Kenji Nogami wandered alone through the bond-trading floor of Westminster Union Bank, staring at the blank computer screens. His bank was a member of Globex, a twenty-four-hour world-wide trading network for currency futures, but tonight he'd ordered all his traders to square their positions—neither short nor long—and take the night off. Then he had dismissed the cleaning crew. He wanted to have the space entirely to himself, to think and to reflect. Time was growing short.
He settled in one of the traders' empty chairs, withdrew a stubby Cuban Montecristo, a thick No. 2, from the breast pocket of his coat, clipped the pointed end with a monogrammed implement, and swept a wooden match against the floor and up to the tip with a single gesture. If we're going to have a showdown, he thought, I might as well die with a good cigar in hand.
Then from another pocket he took out the telex from Tokyo that had come through just after midnight. The Tokyo oyabun was in a rare frenzy. Tanzan Mino had never been thwarted like this—well, only once before, when a certain Michael Vance, Jr., had blown the whistle on his CIA connections.
Tanzan Mino was demanding compliance. Somebody had to give in. The obvious question: Who'd be the first to blink?
The worst he can do is kill me, Nogami thought. And he can't do that yet. If something happens to me tonight, he won't get his hundred million tomorrow.
But then what?
You've gone this far knowing full well the consequences, he told himself, so don't back down now. You're spitting on giri, and yet . . . and yet it's the first thing you've ever done in your life that's made you feel free. It's exhilarating.
Did Michael arrive safely at the South Kensington flat? He'd toyed with the idea of calling but had decided against it. They wouldn't answer the phone. In fact, he never answered it himself when he was there. Thinking about it now, he wondered why he'd ever bothered to have one installed in the first place.
He drew on the Montecristo, then studied its perfect ash. Waiting. Waiting.