Monday, November 5, 1990, Osaka.
Central District.
Fujiwara stopped at the third intersection.
She clutched the business card in her hand, the address printed in the lower left corner, the font size one level smaller than the body text: [401, No. 3-7, Honmachi 4, Central District, Osaka City, Japan (Second Mihara Building)].
She looked up—in front of her was a seven-story concrete building, its exterior painted with the kind of beige-gray paint commonly seen in the 1970s, and it looked at least twenty years old.
On the first floor was a typing shop with a sign hanging halfway up; the roller shutter door was only two-thirds open.
The second-floor windows were covered with yellowed newspapers, obscuring the view inside.
On the third floor, a window was half-open, a corner of the white gauze curtain billowing in the wind.
There were no signs indicating that the building was related to the word "Saionji".
That was Saionji.
They were probably the richest family in the entire Kanto region, right?
Why would they rent such a dilapidated little building?
She flipped the business card over again to confirm.
It was indeed 4-3-7 Honmachi; the address matched.
Okay, let us go in first.
Fujiwara took the somewhat old elevator to the fourth floor.
The corridor was narrow, with only two fluorescent lights on, and another flickering overhead.
Three cardboard boxes were piled against the wall on the left, bearing the name of a tax firm.
On the right, the first door had a "Vacant" sign; the second door was labeled "401".
There was only a room number, not a company name.
Fujiwara stood in front of the door, her hand gripping the bag of receipts tighter.
She recalled the Osaka skyline reflected in the floor-to-ceiling windows along the corridor when she came out of the Sumitomo Chemical building, and the Sumitomo-branded "well girder" bronze nameplate in the elevator—that was what she thought "doing business" should look like.
There was nothing here.
She hesitated for three seconds, then raised her hand and knocked twice.
"Please come in," a man's voice came from inside.
The door was an old-fashioned wooden door, and the handle was a bit stiff.
The moment Fujiwara pushed the door open, the flickering of the fluorescent lights in the corridor was shut out—the light source inside the door was completely different.
"Excuse me..."
The room was larger than she had expected.
The partition wall had been removed, creating a rectangular space that looked to be about 30 square meters.
Two rows of cool white fluorescent tubes hung from the ceiling, but the main light source in the room came from elsewhere.
On the long table to the left, the screens of two workstations glowed with a deep green light.
Characters scrolled rapidly across a black background, line after line.
A reflective label was affixed to the chassis; she could not make out the model numbers, only recognizing the letters "SPARC".
On the right wall hung a hand-drawn world time zone chart, and the names of more than a dozen cities were marked on a whiteboard with different colored markers.
Next to each city was a small note with the local time written on it.
At the far end of the desk, two fax machines sat side by side.
One was covered with a dust cover, while the other was in operation—paper tape was slowly being ejected from the outlet, hanging down to about half a meter in length.
Fujiwara's gaze swept around the room.
There were no superfluous decorations here.
The only green plant was a small snake plant on the windowsill, its terracotta pot covered in dust.
But every desktop was spotless, files were sorted by color, and the ballpoint pens in the pen holder all faced the same direction.
Five workstations.
Three people were sitting there.
The man closest to the window stood up from his seat.
He was in his early thirties, with high cheekbones, a narrow chin, and very short hair, his sideburns almost shaved to the skin.
He was wearing a dark gray suit with slightly loose shoulders—Fujiwara noticed that the suit was not new, but it was ironed very well, and the top button of the collar was fastened.
"Ms. Fujiwara from Sumitomo Chemical?"
"Yes."
"Nagata."
He did not offer his business card, but simply nodded slightly.
"Credit Securities Practice, please have a seat."
He pointed to the folding chair opposite him.
The folding chair was made of gray iron pipes, and the seat cushion was very thin.
Fujiwara sat down and placed the document bag on the table.
"Managing Director Murata should have already told you." Nagata opened a drawer and took out a blank form. "For a trial transaction under five million US dollars, the beneficiary's bank is in Singapore?"
"Yes, the advising bank is DBS Singapore."
"Okay."
He did not say another word and reached out to take the document bag that Fujiwara handed him.
Fujiwara watched him turn to the first page.
The trade contract.
His gaze began at the date in the upper left corner and swept down the clauses.
His finger did not touch the paper, but the trajectory of his eyes was clear—first the date, then the description of the goods, then the amount, and finally the signature.
Two minutes later, he flipped to the second one.
The export customs declaration form, in the same order: date, product name, quantity, weight.
His gaze lingered on the "weight" column for half a second, then he picked up the calculator and pressed a few buttons.
"Twenty-four tons," he said.
"Yes."
"Does the bill of lading also say 24?"
Fujiwara pulled out a copy of the bill of lading and handed it over.
Nagata took it, his gaze sweeping over the tonnage column.
"Twenty-four." He put down the bill of lading. "No problem. Continue."
This verification process lasted for nearly forty minutes.
In the forty minutes that followed, Nagata did not ask a single question related to Sumitomo Chemical's internal affairs.
There was no "Which department led this business?", no "What stage were things at with the communication with the bank?", and not even small talk like "How is Managing Director Murata?"
He only asked about the goods, the invoices, and whether the numbers matched.
The muscle in Fujiwara's shoulder that had been tense for several days relaxed around the twentieth minute.
She did not even realize it herself.
Forty minutes later, Nagata rearranged all the documents in their original order, placing a piece of graph paper on top.
The graph paper contained his handwritten annotations in a blue ballpoint pen; the handwriting was small, but each stroke was clear.
"There are three things that need to be changed." He turned the graph paper toward Fujiwara.
The first document was the beneficiary's bank information confirmation letter.
"DBS Singapore, you filled in DBSSSGSG. This eight-digit code is correct. However, the confirmation letter is missing an English footnote: 'Subject to ICC Uniform Customs and Practice for Documentary Credits, 1983 Revision, Publication No.400'."
Fujiwara blinked. "UCP400 references... the bank has never requested that."
"We do not require it because the bank assumes that both parties agree to it," Nagata said without wavering. "But if the other party is a Southeast Asian bank, there are often disputes in practice—not specifying it leaves a loophole. If we put it in, it is a matter of thirty seconds, saving us three months of arbitration in the future."
Fujiwara lowered her head and wrote it down.
The second point: amount.
"Five million dollars is just right at the limit for the trial order. But I suggest splitting it into two orders—two million eight hundred thousand and two million two hundred thousand."
"Why?"
"The first transaction will be a trial order authorization, without going through the committee," Nagata said. "We will test the DBS notification, the shipper's change of bill of lading, and the internal confirmation process at Sumitomo Chemical. Once the first transaction goes smoothly, the second transaction will simply be a repetition."
He paused for a moment.
"In addition, when Hakusuikai discovers it, the first transaction will already be a fait accompli, but the amount will not be large enough to make them immediately resort to extreme measures."
Fujiwara wrote down the numbers.
Her mind was racing with something else at the same time, but she did not say it aloud.
The third place.
Nagata turned to the page with the bill of lading and pointed to a line in the middle.
"Place of issuance," he said.
Fujiwara peered over—the bill of lading's place of issue column read "Port Klang, Malaysia".
"DBS Singapore is the beneficiary's bank and also the advising bank." Nagata's finger moved to the port of shipment in the upper left corner of the bill of lading. "But the place of issuance of the bill of lading is Port Klang. The port of shipment and the place of issuance of the bill of lading are not in the same jurisdiction."
He paused for a moment.
"If there are any problems with this shipment—delays, shortages, quality discrepancies—which country's law applies if you go to arbitration?"
Fujiwara was stunned.
"Jurisdiction for a bill of lading follows the place of issuance. If the place of issuance is Malaysia, then arbitration must take place in Malaysia. But your contract is governed by Singaporean law." Nagata's finger moved from the bill of lading back to the contract, pointing to the arbitration clause on the second-to-last page. "These two things will conflict."
"If the other party defaults and delays paying compensation, you will have to take the judgment from the Singapore court to Malaysia to enforce it—which will take at least another six months."
Fujiwara's throat moved slightly.
She thought of something.
Sumitomo Bank returned her package three times.
The first issue was the seal across the seam—a simple problem that could be fixed that same day.
The second was the fifth to eighth digits of the SWIFT code—she confirmed this over the phone and corrected it overnight.
The third was the "real estate valuation report"—a trade letter of credit required her to submit a real estate valuation report.
The document was returned three times, and not once did the jurisdictional issue come to mind.
They were not blind to it; they simply were not looking at the deal itself.
Their eyes were focused on "how to prevent the money from leaving the country," while Nagata's eyes were focused on "how to ensure the money arrives safely."
The same document, being flipped through in the same way, but in completely different directions.
"Then what do I need to change?" she asked.
"Have the shipper reissue the bill of lading," Nagata said. "Request them to reissue the bill of lading through their agent in Singapore. With the place of issuance changed to Singapore, the jurisdiction and arbitration clauses will be consistent."
He picked up a pen and wrote a line on the graph paper: "Contact the shipper and request a re-issue of the B/L in Singapore."
"How long will it take?"
"If they cooperate, it will take three days." Nagata put the pen back in the pen holder. "If they do not cooperate, we can issue a follow-up letter—in the capacity of the applicant for the letter of credit and the arranging party for the letter of credit. If necessary, the actual issuing bank can attach a bank letter."
That was all.
Each of the three problems had a solution, and each solution was executable.
Is this what efficiency was?
Fujiwara finished writing her notes in the blank space on the graph paper and looked up.
"Mr. Nagata."
"Yes."
"If we break it down into two parts... after the first part is completed..."
She did not finish her sentence.
Nagata glanced at her.
He simply said, "The first SWIFT message will remain in the system."
Just this one sentence.
Fujiwara did not ask any more questions.
SWIFT messages leave traceable records between banks.
Once DBS Singapore completed the notification, Sumitomo Chemical, the beneficiary bank, the actual issuing bank, and the necessary clearing nodes would all know that this letter of credit from Sumitomo Chemical would no longer go through Sumitomo Bank.
The news would reach Osaka sooner or later.
Hakusuikai wanted to pretend they did not see it, but that was impossible.
She recalled what Managing Director Murata had said: "The angrier they get, the clearer the manufacturing company presidents become—they have no way out."
This five million dollars was a flag.
The flag planted in front of Hakusuikai.
And she, Fujiwara, a sales planning employee who had been with the company for two years, was the one pushed out to plant the flag.
Her fingertips felt a chill.
Why her?
To be honest, it would be a lie to say she was not afraid, but she had no choice—in today's society, no other company would want an employee who had only graduated a few years ago and was already job-hopping.
Nagata did not sit back down immediately.
The fax machine covered by a dust cover rang.
He went over, lifted the cover, and waited for the paper tape to finish spitting out.
Fujiwara's gaze followed his movement, and she caught a few letters at the top of the paper strip out of the corner of her eye.
"Frankfurt."
Frankfurt.
Nagata folded the paper strip twice, opened a locked metal drawer on the side of the table, put the paper in, and locked it.
He tucked the key back into his belt.
Then he walked back and sat down, as if nothing had happened.
Fujiwara slowly packed the receipts back into the bag one by one.
"Mr. Nagata," she finally spoke.
Nagata did not look up; he was writing the fax number at the bottom of the graph paper.
"You... have you been working at Saionji Trading for a long time?"
She assumed it was just a polite greeting.
Someone with such expertise must be a veteran who had been working in the trade finance department for twenty years.
Nagata paused for a moment.
Then he shook his head.
"Four months."
Fujiwara thought she had misheard.
"I joined in July." Nagata put his pen back in the pen holder and, unusually, added, "Back then, it was not Saionji Trading; it was the Trade Finance Preparatory Class under Managing Director Endo. We were transferred here after the Ministry of Commerce was officially established in October."
"Before that, I worked at Maruhishi Bussan."
Fujiwara had heard of this name before.
Maruhishi Bussan—a mid-sized trading company specializing in Southeast Asian oils and rubber—was still mentioned in last year's Nikkei.
One day in March of this year, a half-line appeared in the corner of the newspaper: applying for the Company Rehabilitation Law.
"I worked there for twelve years," Nagata said. "For the last four years, I was the vice minister of trade and finance."
Fujiwara remained silent.
"When total volume regulation came down, banks targeted trading companies of our size first," Nagata said calmly. "Once credit lines were cut off, all the letters of credit in transit became deadlocked. In three months, the company was gone."
He paused for a moment.
"Forty-seven years old, and my resume says I was the deputy director of a bankrupt trading company." Nagata looked at her. "Guess what kind of job someone can get with that kind of resume?"
Fujiwara recalled what Managing Director Murata had said—in this day and age, no company would want someone who had switched jobs.
She suddenly realized that her situation was actually much better than the situation of the man in front of her.
"It was Saionji Trading that approached us," Nagata said. "A senior executive named Endo sent someone with only one condition—to provide everything I know, exactly as it is."
"What about your salary?" Fujiwara asked, then realized it was rude. "...Sorry."
Nagata, however, did not pay any attention.
"My last year with Maruhishi was pretty much the same," he said. "Not a penny less."
Fujiwara was stunned.
Saionji Trading hired the deputy general manager of a bankrupt trading company, a middle-aged man who was unwanted by the market, at the same salary he had at his peak.
"I am not the only one." Nagata's gaze swept across the room. "The one by the window was the foreign exchange section chief of a mid-sized trading company in Kansai last year. The one inside with glasses lost his job when Ataka Corporation collapsed and stayed at home for more than ten years before being brought back last year."
Fujiwara followed his gaze.
Two faces were buried in their work, their hands moving so fast they were almost invisible as they flipped through receipts.
She used to think it was talent, but now she understood—it was a skill accumulated over decades.
They had been sitting in the ruins of certain companies for too long, and then the Saionji family dug them out, gave them jobs, gave them dignity, and enabled them to support their families with dignity.
During the lowest point of their lives, they met the only people who were willing to accept them.
"That empty table..." Fujiwara's gaze fell on a mug with the old company logo on it.
"The boss has not officially started yet; he will be here next Monday," Nagata said. "He also comes from a trading company, working on Middle East settlements—he is the only one here who understands Islamic finance. That cup was left behind by him during his last interview."
Fujiwara recalled the dark blue loose-leaf book on Nagata's desk, flipped to page 170-something, and read the chapter title "Murabaha Structured Letter of Credit under the Islamic Financial System."
"That booklet..."
"Everyone wrote it together," Nagata said. "Everyone wrote down what they were best at. Whoever added something new would put on a correction label." He glanced at the thick book, with a silver family crest pressed in the lower right corner of the cover. "You cannot buy it on the market. Because what is inside is the result of decades of trial and error by more than a dozen bankrupt trading companies and hundreds of people."
Fujiwara's hand paused for a moment on the zipper of the document bag.
She recalled Sumitomo Chemical's "Guide to Foreign Substitute Businesses," published in 1985, 240 pages, which had not been updated in five years.
The dark blue booklet in front of her had a line of gray text at the bottom that read October 15th—half a month ago.
It was still growing.
Just like that group.
Nagata picked up his pen again.
"Regarding the issue of the place of issue, please contact the shipper when you get back. After you have made the changes, fax over the new copy of the bill of lading." He pointed to the number at the bottom of the graph paper. "This number is available 24/7."
Fujiwara stood up and slung the document bag over her shoulder.
"I will send you the new bill of lading within three days."
Nagata nodded. "After receiving it, we will conduct an internal review. If all goes well, the first letter of credit issuance should be sent out within five business days."
Fujiwara walked toward the door.
As she placed her hand on the doorknob, she turned back for one last look.
Nagata was already engrossed in his work on the graph paper.
On the wall behind him, the Frankfurt clock showed three in the morning.
The screen of the UNIX workstation was still scrolling green characters, its light reflecting on the empty desk next to it—on the empty desk was a mug, the wall of which bore the logo of a trading company that no longer existed.
Next Monday, someone would sit there.
Fujiwara opened the door and walked into the fourth-floor corridor.
The elevator gearbox emitted that metallic meshing noise again after she pressed 1.
She stood in the elevator, watching the floor number jump from 4 to 3, and from 3 to 2.
In this tiny room, less than 30 square meters and without even a sign, sat the people—people from Ataka, from Maruhishi, from that string of names that had since vanished—whose craftsmanship had not died with the companies.
Someone had bought them back at the original price when they were at their lowest value.
She suddenly understood what Saionji had gained from this collapse.
They took the most valuable part.
The People.