August 26, 1988, 10:00 AM.
Kasumigaseki, Ministry of Construction Building.
For three straight hours, four shredders had been running nonstop. The overheated motors filled the Building Guidance Division's office with the acrid stench of burning insulating varnish — a suffocating smell that scraped the back of your throat.
Outside the windows, cicadas screamed in the midsummer heat. Inside, the motors sputtered and whined, idling in broken bursts.
Acting Division Chief Takeda sat in the chair that had belonged to Noda Kenji until yesterday. The leather still seemed to hold his predecessor's body heat, but to Takeda, it felt like sitting on a slab of red-hot iron.
When they'd appointed him acting chief, he'd gone completely numb. Of course — when it came to sharing benefits, his name never came up. But now that disaster had struck, he was the one shoved to the front. No matter how he looked at it, he was the sacrificial pawn.
Two items lay on his desk.
On the left: a draft administrative order to extend the work stoppage on S.A. Crystal Palace. Bureau Chief Noda had circled it in red before his arrest — a direct decree from Secretary-General Kanemaru Shin.
On the right: a freshly delivered copy of Nihon Keizai Shimbun.
The front-page headline was printed in jarring, oversized type: "Forced Vote on Consumption Tax Bill: A Commoner's Radish Is Taxed, While a Politician's 100 Million in Stocks Goes Tax-Free?"
Beside it was a photo of furious housewives protesting in front of the National Diet. Their banners read "Oppose the Consumption Tax" and "Thoroughly Investigate Recruit."
As the scandal spread, public fury only intensified. The Takeshita Cabinet's approval rating had sunk to a perilous level. Pushing the consumption tax bill was out of the question now. Simply keeping the cabinet from collapsing was as hard as climbing to heaven.
"Division Chief…"
A young staffer approached with a folder, keeping his voice low. His eyes kept darting toward the door, as if he expected Special Investigation prosecutors with black briefcases to kick it in at any second.
"The Special Investigation Department just went to the Ministry of Labor next door. I heard… they even called in the Administrative Vice Minister for questioning."
Takeda's finger twitched violently.
They were targeting vice ministers now?
He grabbed the newspaper, his eyes locking onto the phrase "unlisted stocks."
Under normal circumstances, this would have been just another political donation scandal. A secretary takes the fall, the politician offers a perfunctory apology, and the matter blows over once the media cycle moves on.
But this time was different.
That company, Apex — everyone in Nagatacho knew it was a shell for Recruit — had played it too ruthlessly. They'd used the massive price gap on pre-IPO shares to funnel hundreds of millions in benefits to the political world. The worst part? Under current law, those capital gains were completely tax-free. And by some cursed coincidence, the government was now trying to pry a 3% consumption tax from the rice bowls of ordinary citizens.
On one side, the government cried poverty and tried to scrape 3% from the common people. On the other, high-ranking officials and nobles made fortunes through insider trading without paying a single yen in tax.
That naked, staggering sense of relative deprivation had set the entire nation ablaze.
The Special Investigation Department wasn't just handling a case anymore. They were "acting on behalf of heaven." At a moment like this, anyone with ties to "black money politicians" like Kanemaru Shin was a target standing in broad daylight.
"Division Chief?" the staffer prompted cautiously. "The legal representative from the Saionji family is coming again this afternoon to submit an Application for Administrative Reconsideration. The Secretary-General's office just called. They're hinting we should 'hold the line'…"
"Hold the line?"
Takeda let out a short, neurotic laugh.
He jabbed a finger at the photo in the newspaper, his voice hoarse.
"With what? My pension? Or what's left of my freedom?"
"Can't you see? The whole country is soaked in gasoline. One spark and Kasumigaseki burns to ash! Kanemaru Shin's own eyebrows are about to catch fire — who the hell is he going to protect?"
In the face of a superstorm that implicated nearly every LDP faction leader and reached all the way to former Prime Minister Nakasone Yasuhiro, a lowly acting division chief like him wasn't even an ant.
If he didn't cut ties with the Takeshita Faction now and send the Saionji Family — the 'victims' — away cleanly, then the moment the Special Investigation Department found he was still helping Kanemaru Shin carry out political persecution… Noda's bunk in the detention center would have Takeda's name on it by tomorrow.
Come to think of it, he clearly remembered the Saionji Family hadn't originally been aligned with the Takeshita Faction. How had they severed ties at light speed? But that didn't matter anymore. The feud between the Saionji Family and Takeshita was public knowledge now. No one cared about ancient history.
Takeda yanked open a drawer, pulled out a box of stomach medicine, and chewed two tablets dry. The bitter powder exploded across his tongue, but it cleared the fog in his brain.
He'd long since stopped understanding the bigger picture. But one thing was crystal clear: if he didn't jump ship now, he'd go down with it.
He grabbed a red pen and slashed a huge "X" across the "continued work stoppage" draft.
"Rewrite it."
Takeda's voice had the finality of a man throwing down his last card.
"Write that after a second on-site survey by the expert panel, the previous data errors were caused by 'measurement instrument calibration deviations.' It is now confirmed that all fireproof materials and earthquake-resistant structures meet the highest standards of the Building Standards Act."
"Permit… immediate resumption of work."
The staffer froze, his eyes wide as saucers. "But… Secretary-General Kanemaru's office…"
"Do you want to go drink tea with Bureau Chief Noda?!"
Takeda slammed the folder onto the desk. The bang was so loud that the shredders in the room actually stuttered for a second.
"The Special Investigation Department's gone mad! If we keep blocking a project with no violations, we're basically putting up a neon sign that says, 'Come investigate me, I'm dirty'!"
"The ship's sinking. Who cares what orders the captain's shouting? Everyone's grabbing a lifeboat!"
Takeda panted, yanking his tie loose from his throat.
"Stamp it. Stamp it now. Get that damn 'Notice of Compliance' to them."
"Get rid of this jinx."
---
12:00 Noon.
Ginza 7-chome.
The blazing sun hung directly overhead. The asphalt had baked soft, and heat shimmered in illusory waves above the road.
The gates of the S.A. Crystal Palace construction site remained shut. The yellow seal, posted over a month ago, had curled at the edges from sun and dust. It looked like an ugly scab on the fence.
An unmarked gray Toyota slid quietly to the curb.
The doors opened. Two Ministry of Construction officials in short-sleeved uniforms stepped out. No white gloves, none of the usual chin-tilted arrogance. They walked fast, heads down, like men afraid of being recognized.
"Executive Director Endo."
The lead official slipped into the shade by the side gate, pulled a document from his briefcase, and handed it to Endo with both hands.
"This is the permit to resume work."
His tone was dry. His eyes darted around, refusing to meet Endo's gaze.
"The previous matter… was a misunderstanding in our work process. We apologize for the trouble caused to your company."
"We are truly, very sorry."
As he spoke, he bowed deeply, presenting the document as if it might burn him.
Endo took the thin sheet of paper. It bore the bright red seal of the Ministry of Construction. The ink wasn't even dry.
"Misunderstanding?"
Endo pushed up his reading glasses, studying the officials' panicked faces.
He remembered what the Eldest Young Lady had said yesterday: "When bureaucrats realize their masters can't protect them — that they'll go down with the 'consumption tax' bomb — they'll betray them faster than turning a page."
Just as she'd predicted.
"A month ago, your people stood right here," Endo said evenly. "Pointing at our noses, telling us this building was a death trap that could collapse any second."
"Th-that was an instrument failure."
The official wiped sweat from his brow and tore the yellow seal from the iron gate.
Riiip—
The administrative barrier that had loomed like an unbridgeable chasm before the Saionji Family fell to the ground, crumpling into waste paper.
The official didn't even wait for Endo to sign a receipt. He shoved the documents over, dove back into the car, and sped off like he was fleeing a plague zone.
Endo watched the car disappear, then looked down at the permit in his hand. He turned to the dozens of workers and foremen behind him — all in hard hats, tools in hand, eyes eager.
For over a month, this site had been dead silent. Even stray cats had stopped visiting.
Endo drew a deep breath and raised his right hand.
"Start work!"
Rumble—!!!
In the same instant, the massive diesel generator deep in the site roared to life. Black smoke billowed into the sky.
Then came the rat-tat-tat of pneumatic drills on concrete, the whine of electric saws through rebar, the metallic groan of the crane's winch.
The noises merged into a tidal wave of sound that drowned out the cicadas on Ginza's streets.
It was the roar of machinery.
It was also the sound of Kanemaru Shin's line of defense collapsing.
---
3:00 PM.
Nagatacho, Liberal Democratic Party Headquarters, Secretary-General's Office.
The curtains were still drawn tight, shutting out the afternoon sun. The room was thick with the heavy tobacco scent of Cuban cigars.
Kanemaru Shin sat behind his broad mahogany desk.
The television was on, volume low. The screen showed an NHK special report: "Recruit Scandal Scope Expands, Multiple Members of Former Prime Minister Nakasone's Faction Implicated."
One after another, the great figures who usually carried themselves with sanctimonious dignity were now awkwardly dodging reporters' cameras and microphones.
"Sensei."
Ozawa Ichiro pushed the door open and stepped in lightly. He carried no documents. He just stood by the door, his expression complicated.
"Speak."
Kanemaru Shin didn't turn around. His eyes stayed fixed on the TV screen.
"Over in Ginza… work has resumed."
Ozawa's voice was low.
"Just now, the Ministry of Construction rescinded the stop-work order. The official reason was 'data re-verification passed.'"
The fingers holding Kanemaru's cigar froze in midair.
The long ash finally gave way, snapping with a soft pop and falling onto his expensive suit trousers, burning a small black hole.
But he didn't brush it off.
He turned his head slowly. Those old eyes, always half-lidded and calculating, were now wide open.
Last night, he had been roaring over the phone, demanding that the people below "hold the line."
Today, his order had been treated like waste paper.
"Takeda… it was Takeda who signed it, right?" Kanemaru asked.
"Yes."
"Heh."
Kanemaru let out a dry laugh. It sounded like a broken bellows.
"I called that boy myself yesterday. He swore he'd hold out."
"Today, he opened the door."
Kanemaru stubbed out the cigar in the ashtray, grinding it hard several times until the embers were completely dead.
"Sensei, should we call the Vice Minister of Construction…" Ozawa ventured.
"No need."
Kanemaru waved a hand. His back looked slightly hunched for the first time.
He knew exactly what had happened.
The Saionji Family had been ruthless. What they gave the Special Investigation Department wasn't just names. They'd pointed directly to "family members" and "private accounts."
The old "lizard shedding its tail" tactic — letting a secretary take the fall — wouldn't work this time. The evidence proved the stocks had gone straight into the accounts of wives and children. No matter how loudly a secretary confessed, it wouldn't stick.
The firewall had been breached.
Add to that the public fury whipped up by that damned consumption tax bill…
"Bureaucrats are like dogs that can never be fully tamed," Kanemaru murmured, looking at the huge map of Japan on his wall. His voice was cold.
"They wag their tails when you feed them meat. But the moment they see the master can no longer hold the whip, they're the first to rush up and bite through the rope."
"It's meaningless now. The Saionji Family has proven their fangs are sharper than our whips. Pressuring them further will only make more people jump ship."
"The problem isn't just one construction site anymore."
Kanemaru turned, his gaze passing over Ozawa.
"The fire has reached the pillars of Nagatacho. If we can't save the consumption tax bill, the Takeshita Cabinet is finished. If the cabinet falls, it won't matter if we hold every square meter of land in Tokyo."
"Send out the notice."
Kanemaru's voice regained its calm. Having decided to cut off his arm to survive, the faction leader who once strategized in the shadows had returned.
"Cease all targeted actions against the Saionji Family. Pull back our energy. Focus entirely on the Special Investigation Department and the opposition parties."
"As for that little girl…"
Kanemaru narrowed his eyes, recalling the figure who had followed him like a shadow on the ski slopes of Karuizawa.
"Let her win. In this country, winners are always exempt from punishment."
---
6:30 PM, Dusk.
Bunkyo Ward, Saionji Main Family Residence.
The last rays of sunset had faded, and the sky had deepened into Prussian blue.
The main lights in the study were off. Only an old-fashioned green-shaded desk lamp was lit, casting a warm yellow halo across the massive urban planning map of Tokyo.
Shuichi sat on the leather sofa, holding the phone he'd just hung up after speaking with Endo. He couldn't keep the joy off his face.
After this period of trial, he'd discovered his family's wealth far exceeded even his imagination. Let alone one month — even if the stoppage had lasted a year, the Saionji Family could have weathered it.
But ending it early and returning to normal was, of course, for the best.
"Is that so? Work has resumed on all fronts? Even the fire inspection in Akasaka passed?"
"Good… good! Tell everyone to work overtime tonight and make up the lost time. And tell the workers — this month's bonus will be doubled."
Shuichi hung up, let out a long breath, and turned to his daughter, who stood by the desk. His tone was thick with emotion.
"Satsuki, just like you predicted."
"The dam didn't burst because the water was too high. It burst because the people guarding it lifted the gates themselves and ran."
Satsuki didn't turn around.
She wore her Seika Academy uniform. In her hand, she held a black Go stone. Her eyes were lowered, studying the red circle on the map marked Ginza 7-chome with focused interest, as if it were a geometry problem.
Clack.
The stone fell, crisp and clear, landing squarely on the red circle.
"This isn't called victory, Father."
Satsuki turned, a trace of an innocent, harmless smile on her face.
"This is just biological instinct."
She clasped her hands behind her back and walked lightly to the window, gazing at the stone lanterns that had just been lit in the courtyard.
"When the cabin starts flooding, the little mice living on the bottom deck are always the first to run. They'll squeeze through every crack to find an exit — even if it's a hole they were trying to plug just yesterday."
"The officials from the Ministry of Construction aren't afraid of us. They're afraid because…"
She extended a finger and drew a downward curve on the misted glass.
"Kanemaru Shin's whip has snapped."
"The 'gift' the Special Investigation Department received this time was too heavy — so heavy that the old trick of 'the secretary takes the fall' can't carry it. Add in the consumption tax making everyone furious… the Takeshita Faction right now is like a target dripping with oil."
"They're busy putting out fires, busy scrubbing their names off that damned list. The biggest lion in this jungle is wounded, and all the hyenas are staring at its wounds, salivating."
Shuichi walked over to stand behind his daughter. A flicker of eagerness lit his eyes.
"Then what about us? Should we take a bite too?"
"Eh? Take a bite?"
Satsuki turned back, blinking in surprise, as if he'd suggested something terribly uncouth.
"That would be far too inelegant, Father."
She smiled and shook her head, walked to the desk, opened a drawer, and took out a list of documents she'd prepared in advance. She slid it gently across to Shuichi.
"We don't eat carrion."
"We're going to 'safeguard' the treasures they can't carry away."
It was an acquisition list for S.A. Investment.
Listed on it were the names of over a dozen companies. Most were subsidiaries of the Recruit system, or real estate developers deeply tied to the Takeshita Faction's interests. With the scandal erupting, their stock prices were in freefall. Banks were calling in loans. Partners were terminating contracts. They were on the verge of bankruptcy.
But in Satsuki's eyes, they were pearls abandoned in a great fire.
"The Ezaki family's 'Apex Real Estate.'"
Satsuki's finger tapped a name. Her tone was light, as if she were picking a dress for tomorrow.
"This company holds several undeveloped core plots along the Tokyo Bay waterfront. I hear they're desperate for cash to fill their holes and begging anyone who'll listen."
"Since it belongs to an old classmate's family, how could we just stand by and watch?"
She looked up. Her clear eyes were full of a smile, yet Shuichi felt a chill run down his spine.
"Then let's be good people. Let's help them 'bail out.'"
"At the fairest price — of course, the current market price."
Shuichi looked at the list, then at his daughter's face, soft in the lamplight.
Every step of their opponent's defeat had been within her calculations.
"Understood."
Shuichi picked up the list and nodded solemnly.
"I think the Tokyo stock market will bleed heavily tonight."