Dragon Dance Read online

  Jenny was waiting for him in the club room, a recreation area designed to his father’s specifications. It contained a long bar, billiard table, sauna, and a swimming pool with a glass side that looked out over the city from a height of two hundred feet. Last time Mark had been there his father had insisted on a race, the two of them splashing up and down the pool like a pair of kids. Mark, on the outside lane, had felt as if he were swimming across the sky. It had been a close race which Jenny, the judge, had scored to his father.

  Today Jenny was wearing a black trouser suit bare at the shoulders. Her hair was shorter than Mark had ever seen it before, and she was wearing a pair of large thick-framed glasses which made her look like a studious, though intensely sexy, elf. That was one of the things about Jenny—every time you saw her she looked different. Her hair was different, her glasses were different, the lines on her face were different. Sometimes you could even swear her height was different. She could look small and demure or tall and domineering, depending on the look in her eye.

  The look in Jenny’s eye as she walked toward Mark, heels clicking on the parquet floor, was somber and self-possessed. She pressed her lips on his right cheek, leaving a trace of musky perfume.

  “How was he?” she asked in her Mary Poppins British accent.

  [147] “According to the specialist, there’s been no change in his condition. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.”

  “David said that? He’s a good fellow, you know. Totally discreet.”

  Discretion had always been an important issue with Jenny. Although she had been jointly running one of the world’s largest media companies for three years now, she had an intense distaste for media exposure. She rarely appeared at public events and would go to any lengths to avoid having her photo taken. There had been a minor scandal a few months ago when she had instructed her bodyguard to give an enterprising paparazzo a severe beating.

  “I don’t know how long you can keep this facade up, Jenny. The world is going to find out before too long.”

  “The world will be told what it needs to know, nothing more, nothing less. The markets are very volatile these days. We can’t afford to panic them.”

  Mark nodded. He could guess what Jenny had in mind—persistent heart problems, a long period of recuperation, day-to-day responsibility handed over to deputy chairman Jenny Leung. And there was little he could do about it. The way the supervisory committee had been set up meant that Jenny and her stooges had complete discretion over top-level appointments. It would have to be approved by the group’s shareholders, but serious opposition was unthinkable. Investors liked Jenny and her “look east” strategy. She was telling them what they wanted to hear.

  “So what’s happening with the spin-off and third-party placement that Dad was talking about?”

  “Oh—it’s coming along well.”

  “That’s all you can say? It’s coming along well?”

  “Look, Mark, when it’s finalized you’ll be the first to know. That I promise.”

  Mark was about to say something about the quality of Jenny’s promises—her promise not to dilute the family stake, her promise of joint ownership of the Tribune—but he checked himself. There was no point.

  “How long are you planning to stay over here, Mark?”

  “I haven’t decided yet. My program’s pretty flexible these days.”

  “How enviable!”

  Now she was staring at him with ill-concealed hostility. She really did want him out of the way as soon as possible, thought Mark. She wanted to carry on unhindered with her carve-up of a business empire built by three generations of the Fletcher family. Well, he was not going to oblige her without a struggle. Now was the time to throw the dice.

  “Jenny, I didn’t come here to quarrel with you. I only want to do what’s best for Dad. We both love him in our different ways, don’t we?”

  Mark imagined his father cackling with derision. He hated “soppy words” and sentimentality, whether in movies or in real life.

  [148] “Of course,” said Jenny, suddenly doe-eyed and contrite. “After all, he’s my husband.”

  Mark nodded. Her ability to switch moods never ceased to amaze him.

  “You make a good couple. When I see you with him, I think of Daisy Buchanan.”

  Jenny’s perfect brow creased into a frown. “Daisy who?”

  “Oh, it doesn’t matter. She’s just a character in a movie.”

  “From our studio?”

  “No, an old movie. I think it was black and white.”

  Jenny scrutinized him for a moment, then a smile of genuine amusement appeared on her face.

  “Black-and-white movies, Mark? That’s very good. That’s very twentieth century. Next you’ll be telling me you like New Orleans jazz!”

  “Funny you should mention that. Not only do I like dixie, I used to play it at college.”

  “Did you now? What instrument?”

  “Clarinet. They called me Hot Lips Fletcher.”

  “Hot Lips? That sounds intriguing.”

  The modest Jenny had now been replaced by the flirtatious, leg-crossing Jenny. This was the Jenny, guessed Mark, who had won his father’s heart. She could turn on the sex appeal like turning on an electric light.

  “Look, I’m only going to be around for a few more days. Why don’t we have dinner one night? I’d like to clear the air with you in more relaxed circumstances. We’ve never had a chance to have a real heart-to-heart conversation.”

  “Well, Mark Fletcher, you’re starting to surprise me. Does your dear wife allow you to have heart-to-heart conversations with strange women?”

  “You’re hardly a strange woman. You’re my stepmother.”

  The electric light was on full blaze now. Jenny’s eyes were suddenly shinier, her lips moister, her breasts as taut as a bowstring. “So your dear wife won’t mind?”

  Mark looked her straight in the eye. “What my wife thinks is irrelevant. I do what I want.”

  But Jenny really was a strange woman. There could be no doubt any longer. Fifteen years ago she had written a thesis on “The Construction of Identity in the Work of Scott Fitzgerald.” But now she didn’t even recognize the name of the heroine in Fitzgerald’s most famous novel.

  The conversation slid into easy small talk, and Mark left without even raising the subject of the third-party placement.

  Thirty minutes later he walked through the hotel lobby like a zombie. The jet lag, the shock of seeing his father in the hospital, frustration with Jenny’s scheming—all had hit him at the same time. He was barely aware of the man [149] who got into the elevator with him, a heavily built Indian with a bandit moustache and a gleaming bald head. No sooner had the doors closed than the Indian swung around to face Mark. He looked even bulkier front-on, with immense forearms and a mountainous belly that drooped over his waistband.

  “You’re Mark Fletcher, aren’t you?”

  Mark backed away, measuring the distance between them. “Never mind about me. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Ricky Patel.”

  “Ricky who?”

  “Patel. I’m doing some research on your behalf. Don’t you remember?”

  It took Mark a few seconds to register the name of the detective who had been recommended by his friend at Kroll.

  Patel raised the attaché case he was carrying. “Apologies for bothering you like this, but I’ve dug up something interesting. Of course if you’d rather discuss it another time ...”

  “Not at all,” said Mark, suddenly re-energized. “There’s no time like the present.”

  The elevator doors opened, and he led Patel down the corridor to his room.

  FOURTEEN

  There was another security alert at Tokyo Station and dozens of police with dogs were lined up at the ticket barriers. Martine gazed at the huge crowd of people waiting their turn to be searched and sniffed at and questioned. Most were sullenly obedient. They had been through these alerts many times, and they knew th
ere would be many more to come.

  Martine took her place in the crowd, which was shuffling forward at the pace of a yard every two minutes. The air was warm and fetid, filled with the hysterical blare of loudspeaker announcements. People were pressing in on all sides and you breathed their breath. You brushed against them and their sweat dried on your skin. It was the kind of situation that would drive you insane if you didn’t know how to handle it. Japanese people were brought up to handle it, and Martine had learned the technique too. You had to let your consciousness dissolve and leave your body to shuffle through the sticky human density while your mind was somewhere else entirely.

  A flick of the mental switch, and Martine was back at her desk, putting the finishing touches on the Nozawa interview. Then she was sitting on the train, preparing her questions for the deputy chief of the leadership school. Then she was talking to Makoto on the phone, explaining what a woman expected from a serious relationship. Then she was in her karate gear, facing off against the tall German. Then she was sketching, cooking, rollerblading, mapping out tactics for the next shogi game against Makoto ...

  And then suddenly she was at the ticket barrier. Twenty minutes had passed and she was standing there explaining what she was doing in Japan to a young cop fiddling inexpertly with a palmtop computer.

  Martine’s train eventually pulled out of the station an hour behind schedule and filled to two hundred percent capacity. Fortunately, Kyo-san had been able to get a reserved seat. Martine sat sipping coffee watching [151] the crazed collage of Tokyo go rushing by her window.

  It was a fine day, the kind of day when the world looks bright and clean and promising and it’s hard to believe that anything could go wrong anywhere. She could make out children in a playground, a mother cycling along the sidewalk with a fat-faced baby in her front basket, diligent young salarymen hurrying to their next meeting. It was the same sort of scene that had greeted Martine’s eyes when she came to Japan for the first time, almost twenty years ago. She had been a schoolgirl, here to spend the summer with Japanese friends of her mother. It had been the tail end of the era of growth, and everything she saw had delighted and fascinated her. Her next visit was six years later, to take a course in Asian political thought and brush up her language skills. By then the high growth era had given way to the period of stagnation, and the social mood had become more introverted and defensive. The next time Martine came was to take up the job with the Tribune. She was just in time to witness the brief flurry of optimism surrounding “structural reform,” although it was strange to recall that now since it was those half-baked reforms that had plunged Japan into the crisis.

  Since then the crisis had become so much an old friend that it was hard to imagine life without it. Financial crisis had spawned economic crisis which had spawned political crisis which had spawned social crisis. Manufacturing and agriculture, as well as the education, banking, pension, and health systems were all in a critical state. What’s more, this was happening in the context of the steadily spreading global crisis. Martine had once read a book called The Thirty Year Crisis, about the period between the two world wars. What was happening now was something similar to the loss of coherence and collective nervous breakdown experienced during those years. Except that, thanks to technological progress, what once took thirty years could now be accomplished in five.

  Martine finished her coffee and took her computer out of her bag. She needed to review her notes on the leadership school. First, though, she checked to see if there was a message from Makoto. He hadn’t called or sent a message for more than a day now, and tomorrow he would be flying to London.

  There was only one new message, and it wasn’t from Makoto but someone called James Murphy. It took Martine a moment to recognize the name of her new boss. Murphy’s message was short and to the point.

  Dear Ms Meyer,

  As you know I will be arriving in Tokyo at the end of the month to take up the position of bureau chief. My mission is to restructure the Tribune’s coverage, giving our readers a focused, clearly defined message. It’s no longer enough to tell people what is happening. We need to make them care about it. That means [152] having our own positions, controversial if need be, which we can present powerfully and consistently.

  I have been reviewing the work you’ve done over the past year. You have managed to get hold of one or two quite interesting stories. Well done for that! It can’t be easy for an inexperienced young woman operating more or less on her own. The trouble is, I don’t get any sense of where the Tribune stands on the big issues. I hope you won’t take this personally, but I feel your work needs a stronger intellectual framework. That is why I want you to send me all the stories you are intending to file for my prior approval and review. When I arrive in Tokyo, I will explain the changes to your role in the bureau.

  Yours,

  J. J. Murphy

  Martine gazed at the message in astonishment. “Well done for that!” “I hope you won’t take this personally”—who on earth did the condescending bastard think he was? And he was seriously expecting her to send her stories—including the nuclear weapons scoop—for him to “review” and no doubt hack to pieces. He had to be joking! As for the changes to her role at the bureau, she didn’t like the sound of that at all.

  Martine deleted the message. It would be one of those unfortunate computer failures, a random error that caused a string of data to evaporate into thin air.

  The Morikawa School of Leadership was located an hour and a half from Tokyo, in the foothills of the Japan Alps. From the train it looked like a huge flying saucer nestling in the forest. From the parking area where Martine was deposited by her taxi, it looked like a mausoleum of bone-white concrete. It was an impressive building, designed thirty years ago by Japan’s most famous modern architect. According to the explanation on the website, the swooping curves of the roof were meant to symbolize “the synthesis of modern technology and traditional culture that is at the heart of the Morikawa philosophy.”

  The security guard at the gate squinted at Martine’s namecard.

  “You’re a journalist? Have you got an appointment?”

  Martine shook her head. “No appointment, but Professor Suematsu should be expecting me.”

  The guard looked suspicious, as well he might. Not for the first time, Martine wondered if this was really going to work. Did Shiina’s influence stretch so far that he could get her into an organization that was refusing any contact with the press?

  The answer was yes. Martine watched through the window as the security, guard read the details of her namecard into a microphone. Then he nodded and gave a bow.

  [153] “Understood,” she heard him say. He flipped a switch and the security gate swung skyward.

  “Wait a minute,” he grunted, leaning out the window. “Tell me, what size are you?”

  Martine stared at him in amazement. “Size? What do you mean?”

  “First you must put on a uniform. Everyone here must wear the Morikawa uniform.”

  “I see. Well, I’m medium size.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t look medium.”

  “Medium will do fine,” said Martine icily.

  The security guard gave a gap-toothed grin. He turned to a wall cupboard and produced a neatly folded gray uniform and a locker key. “I hope it’s not too tight,” he said. Martine hastily put the uniform under her arm and walked quickly toward the changing room.

  Inside was stiflingly hot, a reminder that old man Morikawa had been militantly opposed to air-conditioning, which he considered “wasteful” and “decadent.” Martine had slipped off her blouse and was just unzipping her skirt when her eyes caught the video camera above the door. It was swinging toward her, red light blinking. Martine ducked under the line of vision, picked up a towel, and tossed it over the lens.

  The uniform consisted of a peaked cap, belted tunic, and trousers made of a coarse linen that chafed her skin. On the back of the tunic was the Morikawa logo, and embr
oidered on the breast pocket were the letters DHD, which stood for the English words “Diligence, Harmony, and Duty.” That had been old man Morikawa’s favorite catchphrase, as well as the title of a magazine he had founded. Martine glanced at herself in the mirror. The uniform was indeed a little tight around the hips and breasts, and ringlets of blond hair were sprouting from the cap in all directions. She looked, and felt, like an actress in a lowbrow comic movie.

  Professor Suematsu was waiting for her in the entrance hall, a dome-roofed sepulcher which was only slightly cooler than the changing room. Suematsu was a tall man of about sixty with piercing eyes and a shock of white hair. He was wearing blue overalls which hung loosely from his skinny body. Martine knew of him as an expert in bioelectronics and a tireless campaigner for lavish, government-financed research programs. His New Technology Institute in the north of Japan, celebrated for its work in bioelectronics, was funded partly by Morikawa Heavy Industries and partly by the government, though all patents were registered to Morikawa.

  “Thank you for sparing the time to meet me,” said Martine with a bow. “You must be very busy.”

  “Not so busy yet. The students won’t be back for another two weeks.”

  [154] “You mean they’re on holiday?”

  Suematsu gave a dry laugh. “There are no holidays here, Miss Meyer. It is the time of year when the students are away undergoing their life experience.”

  “Life experience?”

  “Yes, it’s a key part of our educational philosophy. The students don’t just spend their time mastering theory, though of course that is essential. To become true leaders they must experience Japanese society directly, as a living, breathing organism. They must learn to understand it as a parent understands his own child. This is why we send them away for life experience three times a year.”

  Suematsu moved toward the elevator and pushed the call button.

  “Interesting,” said Martine, dabbing her brow with a handkerchief. “What kind of places do you send them to?”