"Excellent." He hesitated a moment, as though framing his words, then continued, "But in fact, Mr. Walton, we'd actually wanted to meet you tonight for an entirely different purpose. I'd hoped we might be working together on, well, some additional matters."
"Something else?"
"As you might surmise, we are not enlarging our presence here to no purpose. Tonight I wanted to tell you something about the objectives of Nippon, Inc. And then let you decide if what we propose merits your participation. Your financial expertise could make you a great asset to us."
Hang on, I thought. This thing is starting to go a little fast.
"What do you have in mind?"
"First let me say you are a man I have long admired. Your style is not unlike my own. We both understand the importance of moving cautiously, of keeping our adversaries off guard. Most of all, there is a rigorous discipline about your work. That is the style of bushido, the way of the warrior." He smiled, and his tone lightened. "I think we could cooperate very effectively."
Already I was wondering whether I really wanted to "cooperate" any further with Matsuo Noda. Something about the man, and Miss Mori, made me very nervous. Besides, I was trying to finish off work now, not begin more. But he'd found out the one line that would keep me listening. He'd somehow discovered I was a deep admirer of the old-time military strategists of the East—such as Sun Tzu and Miyamoto Musashi.
Like a hostile takeover bid, the ancient Japanese way of
combat was ritualized, as mounted warriors rode out, announced their lineage (to the SEC?), then matched up with men of equal renown. The samurai prized flexibility over brute strength; they had steel swords that handled like scalpels and body armor that was a woven mesh of lacquered-iron scales laced together in rows to create a "fabric" of metal. Those weapons and armor made for agile movement, easy feints, fast changes in strategy—all trademarks of mine on the corporate takeover battlefield.
As a result, I fancied myself some kind of samurai too. . . .