October 22, 1989.
[Nikkei Average Index: 35,550 points]
8:00 PM. Niseko, upper level of the Gokurakutenshu main building.
Outside, the wilderness was a screaming void of snow and wind.
Inside the glass, the 'Tenkyu' club was locked at a serene twenty-two degrees Celsius. Micro-pore humidifiers hidden among the plants sprayed a fine mist, and the air was heavy with the cold fragrance of agarwood and the mellow drift of Cuban Cohiba smoke.
By the cigar bar, four men in custom suits stood like statues of authority. On each lapel, a silver and black agate hidari mitsu tomoe insignia caught the warm spotlight.
Eguchi Tokuhiro, President of Saionji Construction, traced the edge of a blueprint spread across the marble counter.
"Accelerate the foundation work for the Odaiba commercial street," he muttered. "I want the waterproofing capped before the freeze next month."
Tadashi Yanai, the head of Uniqlo, nodded beside him. "The retail plan is set. Once Construction hands over the site, we'll have the shelves and terminals live within seventy-two hours."
Nearby, Managing Director Endo took a long pull of his Yamazaki whiskey. He let out a breath that seemed to carry months of tension away with it.
"To be honest, Masato-kun," Endo said, watching the ice sphere bob in his glass, "last winter, when the bills for this building were landing on my desk like a blizzard, I had to take stomach pills just to get an hour of sleep."
Saionji Masato, leaning against the bar with a glass of champagne, didn't look up. "But you signed them anyway."
"I couldn't argue with the Eldest Miss," Endo chuckled. He looked out at the room full of flushed, laughing magnates. "But after seeing the cash flow summary this morning... my stomach suddenly stopped hurting."
Masato raised his glass. "You can throw the medicine away, Endo-san."
The two clinked glasses. The faint, crisp sound was quickly swallowed by the constant-temperature water curtain nearby, where water slid silently down black marble.
On a deep red Chesterfield sofa in front of the curtain, Isao Nakauchi of Daiei Group puffed on a thick cigar while President Yoshino of Mitsui Bank smiled across from him.
Surrounding them were the "saved" presidents of Kansai manufacturing firms—men whose companies had been on the brink of collapse before the Saionji family absorbed them. They held their crystal glasses with both hands, their calloused fingers trembling slightly with a mixture of reverence and relief.
"As long as the Saionji order flow remains stable," Yoshino told them, "the bank's risk assessment will always show a green light."
On the other side of the room, 7-Eleven's Toshifumi Suzuki sat with MITI officials and senior representatives from IBM and Cisco.
"To free trade!" one of the Americans declared, his face flushed with high-vintage red wine and the even higher profits Saionji's information systems had allowed them to reap in Japan.
The greed of Silicon Valley and the compromise of the Japanese government clinked glasses in a brief, profitable truce.
In the shadows near the wine cellar, media titans from Yomiuri and Asahi whispered with the directors of Dentsu. They were already reserving pages for the next phase of the "Heisei Miracle."
Nearby, a jarring image of the era played out: lean, old-style aristocrats in silk kimonos sat with oily-faced real estate developers in gold Rolexes.
"One billion yen, Marquis. Please, you must accept it for the forest lands," one developer insisted with a predatory smile. Under the Saionji "golden signboard," the new rich were buying the history of the old guard with trucks full of cash.
Ding.
The sound of brass striking brass pierced the low hum of the lounge. The indicator for the private elevator lit up.
The room froze.
The heavy, carved brass doors slid open, and Saionji Shuichi stepped out.
He wore a minimalist black tuxedo, the satin collar gleaming. His hard-soled shoes made muffled, authoritative thuds on the Afghan silk carpet. Fujita, the old butler, followed half a step behind like a shadow.
As Shuichi walked, the executives by the bar—Eguchi, Yanai, Endo—immediately snapped to attention, bowing in a perfectly uniform line.
The conversation in the center of the hall died instantly, as if someone had pulled a cord. Isao Nakauchi set down his cigar. The MITI officials and the Silicon Valley giants rose from their sofas, nodding with practiced respect.
Shuichi didn't stop.
He moved through the aisle that parted automatically for him, nodding with a gentle, terrifyingly calm smile as he walked toward the deepest part of the lounge.
Only after he vanished did the room begin to breathe again.
At the far end of the hall, against the panoramic glass, sat Osawa Ichiro—the true manipulator of the Diet—and Yoshiaki Tsutsumi, the commander of the Seibu Group.
Shuichi took a whiskey from a passing tray and sat opposite them.
Osawa extinguished his cigarette, leaning forward with an eager, humble smile.
"Mr. Shuichi," Osawa began, his tone full of awe. "I just walked the ground floor. Those presidents are throwing chips like waste paper into a furnace. The speed at which this building swallows money is... eye-opening."
Osawa raised his glass, seeking the approval of his benefactor. "I wonder, after seven days of operation... what astronomical figure have we reached? Broaden my horizons, please."
Yoshiaki Tsutsumi did not turn his head. He continued to stare at the blizzard. But as Osawa spoke, his fingers tightened on his Burgundy glass. The man who owned one-sixth of Japan was listening with every fiber of his being.
Shuichi leaned back, his posture languid. "Osawa-kun is too kind. It's just pocket money."
He took a sip of whiskey.
"First week. Seven days. Net intake from the casino, theater boxes, high-end catering, and auction commissions."
Shuichi's gaze swept over both men.
"Total operating revenue: fifty billion yen."
The air in the lounge seemed to thin.
Osawa's fingers stiffened for a fraction of a second before he burst into a hearty, mask-like laugh.
"Fifty billion! Hahaha! Mr. Shuichi, the Ministry of Finance couldn't print it that fast! I suppose for next year's elections, I'll be shamelessly leaning on the Saionji family again."
Osawa's laughter was a shield for his shock. Fifty billion in seven days. It defied every known model of real estate. He resolved to have his secretary verify the bank flows the moment he returned to Tokyo.
Beside him, Yoshiaki Tsutsumi's brain was screaming that it was impossible. But the Saionji family had no reason to lie.
He slowly turned his head. His gaze pierced through the snowstorm toward a dark spot kilometers away—the Prince Hotel ski resort, his own investment.
In the shadow of the glowing Gokurakutenshu, his traditional concrete hotels looked like old matchboxes abandoned in the wilderness.
Is the Prince Hotel... dilapidated?
The disparity was a steel knife through his pride. The Gokurakutenshu was a burning sun, devouring the wealth of the north, while his empire sat in the cold.
He downed the rest of his wine. The tannins left a bitter, dry sting in his chest.
"Shuichi-kun," Tsutsumi said, his voice deep and resonant, fighting to maintain the majesty of a tycoon. "To stratify desire so precisely... it is indeed eye-opening."
He smoothed his cashmere sweater and stood up.
"I have overseas calls to attend to. I won't disturb you further. Excuse me."
Tsutsumi walked away, his back straight, his steps steady.
But as he passed the water curtain, he paused. He looked at his distorted reflection in the black stone, then up at the cold, industrial beauty of the steel framework.
The seeds of jealousy and greed had finally flowered.
No rush... this will be mine sooner or later.
He would wait. He would wait for the Saionji family to spread themselves too thin, for their reach to exceed their grasp.
The moment their cash flow faltered, the Seibu Group would be there to swallow the sun.