Lower Manhattan, 40 Wall Street.
The seventy-story Neo-Gothic skyscraper had once been a defining landmark of the Manhattan skyline.
After recent title disputes from its previous owner and chronically high vacancy rates, the Resolution Trust Corporation bundled the building with its debt and put it up for sale.
The building is now known as the Trump Building, though the future president would not purchase it until 1995. Yesterday afternoon, it welcomed its new owner.
Robert, the senior property manager appointed by the liquidators, waited at the elevator entrance on the top floor. He glanced at his watch while his right hand nervously rubbed the seam of his suit pants.
Today marked the first site inspection since the title transfer. He had rehearsed his arguments about environmental remediation and maintenance costs countless times, steeling himself to negotiate with some pot-bellied, notoriously difficult Wall Street tycoon.
The elevator indicator jumped to 70.
Ding.
The brass light above the doors lit up, and the elevator car opened smoothly. The property manager immediately bowed, his face set in a practiced business smile.
Frank, the CEO of S.A. Investment, stepped out first. Close behind him was the tall, sharp-eyed butler, Fujita Tsuyoshi.
The property manager opened his mouth to greet them, but Frank and Fujita shifted aside in perfect synchrony.
An Asian girl stepped into the dim light of the top floor. She wore a sleeveless beige dress and a raffia sun hat, with casual flats on her pale ankles. Her gaze wandered curiously across the intricate brass reliefs, which were still covered in a fine layer of dust.
Still bowed, the property manager's attention lingered on the young girl for half a second. He had heard that Asian capital backed S.A. Investment, and this seemed to confirm it.
A girl who could have the famous Frank trailing her every step had to be the daughter of the real boss.
But sending a child to represent them on an occasion like this? Given what he knew about the people at the top, this building was probably just a lavish toy the big boss had bought for his daughter.
Having settled on that explanation, the property manager immediately pushed his prepared financial reports out of mind. You did not discuss balance sheets with a young lady like this.
He bent lower. "Welcome to 40 Wall Street, miss," he said gently.
"The brass reliefs you see are original pieces preserved since the 1920s. And this entire 70th floor was historically the exclusive office of the Bank of Manhattan's presidents. For half a century, this building has watched Wall Street rise and fall. Today, it has finally found its true owner."
Satsuki stopped walking. She looked at the property manager's overly flowery pitch and gave a slight smile. She did not bother correcting his obvious attempt to humor a child.
"Lead the way," Satsuki said softly. "I want to see the CEO's office."
"Please follow me."
The property manager turned and pulled a heavy brass key from his pocket. He inserted it into the lock of the thick walnut double doors at the end of the corridor.
The hinges gave a dry creak as the doors opened.
Before them lay a massive domed office surrounded by panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows. Though the room had been unused for a long time and fine dust hung in the air, sunlight poured in freely and lit up the deep red Persian wool carpet.
"Miss, allow me to introduce this historic office," the property manager said carefully, smiling.
"The dome above you and the brass carvings were handcrafted by master artisans before the Great Depression. This level of scale and craftsmanship is rare even in Manhattan. Now it has finally found an owner whose stature matches its elegance."
Satsuki said nothing. She walked to the massive windows and looked down at Lower Manhattan through the glass.
The property manager followed immediately, stopping half a step behind her.
"The view from these windows is impeccable," he said, gesturing toward the skyline.
"You can take in the whole of New York Bay, and the Statue of Liberty and Governors Island are clearly visible in the distance. Very few people get to look down on all of Wall Street from this height."
He glanced at her expression and saw genuine interest on her face. Since the young lady seemed to be in a good mood, he decided to address the compliance issue quickly.
Maintaining his respectful posture, his tone grew constrained.
"However, I am legally required to inform you that during our inspection last month, we found asbestos from the 1970s in the ground floor ventilation ducts and fireproofing. If the building is to resume commercial operation, asbestos abatement will be required."
Frank, standing to the side, furrowed his brow. "It's a twenty-million-dollar abatement project. We factored that into the cost before the transfer. We'll also have to deal with work-stop inspections from the EPA," he said, ready to press for a schedule.
Satsuki raised her right hand and pressed lightly downward, cutting Frank off.
"Find the best engineering team in New York,"
Satsuki said as she walked to the window and looked down at the bustling street below.
"Tear out every asbestos-laden pipe on the ground floor and replace them. There is no budget limit. I want speed."
She turned to the property manager.
"Wait outside for now. Tell the team downstairs to prepare for the engineering tender."
"Understood. Please rest," he said.
Finally, someone with unlimited money. Relieved, the property manager bowed and left the domed office. The heavy walnut doors closed behind him with a crisp click.
Only two people remained.
Satsuki stood with her hands behind her back, her gaze fixed through the glass on the classical colonnaded roof of the New York Stock Exchange, where a massive flag hung.
"Frank," Satsuki's voice echoed in the empty room. "What do you think of this place?"
Frank walked to her side. He surveyed the open skyline, then looked up at the domed ceiling steeped in history.
"It's excellent," Frank nodded.
"This is the best view in Lower Manhattan, and the base structure is solid. Once the renovation is complete, its commercial value will multiply."
"Good," Satsuki turned around.
"Then this building will be S.A. Investment's new global headquarters from now on. Have the employees get ready. Once the renovation is done, move out of that cramped little building you're renting."
Frank froze. For a moment, he could not figure out which "cramped little building" she meant.
S.A. Investment's current office was on the top floor of the Pan Am Building in Midtown, right next to Grand Central Terminal.
The rent was staggering, and having an office there was a symbol of strength on Wall Street.
How had it become a "cramped little building" to her?
But then again, the Pan Am Building belonged to someone else. This seventy-story historical landmark under their feet now belonged entirely to the Saionji Family. Moving from tenant to owner of a core Wall Street property was a fundamental leap in status.
Before Frank could respond, Satsuki had already walked to the dusty oak desk in the center of the room. She tapped the surface twice with her finger.
"This domed office will be your new office, Frank."
...
Tokyo. Saionji Information System Underground Quarters.
The air was thick with the smell of black coffee.
Emi sat in front of her computer screen wearing thick, blue-light-blocking glasses. A strawberry lollipop bobbed between her teeth as she chewed.
Her left hand flew across a mechanical keyboard while her right hand dragged and zoomed in on rows of complex bio-electrical waveforms.
"This isn't right," Emi muttered to herself. She stared at the live test data streaming from the Hokkaido biological lab on the left monitor.
After the Utah Array was implanted into the M1 motor cortex of the rhesus macaque, the brain's immune rejection response had been far too aggressive. She crunched down on the candy in her mouth.
"The glial scar tissue is encapsulating the probe contacts much faster than we predicted. That connective tissue is spiking the signal impedance captured by the Spiking Neural Network.
The feedback loop for feature extraction still has a noticeable delay in the reverse write command. An eighty-millisecond delay makes it impossible to decode and spoof neural action potentials in real time.
If we don't solve this impedance problem at the materials level, the subject won't survive three months before dying from cortical infection."
Her typing grew frantic.
"Materials, materials... it's always materials. How is this field any different from alchemy?"
Just then, the red satellite landline on the edge of her console rang.
Emi's fingers froze mid-air. Only one person ever called that number.
"Ah, Satsuki-chan!" Emi cheered instinctively.
But after dozens of hours of high-pressure work, her voice came out hoarse and stiff, startling even herself. She shivered.
"Who was that?" She clutched her throat and looked around. That was not her voice. If she talked to Satsuki like that, Satsuki might think she was annoying.
She took a deep breath and massaged her stiff facial muscles with both hands. After clearing her throat and doing a few vocal exercises, her dry throat finally regained its usual soft, resonant tone.
Satisfied, Emi grabbed the red receiver and pressed it to her ear.
"Satsuki-chan! Have you been eating on time in New York? Is the jet lag giving you headaches? Did you take your medicine last night? Is anyone bullying you?" Her rapid questions shot across the undersea cable and the Pacific Ocean.
In the domed office at 40 Wall Street, Satsuki sat on the edge of the oak desk that Fujita had polished to a mirror shine. She listened to the barrage from her friend.
"I've been eating on time. The steak portions in New York are ridiculous," Satsuki said with a light smile.
"But why did it take you so long to answer? Were you busy, or did I wake you? Uncle Masato told me you pulled three all-nighters to run the new architecture data for the Saionji Information System."
"No! I'm fine, I'm not tired at all!" Emi protested quickly. She gripped the receiver with both hands and glanced at the live brainwave chart pulsing on her screen.
"I just... I was drinking water and choked," she lied quickly.
"The data testing for the new architecture is going great. It'll be finished soon!"
She absolutely could not let Satsuki know what kind of experiment she was running behind her back.
Satsuki leaned against the desk, toying with the telephone cord.
"My next stop is Texas. I have a few large oil field acquisitions to negotiate there. Speaking of which, Emi, what kind of souvenir do you want? A limited-edition handbag from Fifth Avenue? New jewelry from Cartier?"
Inside the Tokyo server room, Emi curled her legs tighter on her chair. "I don't need any of those expensive brands," she said softly.
"Anything you pick is fine."
She paused for two seconds, tilting her head to think.
"If you pass by Times Square, I'd like a Statue of Liberty keychain. One of those ugly-cute, silly ones from a tourist shop. And..." Emi bit her lip.
"Get one for each of us, okay?"
In the Wall Street office, Satsuki could not help laughing at the request. Her clear laughter echoed under the vast dome.
"An ugly-cute Statue of Liberty?" Satsuki agreed, smiling.
"All right. I'll have Fujita go to a street stall in Times Square later. Actually, I'll go myself. If it's not ugly enough, I won't take it."
A satisfied cheer came from Emi.
"Okay, let's talk later. Go get back to work," Satsuki said.
"Mm-hmm! Thank you, Satsuki-chan!"
Satsuki hung up the phone. The receiver settled back into its cradle.
She turned to arrange the keychain purchase with Fujita when Frank walked in quickly from the outer conference area, carrying a black briefcase. His expression was somber.
Frank approached the oak desk, tucked his briefcase under his arm, and solemnly held out an unmarked envelope to Satsuki.
"Young miss," Frank's voice was low.
"The general manager of the Metropolitan Club drove to Wall Street and delivered this invitation to me downstairs. It bypassed our New York public relations department's security screening, which breaks protocol."
Satsuki did not even glance at the letter.
"Send it back," she waved dismissively.
"My schedule this week is full, and I still have to buy a keychain. I'm not seeing anyone before Texas."
Frank did not withdraw his hand. This letter was unusual. The envelope was made from Crane & Co. banknote-grade paper, the kind reserved for core politicians in Washington and White House staff.
"Young miss," Frank kept offering the letter.
"The invitation is from the honorary director of Goldman Sachs. He reserved the most private room in the club, the Roosevelt Suite, for eight o'clock tomorrow evening."
Seeing Satsuki remain unmoved, Frank took a deep breath and repeated the manager's message verbatim.
"The messenger left a rather strange note. He said, 'The red wine tomorrow night is from a Texas vineyard. We hope you will do us the honor of tasting it to celebrate the remarkable efficiency recently displayed by the Tokyo side.'"
Satsuki, who had been about to slide off the desk, slowly stopped moving.
Texas. Tokyo's efficiency.
Were the people in the White House that impatient? Did they want to repay the favor so badly, or were they testing her?
She could guess their plan.
The war in the Middle East had just ignited. To curry favor with the United States, and under heavy pressure from the Saionji Family, the Kaifu cabinet had pushed a massive 13-billion-dollar military aid package through Parliament with efficiency that defied Japan's usual bureaucratic sluggishness. In reality, the Kaifu cabinet had dragged its feet for months.
That money had filled the gap in military equipment the Pentagon had burned through in the desert. The politicians in Washington had clearly figured out who was holding the whip behind the scenes.
Satsuki set her raffia hat on the desk. She reached out and took the gold-stamped Crane & Co. envelope from Frank's fingers. Her fingertips brushed the textured paper.
"It seems the Texas trip will have to be postponed," Satsuki said, looking at the letter.
"Notify the security team. Change the itinerary for tomorrow night. We are going to the Metropolitan Club."