumbling cabbie with a vulgar tip and watched the vehicle slowly roll off into the sleet, tires crunching, to end another of those pa.s.sing New York intimacies so vivid yet so forgettable.

As it turned out, lobby security was a breeze, since yours truly had approved the application of the night guard personally right after DNI took over. Eddie Mazzola, blue uniform and grasping a Styrofoam cup of coffee, glanced up from the Sunday Daily News, his face generic Staten Island.

"What brings you out on a night like this, Mr. Walton? Nothing wrong, I hope?"

"Do me a favor, Eddie. Burn this place down. We'll split the insurance and both retire to Miami Beach. Who needs New York?"

He concurred the idea had merit. I then went on to mention that we'd just come from uptown; Dr. Richardson here had forgotten some kind of gobbledygook up on twelve, and we wouldn't be a minute.

"Tell you the truth, Eddie, my fingers are too d.a.m.ned numb to bother signing the visitor's book."

He saluted and returned his concentration to the Knicks' perennial slump.

We took the night elevator up, and somewhere around the time we pa.s.sed the ninth floor, we managed to settle on a story. Noda, we would say, had called Tam and asked her to hurry up a special report on one of the firms for Monday. We'd just left a dinner party on the East Side, thought we'd drop by and pick up some printouts since she wanted to work at home tomorrow. Shouldn't be more than a minute.

As the number above the door hit twelve, I tried to remember how to pray.

In the hallway we waved at the TV eye and the steel door opened.

Standing there was Shiro Yamada: cropped hair, trifle burly, gray uniform. One of the regulars. He shifted his Uzi as we came through.

Then he recognized Tam and bowed low.

By the wildest of good fortune Yamada only spoke j.a.panese, a linguistic limitation that turned out to be crucial. Tam began by observing the niceties: she commiserated with him about the weather, the late hour, would the next shift be able to get through and relieve him. He was all bows and deference and _hai, hai_.

Finally she worked around to why we were there, almost as though that were a nuisance and the real reason had been to drop by for a chat. By the way, she added, there were a couple of things she needed from her office. She gave him the story.

Yamada listened, bowing, _hai, hai_, then sucked in his breath to demonstrate we'd presented him with a serious conflict of obligations-- which for a j.a.panese is the most disturbing prospect imaginable. This situation entails great difficulty, he said, drawing in more air through his front teeth. _Honto ni muzukashii desu_.

_Muzukashii deshoo ka_? Enquired Tam. Difficulty?