Greiman turned to us. Connor said, “Mr. Greiman, we’d like to speak to you for a minute about MicroCon.” And he turned slightly aside, and showed his badge.

Greiman exploded in rage. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Not again. This is goddamned harassment.”

“Harassment?”

“What would you call it? I’ve had senatorial staffers here, I’ve had the F.B.I. here. Now I have the L.A. police? We’re not criminals. We own a company and we have the right to sell it. Where is Louis?”

The receptionist said, “Mr. Enders is coming.”

Connor said calmly, “Mr. Greiman, I’m sorry to disturb you. We have only one question. It’ll just take a minute.”

Greiman glowered. “What’s your question?”

“How many bidders were there for MicroCon?”

“That’s none of your business,” he said. “Anyway, our agreement with Akai stipulates that we can’t discuss the sale publicly in any way.”

Connor said, “Was there more than one bidder?”

“Look, you have questions, you talk to Enders. I’m busy.” He turned to the woman with blueprints. “Beverly? What have you got for me?”

“I have a revised layout for the boardroom, Mr. Greiman, and tile samples for the washroom. A very nice gray I think you’ll like.”

“Good, good.” He led her down the hallway away from us.

Connor watched them go, and then abruptly turned toward the elevator. “Come on, kōhai. Let’s get some fresh air.”

11

“Why does it matter if there were other bidders?” I said, when we were back in the car.

“It goes back to the original question we had,” Connor said. “Who wants to embarrass Nakamoto? We know the sale of MicroCon has strategic significance. That’s why Congress is upset. But that almost certainly means other parties are upset, too.”

“In Japan?”

“Exactly.”

“Who will know that?”

“Akai.”

The Japanese receptionist tittered when she saw Connor’s badge. Connor said, “We would like to see Mr. Yoshida.” Yoshida was the head of the company.

“One moment, please.” She got up and hurried away, almost running.

Akai Ceramics was located on the fifth floor of a bland office-block in El Segundo. The decor was spare and industrial-looking. From the reception area, we could see into a large space, which was not partitioned: lots of metal desks and people at the phones. The soft click of word processors.

I looked at the office. “Pretty bare.”

“All business,” Connor said, nodding. “In Japan, ostentation is frowned on. It means you are not serious. When old Mr. Matsushita was the head of the third biggest company in Japan, he still took the regular commercial jet between his head offices in Osaka and Tokyo. He was the head of a fifty-billion-dollar company. But no private jets for him.”

As we waited, I looked at the people working at the desks. A handful were Japanese. Most were Caucasian. Everyone wore blue suits. There were almost no women.

“In Japan,” Connor said, “if a company is doing poorly, the first thing that happens is the executives cut their own salaries. They feel responsible for the success of the company, and they expect their own fortunes to rise and fall as the company succeeds or fails.”

The woman came back, and sat at her desk without speaking. Almost immediately, a Japanese man wearing a blue suit came toward us. He had gray hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and a solemn manner. He said, “Good morning. I am Mr. Yoshida.”

Connor made the introductions. We all bowed and exchanged business cards. Mr. Yoshida took each card with both hands, bowing each time, formally. We did the same. I noticed that Connor did not speak Japanese to him.

Yoshida led us to his office. It had windows looking toward the airport. The furnishings were austere.

“Would you like coffee, or tea?”

“No, thank you,” Connor said. “We are here in an official capacity.”

“I understand.” He gestured for us to sit down.

“We would like to talk to you about the purchase of MicroCon.”

“Ah, yes. A troubling matter. But I am not aware that it should involve the police.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t,” Connor said. “Can you tell us about the sale, or is the agreement sealed?”

Mr. Yoshida looked surprised. “Sealed? Not at all. It is all very open, and has been from the beginning. We were approached by Mr. Kobayashi, representing Darley-Higgins in Tokyo, in September of last year. That was the first we learned the company was for sale. Frankly, we were surprised that it would be offered. We began negotiations in early October. The negotiating teams had the basis of a rough agreement by mid-November. We proceeded to the final stage of negotiations. But then the Congress raised objections, on November sixteenth.”

Connor said, “You said you were surprised that the company would be offered for sale?”

“Yes. Certainly.”

“Why is that?”

Mr. Yoshida spread his hands on his desk and spoke slowly. “We understood that MicroCon was a government-owned company. It had been financed in part by funds from the American government. Thirteen percent of capitalization, if I remember. In Japan, that would make it a government-owned company. So naturally we were cautious to enter into negotiations. We do not want to offend. But we received assurance from our representatives in Washington there would be no objection to the purchase.”

“I see.”

“But now there are difficulties, as we feared. I think now we make a cause for Americans. In Washington, some people are upset. We do not wish this.”

“You didn’t expect Washington would make objections?”

Mr. Yoshida gave a diffident shrug. “The two countries are different. In Japan we know what to expect. Here, there is always an individual who may have another opinion, and speak it. But Akai Ceramics does not wish a high profile. It is awkward now.”

Connor nodded sympathetically. “It sounds as if you want to withdraw.”

“Many in the home office criticize me, for not knowing what would happen. But I tell them, it is impossible to know. Washington has no firm policy. It changes every day, according to the politics.” He smiled and added. “Or, I would say, that is how it seems to us.”

“But you expect the sale to go forward?”

“This I cannot say. Perhaps the criticism from Washington will be too much. And you know the Tokyo government wants to be friends with America. They give pressure on business, not to make purchases that will upset America. Rockefeller Center and Universal Studios, these purchases that make criticism for us. We are told to be yōjinbukai. It means…”

“Discreet,” Connor said.

“Careful. Yes. Wary.” He looked at Connor. “You speak Japanese?”

“A little.”

Yoshida nodded. For a moment he seemed to consider switching to Japanese, but did not. “We wish to have friendly relations,” he said. “These criticisms of us, we feel they are not fair. The Darley-Higgins company has many financial difficulties. Perhaps bad management, perhaps some other reason. I cannot say. But that is not our fault. We are not responsible for that. And we did not seek MicroCon. It was offered to us. Now we are criticized for trying to help.” He sighed.

Outside, a big jet took off from the airport. The windows rattled.

Connor said, “And the other bidders for MicroCon? When did they drop out?”

Mr. Yoshida frowned. “There were no other bidders. The company was privately offered. Darley-Higgins did not wish to make known their financial difficulties. So we cooperated with them. But now… the press makes many distortions about us. We feel very… kizu tsuita. Wounded?”

“Yes.”

He shrugged. “That is how we feel. I hope you understand my poor English.”

There was a pause. In fact, for the next minute or so, nobody said anything. Connor sat facing Yoshida. I sat beside Connor. Another jet took off, and the windows vibrated again. Still nobody spoke. Yoshida gave a long sigh. Connor nodded. Yoshida shifted in his chair, and folded his hands over his belly. Connor sighed, and grunted. Yoshida sighed. Both men seemed to be entirely focused. Something was taking place, but I was not clear what. I decided it must be this unspoken intuition.