Dan jiggled his computer’s mouse until the screen showed the global map that displayed time zones. Cripes, it’s midnight in Japan, he saw. But he moved the pointer to Yamagata’s name and clicked on it. The phone program automatically dialed the number in Japan. Dan expected to get an answering machine, still he knew it would be good form to return Sai’s call as soon as he received it. Politeness is important to the Japanese.
To his surprise, Yamagata’s round, flat face grinned at him from his screen. “Daniel, you’re at your office early.”
Grinning back, “And you’re at your office late, Sai.”
Yamagata threw his head back and laughed heartily. “Two workaholics, that’s what we are.”
“Maybe,” Dan agreed, thinking that you had to be a workaholic when your company was sinking beneath the waves.
Yamagata’s face grew more serious. “I heard about the accident and your chief engineer’s death. My condolences.”
Dan hesitated, then thought, what the hell; why try to keep it a secret? “It wasn’t an accident, Sai. I don’t think the spaceplane crash was an accident, either. Somebody’s trying to knock me out of business.”
There was always a half second of delay in response when a call was relayed by satellite. Even moving at the speed of light, the message had to travel to the commsat up in synchronous orbit and then back again. This time, though, Yamagata hesitated much longer than the normal time lag before replying.
“I wondered about that, Dan. There are powerful forces opposing us. The international oil interests don’t want anyone to succeed with a power satellite.”
“You mean the Arabs,” Dan said.
Yamagata shook his head, dead serious. “I mean the international oil interests. Arabs are part of the bloc, of course, but there are others, including Americans right there in your state of Texas.”
“Tricontinental? You mean Garrison?”
“Among others.”
“He wants to buy into Astro Corporation,” Dan said.
Yamagata hesitated again, obviously thinking fast. “Remember the story of the Trojan horse, my friend.”
Now Dan hesitated. He remembered his father’s advice: Whenever somebody calls you friend, check your pockets. At length he asked, “Have you had any problems like this? Sabotage, I mean.”
“No,” Yamagata said, a trace of a smile curving his lips slightly. “We are not as far advanced on our program as you are. And our workforce is entirely Japanese now. No more gaijin workers, such as you.”
Dan thought, That’s one way to keep internal security tight: hire only people you know.
“I called to give you good news,” Yamagata said, his smile widening. “My board of directors has approved my suggestion that we offer you our help. We can provide you with transportation to and from your powersat on Yamagata rockets.”
“From Japan?”
“Yes, our launch center at Kagoshima.”
“At what price?”
Yamagata said, “As I understand it, the heavy lifting is finished. What you need now is primarily transport for engineers and technicians.”
Nodding, Dan added, “Plus their life-support supplies and some materials, electronics assemblies for the most part.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
“At what price?” Dan repeated.
“Zero.”
Dan leaned back in his desk chair. “Sai, should I start counting my fingers or my toes?”
Yamagata laughed again. “You don’t trust your old friend? The man who hired you when you were just a puppy?”
“And threw me in with a bunch of roughnecks whose idea of fun was busting a gaijin’s nose?”
“You look better for it,” Yamagata said jovially. “You were too pretty before.”
“Sai, what do you want in exchange for free rocket rides?”
Yamagata’s smile faded a little. “A strategic partnership between Yamagata Industries and Astro Manufacturing.”
Dan hesitated just long enough to show Yamagata his respect. Then, “On what basis?”
“You grant us license to manufacture your spaceplane in Japan.”
Alarm bells began tingling in the back of Dan’s mind. “That would bring your costs down when you start assembling your powersat in orbit.”
“Yes, of course. That is why you developed the spaceplane, isn’t it? That is why we need it.”
“So you can compete against Astro more efficiently.”
Yamagata shook his head slowly, like a teacher disappointed with a student. “Dan, Dan, the global energy market is worth trillions of U.S. dollars. Together, you and I, we can carve out a big slice of that pie. We can corner the solar power satellite segment of the market.”
Dan gave him a grin. “Sai, I can grab a big part of the solar power satellite market all by myself.”
“If you don’t go broke first,” Yamagata retorted, with an upraised finger.
“There is that,” Dan admitted.
“Work with me on this, my friend. Why should we compete when together we can make many, many billions?”
Yeah, Dan asked himself, Why should we compete? But he heard himself say, “Sai, I appreciate your offer. I truly do. But I’ll have to think about it. Give me a few days?”
“Of course,” Yamagata said generously. Then his expression hardened. “But remember the Trojan horse.”
“I will, Sai. I will,” Dan said, thinking that the Trojan horse might well be Japanese.
Houston, Texas
In his lush penthouse orangery of an office, Garrison sat back in his powered wheelchair and studied the man sitting in the leather-covered armchair before his desk.
Asim al-Bashir had been on Tricontinental’s board of directors for almost five years. He’d never made much of a fuss about anything at the board meetings; Garrison thought that the man had worked steadily to win friends for himself among the other board members. No, not just friends, Garrison thought: allies. For five years he’s been gathering supporters, forming his own little clique on the board. And now, at the quarterly meeting of the board he pipes up and takes the initiative on this power satellite business.
At least he’s not the oily rug-merchant type, Garrison thought, looking al-Bashir over. I can’t picture him in one of those bathrobes and hoods those sneaking A-rabs wear. Al-Bashir looked quite normal in a regular business suit and tie. His face was round, with his dark brown hair slicked straight back from the forehead. His skin was the color of light cigarette tobacco. His beard was neatly trimmed, not one of those long bushy things, and his eyes were light and clear, not shifty at all.
Yet there’s something about him, Garrison said to himself. He’s too damned relaxed, too cool, like he knows a lot more than he’s telling.
Garrison had checked out al-Bashir six ways from Sunday when the Tunisian first joined Tricontinental’s board. The man owned enough stock to deserve a seat on the board, but Garrison didn’t trust any Moslem. Or Christian, for that matter. He even pulled strings in Washington and had the feds investigate the man’s background. No trace of a problem, no connections to terrorism or radical Islamic movements. As far as Garrison could find, Asim al-Bashir was a very successful Tunisian businessman, nothing more.
Over the years al-Bashir had sat quietly at board meetings, seldom raising his voice, usually voting the way Garrison wanted. He wasn’t a troublemaker. His major interest seemed to be making money. And slowly, quietly, building a power base for himself, Garrison thought.
Leaning back in his wheelchair, Garrison said, “Well, Randolph’s taken a bite of the apple.”
For a moment al-Bashir looked puzzled, which pleased Garrison. Then he said, “Ah, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.”