Bushido. Take it apart, _bu-shi-do_, and you have "military- knight-
ways," the rules of chivalry that governed every moment of a samurai's
existence. This code of honor of the warrior class, this noblesse
oblige, was also known as 'the way of the sword.' For a samurai the
sword was a sacred icon, an emblem of strength and inner resolve.
Casual handling was unheard of. You never stepped over a sword, you
never treated it with insouciance or irreverence. It was an extension
of your character. A samurai regarded his _katana_ as the symbol of his
caste: a weapon, yes, but also a constant reminder of who he was, his
obligations as well as his rights.
Which was why I needed the prize of my collection in hand when we
entered our final battle with Dai Nippon. I wanted to face Matsuo Noda
with classic dignity, with the Japanese honor he had scorned, to let
him know he had a worthy opponent, one who understood the meaning of
_bushido_. I also wanted in that process to stick those DNI guards'
Uzis up their ass. I'd be needing a _katana_.
Our meeting with Henderson was Monday night. Tuesday morning we all
buckled down and began working around the clock, each of us handling a
separate area, Tam called in some favors with the head of the NYU
computer center and adapted an off-the-shelf program for stock
transactions to suit our unique requirements. She then booked time and
scheduled a few debugging runs. In the meantime Henderson was taking
care of our banking preparations, opening a string of accounts, mostly
offshore where we could move with comparative anonymity. Also, we all
got together at his place a couple of times and blocked out exactly
what we wanted to unload first, names and dates.
While Tam and Henderson were setting up the financial end, the
electronics were my responsibility. I was on the phone all day Tuesday
knocking heads with Artie Wilson, an old friend who operated a maritime
radio business down on the island of St. Thomas. Together we assembled
a piece of gear needed to address one of the essential telemetry
elements, and Wednesday night he took his boat over to St. Croix to
install it.
I think I've already mentioned the marvelous Caribbean beach house that
had practically fallen into my and Joanna's hands a few years back. It
also sported, as do a lot of island places, a TV satellite dish, and it
so happens this one was massive, a twenty-footer. Now, what is not
commonly appreciated is that those concave parabolas can be used to
broadcast as well as receive.
Artie and a couple of his cronies worked all Wednesday night and got it
rigged the way I wanted it, including a deadeye bead on the commercial
satellite currently being used by DNI for proprietary communications
with Noda's Kyoto office. I figured it like this: if "Captain Midnight"
could override Home Box Office's satellite network using a receiving
station in Florida and broadcast a Bronx cheer to Time-Life, we could
by God knock out DNI's high-security channel for an hour or so. Artie
would be on standby Friday, ready to flip the switch.
Noda was apparently still in Japan, presumably busy throwing obstacles
in MITI's path, or maybe searching for the remains of his silver case.
Let him. We were about to start handling his communications with the
DNI office for him, via a setup of our own devising.
One nice thing about global electronics is that if you get a network
far-flung enough, nobody can trace anything--which was what we were
counting on. After we'd killed Noda's primary communications system, we
intended to substitute some Japanese hardware we'd had installed at
Henderson's--together with a little help from a mutual friend in
Shearson Lehman's Tokyo office. The arrangement was complicated, but it
looked workable on paper. Thing was, though, we'd have to get it right
the first time. No dry runs.
All of which tended to make me uneasy. You don't leave anything to
chance when you're playing our kind of game; you need to have a backup.
This feeling brought to mind an admonition in an old sixteenth-century
text on swordsmanship, the Heiho Kaden Sho, something to the effect
that "you should surprise your opponent once, and then surprise him
again." So, strictly on my own, I went about a bit of _bushido_
lawyering, using that power of attorney Noda gave me back when we
started out to set up a fallback position in case Tam's scheme somehow
failed. This twist, however, I decided to keep under wraps. Nobody
needed to be diverted just then worrying about worst-case scenarios.
That's what corporate counsels are for.
It was the most hectic week of our lives, but by three P.M. Friday we
were ready, assembled at Henderson's place and poised for battle. Using
his new hardware, we got on line to Shearson's Tokyo office, Bill
cashing in a decade of stock tips with a longtime acquaintance. We then
fed him the MITI ID codes we'd picked up from Ken during that ill-fated
episode at the Tsukuba Teleconferencing Center, and he used these to
patch back through to their New York JETRO offices. Finally we got St.
Croix on the phone, holding.
"Time to synchronize everybody's watches." Tam was wearing her usual
designer jeans, a blue silk shirt, and had her DNI flight bag freshly
packed for the long days ahead.
"That thing says 3:28:37." Henderson was watching one of his monitors
behind the bar, now blinking off the seconds.
"Then let's all get ready to set at 3:29," said Tam.
Which we did.
"Okay, time to roll." I punched the speakerphone. The line to St. Croix
was still open.
"Ready, Artie?"
"Say the word, my man," the voice from the box came back. "We got the
watts."
"You on frequency?"
"Loud and clear. Sound like they runnin' some kind of coded
transmission. Don't read."
"Double-check, Artie. We can't mess up. You're on 26RF- 37558JX-10,
right?"
"Yo, my man. Who doin' this?" He bristled. "Think I can't hit nothing
'less it got hair round it?"
"Just nervous up here, okay? Settle down. At three-thirty, exactly
twenty-seven seconds from now, go to transmit."
"No problem."
"Stay on channel, Artie. Don't wipe out The Old Ttme Gospel Hour or
something. We're about to be in enough trouble as it
is."
"You the one 'bout to be up to yo' ass in bad news, frien'. Me, I just
some oyster-shuckin' jive nigger don't know shit."
. . . Except, I found myself thinking, how to make a monkey out of the
U.S. Coast Guard and DEA and God knows who else for ten years. Artie
was the best.
Disconcertingly, I might also add, Artie Wilson had demanded cash in
advance for our job, which didn't exactly reflect a high degree of
confidence in the endeavor. However, there was no way we could test
what we planned to do. This was it.
"You've got fifteen seconds."
"One hand on the switch, boss, other on my--"
"Artie, stay focused--"
"Thing is, jus' hope I remember which one to yank."
"The big one."
"That's what you think, white boy . . . zero. Blast off . . . yooeee,
they gone." Pause, then: "Yep, we pumpin'."
"Got it?"
"Just hit that little birdy with enough RF to light up San Juan. They
eatin' garbage. They decoder up in Apple town's gotta be goin' apeshit.
They can't be readin' no telex, no nothing."
"Okay, keep it cranking." I turned to Tam. "You're on."
"We're already patched through, on hold."
"All the way through Tokyo and back?" It was still a bit dazzling.
"We're going to look just like an auxiliary MITI transmission. All I
have to do is put in the DNI code, then request the connection over to
Third Avenue."
She tapped away on Henderson's keyboard, sending the ID through
Shearson's communications center in Tokyo, then back through JETRO on
Sixth Avenue, from whence it was routed into the communications room at
DNI's Third Avenue offices. Since she was using the standard DNI
transmission format, we would look authentic. Right now, with their
primary satellite channel gone, the JETRO link should be DNI's only
high-security connection to the outside world. She began the
transmission, in Japanese _kana_.
Attention: Eyes only; J. N. Tanaka. Special instructions regarding
operations. Please confirm routine satellite communications channel
currently inoperative.
Moments later the message came back: Confirm communications
malfunction.
Then Tam: Due to technical difficulties with transmitter, weekend
operations terminated. Staff advise alert number, message J9.
That last was DNI's special setup that caused the computer to
automatically dial the home number for all members of the staff, giving
special instructions. Message J9 told everybody not to come in until
further communication. God, was DNI efficient! The mainframe just kept
dialing each number till somebody picked up. It even talked to
answering machines. We figured that would head off most of the next
crew. All we needed was a window of a few minutes between the goings
and comings.
Then a message came back. As Tam began translating for us, though, a
strange look was spreading across her face.
Operations already suspended as of 2:57 NY time per security-link
instructions. Staff leave of absence. Is this confirmation? Repeat. Is
this confirmation?
"What in hell." Henderson stared at Tam, then me. "Whose damned
instructions?"
"Matt, what do you think's going on?" Tarn's fingers were still poised
above the keyboard. "Why on earth would DNI Kyoto order a shutdown
here?"
"That's a big question." One that had no answer. "Better just fake it,
and fast."
"What else can we do?" She revolved back around to the keyboard and
began to type.
Confirmation. What personnel remain?
Back came Tanaka's reply: As instructed, security personnel only.
"Tam, get off the line. This feels wrong."
She wheeled back again. Transmission concluded. Standby for further
instruction.
Tanaka's reply was brief and to the point. A man of few words:
Confirmed.
"Whatever's going on, we've got to get over there." I hit the
speakerphone line again. "Artie, keep them jammed till five oh five.
That should do it. If we're not in by then, we're dead."
"You got it, boss," came back the voice. "Any longer, some gov'ment
honkie's gonna put on a trace. Be our ass. Correction, yo' ass."
"Just pack up your gear and haul out of there. The FCC's the least of
our problems at the moment."
"You the man. Down again soon?"
"Can't rule it out. Take care." I punched off the phone.
Tam was already headed for the door. Downstairs waited the car and
driver we'd hired. No point trying to hail a cab in rush hour,
particularly with so much depending on the next thirty minutes.
"Okay, Bill, keep that Shearson link up. Maybe it'll block anybody else
from reaching DNI's message center." I was putting on my coat. "Where's
that package?"
"Right here." He reached behind the bar and retrieved the one item I
wanted with me when we confronted security. It was nicely wrapped in
brown paper. "Look out for yourself, Walton. I got a few good drinkin'
years left. Be a shame to have to do it all by myself."
"Your guy ready?"
"Says he's on his way. Due here inside fifteen minutes."
Without further farewells we headed for the elevator.
The trip over brought forth various thoughts on what lay immediately
ahead. For some reason I found myself remembering Yukio Mishima, who
once voiced a very perceptive observation on the nature of
swordsmanship. He claimed that the perfect stroke must be guided toward
a void in space, which, at that instant, your opponent's body will
enter. In other words your enemy takes on the shape of that hollow
space you have envisioned, assuming a form precisely identical with it.
How does that happen? It occurs only when both the timing and placement
of a stroke are exactly perfect, when your choice of moment and the
fluidity of your movement catch your opponent unawares. Which means you
must have an intuitive sense of his impending action a fraction of a
second before it becomes known to your, or his, rational mind. The
ability to strike intuitively before your logical processes tell you
your opponent's vulnerable moment has arrived requires a mystical
knowledge unavailable to the left side of the brain, because by the
time that perfect instant becomes known to your conscious mind, it has
already passed.
The point is, if you allow yourself to think before you strike, you
blow it. Which is why one of the primary precepts of _bushido_ is "To
strike when it is right to strike." Not before, not after, not when you
rationally decide the moment has come, but when it is right. That
moment, however, is impossible to anticipate logically. It can only be
sensed intuitively.
My intuition, as we rode the elevator up toward Dai Nippon's center of
operations, was troubled. The offices had been cleared in advance of
our arrival by somebody from DNI's Kyoto operation. We had struck at
the proper void in space, all right, but our opponent had deliberately
created that opening. Things weren't supposed to happen that way.
Then the elevator light showed eleven and the door glided open. We were
there. Before us lay the steel doors of The Kingdom. While Tam gave the
computer a voice ID, I stood to the side readying the surprise I
planned for Noda's security twosome. Off came the brown paper, then the
scabbard, and in my hand gleamed a twelfth-century katana from the
sword-smith who once served the Shogun Yoritomo Minamoto. The prize of
my collection. It was, arguably, the most beautiful, sharpest, hardest
piece of steel I had ever seen. With the spirit of the shoguns.
"Ready?" She glanced over as the doors slid open.
"Now."
Awaiting us just inside the first doors were the X-ray and metal
detector, the latter a walk-through arch like you see in airports. Then
past that were the second doors, beyond which were stationed the two
Uzi-packing guards. The detector was set to automatically lock the
second doors if metal was detected on the persons of those passing
through, and the wires leading out of it were encased in an aluminum
tube, attached there on the left. This would have to be fast.
The sword was already up, poised, and as we entered, it flashed. Out
went the electronic box with one clean stroke, the encased wires
severed at the exact point where they exited from the gray metal. There
was no alarm, not a sound. We'd iced it.
Beautiful.
I figured there would be time for exactly two more strokes, but they
had to be right, intuitively perfect. So at that moment I shut down my
rational mind, took a deep breath, and gave my life to Zen. Mental
autopilot.
The connecting doors slid open, and there stood the guards. We'd caught
them both flat-footed. So far, so good. Now the sword . . .
Yukio Mishima, whom I mentioned earlier, once asserted that opposites
brought to their logical extremes eventually come to resemble one
another, that life is in fact a great circle. Therefore, whenever
things appear to diverge, they are actually on a path that brings them
back together--an idea of unity captured visually in the image of the
snake swallowing its own tail. According to him there is a realm
wherein the spirit and the flesh, the sensual and the rational, the yin
and yang, all join. But to achieve this ultimate convergence you must
probe the edge, take your body and mind to the farthest limits.
I'd been reflecting considerably on what this meant to us. Noda's two
heavies personified brute physicality, the body triumphant; Tam and I
were meeting them with the power of the mind and, I hoped, finely honed
intuition. Whereas these may seem the farthest of opposites, as with
the symbol of the snake, they merged at their extremities. They became
one. I knew it and the two startled guys now staring at us understood
it as well. Mind and body were about to intersect. The circle had
joined.
Their Uzis--about two feet long, black, heavy clip, metal stock--were
hanging loosely from shoulder straps several inches away from their
hands. I saw them both reach for the grip, but that sight didn't really
register. My cognitive processes were already shut down.
While the first man's left-hemisphere neurons were telling his right
hand to reach downward, the sword was already moving, milliseconds
ahead. It caught the gun's heavy leather strap, parting it like paper,
and the Uzi dropped, just eluding his fingers. He stood naked.
That was all for him and he immediately knew it. If you're looking at a
razor-sharp _katana_, you don't get a fallback try. However, the second
guard, dark eyebrows and bald head, now had time on his side. Up came
the automatic, one-handed.
Right here let me say you've got to admire his pluck. If I'd been
staring at a four-foot katana that could have bisected me like a
noodle, I might have elected to pass. But he'd weighed the odds and
concluded he had a chance. Again, though, his rationality bought us
time. The neurons firing in his brain were setting in motion a sequence
of logic. He was thinking.
The sword wasn't. My blank mind was centered on the void, the place
where the Uzi would be when it was leveled at my chest. The overhead
stroke caught it just where intuition said it would be, point-blank,
his finger a millimeter from the trigger.
Cheap Israeli steel. The eight-hundred-year-old katana of Yoritomo
Minamoto's swordsmith parted the Uzi's perforated black barrel like
Hotel Bar butter, bifurcated it into identical slices. Guard number two
just grunted as it clattered to the floor.
By my reckoning we'd been in the inner chamber for about three quarters
of a second, but Noda's two human mountains were now standing there
holding nothing but time in their hands. Nobody had to draw them a
picture. The game was over. _Bushido_.