Rebirth in Japan: The Heiress Who Conquered the World

Saturday, November 17, 1990.

Narita International Airport, Apron 3.

It rained last night, and shallow pools of water remained on the concrete tarmac, reflecting the blurred outlines of several business jets.

Managing Director Endo arrived at 7:04.

To arrive before Satsuki and her party boarded, he did not take the company car.

He got off the Keisei Main Line express and walked over, dragging a small briefcase himself.

When Satsuki walked in through the side door of the waiting lounge, the first person she saw was him.

She paused for a step.

”Did you sleep?”

Managing Director Endo was stunned for a moment.

He instinctively wanted to hand over the briefcase in his hand.

But Satsuki was not looking at the briefcase; she was looking at his face.

She cared more about him as a person.

”...I rested for forty minutes on the Shinkansen.”

Satsuki frowned.

”That does not count as sleep.”

Managing Director Endo opened his mouth.

He wanted to say that three manufacturing secretariats on Nagata’s side had sent confirmation letters simultaneously, the copy registration for the Sumitomo Main Family legal department was still missing two checks for duplicates, and the MT700 receipt from Citibank Tokyo Branch needed to be sent by Monday.

”Fujita.”

Fujita stepped forward from a position one step behind Managing Director Endo.

Satsuki pulled a blank memo pad and a short pencil from her coat pocket and handed them to him.

”Write this down. Starting today, Managing Director Endo is not allowed to process any non-urgent documents for twenty-four hours.”

Managing Director Endo’s lips moved.

”Miss—”

Satsuki looked up at him.

”If you collapse, I will have to train another Managing Director Endo.”

”Do you know how expensive you are?”

Managing Director Endo lowered his head.

He held the briefcase in front of him with both hands, like a student being lectured.

”...Yes.”

Satsuki then reached out.

”Well, give it to me.”

Managing Director Endo handed over the briefcase.

Satsuki opened it, pulled out the fax papers inside, and flipped through them while standing.

Her gaze moved across the page very quickly—from top to bottom, about eight seconds per page.

The first page was a summary of the settlement progress for each Sumitomo manufacturing company.

She went through it; no problems.

The second page was a comparison of internal statements for Itoman: warehouse receipt dates, margin deposit times, and insurance certificate numbers.

There were three spots circled with a red highlighter.

The content on the third page was shorter, only four lines.

”Has Uragami started moving?”

Managing Director Endo nodded.

”Our people observed in Kitahama that Uragami Masaaki made an appointment yesterday afternoon with a law firm headquartered in Osaka. And the main business of this law firm is bankruptcy liquidation.”

Satsuki flipped back to the second page, her finger resting on the third red circle.

”This shell company.”

”’Osaka-ya Industry’. Registered capital of 10 million, the actual controller is a retired banker among the directors of Hakusuikai.”

Managing Director Endo’s voice was very low.

”Uragami Masaaki seems to be preparing to cut off his tail.”

”Currently, there are four bridge loan guarantees under this company’s name, all from Itoman. If it enters bankruptcy proceedings, these four guarantees will be automatically released.”

Satsuki folded the three sheets of paper and put them back into the briefcase.

”Do not be in a rush to block the door.”

Managing Director Endo looked up.

Satsuki handed the case back to him.

”Let Uragami lead the scapegoat out himself.”

”We do not know which pen that sheep is in right now, but he does.”

Managing Director Endo’s hand, which was taking back the envelope, paused for a moment.

Satsuki had already turned and walked toward the dedicated gate deep in the waiting lounge.

After walking two steps, she stopped again and tilted her head.

”When he starts cutting the rope—whoever the rope is connected to will be visible.”

Managing Director Endo stood where he was, gripping the case in his hand tightly.

He suddenly felt that forty minutes on the Shinkansen really did not count as sleep.

”Managing Director Endo.”

Satsuki had reached the gate; she did not look back.

”Get Osaka sorted out before the New Year. When I come back in January, I will treat you to a good meal.”

”Also, go back and get some sleep.”

”That is an order.”

Managing Director Endo stood in place, watching Satsuki’s slowly departing back.

After a long while, he bowed deeply.

”Yes.”

”Farewell, Miss.”

8:17 AM.

Runway 3.

The Gulfstream G4 engines were already warming up.

The low roar of the turbines came from beneath the wings, trembling over the thin layer of water on the runway in the gray-white early winter morning light.

Fujita stood at the bottom of the airstair, one hand resting on the side railing.

Shuichi went up first.

Suddenly, as if he had some sort of intuition, he stopped on the third step and looked back.

”Satsuki, your scarf.”

Satsuki looked down.

The end of the scarf had slipped out from the collar of her coat and was dangling in front of her chest.

She reached out and stuffed it back in, her movements casual.

”We have not reached Moscow yet; there is heating on the plane.”

As she was speaking, Shuichi had already come in front of her and directly helped her re-wrap the scarf.

”You have to know how to take care of yourself, you know?”

”Although Chizuru and the others help usually, you have to value your own body yourself.”

Shuichi chattered on, until half of Satsuki’s face was covered by the scarf, and only then did he pat Satsuki’s shoulder with satisfaction.

”Father... I cannot breathe like this.”

Satsuki said speechlessly, loosening the scarf slightly and pushing Shuichi to turn around.

”Alright, alright, hurry up and get on the plane, Father.”

Behind the two was Chizuru, following silently half a step behind.

Emi was the last to board.

She was still holding the tool bag labeled ”Technical Equipment” in her arms, her footsteps thumping on the airstair.

She refused to let Fujita’s men help her carry it, insisting on holding her own pile of treasures.

Everyone boarded, the ground crew retracted the airstair, and the cabin door closed.

The interior space of the cabin was not large, and since it was not used very frequently, it had only been refurbished once after being purchased.

The seats were milky white leather, and between the two rows of wide seats facing each other was a foldable rosewood table with a brass-rimmed edge.

Behind it was a frosted glass door, and further back was a rest cabin of about three square meters.

Satsuki sat down by the window.

She pulled the Moscow travel guide—Red Square, Hermitage, Bolshoi Theatre—out of her canvas bag, the onion domes on the cover appearing overly bright in the morning light.

She spread the guide on her knees and flipped through two pages of the introduction to the Hermitage.

Shuichi sat opposite her.

He held the hot tea Chizuru handed him, watching his daughter finally open the serious travel manual, his expression relaxing by half a degree.

Satsuki flipped to the third page.

Her finger traced the floor plan of the Hermitage Museum.

Then she pulled out an A4 sheet folded into thirds from the lining of the guide.

The paper was printed with names, organizations, and contact information.

The header was in Cyrillic.

Shuichi watched her.

The teacup paused at his lips.

Satsuki sensed the gaze.

She unhurriedly hid the list behind the travel guide—the movement was too slow, so slow that it seemed like she was deliberately letting people see it.

Shuichi sighed.

”Satsuki.”

”Father?”

”At least rest a bit on the plane.”

Satsuki blinked.

She put the list and the travel guide together and obediently placed them in the corner of the small table.

”Okay.”

Shuichi put down his teacup and leaned back into his chair.

His shoulders relaxed a bit, and his gaze shifted to the gray-white sky outside the porthole.

It was quiet for about twenty seconds.

Satsuki’s gaze slowly drifted to the other side of the aisle.

Emi was lying on the small table of the opposite seat, her pencil drawing something rapidly on the A4 paper.

On the paper was a dense topological map, with nodes and lines spreading outward from the center, labeled with English abbreviations and numbers next to them.

Her left hand was unconsciously twirling a strand of hair, her lips moving slightly, seemingly reciting some protocol parameters.

Satsuki stood up from her seat.

She walked behind Emi and paused for a moment.

Then both hands reached out from behind and pinched Emi’s cheeks.

”S-Satsuki-chan—!”

Emi’s face was distorted by the pinching, and words leaked out from the corners of her mouth, slurred.

Satsuki squeezed Emi’s cheeks toward the center, then pulled them outward.

The texture was soft, and it was quite comfortable.

”You heard it too.” Satsuki leaned into Emi’s ear. ”Rest.”

”Mmm...”

”Let us go watch a movie.”

Satsuki let go, leaving two pale pink fingerprints on Emi’s cheeks.

She rubbed the area that had been pinched, looked up at Satsuki, and her eyes brightened.

”Yes!”

The pencil and the topological map were thrown onto the table without hesitation.

”What to watch? Which one does Satsuki-chan want to see?”

”You pick.” Satsuki tilted her head. ”Pick one that does not require using your brain.”

Shuichi watched this scene from the opposite side.

His gaze fell on his daughter’s rarely softened profile.

If it were not for Emi being there, he would really be a bit worried.

Chizuru had retrieved a portable video player and three VHS tapes from the rear cabin.

She connected the equipment to the folding screen on the cabin wall, pressed the play button, and retreated to her own seat.

The screen lit up.

It was a French movie, with white text on a black background at the beginning.

Satsuki curled up in the corner of the window seat, her legs tucked onto the seat cushion.

Emi sat next to her, her shoulder almost touching hers.

Outside the cabin, the Narita runway slid backward.

The thrust of takeoff pressed everyone gently into their seatbacks.

The ground outside the window moved further and further away.

The surface of Tokyo Bay became a gray-blue plane, and then it was swallowed by the clouds.

Moscow time 2:47 PM.

Sheremetyevo International Airport.

The moment the landing gear touched the ground, Emi’s forehead bounced off the porthole glass.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up straight—the movie had long since finished, and only the blue snow noise from the end of the VHS tape remained on the screen.

The world outside the porthole was gray.

It was as if all the saturation had been drained from all colors, leaving only the remaining base tones.

The runway was gray, the outer walls of the terminal were gray, and the Soviet civil aviation Il-62 on the tarmac in the distance was also gray and white.

The sky pressed down very low, with clouds covering the entire field of vision evenly.

The Gulfstream slid toward a separate parking space away from the main terminal.

Two black Volga sedans were already waiting on the ground.

Satsuki stood up, put on the dark gray long cashmere coat, and wrapped the scarf Chizuru handed her around her neck twice, tucking the ends into the lapels of the coat.

Fujita opened the cabin door.

The moment the cold air rushed in, the warmth inside the cabin dissipated for the most part.

Shuichi walked in front.

He was wearing a black double-breasted thick wool coat, his scarf tied very tightly, and the white breath he exhaled scattered into a small puff in front of his nose.

Standing at the bottom of the airstair were three people.

The one at the very front was a man in his fifties.

He wore a gray rabbit fur earflap hat on his head, the brim pulled very low, almost covering half of his forehead.

His dark blue wool coat was washed until it looked old, but it was ironed very flat, and the crease lines on the cuffs and collar were as straight as if drawn by a ruler.

Inside the collar, a white shirt and a dark red tie were visible.

His face was very thin.

High cheekbones, deep eye sockets, and a standard foreign affairs reception smile on his face, but the bloodshot eyes and the dark color under his eyelids were not completely covered by that hat.

”Your Excellency Saionji.”

He spoke in Japanese with a thick guttural accent.

The pronunciation was accurate, but the stress points were slightly off.

”Welcome to Moscow. I am Sergei Ivanovich Kozlov, Deputy Director of the East Asia Bureau of the Soviet Friendship Society.”

He bowed slightly and extended his right hand.

The gloves were black artificial leather, and the stitching at the fingertips had worn white for a small section.

Shuichi shook his hand.

”Mr. Kozlov, thank you for your arrangements.”

”Our association attaches great importance to the proposal of the Japan-Soviet Cultural Exchange Fund.”

Kozlov’s Japanese would unconsciously drag a beat on certain long vowels.

”We have received the list of your humanitarian aid supplies.”

His gaze passed over Shuichi’s shoulder and landed on Satsuki, who was walking down behind.

He paused for a moment.

”This is—”

Shuichi turned slightly. ”My daughter, Satsuki.”

”She is also involved in the preparation work for this foundation.”

Kozlov’s gaze lingered on that young face for half a second longer, and then he bowed slightly.

”Miss Saionji, welcome.”

Satsuki nodded slightly.

”Спасибо, товарищ Козлов. Очень приятно.” (Thank you, Comrade Kozlov. Very nice to meet you.)

Kozlov’s eyebrows moved slightly, and the arc of that smile seemed to have a bit more genuine content.

”Your Russian is very good.”

Satsuki smiled. ”Only a few sentences, learned from books.”

Kozlov did not pursue the question.

He turned to the side and gestured to lead the way.

”Please, the cars are ready. A suite has been arranged at the Foreigner Hotel, very close to the Kremlin.”

The group walked toward the Volga.

Emi followed in the team, her head turning left and right.

”So this is the Soviet Union.” Her voice was very low, only Chizuru, who was walking next to her, could hear.

Her gaze passed over a row of tin sheds on the edge of the tarmac.

On the outer wall of the shed was a Russian slogan in white on a red background, the font being that kind of rough propaganda style.

Squatting below the slogan was a ground crew member in blue work clothes, using a roll of gray tape to wrap the damaged casing of a luggage conveyor belt.

The tape had already been wrapped in several layers, each layer dirty, mixed with the original paint of the equipment, with no boundary visible.

Emi’s voice lowered.

”...Does that equipment really still work?”

Chizuru did not answer.

She walked half a step in front of Emi, her gaze straight ahead.

When passing a glass door on the flank of the terminal, her pace did not change, and her head did not turn—but her pupils shifted slightly in the reflection of the glass.

Behind the door, two men in dark jackets, three meters apart, were walking at the exact same pace as their team.

Fujita was walking at the end of the line.

His right hand was in his coat pocket, and his left hand was hanging naturally.

He saw it too.

He made a gesture, and the positions of the Saionji security personnel surrounding Satsuki and her party changed again, blocking the view of the two men as much as possible.

Kozlov led everyone through a gray, dusty concrete corridor.

There were water stains from melted snow on the ground, and a layer of yellowish-brown alkaline marks on the joints of the tiles.

One of the fluorescent tubes overhead was flickering, with an irregular frequency, as if it had poor contact.

Satsuki walked out of the terminal.

The Moscow wind rushed over from the front.

The wind was very hard, slapping on her face as if scraped by something, and fine snow particles were rolled by the wind, drifting down diagonally.

She extended her right hand.

The surface of the sheepskin glove had a layer of fine fluff.

She held her palm upward and spread it out.

A snowflake fell.

It was very small.

The hexagonal edges were already incomplete, probably drifting down from a very high place, and breaking some branches in the air.

It landed on the palm of the glove and stayed on the camel-colored leather for less than two seconds.

It melted.

Leaving a wet mark the size of a needle tip.

Shuichi walked to her side, his breath condensing into a cloud of white mist above his scarf.

”Are you cold?”

Satsuki looked up at the gray-white, endless sky.

The snow was still falling, falling on the tarmac, on the equipment wrapped in tape, on the heads of the people queuing.

”Yes.”

She withdrew her hand.

The wet mark on the sheepskin glove was no longer visible.

”Like a morning that is about to never wake up.”

The door of the Volga was opened.

Kozlov stood by the car and made a ”please” gesture.

His smile was still standard, but the wind blew his earflap hat slightly askew, revealing gray-white hair roots at his temples.

Satsuki lowered her head and got into the car.

The wind outside was isolated outside the heavy iron car shell.

Only the buzzing sound of the heater air outlet remained.

The motorcade slowly drove away from the airport.

Outside the window, Moscow unfolded in the gray of November.