Dragon dp-10 Page 17

“My family’s eighty-nine Ford Taurus,” replied Yaeger. “As an experiment I inserted its entire parts manual into the computer’s intelligence. I can give you blown-up images of specific parts or the completed solid form.”

  “A Taurus will make a good match-up,” Pitt agreed.

  Yaeger’s fingers flew over the keyboard for several seconds, and then he sat back with his arms folded. An image appeared on the screen, a three-D rendering in vivid color. Another command by Yaeger and a metallic burgundy red Ford Taurus four-door sedan revolved on different angles as if on a turntable that went from horizontal to vertical.

  “Can you take us inside?” asked Pitt.

  “Entering,” Yaeger acknowledged. A touch of a button and they seemed to flow through solid metal into sectioned views of the interior chassis and body. Like ghosts floating through walls, they clearly viewed every welded seam, every nut and bolt. Yaeger took them inside the differential and up the driveshaft through the gears of the transmission into the heart of the engine.

  “Astonishing,” Percy muttered admiringly. “Like flying through a generating plant. If only we’d had this contrivance back in forty-two. We could have ended both the European and Pacific theaters of war two years early.”

  “Lucky for the Germans you didn’t have the bomb by nineteen forty-four,” Yaeger goaded Percy.

  Percy gave him a stern stare for a moment and then turned his attention back to the image on the screen.

  “See anything interesting?” Pitt put to him.

  Percy tugged at his beard. “The transmission casing would make a good container.”

  “No good. Can’t be in the engine or drivetrain. The car must be capable of being driven normally.

  “That eliminates a gutted battery or radiator,” said Yaeger. “Maybe the shock absorbers.”

  Percy gave a brief shake of his head. “Okay for a plastic explosive pipe bomb but too narrow a diameter for a nuclear device.”

  They studied the cutaway image silently for the next few minutes as Yaeger’s keyboard skills took them on a journey through an automobile few people ever experience. Axle and bearing assemblies, brake system, starter motor, and alternator, all were probed and rejected.

  “We’re down to the optional accessories,” said Yaeger.

  Pitt yawned and stretched. Despite his concentration, he could hardly keep his eyes open. “Any chance of it being in the heating unit?”

  “Configuration isn’t right,” replied Percy. “The windshield washer bottle?”

  Yaeger shook his head. “Too obvious.”

  Suddenly Pitt stiffened. “The air conditioner!” he burst out. “The compressor in the air conditioner.”

  Yaeger quickly programmed the computer to illustrate an interior view. “The car can be driven, and no customs inspector would waste two hours dismantling the compressor to see why it didn’t put out cold air.”

  “Remove the guts and you’ve got an ideal casing to hold a bomb,” Pitt said, examining the computer image. “What do you think, Percy?”

  “The condenser coils could be altered to include a receiving unit to prime and detonate,” Percy confirmed. “A neat package, a very neat package. More than enough volume to house a device capable of blasting a large area. Nice work, gentlemen, I think we’ve solved the mystery.”

  Pitt walked over to an unoccupied desk and picked up the phone. He dialed the safe-line number given out by Kern at the MAIT team briefing. When a voice answered on the other end, he said, “This is Mr. Stutz. Please tell Mr. Lincoln the problem lies in his car’s air conditioner. Goodbye.”

  Percy gave Pitt a humorous look. “You really know how to stick it to people, don’t you?”

  “I do what I can.”

  Yaeger sat gazing at the interior of the compressor he’d enlarged on the display screen. “There’s a fly in the soup,” he said quietly.

  “What?” asked Percy. “What is that?”

  “So we piss Japan off and they punch out our lights. They can’t eliminate all of our defenses, especially our nuclear submarines. Our retaliation force would disintegrate their entire island chain. If you want my opinion, I think this thing is unfeasible and suicidal. It’s one big bluff.”

  “There’s one small problem with your theory,” Percy said, smiling patiently at Yaeger. “The Japanese have outfoxed the best intelligence brains in the business and caught the world powers in their Achilles’ heel. From their viewpoint the consequences are not all that catastrophic. We contracted with the Japanese to help research the strategic defense system for the destruction of incoming missile warheads. While our leaders wrote it off as too costly and unworkable, they went ahead with their usual hightech proficiency and perfected a working system.”

  “Are you saying they’re invulnerable?” asked Yaeger in a shocked voice.

  Percy shook his head. “Not yet. But give them another two years and they’ll have a working in-place ‘Star Wars’ system, and we won’t.”

  24

  Behind closed doors in the Capitol building a select subcommittee was meeting to investigate and evaluate Japanese cultural and economic impact upon the United States. The fancy words were a nice way of saying that certain members of Congress were mad as hornets over what they perceived as a United States held hostage by the ever tightening screws of Japanese capital.

  Ichiro Tsuboi, chief director of Kanoya Securities, the largest security company in the world, sat at a table below the long, curved counterlike desk in front of the congressional committee. He was flanked by four of his chief advisers, who irritated the committee members with their jabbering consultations before Tsuboi answered each question.

  Tsuboi did not appear as a financial giant who led a securities company that had enough capital to swallow Paine Webber, Charles Schwab, Merrill Lynch, and the rest of Wall Street’s honored brokerage houses without so much as a burp. He had, in fact, already purchased heavy interest in several of them. His body was short and slender, and he had a face that some likened to that of a jolly proprietor of a geisha house.

  Tsuboi’s looks were deceiving. He could easily hold his own against a protectionist Congress with fire in their eyes. His competitors in Japan and abroad hated and feared him with reasons bred from experience. Tsuboi was as ruthless as he was shrewd. His canny financial manipulations had elevated him to the level of a cult figure whose contempt for America and the European nations was hardly a well-guarded secret. Wall Street’s cleverest investment brokers and corporate raiders were pigeons next to the guru of the Tokyo Stock Exchange. Almost single-handedly he possessed the power to knock the props from under the American economy.

  He sat and politely fielded the questions of the select committee, smiling with maddening courtesy throughout the questioning, speaking as comfortably as if he was conversing with guests over a dinner table.

  “For the esteemed members of Congress to pass legislation forcing Japanese companies to sell our majority rights in our United States businesses to your companies at a fraction of their value is nothing less than nationalization. American business credibility will be shattered around the world. There will be chaos. Banking systems will collapse along with international currencies. Industrial nations will be bankrupted. And for what purpose? In my humble opinion, Japanese investors are the best thing that ever happened to the American people.”

  “There is no such legislation in the works,” snapped Senator Mike Diaz. “What I said was ‘Those of your companies operating and showing a profit on American soil should be subject to the same regulations and tax standards as ours.’ Your capital markets remain closed to us. Americans are restricted from buying real estate and ownership in your businesses, while Japanese interests are getting away with financial murder in this country, Mr. Tsuboi, and you damn well know it.”

  The one man who was not intimidated by Tsuboi was New Mexico Democrat Michael Diaz, chairman of the committee, the driving force behind a movement to not only limit but roll back foreign investment in America
n government, business, and real estate, and if he had his way, raise trade embargoes on all imported Japanese products.

  A widower in his late forties, Diaz was the only senator who lived full time in his office. He kept a small private bath and a side room with a bed, refrigerator, stove, and sink. Over the twenty-five years he had been called the hardest-working politician on the hill, his work patterns had remained unchanged. His wife had died of diabetes shortly after he was elected to his first term. They were childless, and since her death he never gave a thought to remarrying.

  His hair was pure black and swept back in a high pompadour, the face round and brown with dark umber eyes and a mouth that easily flashed white perfect teeth. As an Army helicopter pilot in Vietnam he had been shot down and wounded in the knee. Captured and carried to Hanoi, he spent two years as a POW. His jailers had never properly attended to his leg, and he limped, walking with the aid of a cane.

  A hard-liner against foreign influence and involvement in American affairs, Diaz had fought for trade restrictions and high tariffs, and against what he saw as unfair trade and investment practices by the Japanese government. He saw the fight with Japan as more than an economic battle but as a financial war, with the United States already the loser.

  “Mr. Chairman?”

  Diaz nodded at an attractive female member of the committee. “Yes, Congresswoman Smith, go right ahead.”

  “Mr. Tsuboi,” she began, “you previously stated that the dollar should be replaced with the yen. Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme?”

  “Not when you consider Japanese investors finance fifty-five percent of your budget deficit,” replied Tsuboi with an airy wave of one hand. “Conversion of your currency to ours is only a matter of time.’

  Congresswoman Loren Smith of Colorado couldn’t believe she was hearing such talk. Tall, striking, with cinnamon hair cut long to frame her prominent cheekbones and violet eyes, she represented a district west of the continental divide. Tight-packed with energy, she was as elegant as a lynx and daring as a tomboy. Respected for her political cunning, she carried a great degree of clout in the house.

  Many powerful men in Washington had tried to win her favors on and off the House floor, but she was a private person and dated only men who had nothing to do with business and politics. She carried on a loose secret affair with a man she deeply admired, and was comfortable with the thought that they could never live together as intimate friends or as husband and wife. They both went their separate ways, meeting only when it was convenient.

  “How can we become closer than we are now?” asked Loren. “The assets of Japanese branch banks in the United States far outnumber the combined assets of American banks. Over a million Americans already work for Japanese employers in this country. Your lobbyists have for all practical purposes bought our government. You own eighty billion dollars’ worth of prime U.S. real estate. What you mean, Mr. Tsuboi, is that our two nations become even closer so yours can dictate our economy and foreign policy. Am I correct? Please answer.”

  Tsuboi was not used to being talked down to by a woman. The feminist movement is almost nonexistent in Japan. Women are dealt out of the business reward system. No Japanese man will take orders from a woman. His composure began to crack, and his advisers sat openmouthed.

  “The President and Congress can begin with assurances that you will never close your markets to our products or investments,” Tsuboi answered evasively. “Also, you should allow us to enter your country without the inconvenience of a visa.”

  “And if we don’t entertain such suggestions?”

  Tsuboi shrugged and smiled venomously. “We are a creditor nation. You are a debtor, the largest in the world. If threatened, we will have no option but to use our leverage in favor of our interests.”

  “In other words, America has become subservient to Japan.”

  “Since the United States is in a state of decline and my nation is rising at an incredible rate, perhaps you should consider accepting our methods over yours. Your citizens should study our culture in depth. They might learn something.”

  “Is that one reason why your vast operations outside of Japan are staffed by your own people and not by workers in the guest country?”

  “We hire local personnel,” Tsuboi replied as if hurt.

  “But not for top positions. You hire low-end managers, secretaries, and janitors. I also might add, very few women and minorities. And you’ve been very successful at excluding unions.”

  Congresswoman Smith had to wait for an answer while Tsuboi conversed in Japanese with his people. They were either unknowing or uncaring that their hushed voices were being recorded and translated. A constant stream of transcriptions was laid in front of Senator Diaz within minutes.

  “You must understand,” Tsuboi finally answered. “We are not prejudiced, we simply do not consider it good business practice to permit Westerners who are not versed in our methods, and who have no loyalty toward our native customs, to hold highlevel positions in our foreign facilities.”

  “Not a wise course, Mr. Tsuboi,” said Loren tersely. “I think I speak for most Americans when I say we don’t care to be treated with contempt by foreign nationals in our own backyard.”

  “That is unfortunate, Congresswoman Smith. Speaking for my people, I do not condone such interference as you imply. We merely wish to turn a profit without stepping on toes.”

  “Yes, we’re well aware of Japanese business’s blatant selfinterest. The selling of strategic military and computer technology to the Soviet Bloc. To corporate executives like yourself, the Soviet Union, East Germany, Cuba, Iran, and Libya are merely customers.”

  “International ideological and moral issues do not concern us. To put them ahead of practical matters concerning economic trade makes little sense to our way of thinking.”

  “One more question,” said Loren. “Is it true you have proposed that your government buy the entire State of Hawaii so they can balance United States trade deficits with Japan?”

  Tsuboi did not consult with his aides but fired right back. “Yes, I proposed that measure. Japanese people make up the majority of the population of Hawaii, and our business interests now own sixty-two percent of the real estate. I’ve also suggested that California be turned into a combined economic community shared by Japan and America. We have a vast labor pool we can export, and our capital can build hundreds of manufacturing facilities.”

  “I find your concepts most distasteful,” said Loren, fighting back a rising anger. “The rape of California by the Japanese business community will never happen. Unfortunately, many of Hawaii’s residential neighborhoods are already for Japanese only, and a number of resort and golf clubs are off limits to American citizens.” Loren paused to stare Tsuboi in the eye, before continuing through tight lips. “I for one am going to fight further encroachment with every means of my office.”

  A murmur of approval ran through the room. A few hands clapped as Diaz smiled and lightly tapped his gavel for quiet.

  “Who is to say what lies in the future.” Tsuboi smiled patronizingly. “We do not have a secret plan to take over your government. You have lost the economic game by forfeit.”

  “If we have lost, it is to corporate body snatchers backed by Kanoya Securities,” snapped Loren.

  “You Americans must learn to accept the facts. If we buy America, it’s because you’re selling it.”

  The few spectators allowed in the session and the numerous congressional aides shuddered at the veiled threat, hostility growing in their eyes. Tsuboi’s strange mixture of arrogance and humility, politeness and strength, gave a disturbing and frightening atmosphere to the room.

  Diaz’s eyes were hard as he leaned over the desk counter toward Tsuboi. “At least there are two benefits for our side in this unhappy situation.”

  For the first time Tsuboi’s expression turned puzzled. “What benefits are you speaking of, Senator?”

  “One, step too far and your inve
stments, which are mostly words on paper and computer monitors, will be erased. Two, the ugly American is no more,” Diaz said, his voice cold as an Arctic wind. “He’s been replaced by the ugly Japanese.”

  25

  AFTER HE LEFT Pitt at the Federal Headquarters Building, Giordino took a cab to the Department of Commerce on Constitution Avenue. Leaning on a friend, who was Assistant Secretary of Domestic and International Business, he borrowed a file on Murmoto auto import inventories. Then he taxied to Alexandria, Virginia. He stopped once to check an address in a phone book. The building he was looking for housed the distributing network of the Murmoto Motor Corporation for a five-state district. He called the number and asked the operator for directions.

  It was late afternoon, and already a chilly breeze of early fall swept through the trees and began tearing away the leaves. The cab stopped at the curb in front of a modern redbrick building with large bronze glass windows. A sign with copper letters on the lawn identified it as the Murmoto Motor Distribution Corp.

  Giordino paid off the cabbie and stood for a moment studying the parking lot. It was filled entirely with Murmoto cars. Not one American or European make was in sight. He walked through the double front doors and stopped before a very pretty Japanese receptionist.

  “May I help you?” she asked sweetly.

  “Albert Giordino, Commerce Department,” he answered. “I’d like to talk to someone regarding new car shipments.”

  She thought for a moment, and then checked a book of personnel. “That would be Mr. Dennis Suhaka, our director of transportation. I’ll tell him you wish to see him, Mr. Giordano.”

  “Giordino, Albert Giordino.”

  “I’m sorry, thank you.”

  Less than a minute later a tall, attractive secretary of Asian parentage but with a surgical job to remove the eye folds came out to the lobby and escorted Giordino to Suhaka’s office. As he walked down a long, richly carpeted hallway, Giordino was amused at the titles on the doors. No manager, no superintendents, no vice presidents, everyone was a director of something or other.