November 2, 1990.
Osaka, Sumitomo Chemical Osaka Headquarters, Business Planning Section.
Fujiwara placed the third rejection notice on the desk and flattened it with the pad of her finger.
The paper was a standard receipt from the Financing Business Department of Sumitomo Bank's Osaka Main Branch.
A processing stamp was pressed on the bottom right corner, its ink so faint it looked as if the stamp pad were drying up.
There was only a single line in the rejection reason column:
"The margin ratio must be recalculated according to the latest real estate valuation model—please provide a supplementary collateral appraisal report."
She read it three times.
The first time was to confirm she hadn't misread it.
The second was to ponder what the sentence actually meant.
On the third read, she pulled out the draft of the application she had submitted last week—the margin ratio was filled in as thirty percent, a legacy figure her section had used for five years, ever since her first day at the company.
These were the "urgent overseas settlement documents" requested by Managing Director Murata, who had even emphasized "as soon as possible" twice.
The first rejection was on October 19th.
Reason: The copy of the trade contract was missing a page-spanning stamp.
Fujiwara had rectified it that very day.
She restamped the seams of every page across all three contracts with the square seal of Sumitomo Chemical's Business Planning Section.
To prevent any errors, she had even made a photocopy for her records.
The second rejection was on October 26th.
Reason: The beneficiary bank's SWIFT code format was incorrect.
She had consulted the National Bankers Association Overseas Remittance Manual, cross-checking the string of code digit by digit, only to find that the "incorrect format" indicated on the bank receipt referred to the branch identifier code from the fifth to the eighth digit.
She then called the bank in Singapore again to obtain the correct, complete code, revised it overnight, and delivered it first thing the next morning.
But it still wasn't enough.
And now today, for the third time.
Holding the receipt, Fujiwara walked from her desk in the Planning Section to the end of the corridor.
The corridor window faced north, looking out toward the Dojima River.
In early November, Osaka's sky was leaden gray, with clouds hanging low.
The river surface was a hazy gray, showing no visible sign of movement.
A crow perched on the lightning rod of the building opposite, its neck tucked in, motionless for the longest time.
She stood by the window for a long time.
She had added the page-spanning stamps.
She had corrected the SWIFT code.
Now they wanted a supplementary collateral appraisal report "recalculated according to the latest real estate valuation model"—but this was a letter of credit for a trade settlement.
What did it have to do with real estate?
She couldn't understand it.
She had graduated from Shosha University two years ago.
For two whole years, she had prepared basic documents for overseas orders without making a single mistake.
Yet with these three rejections, the reason was different every time.
Every time she resolved one issue, a new one cropped up.
Was it possible... that her professional competence was truly lacking?
Once the thought arose, she couldn't banish it.
She looked down at the thin receipt in her hand, its edge pinched into a faint crease by her fingers.
From the other end of the corridor, someone called her name.
"Fujiwara."
It was Managing Director Murata's executive secretary.
"The Managing Director would like to see you."
...
Yukimasa Murata's office was on the third floor.
When Fujiwara pushed the door open and entered, Murata was standing by the window.
Without turning around, he simply gestured for her to come in.
"Close the door."
The moment the door clicked shut, the ambient noise in the office dropped a level.
Murata turned around, his expression grim.
He didn't ask Fujiwara to sit, nor did he sit down himself.
He simply stared at her across the desk.
"I heard about the rejection."
Fujiwara tightened her grip on the receipt.
"Managing Director, I... I can start preparing the margin report today, and I'll contact the valuation department—"
"No need."
Murata cut her off.
"There's no need to go through the bank anymore."
Fujiwara froze.
Murata took a business card from his drawer and slid it to the center of the desk.
Fujiwara looked down—it was white with black text, featuring a tiny family crest in the bottom right corner.
"Saionji Trading."
"This company can issue letters of credit directly," Murata said.
"Their US dollar channel is open. You just need to prepare the documents and follow their process."
Fujiwara's mind buzzed.
Bypass Sumitomo Bank?
She had been at Sumitomo Chemical for two years, and the very first thing she had learned was the rules—all overseas settlements and letter of credit issuances must go through Sumitomo Bank's Osaka Main Branch.
This was something carved into the workflow charts from the day she joined the company, an ironclad rule that all Sumitomo affiliates had to follow.
Now, they were going to bypass the main branch and go to an outside trading company to issue a letter of credit...
"Managing Director, this..." Her voice lowered involuntarily.
"Isn't this... exceeding our authority?"
Murata looked at her, remaining silent for two seconds.
Then he walked back to the window, turning his back to her.
The crow outside had flown away at some point, leaving the lightning rod bare.
"Fujiwara," he said.
"These three rejections of yours—the page-spanning stamp, the SWIFT code, the valuation report—do you really think there's something wrong with your documents?"
Fujiwara said nothing.
"Someone doesn't want this money to leave," Murata said flatly.
"Each rejection delays us by three to five days. Three rejections, and half a month is gone. If this settlement is dragged out any longer, the order in Singapore will fall through."
"Five million dollars is not a large sum for Sumitomo Chemical. But for the bank, it's a probe."
"If we bow our heads this time, they will use the same method next time to block ten million, twenty million, until we are completely unable to leave their credit system."
Fujiwara's grip relaxed slightly.
She seemed to understand something, yet she also seemed more confused.
"Then, Saionji Trading... why are they willing to help us?"
Murata fell silent.
He gave Fujiwara a deep look, then turned around.
"Fujiwara, how many years have you been at Sumitomo Chemical?"
"Two years."
"Two years," Murata repeated.
"Then you should know how many years the signboard hanging over our heads—Sumitomo—has been passed down."
Fujiwara was taken aback.
"...Four hundred years."
"Seventeen generations, starting from the copper mines of Edo," Murata turned around.
"Who do you think this signboard belongs to?"
Fujiwara opened her mouth and answered reflexively, "It belongs to the Sumitomo family."
She felt it was a matter of course when she said it.
The Main Family at the top, with the bank, trading companies, and factories below, layer upon layer, in perfect order.
This was common sense carved into her bones since her first day at the company.
Weren't all Zaibatsu like this?
Murata looked at her, something unreadable in his eyes.
"It belongs to the Main Family," he said.
"But in recent years, the hand gripping this signboard has changed."
Fujiwara didn't understand.
Murata walked back to his desk but did not sit.
He looked down at the Saionji Trading business card, pressing his finger against the edge of the desk.
"Your three rejections were issued by the Osaka Main Branch's Financing Department," he said.
"Do you know who sits above the Financing Department?"
"...The Executive Committee?"
"The Hakusuikai."
As those three words were spoken, the air in the office seemed to freeze.
Of course Fujiwara had heard of the Hakusuikai.
It was the club of presidents from the core Sumitomo Group companies, meeting once a month at a ryotei.
In her understanding, it was merely an association under the Main Family—a group of powerful figures sitting together to make decisions on behalf of the Sumitomo family, much like... the staff of an ancient daimyo?
But when Murata spoke of the "Hakusuikai," his tone did not sound like he was referring to a mere association.
It sounded more like he was speaking of an adversary.
"You think the Hakusuikai makes decisions for the Main Family," Murata's voice sank.
"In recent years, the Hakusuikai has been 'ruling' the Main Family."
He emphasized the word "ruling" heavily.
Fujiwara's heart skipped a beat.
"You've heard some rumors about the Itoman incident, haven't you?"
Fujiwara nodded.
Snippets of conversation had drifted through the pantry and elevators—Itoman was in trouble, having lost astronomical sums, and the bank was still pouring money in to fill the void.
"That hole was dug by the bank. The Main Family wanted to plug it but couldn't," Murata said.
"Because the ones deciding how much money to pour in aren't the Main Family, but the Financing Department—those powerful figures in the Hakusuikai who came from the bank."
"They only know how to balance the books." His gaze drifted past Fujiwara, landing on some invisible point on the door.
"As long as the books look acceptable, next month's reports look good, and the capital adequacy ratio is kept above the red line—as for the rest, let the deluge come, it has nothing to do with them anyway."
"But the books will eventually blow up."
Fujiwara stood frozen, clutching her notebook filled with lists.
She suddenly realized that the order she had taken for granted over the past two years—the Main Family at the top, the bank at the bottom—was perhaps no longer the reality.
Perhaps it once was, but not anymore.
"Managing Director," her voice tightened slightly, "what about the Main Family? Will they just watch the bank do this..."
She didn't finish; she couldn't find the right word. Pull the rug out from under them?
Murata turned back to the window.
The leaden sky weighed heavily on the Dojima River, its surface showing no visible flow.
"A four-hundred-year-old brand cannot be ruined at the hands of a group of people who only know how to balance books."
These words didn't seem directed at her; rather, they sounded like a repetition of something someone else had said.
"Instead of letting that crowd of bookkeepers drag a four-hundred-year-old brand into the mud with them—" Murata's voice dropped even lower, almost bouncing back off the window glass, "it is better to bring in an outsider to inject some fresh blood."
Fujiwara was stunned.
An outsider.
She finally understood what that business card represented.
Saionji Trading wasn't here to help.
They had been invited in—personally invited by the true owner of that four-hundred-year-old brand.
And the five million dollars in her hands, which had been stuck for half a month, was no ordinary overseas settlement either.
It was the first injection of fresh blood.
And they, Sumitomo Chemical, were the first pawn in this three-way chess game.
Murata remained silent for a long time.
When he spoke again, his gaze had returned to that of the usually composed Managing Director.
"Once we leave this office, I never said these words, and you never heard them."
Fujiwara nodded vigorously.
"Just focus on preparing the documents," he said, enunciating every word.
"Every date, every voucher must be completely authentic. Not a single character can be wrong."
"Signing them is my job."
Fujiwara kept her head down, staring at the business card for a long time.
She had an ominous feeling that a storm was brewing.
The Managing Director was about to...
But in the end, she reached out and picked it up.
"...I understand."
...
Returning to her desk, Fujiwara dialed the number on the card.
The call was answered by a clerk at Saionji Trading's temporary Osaka office.
The person on the other end sounded very young and spoke at a measured pace, reading out the requirements item by item for her to note down.
As Fujiwara took notes, she began to sense that something was off.
She had assumed that an outside trading company's process would be more relaxed than the bank's.
But this checklist was far stricter than Sumitomo Bank's requirements.
Every trade contract had to be accompanied by three independent verification documents—the export customs declaration, the ocean bill of lading, and the insurance policy.
The cargo description, quantity, and weight across all three had to match perfectly; even a single unit of discrepancy would require a complete redo.
The timeline of the trade process also had to be precise to the hour.
The signing of the contract, the loading of the cargo, the issuance of the bill of lading, and the transfer of funds—every milestone had to specify the date and exact time, complete with original vouchers.
"...Also," the voice on the other end added, "all milestones must be filled in with the actual times they occurred. If there are any backdated or retroactively entered records, please explain them separately."
Fujiwara's hand holding the receiver paused.
"Backdated?"
"If the contract date was filled in retroactively, please specify the actual date of signing," the clerk said in a mild tone.
"We will perform cross-verification on our end. Any discrepancies will be rejected and sent back for a redo."
Fujiwara fell silent for half a second.
"...Alright, I have noted it down."
Hanging up the phone, she looked at the list that filled two whole pages, and a sudden realization dawned on her.
The bank had rejected her documents because they didn't want the money to leave.
Meanwhile, this company called Saionji Trading wanted her to lay bare the truth of every single transaction in the light of day.
She recalled Managing Director Murata's words: "Someone doesn't want this money to leave."
She suddenly felt a curiosity to know—where exactly did this five million dollars, stuck for half a month, come from, and where was it headed?
Fujiwara reviewed the checklist from beginning to end once more, picked up her pen, and wrote on the first line:
"Trade Contract CT-90118, Date of Signing: November 1990—"
She paused, pulled out the original draft to confirm everything was correct, and only then put pen to paper.
Outside the window, the surface of the Dojima River remained gray.
But as she leaned over the desk to organize the documents, her hand was steadier than it had been this morning.
...
On the same day, at 11:40 PM.
Osaka, Kitashinchi, Hakusuikai Secretariat.
Kubota was working overtime.
Spread across his desk was the draft of the "detailed plan" delivered today by Yasui and Kawachi, which he was required to compile into a formal document before tomorrow morning.
One of the fluorescent lights was flickering slowly, dimming every few seconds before lighting up again.
He paid it no mind.
He turned to the appendix page—Itoman Abnormal Advance Payment Backdating Proposal.
The tip of his fountain pen glided across the paper, stopping halfway through his transcription.
In the backdating date column, it was written:
"October 12, 1989."
Kubota stared at this line for two seconds.
October.
He remembered it very clearly.
On the night of October 29th, in the eight-tatami room on the second floor of Chikufuu Ryotei, Kawachi had said those margin contract dates needed to be backdated—at the time, Kawachi had said "November".
He remembered because he was copying those words into the meeting minutes at the time.
Kawachi's exact words were, "Backdate the date to October of '89."
—No, that's wrong.
Kubota closed his eyes, straining to recall every word from that night.
What Kawachi had said was indeed "October."
But Kawachi had also said another line regarding the warehouse receipts—"The goods have always been circulating within the bonded zone and have not actually entered the country."
As for the storage records corresponding to the warehouse receipts... where had he seen a November date?
WH-8919. November 3rd.
That date had appeared in Endo's audit deductions.
Kubota opened his eyes.
The contract was backdated to October 12th, yet the goods were stored on November 3rd.
Payment first, arrival of goods later—a discrepancy of three weeks.
This was precisely the loophole the audit team would spot at a single glance.
If it were backdated to a later date, would that bridge the gap?
His pen hovered over the paper, the ink pooling at the tip into a tiny bead.
To change it, or not to change it?
This was not a question he should be asking.
He was merely a deputy director of the Secretariat, transcribing documents and organizing minutes.
If Kawachi wrote October, he copied October; if Kawachi wrote November, he copied November.
If he altered it without authorization, it would instead be exceeding his authority.
He hesitated for two seconds.
Then he laid down the fountain pen he was transcribing with and fished out his B5 notebook from his inner pocket—his private one, which lay outside the scope of the meeting minutes.
Turning to the last blank page, he wrote a faint line in pencil:
"Detailed plan appendix, backdated date: October 12, '89. Exact words in tearoom: October. Storage record: November 3rd. —Doubtful."
After writing, he pressed his finger pad against the pencil marks, leaving them unerased.
He stared at the handwriting on the paper for a while longer.
Then he closed the notebook and slipped it back into his inner pocket.
The fluorescent light dimmed once more.
Kubota picked up his fountain pen again and, stroke by stroke, transcribed the line "October 12, 1989" onto the official document.
The handwriting was very neat, indistinguishable from any of the lines before or after it.
He switched off the desk lamp, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of the cubicle.
Outside the window at the end of the corridor lay the Osaka night of November.