It was late May. Minato Ward, Tokyo. Osawa Ichiro's private residence.
Heavy blackout curtains blocked the morning sun. The bedroom still held a faint chemical odor from last night's sleeping pills.
Osawa Ichiro opened his eyes. He stared at the European plaster carvings on the ceiling and let out a long, weary sigh.
The repeal of the Large-Scale Retail Store Law had been forced through. He'd smashed open Japan's last retail barrier for Washington. Under his secret deal with William, the U.S. Minister for Economic Affairs to Japan, Washington was supposed to release a statement of "Public Support for Japan's Reformist Faction" yesterday — the day the bill passed.
But he'd waited in his residence all day yesterday. No statement came. The promised political endorsement never arrived. The silence stretched his exhausted nerves to the breaking point.
He rubbed his aching head, threw off the silk quilt, and stepped barefoot onto the warm wooden floor.
He walked to the window and pulled the curtains open.
Blinding morning light flooded the bedroom. Osawa squinted and raised his right hand to shield his eyes.
He crossed to the bedside table, picked up the half-glass of cold water from last night, and drank it down. The cold liquid hit his parched throat and cleared some of the grogginess from the hangover and medication.
Today, he'd deliberately skipped the secretary-general's office at the First Members' Office Building.
He told himself Washington's silence was just time zones and bureaucracy. Maybe the overdue statement would come this morning.
Meanwhile, the media outlets his faction controlled were supposed to run morning papers and noon broadcasts painting him as the great statesman who "withstood old forces and led Japan into a new era of free trade."
All he had to do was sit in this quiet house and wait for the zaibatsu and fence-sitting politicians to call with their congratulations.
Osawa walked to the desk and hit the speakerphone button on the landline.
He tapped in the private number for his chief secretary, Hirano.
Beep—beep—beep—
The dial tone echoed in the spacious bedroom.
Osawa's brow furrowed. Hirano usually picked up after one ring.
He cut the line and dialed the confidential desk at faction headquarters.
More dial tone.
Something's wrong…
Unease crawled up his spine, following the hand that held the receiver.
He turned off the speakerphone, grabbed the receiver, and punched in the direct line for the Yomiuri Shimbun political editor.
Static hissed. Three seconds later, it cut to a mechanical female voice.
"We are unable to take your call at this time. Please leave a message after the beep…"
Osawa slammed the receiver down.
Something's wrong, something's wrong…
Outside, security guards changed shifts right on schedule, leather shoes crunching gravel.
From the first-floor kitchen came the clatter of pots as the middle-aged hourly worker made breakfast.
On the quiet slope outside, a neighbor's car rolled past with a soft rustle.
Everything sounded normal.
Except.
Osawa stared at the silent landline.
His connection to Nagatacho — to the entire media world — was cut.
His breathing sped up. His chest heaved.
He strode out of the bedroom and down the hallway.
At the far end of the second floor was his private study.
He grabbed the brass doorknob and pushed. Click.
The door opened. The study looked untouched. Deep red Persian rug on the floor. Pure gold fountain pens and blank stationery lined up on the mahogany desk.
He walked quickly to the wall behind the desk.
A huge ukiyo-e landscape hung there.
He grabbed the solid wood frame with both hands, lifted it, and set it on the desk.
Embedded in the wall was a silver-gray, heavy-duty mechanical safe.
This door needed two things: a complex dial combination and a physical key. Right now, the dial sat perfectly at the start position. No pry marks. No cuts. No damage.
It's fine, it's fine… Isn't this normal…
Osawa stared at the dial, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
He pulled a brass key from his pajama pocket and slid it into the bottom keyhole.
He breathed in. His right hand, trembling slightly, gripped the cold metal knob.
It's fine…
He turned left two full circles. Click. The gears caught.
Right to seven. Left to four.
Each click echoed in the dead-silent study, pounding his eardrums.
After the last turn, he gripped the heavy handle and pulled.
Creak—
The safe door eased open.
Osawa's eyes shot to the back compartment — the one for top-secret documents.
Empty.
The original secret agreement signed by the U.S. Minister. The two micro-cassettes with his dirty Washington deals. Even the black notebook with money-laundering routes and offshore passwords.
All gone.
Osawa's breath stopped.
He lunged forward, shoved half his body into the safe, and felt frantically along the cold metal walls. His nails scraped the steel plate, making a sharp, rapid screech.
Nothing. Not a scrap of paper.
He backed out stiffly. He stared at the undamaged heavy door, at the dial still set to the correct numbers.
No pry marks. No acetylene burns. The perimeter was wired to the Metropolitan Police infrared grid. It hadn't made a sound all night.
Who came in? How did they open this? When was it taken?
His brain raced, trying to find a logical explanation. Every path hit a wall.
"Impossible… absolutely impossible…"
A wheeze escaped his throat. He gasped, chest heaving, but couldn't get air.
His legs shook. His knees buckled. He couldn't hold himself up.
His massive frame slid down the cold wall and hit the wooden floor hard.
---
Kasumigaseki. Tokyo District Public Prosecutors Office, Special Investigation Department.
The blinds in the director's office were shut tight.
The director sat upright behind his large desk. This iron-faced prosecutor had spent years leading political donation cases. Now his hands were pressed flat on the desktop, eyes locked on the two black micro-cassettes and several photocopies in front of him.
Prime Minister Toshiki Kaifu, in a dark formal suit, sat quietly in the guest chair across from him.
Hirano stood behind Kaifu, head down, arms at his sides.
"Director," Kaifu said, breaking the silence.
He gestured to the table. "That is the full audio of Secretary-General Osawa's private meetings with foreign capital representatives. As for the documents…"
Kaifu tapped one edge with his index finger. It bore an English signature.
"It carries the autograph of William, U.S. Minister for Economic Affairs to Japan. And several large, unexplained transfers in Osawa Ichiro's anonymous overseas accounts."
Kaifu's voice stayed level.
"In exchange for political asylum and financial support from abroad, Osawa Ichiro forced through the bill opening national commercial barriers to foreign capital at yesterday's plenary session. His actions seriously violate the Political Funds Control Act."
Kaifu leaned forward slightly, meeting the director's eyes.
"At the same time, as Prime Minister, I have sufficient reason to suspect Osawa Ichiro is involved in selling out the nation's fundamental economic secrets."
The director swallowed. His Adam's apple moved.
He was known as the "iron-faced prosecutor," but even iron faces hesitated here. The water was deep.
"Prime Minister," the director said, his voice dry. He chose his words carefully, eyes moving from the documents to Kaifu.
"On the evidentiary validity of these materials, the prosecution has no objection. However… Secretary-General Osawa is currently in session. Under the constitution, even if the prosecution applies for an arrest warrant, procedure prevents us from bypassing the House of Representatives to execute an arrest directly."
Kaifu pulled his hand back and folded both on his lap.
"The procedural barrier will be handled by the Cabinet," Kaifu said, tone steady.
"In ten minutes, I will formally submit a request for arrest authorization of Osawa Ichiro to the Speaker of the House, in the name of the Cabinet."
He leaned forward, eyes on the prosecutor.
"What the Special Investigation Department needs to do is have the court judges at their desks right now, paperwork ready."
Kaifu paused half a second. "As soon as the Speaker's gavel falls… I expect your investigators to be ringing his doorbell."