and his family into the States ASAP, without waiting for formalities to be completed. He’s a real researcher at heart and considers all the legal negotiations a waste of time. We don’t want him straying and changing his mind until we get everything completely buttoned up, patentwise. He’s going to be our golden goose, but only if we keep him contentedly in the nest.”
“So, right now, he’s an illegal alien.”
“I suppose, but it will soon change. I’m not concerned. Thanks to the secretary of commerce, the American consulate in Tokyo is in the process of getting them all green cards.”
“Where do he and his family live?” Carl questioned. Given Satoshi’s importance to the success of iPS USA, Carl felt it would be wise to know where he was at all times.
“I don’t know,” Ben said. “Nor do I want to know, if someone from the authorities were to ask. I don’t think Michael even knows. At least that was my impression the last time we spoke about it. I do have Satoshi’s cell phone number.”
Carl laughed quietly, more out of amazement than humor.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive,” Carl said.
“Very clever!” Ben said sarcastically. “Are you trying to say that we shouldn’t have brought Satoshi into this when our efforts at industrial espionage turned up his name and history?”
“No, not necessarily. It’s just that I’m uncomfortable with our involvement with the Lucia family.”
“All the more reason for us to sever all contact. It might require a bit more stock options to make them go away than I’m hoping, but it will be more than worth it. I’ll leave the negotiations in your and Michael’s capable hands.”
“Thanks a lot!” Carl murmured equally sarcastically. “Hey, what was that about Pauline and trust documents? What kind of trust?”
“Satoshi is a little paranoid about Kyoto University and having bailed out of Japan. He worries about his wife and child if something were to happen to him. I realized that it was a good idea for iPS USA to have some safeguards in place as well. So I asked Pauline to talk to him, and she set him up with a couple of wills for him and his wife and a trust for the kid. Of course we stuck a statement in it that will also preserve our license agreement.”
“Who’s the trustee for the kid?”
“I am. Not my idea, but we can consider it an extra layer of safety.”
Satoshi Machita was elated. As he descended in the elaborately decorated, art deco elevator, he realized he’d never been quite so happy in all his life. He’d just moved to the United States, and he and his family were occupying a house just across the George Washington Bridge from Manhattan. Of course, there were a number of things he would eventually miss from his old life in Japan—the cherry blossoms blooming around the glorious temples of his home city of Kyoto, and the view of the rising sun from the peak of Mount Fuji—but those serene pleasures would always be trumped by the sense of freedom he felt about life here: a life that he had learned to love while at Harvard and living in Boston. What he was not going to miss about Japan was the smothering sense of duty he’d struggled with for as long as he could remember: duty to his grandparents, duty to his parents and teachers, duty to his lab bosses and to the university higher-ups—even duty to his community and ultimately his country. There had never been any relief.
He paused inside the building’s entrance to look out through the fogged glass at the scurrying pedestrians and the snarled confusion of yellow taxis and city buses attempting to head downtown in the light rain and dense mist. For a moment Satoshi considered hailing a taxi but then changed his mind. Despite recognizing that the contract he’d just signed would make him a multimillionaire in the not-too-distant future, he still felt like the poor boy he had been growing up. Though the salary iPS USA was paying him to be on the company’s scientific advisory board was generous, given how little work he was doing, it wasn’t much, considering he had eight mouths to feed and rent to pay. Fearing retribution for leaving Japan, Satoshi had come to America with both sets of grandparents, his unmarried sister, and his wife and child. With such thoughts in mind, he decided to walk the three blocks over to Columbus Circle to catch a subway uptown to the George Washington Bridge Bus Terminal. From there, as he’d learned to do over the past number of weeks, he’d take a bus across the bridge to Fort Lee, New Jersey, where temporary housing had been found for him and his family.
As Satoshi exited the revolving door, he switched his athletic bag containing the newly signed contract from his right to his left hand so he could use his right to gather the lapels of his jacket and hold them closed at the base of his neck. The mist he’d noted from inside was both colder and wetter than he had imagined. After walking only a few steps he reconsidered taking a taxi, but all the taxis appeared to be occupied.
Satoshi stood at the curb until the light turned red for the vehicles on Fifth Avenue at the corner of 57th Street. As he searched vainly for an empty cab, his eyes strayed to a Japanese man standing on the opposite side of the street. What caught his eye and made him start were two things. First, the man was holding what appeared to be a photograph in his left hand, which he was intermittently looking at and then looking in Satoshi’s direction. It was as if he was comparing the photo with Satoshi. And second, and perhaps more disconcerting, Satoshi was reasonably sure from the man’s appearance that he was a Yakuza enforcer from Japan! He was wearing the typical black sharkskin suit, had spiked hair, and was wearing dark glasses despite the total lack of sun. Even more distinguishing was the fact that the man was missing the last joint of his little finger of the hand holding up the photograph. Like most Japanese, Satoshi was aware that members of the Yakuza, if they needed to show penance to their mob boss, or
In the next second, making matters worse, Satoshi realized there were two such men, not one, and that the first was now pointing in Satoshi’s direction while the second was nodding his head in apparent agreement.
Now fearing that the men were about to cross the street and approach him, Satoshi gave up trying to hail a cab, spun on his heels, and immediately began to quickly walk north toward Central Park, weaving in and out of the sidewalk crowds. Even though the Yamaguchi-gumi Yakuza had recently helped him and his family flee Japan and had found housing for them at the behest of Ben Corey and iPS USA, he’d never seen these particular individuals and assumed that they probably were from another Yakuza family. He had no idea why another Yakuza organization might want to talk to him, but he had no interest in finding out. As far as he was concerned, it could only end badly.
As he reached 58th Street, the traffic light encouraged him to cross Fifth Avenue instead of waiting to cross at 59th. As he did, he allowed himself to glance to his left to see if he could see the men in question in the crowd. Although he did not stop to search, he didn’t see them and began to hope the incident was just a figment of his overactive imagination. With a lighter step, he ducked under the skeletonized branches of the squat tree in the small park in front of the Plaza hotel and hurriedly passed beneath the gaze of the naked bronze sculpture of Pomona forever washing herself in her fountain.
As Satoshi was about to turn around the northeast corner of the Plaza hotel and head west on 59th Street, he ventured a glance over his shoulder. What he saw caused him to suck in a deep breath. The same two men he’d seen earlier were skirting the fountain and heading in his direction while carrying on a conversation with two men creeping along in a black SUV going in the wrong direction in the roadway in front of the hotel. The two Japanese men caught sight of Satoshi having spotted them and responded by upping their speed to a jog and breaking off all conversation.
Jogging himself, Satoshi was now convinced he was being followed and that the Yakuza types must have been waiting outside iPS USA for him to appear. He had no idea who they were and what they wanted. Ben had dealt with the Yamaguchi as far as his emigration and immigration were concerned. Yet his being followed had to have something to do with his relationship with iPS USA and his abrupt switch from Japan to the United States.
Still clutching his athletic bag in one hand and his lapels in the other, Satoshi sprinted ahead through the press of people, unsure of what to do. Columbus Circle’s always crowded, complicated subway station with its convergence of multiple train lines was like a distant oasis that promised safety, but how to get there before being overtaken by the men following him? He was anxiously certain that Yakuza look-alikes would be appearing behind him at any moment.
