Late February 1990.
The February freezing rain, mixed with fine ice crystals, washed over the streets of Azabu-Juban.
A black Nissan Century rolled over the waterlogged asphalt, its tires pushing through the slush with a dull splash. The old-fashioned gas streetlights along the roadside cast hazy yellow pools in the rain and fog, their light twisting and wavering across the car window.
Inside the car, Managing Director Tanimoto of Fuji Bank leaned back against the leather seat. He reached up and loosened the silk tie that had grown too tight around his neck.
The rain outside showed no sign of letting up. Through the tinted glass, Tanimoto watched the solemn-faced pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalks, and the real estate agencies that looked bleak and half-deserted in the winter rain.
At the end of last December, Yasushi Mieno, Governor of the Bank of Japan, had announced an increase in the official discount rate. For nearly two months since, the market index had behaved like a rusty, blunt saw — grinding down two or three hundred points at a time with a sound that set your teeth on edge.
The cost of capital was steadily climbing in the interbank lending market. Tanimoto knew better than anyone: the stress-test reports from Fuji Bank's credit department over the past few weeks were ugly. The net value of collateral from those big Kanto real estate developers and construction firms — the ones surviving on bridge loans — was shrinking before their eyes.
The car turned smoothly into a private driveway and stopped before a heavy black cast-iron gate.
"The Club."
The butler opened a huge black umbrella and pulled open the car door.
Tanimoto stepped out, his leather shoes landing on dry flagstone. He handed his coat to a waiting attendant and entered the hall.
The cold wind, freezing rain, and street noise vanished the instant the heavy double doors closed behind him.
He climbed the brass staircase covered in handmade Persian wool carpet and stopped before a shoji door. A wooden plaque read "Chōshōken."
The waiter slid the door open without a sound.
Inside was warm as spring. In a brass brazier in the corner, smokeless silver-thread charcoal burned low, dark red sparks flickering in the ash and giving off steady heat.
More than a dozen financial titans from across industries were already seated.
President Kuroda of Dai Toa Trading Company sank into a single sofa, holding a carved crystal glass. A spherical ice cube bobbed slowly in the amber whisky. Across from him sat President Otsuka of Otsuka Heavy Industries, the premier heavy-machinery maker in the Kanto region.
"Brother Tanimoto, over here." Kuroda raised his glass in a slight gesture.
Tanimoto crossed the room and sat on an empty leather sofa. A waiter immediately brought him a glass of aged Yamazaki with ice.
"The wind and snow outside are brutal," Tanimoto said, picking up the glass and feeling the chill of the crystal. "The guys in Credit have been working overtime almost every day for the past two months, re-evaluating collateral. The second the Bank of Japan raised rates, the market started its slow bleed, and the bad-debt risk from all those high-leverage clients bubbled right to the surface."
Kuroda took a sip of whisky, a hint of relief tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"The risk is terrifying," he said, his eyes dropping to an evening paper on the coffee table. "President Matsuura of Matsuura Construction took a few unlucky souls with him and jumped from the forty-seventh floor of the Keio Plaza Hotel half a month ago. Official line: embezzlement and high-interest loans he couldn't cover."
Otsuka gave a light snort, his rough fingers toying with a solid gold lighter.
"Matsuura was a Kansai parvenu. Got what he deserved. He levered his debt ratio up to six hundred percent and didn't keep enough liquid cash on hand. Once the market turns like this and the banks issue margin calls, what's he going to use to fill the hole?"
He tossed the lighter onto the table. It landed with a dull thud.
"In real industry, the biggest taboo is tying all your cash flow to book valuations. If you don't know how to control leverage, you'll end up on the rooftop sooner or later."
Tanimoto took a drink. The burn of the whisky slid down his throat and drove out the last of the chill.
"Speaking of which… everyone in this room got lucky," he said, swirling the crystal glass so the ice clinked softly. "A few months ago, Mr. Shuichi sat right here and mentioned offhand that 'the wind is about to change'…"
He paused, his gaze sweeping the room, his tone turning to genuine admiration.
"Thank god I listened. I went back the next day and had Risk Management forcibly cut the credit lines to every high-risk developer."
Kuroda nodded. He lifted his glass, watching the light refract through the ice.
"Same here. I had my people dump all our peripheral land holdings at a discount that same day. A few directors called me a spendthrift at the time…" He sipped his whisky, relief plain on his face. "Now? Those same guys read the suicide reports every morning and barely dare to breathe."
"Exactly," Otsuka chuckled, picking up the gold lighter again. "If we'd gotten greedy for a little more book profit and held onto that rotten land and those levered projects, we'd be staring down the Bank of Japan's rate hikes and a four-thousand-point drop. We'd be exactly like Matsuura — scrambling for high-interest bridge loans to meet margin calls."
"Now, while those small and mid-sized trading firms outside are wailing, we've got cash sitting in the bank," Kuroda said, clinking his glass lightly against Tanimoto's.
"Clink."
"This 'Chōshōken' really is the sturdiest air-raid shelter in Tokyo."
Otsuka raised his glass too. The three men exchanged a look — the kind only people who'd dodged the same bullet share.
The Saionji Family's influence went without saying by now. Countless key calls, large and small, had built them an unmatched reputation inside The Club. At this point, if the Saionjis told them to sell their whole companies, most of them probably would.
Just then, the faint sound of leather shoes on wood came from the corridor.
The heavy shoji doors slid open silently, pushed by the butler, Fujita.
Saionji Shuichi stepped into the room.
He wore a minimalist deep-gray bespoke suit with a flat collar. His Windsor knot was perfect. His pace was steady, unhurried. When his deep eyes swept the room, he seemed to take in everyone's state in a glance.
The low conversation stopped instantly.
Kuroda set his crystal glass down carefully on the red sandalwood side table.
Tanimoto and Otsuka straightened their legs and stood.
Everyone rose from the leather sofas, backs straight, hands at their sides, and bowed slightly toward Shuichi.
"Mr. Shuichi."
Kuroda spoke first. The trade veteran's tone held obvious respect and quiet gratitude.
"A while back, thanks to the Saionji Group's guidance on market direction, we were able to adjust our asset structure in time and avoid this sustained decline. Everyone at Dai Toa Trading Company remembers that favor."
Tanimoto lowered his head slightly.
"Fuji Bank's risk control team also dodged several high-risk loan defaults because of your insight. If the Saionji Family ever needs anything, our bank will provide top-tier funding channels, no questions asked."
Otsuka didn't give a speech, but his straight back and respectful posture said the same thing: gratitude and trust.
Behind them, the other dozen conglomerate executives and trading house presidents murmured agreement.
"Yes, thank you for Mr. Shuichi's warning…"
"The Saionji Family's foresight is admirable…"
Shuichi stopped walking.
He looked at these financial power players — men who ran their own empires — and gave them a gentle, flawless smile.
He raised his right hand and pressed his palm down slightly.
"You're all too kind."
His tone was calm, with a reassuring weight to it.
"We're all weathering the same storm in Tokyo Bay. On a sea like this, friends should remind and help each other. It's only right."
He moved toward the single sofa at the head of the room.
"Don't just stand there. Please, sit."
Only then did the men sit again.
Shuichi settled into the main seat. He folded his hands and rested them casually on his knees.
A waiter pushed a cart draped in pure white linen to the side of the coffee table.
Silver tongs lifted a few leaves of top-grade Darjeeling and placed them into a warmed bone china teapot. Boiling mountain spring water followed, and the rich muscatel aroma spread through Chōshōken with the steam.
The waiter set a bone china cup of black tea on the red sandalwood tray before Shuichi, stepped back, and melted into the shadow behind the shoji.
Shuichi reached out, index and middle fingers pinching the handle.
He lifted the cup and blew lightly on the rising steam.
The amber tea rippled.
"The wind and snow outside have been heavy lately," he said, looking around the room. His tone was relaxed, as if they were just discussing the weather.
"Every day I open the paper and it's full of news that sets your nerves on edge. You all deal with those dry reports at your companies — your strings are pulled too tight."
He brought the teacup to his lips.
"Tonight we're here purely to strengthen friendships. We will absolutely not talk business, and we won't look at the market."
"A chat between friends. How does that sound?"