The Admiral laughed, “Well, we must never forget the rent.”
Everyone laughed. Some so as to not stand out, and some to appear to understand. Those who did understand instantly saw the astonishing new weapon Sasaki had built.
Sasaki showed he understood the Admiral by adding,
“So, one million U.S. dollars consisting of 10,000 bills would cost about 30,000 yen or about 300 real U.S. dollars.
“Fuck me,” an old Admiral from the days of Tsushima said in the succinct way that all navies speak.
“Indeed, gentlemen, indeed. Do remember gentlemen all this paper money is actually just paper. It has no value. It is not like silver or gold, that have real value and value across the world—one country’s 100-dollar bill is just another country’s toilet paper,” Sasaki’s boss politely explained.
“Look at this,” he said as he passed around another American 100-dollar bill.
Frowns ensued.
“You see this is also an American 100-dollar bill, but this fragile piece of paper was issued in 1864 by the rebel southern states. And its value today is, of course, zero. It’s an interesting relic to people like us here at the bank, but it simply serves to remind us of the completely worthlessness of paper money. Here is another, this one is a 100-billion Reichmark note from 1923. Again, just another silly slip of paper.”
Sasaki’s boss turned philosophical,
“Remember what the Russian revolutionist chap V. I. Lenin liked to say, ‘The best way to destroy the capitalist system is to debauch the currency.’ Well, Sasaki has created an amazing weapon that we can use to destroy the enemy with paper, ink, and a printing press. Gentlemen, I will also remind you that in most parts of the world the American 100-dollar bill is the de facto currency, and that 80% of all U.S. currency is denominated in 100-dollar bills. Moreover, all the paper, ink, plates and printing machinery are Japanese. And with the development in 1939 and 1940 of the New Trunk Line—the Shinkansen—modern steam locomotives now being developed that travel at 200 kph. So the time to carry the paper from northern Japan to Tokyo has been compressed to under 10 hours. And with our presses in the basements of this building we can create silly slips of paper with the nominal value of one hundred million U.S. dollars per day.”
Sasaki’s boss paused, and then said:
“Our respectful suggestion at the Bank is that we supply our Army and our Navy each with 100 million dollars’ worth of currency each week. You gentlemen can use it for whatever purpose you see fit.”
A doubting voice asked,
“This is all well and good, and this is a wonderful plan—or perhaps I should say ‘scheme.’ But we in this room are not experts—will these bank notes be accepted? Are they good enough?”
Sasaki’s boss smiled,
“A very, very wise question. Since January of last year, we at the Bank have been supplying Sasaki’s new weapon to our agents in the American possessions of the Hawaiian Islands and the Philippines, as well as to the American cities of San Francisco and New York. In total, close to seventy million dollars of Sasaki’s currency has been spent, and not one bill has been rejected.”
This raised eyebrows.
The doubter congratulated Sasaki who quietly rose and bowed deeply.
Another voice asked about the old papers,
“If these bills were made recently, how is it that some of the bills look so old?”
Sasaki explained it was actually a simple process; the first step was agents in the United States collected 1,200 real Franklins of all grades (here Sasaki inadvertently slipped into jargon). By tabulating the dates of the bills and then grading each bill, Sasaki’s people could determine the average life of a real U.S. 100-dollar bill to be between seven to nine years. Sasaki smiled and explained that the early Japanese bills’ paper was a little too robust and the rag content had to be reduced to better mimic the bills printed by the U.S. Treasury—the Sasaki bill lasted longer than the genuine ones printed in Washington. Sasaki had printed bills with dates from 1928 to 1939. To age the bills, the Bank had bought and installed 200 of the latest Bendix automatic clothes washing machines, all bolted to the floor on the second basement and third basement of this very building. Sasaki smiled and explained that these machines had been bought in San Francisco and shipped to Tokyo in 1938 and 1939 had been paid for with Sasaki’s own notes. At this last revelation the room burst out laughing.
Sasaki continued,
“So once cut, we dry the newly printed bills in an array of air dryers. Once completely dry, we then wash the bills in the Bendix machines one or more times with a small amount of water and a tiny amount of white vinegar to mimic human sweat. Then we dry the bills again in dryers that rotate and tumble the bills to create a used appearance and texture.”
Until this meeting, just about everyone in the room was aware of the terrible and wasteful bickering that never stopped between the army and the navy. As one of the older admirals had explained to one of his military cohorts,
“It’s like a scab—you know you should not pick at it, but you cannot help it.
The senior general listening to this agreed,
“God alive, we’re all Japanese but we’re constantly doing this. It’s all because we have too much time and too little to do, but these times are when we should be using this precious time for planning, not fucking fighting.”
This meeting might just heal this canker and end the scratching—a printing press more powerful than the world’s largest dreadnought.
5: Kobayashi’s Friday Night Soirées
KOBAYASHI ALWAYS MISSED NAGANO this time of year; most of the season’s snow would be in the mountains and the cool and clean air of winter would be a pleasant change after the hot Japanese summer. But in Mexico City, the air was dry and chilly and the altitude was always trying, especially for Kobayashi’s wife Akiko who hates the thin dry air of the Mexican winter.
On the last day of January, Kobayashi had received his first shipment of boxes from Tokyo. The labels specified “phonograph records,” and that was true—each of the five boxes when opened did present the viewer with a collection of 78 rpm phonograph records, each of Bakelite and about as thick as a man’s small finger. However, removing the three phonograph records in each box revealed the real contents—two million U.S. dollars in used $100 bills.
Before sending some of the first batch of bills from the Bank of Japan, Kobayashi had the embassy buy and install an old-fashioned safe with only three keys. One key he gave to the urbane ambassador, hidden inside his beloved original German copy of “On War”—he knew the ambassador would lose the key if Kobayashi had simply given him the key, so the book ruse seemed sensible. The second key he kept. The third key he buried in the yard, while his wife watched. The frost was in the ground so it took time with the gardener’s pick, but after 30 minutes the job was done.
The five boxes arrived each month at the end of the month until Kobayashi telegraphed Tokyo to send no more—he was collecting boxes faster than he could buy favors, and favors were cheap in Mexico. At the peak, he counted over 46 million dollars in his safe—enough to buy a small country or start a war, he mused.
Thus, Kobayashi set to work and was busy throughout all of 1941 dispensing gifts large and small to just about all the Federal politicians and most Federal judges in Mexico City.
It did not take very long at all to establish “friendships” with the Mexicans. Actually, once word got out about Kobayashi’s “stipends,” “consulting fees,” “honorariums,” and “speaking fees,” people—and influential people at that—had actually started to drop by the embassy unannounced to visit with the Senior Diplomatic Attaché, to offer him any services he may be in need of.