The Miko - 02 by Eric Van Lustbader Read Free Book Online Page B

Nicholas was amazed to see the summit of Fuji-yama. He knew on clearer days it was visible from the top of the new International Trade Center building at Hamamatsu-chō Station, where the monorail leaves for Haneda. But here in the heart of Shinjuku: fantastic!
    “Come,” Sato said, gesturing, “the sofa offers more comfort for the weary traveler.”
    When they were seated, Sato made a small noise in the back of his throat, no more than if he were clearing the passage, but immediately a figure appeared through the half-open door to the tokonoma.
    The man was fairly tall and rail thin. He had about him the air of the sea, changeless and formidable. He could have been ten years older than Sato, in his sixties, but that was difficult to judge. His hair was graying and wispy, almost frondlike. He wore a neat, immaculately clipped mustache that was yellowed by smoke tar along its lower rim.
    He came across to them in jerky, almost somnambulent strides as if he did not quite have total control of all his muscles. As he came close, Nicholas saw that something had been done to his right eye for the lid was permanently locked in a semiopen position and the gleaming orb within, though his own and not a piece of glass, was clouded and milky like a damaged agate.
    “Allow me to introduce Mr. Tanzan Nangi.” The one-eyed man bowed formally, and Nicholas returned it. He was dressed in a charcoal gray suit with a faint pinstripe, brilliantly white shirt, and a plain gray tie. Nicholas recognized him immediately as one of the old school: conservative and wary of any foreign businessman, perhaps not unlike Sahashi of MITI.
    “Nangi-san is chairman of the Daimyō Development Bank.”
    That was all Sato had to say. Both Nicholas and Tomkin knew that almost all multimanufacturing keiretsu in Japan were ultimately owned by one bank or another because that was where all the money resided; it was quite logical. The Daimyō Development Bank owned Sato Petrochemical.
    Miss Yoshida brought in a tray laden with a steaming porcelain pot and four delicate cups. Carefully, she knelt beside one end of the coffee table and, using a reed whisk, slowly prepared the green tea.
    Nicholas watched her, noting the competence, the strength held tightly in check, the grace of the fingers as they handled the implements. When all of the men had been served, she rose and silently left. At no time had she looked directly at anyone.
    Nicholas felt Nangi’s hard stare and knew he was being sized up. He had no doubt that the bureaucrat knew all about him; he would never come to a meeting such as this without being properly briefed. And Nicholas also knew that if he was indeed as conservative as he appeared outwardly he would hold no love for one such as Nicholas Linnear: half-Oriental, half-English. In Nangi’s eyes, he would be below the status of gaijin.
    Together, as was traditional, they lifted their small cups, brought the pale green froth to their lips, drank contentedly. With amusement, Nicholas saw Tomkin wince slightly at the intensely bitter taste.
    “Now,” Tomkin said, abruptly setting his cup down and hunching forward as if he were a football lineman ready to leap across the line of scrimmage at the sound of the snap, “let’s get down to business.”
    Nangi, who held his upper torso as stiffly as he used his legs, carefully extracted a filigreed platinum case from his inside breast pocket and, opening it, extracted a cigarette with a pair of thin, pincerlike fingers. Just as carefully, he clicked a matching lighter and inhaled deeply. Smoke hissed from his wide nostrils as he turned his head.
    “‘Softlee, softlee, catchee monkey.’” He said the words as if they had the bitterest taste on his tongue. “Isn’t that how the British often put it out here in the Far East, Mr. Linnear?”
    Inwardly appalled, Nicholas nevertheless held his anger in check. There was nothing but the hint of a benign smile on his lips as he said, “I believe some of