Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

November 7, 1990, Wednesday, late night.

Osaka, Kitashinchi, second floor of the ”Takekaze” Ryotei.

Only two paper lanterns were lit in the eight-tatami room, casting warm yellow light onto the tatami mats and stretching everyone’s shadows out long.

Urakami Masaaki sat in the seat of honor.

In front of him sat a plain white sake cup; the sake inside remained untouched, its surface reflecting the light of the lanterns.

When Yasui pushed the prepared page across, his fingers paused at the edge of the table.

”This is the first transaction, 2.8 million USD,” he said. ”Confirmed this afternoon, the MT700 has been issued. Please take a look.”

Urakami did not reach for the page.

He picked up his sake cup, then set it back down.

”The issuing bank?”

”Citibank Tokyo branch,” Deputy General Manager Ueba replied, his voice lower than usual. ”The applicant is Saionji Trading. Full USD margin, credited in advance.”

”Did DBS receive it?”

”The notification arrived this afternoon,” Deputy General Manager Ueba said. ”The beneficiary is in Singapore; all steps prior to the fund transfer have been completed.”

Urakami tapped his fingers on his knee, very lightly.

”The margin is Saionji’s money. Not a credit line from Sumitomo Bank.”

It was not a question.

Deputy General Manager Ueba nodded anyway.

The flame of the lantern flickered, and the shadows on the wall trembled along with it.

Urakami leaned back against the bolster and closed his eyes for a moment.

When he opened them again, he looked toward the window, though nothing could be seen there.

”Rejections, resubmissions, technical reviews,” he said, enunciating each word. ”The premise for these things to be effective is that Sumitomo Chemical’s money must flow through our pipes.”

Yasui opened his mouth.

”Now they have chiseled out a new pipe themselves,” Urakami said. ”And they have done it cleanly. Even the place of issuance for the bill of lading has been changed.”

Kawachi, who had been sitting at the end of the table, spoke up.

”Mr. Urakami,” his voice was a bit dry. ”A female clerk in the business planning division of Sumitomo Chemical honestly made corrections after three rejections. She added the cross-seam stamps, fixed the codes, and even started preparing the real estate valuation—and then she suddenly stopped.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

”A junior clerk who has been with the company for two years could not have figured out how to bypass our main branch on her own,” Kawachi said. ”Someone paved the way for her.”

”Murata,” Yasui said.

”Murata is a senior managing director; he can sign off on it, but he cannot shoulder this responsibility,” Kawachi shook his head. ”If Sumitomo Chemical dared to push through this quickly, there must be higher authorization behind it.”

He did not say those two words.

But everyone sitting in the room understood.

Urakami picked up the sake cup he had not touched, and this time he drank it, downing it in one gulp.

”The main family,” he set the cup down. ”Yoshio has already handed over the keys.”

Yasui’s expression shifted slightly.

”The authority to verify manufacturing credentials, USD letter of credit issuance, bypassing our settlement authorization—”

”These people see that we are weak and want to rebel. He intends to use Saionji’s hand to take the manufacturing sector back from us.”

”A blood transfusion,” Kawachi whispered these two words.

”Correct,” Urakami looked at him. ”We are holding Sumitomo’s financial veins. Now Saionji has connected a new pipe into the body of the manufacturing sector.”

Yasui leaned forward.

”Then the second transaction, 2.2 million, do we block it or not?”

”Block it,” Urakami said. ”But you must understand—you can block a transaction, but you cannot block people’s hearts.”

He stood up and walked to the window.

The neon lights outside the frosted glass cast several slanting beams of light across his face.

”Uchida, Kawaguchi, Hashimoto—these people are still sitting on the fence today,” Urakami said. ”But as long as they realize one thing—that overseas settlements can still be done without Sumitomo Bank—Hakusuikai’s voting power in the group will become worthless paper.”

Yasui fell silent.

”Therefore, we cannot fight this war this way anymore,” Urakami turned around. ”Stop staring at the stamps and codes on the documents. Saionji has already blocked that path.”

”Then where do we strike?” Yasui asked.

Urakami did not answer immediately.

He walked back to the seat of honor, sat down, pulled a fountain pen from his sleeve, and slowly wrote two characters on the back of the page.

After writing, he pushed the paper back to Yasui.

Yasui looked down—”Kansai.”

”All those drafts you prepared that might make people think of the Saionji family, scrap them all,” Urakami said. ”Not naming them does not mean it is safe. If the direction is too clear, their legal department will still bite back. We cannot beat Tokyo lawyers.”

”Then what should I write?”

”Write about Tokyo,” Urakami’s tone was flat, yet each word landed with impact. ”Write about outside capital. Write about how Kansai’s manufacturing sector is being taken over by Tokyo people while we are vulnerable.”

Yasui was taken aback.

”Do not defend the bank,” Urakami looked at him. ”The fact that the bank has problems can no longer be suppressed. Admitting it has problems will make the commentary seem fairer.”

”But would that not mean criticizing Sumitomo Bank as well?” Deputy General Manager Ueba could not help but interject.

”A few insults do not matter,” Urakami said. ”If the bank makes a mistake, Kansai people will grumble for a bit and let it pass. What they truly cannot swallow is being bossed around by outsiders.”

The room went quiet again.

The light from the lanterns cast half of everyone’s face in shadow.

”People like Uchida might not fear warnings from Sumitomo Bank,” Urakami picked up his empty cup, then set it down again. ”But they certainly fear what the Osaka Chamber of Commerce and Industry will think of them, what their old clients will think of them, and what their peers in Kitahama will say about them behind their backs.”

”Before they sign a single fax, make them hesitate.”

”That moment of hesitation is the time we need to fight for.”

He paused and looked at Yasui.

”Split the drafts into three channels. For local financial publications, write about the old rules of Kansai commercial autonomy; for the Chamber of Commerce’s affiliated magazines, write about the risks of outside capital meddling in the local credit system; for local newspapers in Kobe and Kyoto, write with a bit of human touch—the merchants of Senba, the finance of Kitahama—these are roots that go back hundreds of years.”

”It needs to look like worries written by different people,” Urakami’s voice lowered. ”It cannot sound like a unified voice coming from one place.”

Yasui folded the paper with the two characters ”Kansai” written on it and tucked it into his inner pocket.

”What about the title?”

Urakami thought for a moment.

”Plant a few first,” he said. ”’The Hunt of Tokyo Capital’... put this as the first piece.”

The meeting ended very late.

At the end of the table near the door, Kubota had remained quiet the whole time.

He had the draft of the meeting minutes spread out before him, fountain pen in hand.

As everyone stood up, he lowered his head and transcribed the last line.

On the official minutes, he wrote: ”Regarding the recent issue of external capital intervention in the credit settlement of Sumitomo-affiliated manufacturing, it is proposed to organize arguments related to industrial autonomy through local economic media.”

He closed the draft.

Then, after the people in the room had walked toward the stairs one after another and their voices had drifted to the outer room, he took out the B5 notebook from his inner pocket—the private one, not part of the minutes.

He turned to the page after the last one and wrote a few light lines in pencil.

The first letter of credit has been issued. MT700. Issuing bank Citibank Tokyo, the margin is Saionji’s USD.

The bank’s blockade is ineffective.

Mr. Urakami judges that Saionji Trading is taking over the settlement channels for Sumitomo-affiliated manufacturing. The main family is acquiescing, or driving it.

The countermeasure direction has changed from financial compliance to playing the ”Kansai” card.

Public opinion goal: Make manufacturing company presidents pause cooperation due to local pressure.

Deliberately not naming Saionji, Itoman, or Sumitomo Chemical—to reduce legal risk.

He stopped writing here.

The flame of the lantern dipped, and the room grew darker.

He stared at the words he had written for a while.

Not a single word of this would be in the meeting minutes.

But precisely because it would not be, he recorded it.

The sound of Urakami rising came from the stairs.

Footsteps approached and stopped outside the sliding door.

”Kubota.”

”Yes.” He hurriedly closed the notebook.

”Submit the minutes to Yasui tomorrow morning,” Urakami’s voice came through the sliding door. ”You do not need to worry about the drafts.”

”Yes.”

The footsteps did not leave immediately.

After two seconds, Urakami added another sentence.

His voice was not loud, but it was heard very clearly in the empty second floor.

”Kansai people can tolerate the bank making mistakes.”

”What they cannot tolerate is Tokyo people coming to tell them how to do business.”

The footsteps faded away, descending the stairs, swallowed by the neon lights and the night outside.

What did that mean?

Kubota looked down, watching the two things at his side.

One was the draft of the official minutes—on it was only that bland sentence: ”Coordinate local economic media to organize arguments.”

The other was the closed B5 notebook—inside it was written: The first letter of credit has been issued. The bank’s blockade is ineffective. Mr. Urakami decided to switch to playing the ”Kansai” card.

He tucked the notebook back into his inner pocket and pressed his hand over the spot, as if to confirm it was still there.

Then he blew out the lanterns, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of the eight-tatami room.

Outside the window, the neon lights of Kitashinchi were still bright, red and green, falling onto the surface of the Dojima River, crumbled by the night breeze into a patch of shimmering light.

Three days later, November 10.

The third page of the Kansai Financial Ten-Day Report published an article signed ”Local Business Observer.”

The title was: The Hunt of Tokyo Capital.