“We do work for the President, Dan,” Shaw pointed out. “And the order
came directly from him, not even through the AG. Since when did you care
about Kealty, anyway?” It was, in fact, the same line Shaw had used on
President Durling. Bastard or not, rapist or not, he was entitled to due pro-
cess of law and a fair crack at defending himself. The FBI was somewhat
maniacal on that, but the real reason for their veneration of judicial fair-play
was that when you convicted a guy after following all the rules, you knew
that you’d nailed the right bastard. It also made the appeals process a lot
easier to swallow.
“This accident thing, right?”
“Yeah. He doesn’t want two big stories jockeying on the front page. This
trade flap is a pretty big deal, and he says Kealty can wait a week or two.
Dan, our Ms. Linders has waited several years, will another couple of
weeks-”
“Yes, and you know it,” Murray snapped back. Then he paused. “Sorry,
Bill. You know what I mean.” What he meant was simple: he had a case
ready to go, and it was time to run with it. On the other hand, you didn’t say
no to the President.
“He’s already talked to the people on the Hill. They’ll sit on it.”
“But their staffers won’t.”
10
Seduction
“I agree it’s not good,” Chris Cook said.
Nagumo was looking down at the rug in the sitting room. He was too
stunned at the events of the previous few days even to be angry. It was like
discovering that the world was about to end, and that there was nothing he
could do about it. Supposedly, he was a middle-level foreign-ministry offi-
cial who didn’t “play” in the high-level negotiations. But that was window-
dressing. His task was to set the framework for his country’s negotiating
positions and, moreover, to gather intelligence information on what America
really thought, so that his titular seniors would know exactly what opening
positions to take and how far they could press. Nagumo was an intelligence
officer in fact if not in name. In that role, his interest in the process was
personal and surprisingly emotional. Seiji saw himself as a defender and
protector of his country and its people, and also as an honest bridge between
his country and America. He wanted Americans to appreciate his people and
his culture. He wanted them to partake of its products. He wanted America
to see Japan as an equal, a good and wise friend from whom to learn. Ameri-
cans were a passionate people, so often ignorant of their real needs-as the
overly proud and pampered often are. The current American stance on trade,
if that was what it seemed to be, was like being slapped by one’s own child.
Didn’t they know they needed Japan and its products? Hadn’t he personally
trained American trade officials for years?
Cook squirmed in his seat. He, too, was an experienced foreign-service
officer, and he could read faces as well as anyone. They were friends, after
all, and, more than that, Seiji was his personal passport to a remunerative life
after government service.
“If it makes you feel any better, it’s the thirteenth.”
“Hmph?” Nagumo looked up.
“That’s the day they blow up the last missiles. The thing you asked
about? Remember?”
Nagumo blinked, slow to recall the question he’d posed earlier. “Why
then?”
“The President will be in Moscow. They’re down to a handful of missiles
now. I don’t know the exact number, but it’s less than twenty on each side.
They’re saving the last one for next Friday. Kind of an odd coincidence, but
that’s how the scheduling worked out. The TV boys have been prepped, but
they’re keeping it quiet. There’ll be cameras at both places, and they’re
going to simulcast the last two-blowing them up, I mean.” Cook paused.
“So that ceremony you talked about, the one for your grandfather, that’s the
day.”
“Thank you, Chris.” Nagumo stood and walked to the bar to pour him-
self another drink. He didn’t know why the Ministry wanted that informa-
tion, but it was an order, and he’d pass it along. “Now, my friend, what can
we do about this?”
“Not much, Seiji, at least not right away. I told you about the damned gas
tanks, remember? I told you Trent was not a guy to tangle with. He’s been
waiting for an opportunity like this for years. Look, I was on the Hill this
afternoon, talking to people. You’ve never seen mail and telegrams like this
one, and goddamned CNN won’t let the story go.”
“I know.” Nagumo nodded. It was like some sort of horror movie.
Today’s lead story was Jessica Denton. The whole country-along with a lot
of the world-was following her recovery. She’d just come off the “grave”
list, with her medical condition upgraded to “critical.” There were enough
flowers outside her laminar room to give the impression of a lavish personal
garden. But the second story of the day had been the burial of her parents and
siblings, delayed by medical and legal necessities. Hundreds had attended,
including every member of Congress from Tennessee. The chairman of the
auto company had wanted to attend as well, to pay personal respects and
apologize in person to the family, but been warned off for security reasons.
He’d offered a sincere apology on behalf of his corporation on TV instead
and promised to cover all medical expenses and provide for Jessica’s contin-
uing education, pointing out that he also had daughters. Somehow it just
hadn’t worked. A sincere apology went a long way in Japan, a fact that Boe-
ing had cashed in on when one of their 7475 had killed several hundred Japa-
nese citizens, but it wasn’t the same in America, a fact Nagumo had vainly
communicated to his government. The attorney for the Denton family, a fa-
mous and effective litigator, had thanked the chairman for his apology, and
noted dryly that responsibility for the deaths was now on the public record,
simplifying his case preparation. It was only a question of amount now. It
was already whispered that he’d demand a billion dollars.
Dcerfield Aulo Parts was in negotiation with every Japanese auto assem-
bler, and Nagumo knew that the terms to be offered the Massachusetts com-
pany would be generous in the extreme, but he’d also told the foreign
Ministry the American adage about closing the barn door alter the horse had
escaped. It would not be damage control at all, but merely a further admis-
sion of fault, which was the wrong thing to do in the American legal environ-
ment.
The news had taken a while to sink in at home. As horrid as the auto acci-
dent had been, it seemed a small thing, and TV commentators on NHK had
used the 747 incident to illustrate that accidents did happen, and that Amer-
ica had once inflicted something similar in type but far more ghastly in mag-
nitude on the citizens of that country. But to American eyes the Japanese
story had appeared to be justification rather than comparison, and the Ameri-
can citizens who’d backed it up were people known to be on the Japanese
payroll. It was all coming apart. Newspapers were printing lists of former
government officials who had entered such employment, noting their job ex-
perience and former salaries and comparing them with what they were doing
now, and for how much. “Mercenary” was the kindest term applied to
them. “Traitor” was one more commonly used epithet, especially by orga-
nized labor and every member of Congress who faced election.
There was no reasoning with these people.
“What will happen, Chris?”
Cook set his drink down on the table, evaluating his own position and
lamenting his remarkably bad timing. He had already begun cutting his
strings. Waiting the extra few years for full retirement benefits-he’d done
the calculations a few months earlier. Seiji had made it known to him the
previous summer that his actual net income would quadruple to start with,
and that his employers were great believers in pension planning, and that he
wouldn’t lose his federal retirement investments, would he? And so Cook
had started the process. Speaking sharply to the next-higher career official to
whom he reported, letting others know that he thought his country’s trade
policy was being formulated by idiots, in the knowledge that his views
would work their way upward. A series of internal memoranda that said the
same thing in measured bureaucratese. He had to set things up so that his
departure would not be a surprise, and would seem to be based on principle
rather than crass lucre. The problem was, in doing so he’d effectively ended
his career. He would never be promoted again, and if he remained at State, at
best he might find himself posted to an ambassadorship to … maybe Sierra
Leone, unless they could find a bleaker spot. Equatorial Guinea, perhaps.