Friday, September 20, 1985.
The sky over Tokyo hung a sickly pale white. Though the typhoon had passed, the air pressure remained oppressively low, and fine dust particles floated visibly in the atmosphere, making each breath feel labored.
In Marunouchi, Chiyoda Ward—the very heart of Japan's economy—the headquarters of mighty conglomerates such as Mitsubishi and Mitsui rose like steel-and-glass titans, their curtain walls blazing under the harsh sunlight. Tucked humbly in their shadow stood an unassuming red-brick office building from the early Showa era, modest and easily overlooked.
At the far end of the third-floor corridor, a door bearing a brass plaque that read "Saionji Industries Co., Ltd." stood slightly ajar. This shell company had been registered by Shuichi solely for the short-selling operation now reaching its climax.
To secure the staggering margin required, the Saionji family had, over the past two months, quietly mortgaged nearly everything: rental office buildings in Shinjuku, shops in Ginza, and even several reserve plots of land in Chiba Prefecture. Apart from the main family residence—which still symbolized their last shred of dignity—this cramped fifty-square-meter office had become Shuichi's final stronghold in the business world.
Inside, the room was hushed save for the low hum of the aging central air-conditioning vent. Shuichi sat behind his desk, holding that day's edition of the Nihon Keizai Shimbun. The front-page headline proclaimed: "Japan-U.S. Trade Friction Intensifies; Prime Minister Nakasone Urges Citizens to Buy Foreign Goods." Below it ran a column by a prominent economist: "Strong Dollar Serves U.S. Interests—Exchange Rate Unlikely to Reverse in the Short Term."
Shuichi's eyes moved across the printed lines, his face utterly expressionless. Half a month earlier, such reports would have driven him to tear the newspaper to shreds in raw anxiety. Now he simply set it aside, lifted his coffee cup with calm deliberation, and took a sip. The brew was bitter and stone-cold.
"Everyone is merely maintaining a facade of peace," he murmured.
He placed the newspaper down and tapped the glaring headline with a fingertip. "Father, what the public sees is always exactly what those in power wish them to see."
On the sofa, Satsuki knelt gracefully beside the low tea table, skillfully arranging a portable tea set. She wore her school uniform; it was Friday afternoon, and she had secured leave from classes under the pretext of interning at her father's company.
"Four more hours," she said, glancing at the wall clock. It was just past eleven. "The Tokyo foreign-exchange market closes at three. Then comes the long weekend." She handed Shuichi a freshly brewed cup of gyokuro. "If that gathering is truly scheduled for this weekend, then this afternoon is our final window."
Shuichi accepted the cup but did not drink. His gaze drifted instead to the black telephone resting in the corner of the desk—the private line he had cultivated inside the Ministry of Finance at enormous cost, including the sacrifice of two genuine Yokoyama Taikan paintings from the family collection.
He was waiting.
Waiting for a definitive signal.
Although Satsuki had spoken with unshakable confidence and every piece of macroeconomic data pointed toward the critical moment, as a man who had wagered the family's entire fortune, he still yearned to see the final card before the dice cup was lifted.
The telephone rang sharply.
In the quiet office the sound cut like a blade. Shuichi's hand remained steady. He set the teacup down with care, adjusted his cuff, and only then lifted the receiver.
"Saionji speaking."
The voice on the other end was low, laced with the ambient noise of a public telephone booth.
"Shuichi, it's me—Kijima."
Kijima had been Shuichi's university classmate and now occupied a key post in the Ministry of Finance's Budget Bureau. Though not part of the innermost decision-making circle, he possessed a sharp ear for the ministry's hidden currents.
"Kijima," Shuichi replied evenly. "Why call at this hour? Has tonight's drinking party been canceled?"
"The drinking party is still on," Kijima answered, his voice dropping further as though he were covering the mouthpiece. "But the golf game scheduled for Sunday has been canceled."
Shuichi's pupils contracted slightly.
"Golf? You mean with…"
"Yes—with that 'Mr. Takeshita.'" Kijima spoke quickly. "It was supposed to be at his favorite course in Chiba. The minister is a creature of habit when it comes to golf. But this morning his secretary suddenly announced that the minister has caught a cold and must rest at home. All appointments have been canceled."
"A cold?" Shuichi raised an eyebrow. "How convenient."
"Even more conveniently," Kijima continued, "my brother-in-law works in the control tower at Narita Airport. He told me that a Japan Airlines charter flight with no prior flight plan suddenly jumped the queue and took off today. Destination… New York."
"New York?"
"Shh—don't say I told you," Kijima urged, clearly nervous. "Anyway, it strikes me as strange. The minister never lets a cold keep him from work, yet today he even skipped the cabinet meeting. You can draw your own conclusions."
The line went dead with a series of beeps.
Shuichi slowly replaced the receiver and turned to Satsuki.
She held her teacup, watching him through the delicate veil of steam. Her eyes were clear and bright, as though she had anticipated this exact answer all along.
"Golf is canceled," Shuichi said softly. "Takeshita Noboru is 'sick.' And a mysterious charter flight has departed for New York."
At that moment, every piece of the puzzle fell perfectly into place.
Finance Minister Takeshita Noboru.
New York, USA.
The secret meeting on Sunday.
This was no ordinary illness. It was a golden cicada shedding its shell—an elaborate deception. Japan's decisive "fifth man," the one who would help determine the yen's fate, had already slipped away.
"It seems we will not need to wait until Monday," Shuichi murmured.
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window and looked down at the Marunouchi financial district. It was lunchtime; the streets teemed with office workers in white shirts, hurrying along with lunch boxes in hand, chatting about the evening baseball game or which stocks had risen that day. Ten thousand meters above them, an airplane was carrying their collective fate toward the courtroom known as the Plaza Hotel.
"Father," Satsuki said, stepping up behind him and gazing at the ant-like crowds below, "since the house has taken its seat at the table, shouldn't we place our final chips as well?"
Shuichi turned. A faint, knowing smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"Of course."
He returned to his desk and pressed the intercom connecting to the trading room.
"Connect me to Frank at Credit Suisse. Also, patch me through to Mitsui Bank's Shinjuku branch—I need access to that backup line of credit."
…
By two o'clock that afternoon, the atmosphere inside the Tokyo foreign-exchange trading hall had grown languid. It was Friday; most traders had already surrendered their fighting spirit. The market drifted calmly, with USD/JPY fluctuating narrowly around 241.50.
"This week is basically finished," a young trader yawned, loosening his tie. "I hear the U.S. data looks solid. We might see 245 next week."
"Yeah, going long on the dollar is always the safe bet," his colleague agreed. "As long as Reagan is in office, a strong dollar remains national policy."
Suddenly the central quotation screen flickered.
USD/JPY 241.40
USD/JPY 241.20
USD/JPY 241.00
No major news had broken, yet a wave of sell orders had materialized—large ones, not mere retail scraps. One heavy sell order after another slammed into the market.
"What's going on?" the young trader straightened, alert now. "Which institution is dumping?"
"Found it!" another trader called from his terminal. "It's coming from the Zurich seat… and several private accounts right here in Tokyo. This pattern… it looks exactly like that madman from before."
"Saionji?"
The name rippled through the hall.
For the past two months, the Saionji family's frantic short-selling had become a running joke in trading circles. Everyone said the declining aristocratic house had grown so desperate for cash that it had lost its mind, pouring ancestral assets down the drain like water.
"He's back!"
The numbers on the screen continued to tumble.
USD/JPY 240.80
Those sell orders struck like cost-blind bombs, crashing violently into the tranquil waters.
"He's selling everything!" the young trader exclaimed. "Is he insane? There's no negative news at all! Shorting at these levels—if the dollar gaps up on Monday's open, he'll be liquidated instantly!"
"Probably ran out of margin and is throwing in the towel."
"Or maybe he swallowed some fake news."
Mocking and skeptical voices rose and fell across the trading floor.
Meanwhile, inside the Saionji Industries office, Shuichi gripped the telephone receiver so tightly that veins bulged on his forehead. Yet his voice remained steady as granite.
"Sell. Sell it all."
"Frank, I am not crazy. I know exactly what time it is."
"Convert the approved two-hundred-million-yen line into dollar short positions. Yes—now. Immediately. Right now."
Frank on the other end still seemed to be offering cautious advice about risk control.
"Shut up!" Shuichi suddenly roared, loud enough that the secretary outside nearly dropped her coffee.
"Listen, Frank. I pay you commissions, not lectures. Your only job is to execute the orders!"
"Before the closing bell at three o'clock, I want every last yen in the Saionji family accounts turned into short-selling ammunition. If you cannot do it, I will change banks on Monday."
He slammed the receiver down, chest heaving as he gulped for air. The sensation was like oxygen deprivation after extreme exertion.
Satsuki had remained seated quietly on the sofa, an English book open on her lap. Yet her gaze had never left her father's back. She noticed that his shirt was soaked through with sweat—not the cold sweat of fear, but the hot blood of a warrior on the verge of charging into battle.
Charge… charge… my dear father… Satsuki took a calm sip of tea, concealing the small smile at the corner of her lips.
Everything—the earlier "Dam Theory," the months of subtle psychological suggestions—had been deliberately guided by her. Shuichi was now almost perfectly indoctrinated as her most loyal executor. Only in this state was he truly qualified to carry out her plan. She despised subordinates who merely pretended to obey.
Fortunately, Shuichi was an utterly doting father; his level of conviction had even exceeded her original expectations.
"Young Miss…" The old butler Fujita stood in the corner, handkerchief in hand, clearly wanting to wipe Shuichi's brow but not daring to approach.
"Don't go, Grandpa Fujita," Satsuki said softly. "Father does not need a handkerchief right now."
She glanced at the wall clock.
Two forty-five.
Two fifty.
Two fifty-five.
Time crawled forward, each second stretching like a century.
Shuichi lit another cigarette and stared fixedly at the market terminal. Under his relentless selling the USD/JPY rate had been forced down to 240.50, but countless bottom-fishing buy orders soon swarmed in like sharks scenting blood, eager to devour the reckless short-seller. The rate began climbing again.
240.60… 240.70… The market seemed to be laughing at him. Capital around the world seemed to be laughing at him.
"Two minutes left," Shuichi muttered, unaware that cigarette ash had fallen onto his trousers.
He had no ammunition left. Everything that could be sold had been sold; everything that could be mortgaged had been mortgaged. Even Satsuki's so-called "private savings"—which he believed to be mere pocket money from her piggy bank—had been thrown in (though the five million yen she actually operated herself had never passed through this account).
The Saionji family now possessed nothing except the lease on this office and the deed to the ancestral home (itself largely mortgaged). If the dollar rose on Monday's opening, the Saionji name would be erased forever from the rolls of the aristocracy.
A distant clock tower chimed three.
At the same instant, the numbers on the terminal froze.
USD/JPY 240.85
The market had closed.
Everything was over.
The clamor of the trading hall vanished as though the world itself had been muted.
The cigarette butt in Shuichi's fingers burned down to ash and scorched his skin. He jerked his hand back, startled as if waking from a trance, and stared at the frozen figure with glazed eyes.
Was this the end? Was this the final moment for which he had gambled everything?
A heavy silence filled the office.
Then a small, cool hand gently clasped his sweat-drenched one.
Shuichi looked down.
Satsuki stood beside him, gazing upward. There was no panic or disappointment in her eyes—only a serene, comforting calm.
"Father, you have worked hard," she said softly, a hint of gentle laughter threading through her voice. "Do you hear it?"
"Hear what?" Shuichi asked, bewildered.
"The sound of the dice landing."
Satsuki pointed toward the window. Outside, the sky remained gloomy, clouds hanging low.
"The dice have been thrown. No matter how they tumble through the air, the outcome was decided the moment they left the hand."
She walked to the window and pushed open the tightly closed pane. A damp wind rushed in, sweeping away the heavy smell of smoke that had filled the room.
"From now on, we need do only one thing," she continued, turning to face him with her back to the brooding sky and spreading her arms as though embracing the storm to come. "That is to wait."
"Wait for the butterfly across the ocean to flap its wings."
Shuichi drew a deep breath of the cool air and looked at his daughter. The dizzying sense of oxygen deprivation finally faded. In its place came an exhaustion deeper than any he had known—yet alongside it, something fierce and wild stirred in his blood: ambition.
He rose and stepped to her side.
Father and daughter stood together at the window, gazing down at the bustling, oblivious city beneath them. In the endless flow of traffic, countless people still hurried for meager salaries, and countless companies toiled overtime for meager export profits. None of them realized that the train called "the old era" had come to a complete stop at three o'clock that afternoon.
And the Saionji family had already secured first-class seats aboard the train bound for a new world.
"Let's go home, Satsuki."
Shuichi reached out and closed the window, shutting out the noise of the street.
"This weekend, I intend to sleep well."
He turned, and at the corner of his mouth curved a fierce, almost fanatical smile.
"Because when I wake up on Monday morning… this world will be ours."