13
New York City, June 19
THE NEW YORK OFFICES
of the Shokara Shipping Company occupied several floors of a modern
glass-and-steel structure in midtown Manhattan. An international
operator of a hundred seventeen merchant vessels, Shokara kept
track of its ships from a control room on the forty-sixth floor,
wined and dined potential clients on the forty-seventh, and handled
its accounting on the forty-eighth. The forty-ninth floor was
reserved for VIPs and corporate executives, and was usually empty
except for the cleaning crews, who kept the feng shui–designed
space immaculate.
This week, however,
was vastly different. Shokara’s president and CEO, Haruto Takagawa,
was in residence. As a result, both the level of activity and the
level of security had increased many times over.
Takagawa had
originally planned to spend a month in New York, enjoying Broadway,
the nightlife, and the marvelous museums of the city. At the same
time, he would meet with various stockbrokers and members of the
Securities and Exchange Commission. By the end of the month he
hoped to be announcing Shokara’s listing on the New York Stock
Exchange, a private offering to raise more capital and a new
subsidiary, Shokara New York, which would begin to handle shipping
from the U.S. to Europe and back.
And while those tasks
still loomed on his schedule, Takagawa had spent most of the past
week dealing with the aftermath of a pirate attack and the sinking
of one of his ships, the Kinjara
Maru.
The situation was
doubly tricky for Takagawa, first because it came at a terrible
time, right before the planned corporate moves, and second because
the ship itself had been listed as operating out of Singapore for
Australia, not out of Africa headed for Hong Kong. That fact had
the insurance company claiming the policy was void, as ships off
the African coast were hijacked far more often than ships traveling
from Asia to Perth or Sydney.
And while those two
thorns irritated his side, they would be inconsequential in the
long run. A deal would be struck with the insurance company, once
they’d weaseled a percent or two off the price, and in a few days
no one in New York would care about his sunken ship any more
intensely than they cared about a truck that had a flat tire. These
things happened.
What did matter was
the demands from the buyer in China that they be reimbursed for the
cargo that was lost. This was tricky for many reasons, but mostly
because of the nature of the cargo itself.
As a Japanese
conglomerate, Shokara operated under Japanese law, but in trying to
open a U.S.-based subsidiary, Takagawa was expected to comply with
American rules. Those rules prohibited the transfer of certain
technologies to other countries, and some of the materials on board
the Kinjara Maru might well fit that
category.
At this particular
moment in time, he couldn’t afford for that information to come
out. If it did, or if the right people caught wind of the truth and
got angry, Takagawa’s time in New York might add up to nothing more
than an expensive vacation.
Just when things
seemed to be settling down, his intercom buzzed.
“Mr. Takagawa,” his
secretary announced. “There are two men in the ground-floor lobby
who would like to meet with you.”
Takagawa didn’t
bother asking if they had an appointment, they would have been
allowed up if that were the case.
“Who are
they?”
“Their credentials
indicate they are on staff with an American organization known as
the National Underwater Maritime Agency,” she said. “They want to
talk to you about the Kinjara
Maru.”
NUMA. Takagawa knew
the Agency well, and not just because chance had allowed some of
its agents to spot the piracy on one of his ships and attempt to
intervene. He knew all about NUMA from an incident that had
occurred more than a decade ago.
Unlike others in the
Japanese shipping world, he had a great fondness for the men and
women of NUMA. It made his answer that much harder.
“Tell them I cannot
speak on this subject,” he said.
Silence returned for
a moment, and Takagawa reached over to one side. He flipped on a
monitor and pressed a button that allowed him to see the front desk
in the lobby.
Two young men in
suits stood there, appearing bright-eyed and eager. They looked
more like Ivy League lawyers or accountants than the intrepid men
he’d once dealt with. Then again, there could be only one reason
they wanted to talk to him about the Kinjara
Maru. So why not send lawyers?
The secretary’s voice
returned. “They say they’re willing to wait all day if they have
to, but they must speak with you.”
“They can wait until
the end of time,” he said, “but I will not talk to them. Have
security escort them out of the building.”
He switched off the
video monitor and went back to his work. NUMA could be a problem
for him. Takagawa had found they could be a problem for anyone if
they wanted to be.