The Nicholas Linnear Novels (80 page)

“The percentage split afforded Nippon Memory in this country is totally unacceptable,” Nangi broke in. He ground out the stump of his cigarette, began almost immediately on another one. “It’s a case of attempted robbery, pure and simple.”

“Considering the revolutionary nature of the new chip Sphynx is bringing to this merger,” Nicholas said before Tomkin could open his mouth, “I hardly think a fifty-one-forty-nine split is a high price to pay. Think of the enor—”

“I am a banker, Mr. Linnear.” Nangi’s clipped voice was as cold as his blinkless stare. “Though our
keiretsu
owns many different kinds of
konzerns,
including trust and insurance companies, trade and real estate associations as well as the Sato Petrochemical group, they are all linked by two factors.” He puffed casually at his cigarette, certain he had once again regained control of the conversation.

“One: they are all dependent on the money the Daimyō Development Bank makes for them. Two: they are all based on profitability; when that goes so, too, do they.”

“And profitability is precisely what this merger is offering you, Nangi-san.”

“It affords us no ready capital and I know nothing of computer chips,” Nangi said shortly, as if dismissing the subject.

“To understand the tremendous importance of what we have,” Nicholas said evenly, “it’s essential to get an overview. The computer memory chip is a tiny slice of silicon that, for want of more accurate terminology, is composed of microscopic bins within which are stored bits of information. For instance, the most common chip, a 64K RAM, is composed of sixty-four thousand bins in a space about the same size as your fingertip.”

Nangi crossed his legs at the knee and continued to smoke as if he were at a social tea. He said nothing and Nicholas went on. “RAM stands for random access memory. These chips are most often used because they are very fast and when a computer is at work speed is essential. The problem with RAMs is that when power is cut off to them they lose all their memory and they have to be reprogrammed from scratch.

“That’s why ROMs were invented. These are read-only memory chips which are totally non-volatile. That means their bins are either filled or empty—permanently. That, of course, is their drawback. They must be taken out of the computer in order to be reprogrammed.

“For years, the computer technician’s dream has been for a non-volatile RAM: a speedy, readily reprogrammable chip that won’t lose its memory when the power is turned off.”

Nicholas looked at everyone before he went on; no one seemed bored. “Recently, the industry has come up with a partial solution to the problem: E-squared PROMs, or electrically erasable programmable read-only memory chips. The problem with them is that they’re just too slow to replace RAMs in the heart of a computer.

“Xicor, one of our competitors, has even gone one step further. They’re beginning to combine a RAM with an E-squared PROM to allow the RAM to do all the fast calculations, then to transfer its memory to the E-squared PROM just before the power is cut. But they are unwieldy, expensive, and still cannot do a full range of functions. Further, disk or tape data-storage systems, mechanical switches, or just RAMs with battery backups can still do much of what this tandem chip can do.”

Nicholas put his hands together and concentrated on the banker. “In other words, Nangi-san, the elusive, non-volatile RAM which will change the face of the computer industry for all time was still not available. Until now.” His eyes lit up. “Sphynx has it. Sato-san’s own people have validated the test data. There can be no doubt. We have it, and we are offering it to you on an exclusive basis.”

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders resignedly. “Naturally, such a monumental discovery cannot remain exclusive for long; imitations will surely come. But in the meantime Sphynx-Sato will have the head start that is essential to cornering the market. Our production plants will already be in full swing filling orders while the other
konzerns
are still scrambling to work out the electronics.”

“There is your profitability base,” Tomkin said. “Within two years, we should be looking at a combined net profit of one hundred and fifty million dollars. That’s—”

“Thirty-six billion, six hundred and sixty million yen,” Nangi said. He stubbed out his butt with the formality of an aloof professor confronted by a group of vociferous but inferior pupils. “Do not attempt to teach me about money, Mr. Tomkin. But this is all in the future and these are your figures, not ours. Their astronomical nature is problematical.”

Tomkin apparently had had enough. “Now, look, Sato,” he said, pointedly ignoring the banker. “I came here in good faith thinking we had a deal to iron out. I am prepared for problems along the way; that’s part of all business ventures.” He gestured. “But not this nonsense. I’m hearing talk here like I’m in the middle of a MITI meeting.”

“Nangi-san was vice-minister of MITI,” Sato said with a kind of wolfish smile, “until seven years ago when, as a
ronin
, he helped found Daimyō and, quite directly of course, Sato Petrochemicals.”

“I’m not surprised,” Tomkin said, furious. “But you can tell him for me that this isn’t a case of the foreign devil trying to undermine Japan’s economic balance. Each’ve us’s got something the other wants—and needs. I’ve got the goods and you’ve got the wherewithal to manufacture it at the right price. It’s profits for all.” He abruptly switched his gaze to the banker’s odd masklike face. “Get it, Nangi-san?”

“I understand quite well,” Nangi said, “that you come here wanting a good sized piece of our
keiretsu
’s property in Misawa, land we have already designated for Niwa Mineral Mining’s new expansion. Land is at a premium here, the expense unimaginable for such as you who sprawl like hedonists in your multi-acre estates with pools and stables and gatehouses.

“It is what you ask us to give up; it is what you always expect us to give up.” His eyes were glittery, as hard as obsidian. “And for what? The technology of the future. But I ask you directly: will this ‘new technology’ ease the enormous land problem here; will it make Japan more independent of the fuel-rich nations who seek to bleed us dry; will it free us from our heinous obligation to the United States to be its guardpost against the encroachment of Communism in the Far East.”

He rose up even straighter, an adder about to strike. “Times have indeed changed, as you yourself pointed out. We are no longer your vanquished foe, subject to the blind acceptance of your demands.”

“Listen to this,” Tomkin said. “I’m bringing you the key to millions and you’re preaching reactionary politics at me.” His stubby forefinger pointed at his own chest. “I’m non-political, see? I’m a businessman, that’s the beginning and the end of it right there. You wanna pull this, I gotta think about going elsewhere. Like to Mitsubishi or Toshiba, for instance.”

“What you must try to understand,” Sato said calmly, “is that historically it’s a difficult position for us to be in. Japan has not nearly the space and, er, elbow room attendant with what the United States has. There is, therefore, quite a different attitude toward foreign companies who want a slice of the Japanese pie.”

“But that’s just it,” Tomkin said angrily. “I’m not interested in Japan. Last year the big three U.S. supercomputer companies sold only two mainframes to Japan out of a total output of sixty-five. It’s the
world
market I’m thinking of. And so should you. You’re so busy erecting what you call ‘safeguards’ to your business that you’ve all got a severe case of tunnel vision.

“These so-called safeguards are nothing more than barriers to international trade.” He was just beginning to hit his stride now. “I think it’s high time Japan came out of its global infancy and owned up to its responsibilities as a nation of the world.”

Nangi appeared unruffled. “If, as you say, these safeguards were precipitously withdrawn, the effect on the Japanese economy would be disastrous. But beyond that, the overall effect on American imports into this country would increase by no more than—uhm—eight hundred million dollars. Even you, Mr. Tomkin, can see that would hardly be a drop in the bucket in solving your country’s massive trade deficit.”

“I think you guys’d better wise up,” Tomkin said, his face beginning to flush around the jowls. “Your reactionary insular trade policies’re beginning to isolate you from the rest of the world community. You’re much too dependent on foreign energy sources to allow that. Stop flooding our market with your products while hindering our own from sale here, or you’re likely to become prosperous orphans in the international arena.”

“Why must the Japanese be constantly castigated,” Nangi said, “for manufacturing superior products. We have no armhold on your American public; no one has made them buy our products. The simple—and for you sad—fact is we make things better and more cheaply. Americans trust our know-how more than they do the advances of their own companies.”

But Tomkin was far from finished. “Right now,” he said softly, “Sato Petrochemicals is not one of the six major Japanese computer firms. It is my understanding that you are looking for an entree into that charmed circle.

“Sphynx’s non-volatile RAM is your key. My sources tell me that MITI has ordered a project meant for completion by 1990: a machine capable of performing ten billion operations a second, which would make it a hundred times faster than the state-of-the-art supercomputer Cray Research currently has on the market. MITI has allocated up to two hundred million dollars a year for the project.”

He paused. Neither of the Japanese had made a move, and Tomkin knew he had scored with them.

“Further,” he said, “we know of another ministry-financed project to build a supercomputer capable of understanding human speech, making it incredibly easy to use.” He laced his fingers together. “Now let’s get down to the bottom line, which is that our non-volatile RAM would give Sato the edge in
both
projects. MITI would be forced to come to you for help, and that would mean the big six over here would become the big seven.”

He looked from one foreign face to another; one bleak, forbidding countenance to the next. They’re just businessmen, he told himself. Nothing more. Nangi said nothing, which, in Tomkin’s opinion, was a giant step forward.

“Proposals and counterproposals must not be made in haste,” Sato said. “The war is often lost through the impulsiveness of an intemperate nature. As Sun Tzu so wisely tells us, ‘When the strike of a hawk breaks the body of its prey, it is because of timing.’”

He stood up and bowed as Nicholas and Tomkin rose automatically. Nangi rose awkwardly, stood swaying slightly. “At tomorrow afternoon’s meeting,” Sato continued, “we will discuss this further when associates and legal counsel are all present to add their wisdom to our own. For now, I would hope you will find time to enjoy our city.” They murmured their assent and he said, “Good. My car will be at the Okura at two
P.M.
tomorrow to bring you here.”

He bowed again, formally, and Nangi did the same. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen. I wish you a restful evening.” Then he took Nangi out of the room before another word could be spoken.

“That goddamned sonuvabitch Nangi.” Tomkin paced his hotel room. “Why didn’t my people brief me about him?” Back and forth while Nicholas watched. “That bombshell he laid on us about having been a MITI vice-minister, Christ. Do you think he’ll actually block the merger?”

Nicholas ignored Tomkin’s agitated state.

Tomkin answered his own question. “I know he’s for sure gonna try to sweeten their percentage.”

Nicholas had picked up a large square buff envelope off the writing desk. He flicked its stiff corner with a fingernail.

“Stop playing and tell me what you think, goddamn it.”

Nicholas looked up. “Patience, Tomkin,” he said softly. “I told you in the beginning that pulling this merger off would require patience—perhaps more patience than you have.”

“Bullshit!” Tomkin came over to where Nicholas was standing. His eyes narrowed. “You saying they’re outmaneuvering me?”

Nicholas nodded. “Trying to, at least. The Japanese are never open about negotiation. They won’t come to terms until the very last instant because they’re looking to see what will happen in the interim. Nine out of ten times, they feel, something will occur to their benefit. So until then, they’ll do their best to keep us off balance.”

“You mean like Nangi,” Tomkin said thoughtfully. “Put a fox in the henhouse.”

“And see what evolves.” Nicholas nodded again. “Quite right. Perhaps, they reasoned, the friction would bring out your real anxiety in making the deal and they could negotiate better terms tomorrow or Monday.” He tapped the envelope against his finger. “The Japanese knew that you never come to a negotiation showing your true nature. To deal effectively with you, they must find this out. It’s called To Move the Shade. It’s from the warrior Miyamoto Musashi’s guide to strategy. He wrote it in 1645 but all good Japanese businessmen apply his principles to their business practices.”

“To Move the Shade,” Tomkin said thoughtfully. “What is it?”

“When you cannot see your opponent’s true spirit, you make a quick decisive feint attack. As Musashi writes, he will then show his long sword—today we can transform that into meaning his negotiation spirit—thinking he has seen your spirit. But you have shown him nothing of value and he has instead revealed his inner strategy to you.”

“And that’s just what happened a few minutes ago with Sato and Nangi?”

Nicholas shrugged. “That depends on how much they actually drew you out.”

Tomkin touched the tips of his fingers to his temple. “Well, it doesn’t matter worth a damn,” he said a little breathily. “I have you, Nick, and between us we’re gonna squeeze these bastards into the box I have waiting for them—Musashi’s strategy or not.”

“Like the disparity in profit figures?” Nicholas said sardonically. “You told me Sphynx’s share would come to a hundred million but the figures you gave Sato indicate that Sphynx and the Sato
kobun
will be splitting a hundred and fifty million between them.”