Zero. Part 5

"Let's sit down." He led Michael to an empty chair at the conference table.

Michael took a moment to glance at the people there. It was clear that they were involved in serious discussion. He was stunned to discover that he recognized almost all of them. Four of them were j.a.panese, a delegation, it seemed clear. The leader was n.o.buo Yamamoto, president of Yamamoto Heavy Industries. His company was j.a.pan's largest automobile manufacturer, as well as the designer of its new, experimental high-technology jet planes. If Michael remembered correctly, the Yamamoto family concern rose to prominence during the years just prior to World War II, when the firm was engaged in making the world's most advanced airplane engines. Time had indeed changed, but the Yama-motos' prosperity certainly did not.

The other distinguished j.a.panese was the head of his country's preeminent electronics firm. Michael recognized him because there had been a recent article about his computer-chip division in the International Herald Tribune.

It focused on the company's increasingly adversarial position with the United States government regarding imports and escalating American import tariffs.

As for the Americans around the table, they read like a who's who of government. Michael read the slip of paper Jonas slid across to him, matching names with faces. There were two cabinet members, the undersecretary of defense, the head of the House Foreign Trade Subcommittee, the Senate Foreign Affairs Oversight Committee chairman, and two men whom Michael recognized immediately as being the president's top advisers on foreign policy.

The younger of these two men was speaking now. "-is clear evidence that certain j.a.panese electronics firms have been dumping semiconductors on the market like crazy. I am not accusing anyone at this table, but I urge you to take this under advis.e.m.e.nt. Unless this illegal practice is ended immediately, the Congress of the United States will end it for them."

"This is true," said the chairman of the Senate Foreign Affairs Oversight Committee. "In this matter, both Houses are unanimous in intent. We are preparing to pa.s.s serious import tariffs in order-as we see it-to protectAmerican companies who cannot compete with their j.a.panese counterparts."

"Congress is responsive to the will of the American people," the House representative said. "Pressure on us is fierce, and it's mounting. Senators and representatives are listening to the panic talk. I come from the great state of Illinois. All my const.i.tuents can think of is, less imports means more jobs for Americans."

"Pardon me for saying so," n.o.buo Yamamoto said, "but enacting this legislation will also mean a period of economic isolation. Forgive my forwardness, but that is something your country cannot endure at this juncture in its history.

Your enormous national debt, already caused by a slackening in American exports, will become intolerable. Isolationist legislation will strangle all exports." Yamamoto had a square, open face, topped by steel-gray hair. His eyebrows were white and bushy; his neat moustache was the same color. He had a clipped, precise manner of speech and though, like all j.a.pan-born j.a.panese, he had some difficulty p.r.o.nouncing r's and I's, he was not at all self-conscious about it.

"It is no secret how weak the U.S. economy is these days," Yamamoto continued.

"In the past, when our imports were making their initial impact overseas, the export deals your agricultural sector made could keep you afloat. The surplus wheat and grain you would sell to India, China, Russia, and the rest more than offset the business losses at home from the influx of high-quality j.a.panese cars and electronics.

"It used to be you could make a good living feeding the rest of the world. But no more. You have exported so much technology that you lost your best customers. Now you are doing less subsidizing of your own farmers, and their surpluses are going for ridiculously low prices on the world markets.

"But all of this is your own doing. You had ample opportunity to regear your own industry to create high-quality products. You had ample time to adjust your agriculture to a changing worldwide economic picture. The fact is that you did neither.

"It seems to me unjust that you will now punish us for something that is not of our doing."

"One moment," said the older of the president's advisers, an economist of some note. "You make no mention of your country's impenetrable import barriers, your obstinate refusal to abide by agreements your own government signed with ours regarding the proliferation of j.a.panese computer chips on an already glutted world market."

"And you," Yamamoto said steadfastly, "make no mention of the steadily rising yen which, combined with my company's self-imposed export limitations to your country, has severely limited profits and caused us to reevaluate our current business methodology."

"Is it not true, Mr. Yamamoto," the economist said in a rising voice, "that you had no intention of ever limiting exports to this country on your own? Is it not true that what you charitably define as 'self-imposed export limitations' were in fact forced by the American quotas? Is it not also true that your company has repeatedly and willfully farmed out the manufacturing of automotive parts to Korea and Taiwan so you can evade this government's automobile-import quotas?"

"Sir," Yamamoto said in an unruffled tone, "I am seventy-six years old. It has been my avowed wish to see Yamamoto gain a ten percent hold on the worldwide car market. I doubt, now, that I will see my dream fulfilled before I pa.s.s away."

"You are not answering my allegations," the economist said, red-faced with frustration.

"Such scurrilous questions do not warrant answers," n.o.buo said. "The reputation of Yamamoto Heavy Industries is una.s.sailable. By you or by anyone else."

Michael was studying the j.a.panese carefully. As n.o.buo Yamamoto spoke, Michael noted several things. The first was that Yamamoto was the clear spokesman for the entire delegation. Though the head of the electronics concern was a man ofgreat esteem in j.a.pan, he was nevertheless deferring to Yamamoto here in this room. Since, to a j.a.panese, face- outward esteem-was everything, this fact was not to be taken lightly. It was Yamamoto who was scoring all the points; it was Yamamoto who was gaining great face.

The second was that Yamamoto was cleverly directing both the tone and the content of this meeting. He wanted this adversarial confrontation and had baited the Americans into making fools of themselves, to boot. His words, delivered so calmly, so neutrally, were nevertheless calculated to wound the Western psyche as deeply as possible. The idea of a foreigner telling Americans how to run their own economy must seem intolerable to these men. But as with all j.a.panese negotiating, there was a hidden agenda here. Michael began to wonder just what it might be.

"You seem oblivious of the consequences of your actions," the younger of the president's advisers said. "Your seeming obstinacy to taking responsibility for the international ramifications of your actions is appalling. I would like to point out to you that unless we can come to some basic formula of compromise here, the future economic outlook for j.a.panese products in this country will be bleak indeed.

"If the Congress of the United States does in fact pa.s.s the protectionist legislation now pending, j.a.panese profitablity in cars, computers, consumer electronics and the like will plummet. I need not remind you, Mr. Yamamoto, that the United States is currently j.a.pan's most lucrative overseas market by a wide margin. Can you imagine the chaos caused in your country by abrupt closing of such a market? This is precisely what we are suggesting will occur unless we get written a.s.surances from you and the members of your delegation that some restraints will be imposed."

"I appreciate the gravity of the situation," Yamamoto said. His eyes regarded the American coolly. "But I must reiterate that we refuse to be unfairly penalized for a situation not of our making. But as a concession to our American friends, we have agreed to a compromise. You have the papers before you. And-"

"This!" cried the economist, brandishing several doc.u.ments. "This proposal is ludicrous. It is less than a quarter of the minimum cuts we require!"

"What you require" Yamamoto said, making the word sound somehow unclean, "can hardly be construed as a compromise. Your proposal asks us to cut off both our hands."

"In order to save the body," the senator said, smiling. "Surely you can see the wisdom in such a proposal."

"What I see," Yamamoto said softly, "is an insistence that j.a.panese industry return to the state it was in twenty years ago. This is intolerable. Imagine your own reaction were I to make such a proposal to your government."

"You'd never be in that position," the economist said. He was obviously on the attack. "Let's cut all the fairy stories and get down to business. You're going to take our proposal and like it, and I'm going to tell you why. Because your alternative is such a drastic curtailment of j.a.panese exports into the United States that you'll think you're back in wartime."

The atmosphere in the room had become chilly. Michael had seen the president's older adviser wince. But it was too late to undo the damage. Yamamoto sat stiffly in his chair. His gaze, directed at the economist, was unwavering. "No one is forcing your consumers to buy our products," he said. "But the fact is that people recognize quality, and quality is what they seek out. Quality is the hallmark of j.a.panese products. As a nation, we have labored for three decades to overcome the American slogan 'Made in j.a.pan' as meaning 'made cheaply.' Now that we have succeeded, you cannot expect us to relinquish what we have fought so hard to attain. I am afraid that you are asking the impossible. And frankly, I am surprised that you are even making the suggestion of coercion."

"There has been no talk of coercion, Mr. Yamamoto," the younger of the president's advisers said lamely. "If there is a confusion in terms, it is only because we are men of different cultures and languages."There was silence for a time. n.o.buo Yamamoto's stern face seemed to dominate them all, even the powerful visages of Washington and Roosevelt looking down upon the tense scene from their places of honor on the cream-and-gilt walls.

"Apologies," Yamamoto said at last, "require the sincerity of contrition." He pushed his chair away from the table, and the others in the j.a.panese delegation followed suit. "There is, I am afraid, no sense of that purity here. In such an atmosphere, an honorable solution is quite out of the question." With that, he led his delegation from the room.

Jonas did not wait for the postmortem. He took Michael out into the gallery as quickly as protocol dictated. They saw n.o.buo and the j.a.panese contingent heading down the wide staircase to the first floor. Was it his imagination, or did Michael see Yamamoto's dark eyes lock on his face for a moment before the j.a.panese disappeared down the staircase?

Jonas led them into an adjacent room, which was laid out like a library.

Bookcases, Oriental carpets, more deep leather wing chairs filled the s.p.a.ce.

Between the chairs, small oval mahogany tables held silk-shaded reading lamps.

As soon as they sat down, a steward appeared. Jonas ordered coffee and brioches for them. They were near a tall, lead-gla.s.s window. Willows bent in the wind, sweeping down to the Potomac. Birds fluttered in their branches.

"What did you make of that?" Jonas asked as their breakfast was brought in.

"Quite a show."

"A spectacle, yes!" He sipped at his coffee, which he drank black. "d.a.m.n j.a.panese! They're as hardheaded now as they were during the war and immediately afterward."

"Someone should have vetted the American delegation more carefully," Michael said.

Jonas looked at him. "Really? Why do you say that?"

"Because of the economist."

"Oh, him!" Jonas grunted, waved his hand. "He's a genius, really. Brilliant man. I don't know what the president would do without him."

"He may be a genius at economics," Michael said, "but he's a patsy when it comes to diplomacy."

"You mean that remark about the war. That was unfortunate."

"I wonder," Michael said.

Now Jonas was interested. "Meaning?"

"Yamamoto maneuvered the entire proceedings." And when he saw the look on Jonas's face, he added, "Didn't you know?"

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Yamamoto came to this meeting wanting something."

"Sure." Jonas nodded. "He wanted a compromise."

Michael shook his head. "I don't think so, Uncle Sammy. He was bent on finding a nerve. He found it, and he exploited it to its fullest. He maneuvered the economist into insulting him. He lost face, but deliberately so."

"It was just an unfortunate incident," Jonas persisted. "The president will send a note of apology, and we'll be back at the negotiating table by the end of the week."

"By the end of the week," Michael predicted, "Yamamoto and the delegation will be back in Tokyo."

"I don't believe it."

"For some reason, he wanted these talks to break off. And he wanted the Americans to come off as being responsible for it." He looked at Jonas. "Can you think of a reason why Yamamoto would want that? I mean, how important are these talks?"

"They're crucial," Jonas said. He sipped at his coffee, stared meditatively out at the water. "You ever hear of the Smoot-Hawley Act? In 1930, Congress pa.s.sed trade restrictions. Effectively, it made us an isolationist country.

The result was an economic depression. No exports, no jobs, companies declaring bankruptcy right and left. It was a nightmare. A nightmare that is about to occur all over again if what you say is true and Yamamoto's delegation is returning to j.a.pan. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d was telling the truth on onething-our economy's shot to h.e.l.l. We're as weak as a newborn kitten. This national deficit is sitting on our shoulders just waiting to squash us. The economy of the middle of the country is dying at a rapid rate, and there doesn't seem to be a d.a.m.n thing we can do about it.

"And maybe you are right. The j.a.panese are like G.o.dd.a.m.n dogs. They can smell a weak negotiating position and they're quick to capitalize on it. If that's the case, we've really buried ourselves. Yamamoto Heavy Industries is working on the top-secret FAX jet fighter. They won't let us anywhere near it. We've been pushing the j.a.panese to increase their defense budget, but by buying American materiel. McDonnell-Douglas and Boeing make tens of millions of dollars selling off their j.a.panese sales. If n.o.buo Yamamoto actually puts the FAX on-line anytime soon, it could blow our biggest aeros.p.a.ce firms out of the water."

"So this is the kind of thing you and Dad were involved in," Michael said. He was fascinated by what he had just witnessed, but after all, he had come here to discover how his father had died; that was uppermost in his mind. "I can't believe that after all these years I had no idea of what goes on at the bureau."

"What did you imagine?" Jonas said.

"I don't know," Michael confessed. "The name Bureau of International Trade Exports never meant much to me."

"But you must have been curious," Jonas persisted. "Every child wants to know what his father does. Surely you must have asked him."

" 'I travel, Michael.' That was what Dad said. 'I go to Europe, Asia, South America.' "

"And that was all?"

"Once he said, 'I serve my country.' "

"Ah." Jonas said. The emphasis he placed on that one syllable made it clear that he felt they had come to the crux of the matter. He produced a gray-bound folder from an inside pocket and handed it over.

"What's this?" Michael asked.

"Look inside," Jonas urged. And as Michael complied, he supplied a running commentary. "Yesterday, you asked me how your father died. This is how. The photographs you are looking at were taken within an hour of the crash. As you can see, the fire did at least as much damage as the impact. Perhaps more.

It's difficult to qualify such intense traumas."

Michael's hands were shaking; he had come to the shots of the charred remains of a body: his father's. He had come to the last photo, a close-up. He felt sick in the pit of his stomach. No child should have to see his father like this. He looked up sharply. "Why did you show me these?"

"Because you asked how your father died. This is not an easy question to answer, and it is important that you understand fully the consequences of your request." Jonas took the file back, closed the top, used a small metal object to seal the folder shut. "Your father was not lying when he said that he served his country. Nor was he speaking euphemistically." He put the file away. "It was a literal statement."

"He worked for the federal government," Michael said. "I know that." An echo in the back of his mind. Audrey's voice, soft and penetrating in the still of the night: Do you know how Dad died? What did she suspect? You're the bogeyman. You tell me.

"First, you should know that BITE is a name that I created long ago," Jonas said. "Second, the bureau does not exist. At least, it does not function in the world of international trade, budgets, tariffs and the like."

"Then what were you doing attending such a high-level meeting?" Michael asked.

"And how were you able to get me in?"

Jonas gave him a small, self-deprecating smile. "After all these years, I believe I have some power in Washington."

Michael gave him a peculiar look. There was a hollow sensation in his stomach, as if he were in a plummeting elevator. "Who are you, Uncle Sammy?" he said.

"I never asked you that. I think it's time I did.""Your father and I built BITE," Jonas said. "From the ground up. We were soldiers, Michael, your father and I. Soldiering is what we knew. When the war ended, we thought our usefulness was at an end. We were wrong. We became soldiers of a different sort. We became spies."

There was much to be done that morning, and by default, Audrey was in charge of it. That it was all unpleasant would not have been so bad, she thought gloomily as she dressed, if the guilt she had exposed to Michael the night before wasn't weighing so heavily on her.

The arrangements for Philip Doss's funeral had to be made. Lillian had expressly forbade the bureau from handling it. Audrey had heard her mother on the phone, presumably with Uncle Sammy, her voice sounding shrill and sharp-edged.

Whatever Lillian was feeling, she would not-perhaps could not-express it verbally. But Audrey collected the minute manifestations of her mother's inner tension as a peeper will furtively h.o.a.rd his glimpses of forbidden purience.

And like a peeper, Audrey felt like an outsider with a compelling, almost shamefully intimate, connection to a dark interior. It frightened her as much as it fascinated her.

Audrey knew her mother well. Lillian Doss required the limitations of the supremely rational world in order to function properly. In it, death was as natural as life. One began, one ended. It happened to all living things. She was comfortable with the known: with set limits, boundaries with which one fended off the limitless dark of chaos. Rules and regulations were her communion and her confessional. And she would, Audrey had discovered, fight tooth and nail to preserve the sanct.i.ty of her rational world.

Lillian's self-possession was legendary both within the family and among its circle of friends. That was why there was no one to do the unpleasant things that had to be done today except for the two women. Lillian firmly believed that death- like sickness-was the province solely of the immediate family. In fact, to Lillian, death and sickness were very much the same. Save that the former lasted a good deal longer than the latter.

"Whatever has to be done," Audrey had heard her mother say to a close friend, "my daughter and I will do ourselves." Michael had been there as well, and Audrey had seen him turn his head in Lillian's direction. It was not the first time she had shut him out, Audrey knew. Nor, she suspected, would it be the last.

The funeral home was white on the outside, dark wood on the inside. Special arrangements had to be made because the body had to be flown in from Hawaii, and then the bureau had had the remains for several days.

It should all have been over and done with by now, Audrey thought, only half hearing the dreary intoning of the funeral director. The air was stultifying, as if whatever chemicals were used for embalming had seeped into the offices.

At last it was over, and as she bad promised, Audrey took her mother out for lunch. In truth, her stomach was not interested, but she knew she had to eat sometime.

After the dark, cheerless morning spent with necrophagous men whose mournful expressions seemed as bogus as silk flowers, Audrey was ready for sunlight.

Accordingly, she chose a new restaurant in Alexandria, not for its food but for its greenhouselike front room, paneled in great slabs of gla.s.s, which was perpetually bright and warm during the day.

She ordered b.l.o.o.d.y Marys for them both, and set aside the menus. There was no point in giving her mother a menu- when she went out to lunch, Lillian always ordered chicken salad and iced tea with lemon, into which she put two packets of Equal. She kept the Equal in her handbag in case the restaurant served another brand of artificial sweetener.

"I'm glad that's finished," Audrey said. "What a relief to be out of there."

Lillian fished in her purse until she found a tiny mother-of-pearl box. She shook out an aspirin and, when the drinks came, downed it with her first swallow.

"Do you have a headache, Mother?""I'm fine," Lillian said.

Audrey watched her mother take the pain-killer. "It was a terrible morning."

"I felt as if I was choking in there," Lillian said. She looked around sadly.