The Twelve Apostles, page 4
Kuragamo’s official title was merely director of Tokyo’s Sunray Bank. But the bank belonged to him, as did so many other businesses. Hardly a public figure, even among the Japanese, Taro Kuragamo kept a low profile and sought no personal publicity. Only a limited number of people knew he was one of the world’s richest men. And a few, mostly to their sorrow, had discovered that Taro Kuragamo was ruthlessly accustomed to getting what he wanted.
Now this tall Japanese wanted Christina Giles.
He was impressed by the cleverness of the financing package she had developed. Kuragamo knew only that he would be meeting with a lawyer from New York’s famous firm of the Twelve Apostles, but he hadn’t expected a woman, and especially such a beautiful one at that.
She had noticed him too. The other men in the conference room were either typical New York bankers, uniform in their expensive clothes, haircuts and demeanor, or aging Japanese businessmen, short, polite, and equally conservative. But his physical presence seemed to radiate power. Clearly this Eurasian was a handsome man who would be memorable anywhere in the world.
But it was his eyes that compelled her to look at him. They seemed to hold some secret knowledge, a knowledge that she felt penetrated right through to her deepest soul. Although she’d lived with the financing plan and knew it better than she knew herself, she lost her concentration several times during the presentation when, as she sought eye contact with the others, she would end up looking into his magnetic eyes. There was something almost reptilian about those eyes, not unpleasant or frightening, but more hypnotic and mesmerizing.
After her presentation, as she had expected, many questions were raised. The tall Japanese asked nothing, although several times she found the others looking at him for some indication of what he was thinking. Both the Japanese and American bankers treated him with respectful deference.
At one point he whispered something to one of the bank presidents, who then scurried from the room. When he returned he smiled at Kuragamo, who merely nodded politely in answer.
She had lost track of time as she fielded their questions. Finally the tall man stood up.
“Gentlemen, I notice that it grows late and we have not yet had lunch.”
“Mr. Kuragamo,” she said, finding herself almost uncomfortable under his steady gaze. “I’ve arranged for lunch to be sent in for everyone.”
He bowed, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Most efficient, Mrs. Giles. And perhaps these gentlemen won’t mind going over some of their mutual problems, but I would prefer to lunch at Pocko’s. It is a favorite of mine here in your lovely city. Regrettably, I get there so seldom. However, if you could come with me, not only would I be honored, but I have several questions of my own. Not only would you assist me in indulging in a small measure of pleasure, but we could also discuss a measure of business. I trust you gentlemen will allow me to steal Mrs. Giles away for a short time. I promise to return her.” Again, a ghost of a smile seemed to dance about his mouth. She was surprised by the suggestion of an English accent.
“Well, Pocko’s usually requires reservations,” she said, “and at this time of day…”
He nodded, almost bowing. “I have arranged for reservations. They are expecting us.”
She glanced quickly at the others. There were no disapproving looks, only the expectation that she would obviously accept his invitation. For a moment she was tempted to remove that half-smile by refusing. But this was business, and this interesting man did seem to have some kind of hold over the others. Winning him over could be important.
“I’d be delighted,” she smiled.
“Thank you.”
As he escorted her to the elevator, she was surprised that she was nervous in his presence. He waited patiently, his dark eyes betraying no hint of what he was thinking.
Outside, a waiting limousine pulled up and his hand was strong but gentle as he helped her in. Then he climbed in beside her.
The driver was Japanese and Kuragamo spoke to him in that language. As the limo glided into the stream of heavy traffic, the driver adopted the challenging tactics of all New York drivers—matching wits and nerve against pedestrians and other drivers, avoiding accidents by only inches. They turned into 57th Street and pulled up in front of Pocko’s.
Pocko’s, one of the most expensive French restaurants in the city, attracted the rich and famous. Christina had gone there once with Katherine Thurston, the only female Apostle in the firm. The prices, she recalled, had been astronomical, although she had to admit it had been one of the best dinners in memory. It was understood that a reservation at Pocko’s had to be booked several weeks in advance.
Kuragamo had made polite small talk about the weather and New York’s traffic during the short drive. His voice was a deep, almost purring baritone, the kind of voice that audio producers search for when they make commercials for the women’s market.
He helped her out of the limousine, and his glance at her legs as her skirt rode up for a moment had been open, appreciative, and not at all self-conscious.
“They say you have to wait weeks before getting a reservation here,” she said as the doorman opened the large red lacquered doors.
“That is true, fortunately.”
“Fortunately?”
For the first time he smiled openly and the effect was startling. His whole face seemed to change, becoming the face of a playful and perhaps mischievous boy. “I own the place,” he said, laughing. “Or at least I own the company that owns it. So the more crowded it is, the more profit for me.
Even if he hadn’t told her that he was the owner, she would have guessed by the attitude of the maitre d’, who, instead of assuming the usual half-sneering arrogance associated with his profession, was suddenly reduced to bowing subservience.
“A table in the back, Henri,” Kuragamo said, still soft-spoken, but now his voice carried the icy hint of command.
They were seated in a secluded alcove at a small table under which their knees touched. She shifted to break off the contact; he gave no sign he had even noticed.
She ordered a white wine; Kuragamo, Scotch. Waiters seemed to hover about just out of earshot but close enough to rush in instantly at any signal for service.
“Mrs. Giles,” Kuragamo said, raising his glass in salute.
She heard the bell-like ring as their glasses touched.
“That was a most impressive presentation this morning. I have heard of your law firm, of course, but this is the first time I have had an opportunity to observe the quality of your work. Quite impressive. Are you one of the famous twelve?” She shook her head, wondering at both her discomfort and fascination in being with him. “No, I’m a participating partner. Someday I hope to be one of the main partners.”
“They’re called the Apostles, correct?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
He sipped his drink. “I take it you are married.” He nodded toward her left hand and her rings.
“My husband’s a doctor. We have a fourteen-year-old son.” Her tone was matter-of-fact.
He idly played with his glass, his eyes still on hers. “I am also married. I have two sons. However, I do not live with my wife. We maintain separate homes in Japan.”
“I’m sorry.”
The half-smile returned to his lips. “Don’t be. In Japan the ties between families are still often cemented in marriage. In a situation like my own, divorce is out of the question. My wife is of the Missihassi family, an ancient house, and financially extremely powerful. Our sons will inherit the power and prestige of both houses. Thus, unlike you Americans, we must remain married, even but for pretense. It is a matter governed by our culture.
She laughed. “Tell me, Mr. Kuragamo, this isn’t just an Oriental version of that old wheeze about how your wife doesn’t understand you?”
At first he showed no change of expression, then the boyish grin reappeared and a rumble of delighted laughter came bubbling up from deep inside of him. “Well, now that you mention it, Mrs. Giles, I really can’t say that it sounds all that different.”
She knew her financial agreement to save the steel company was of the greatest importance, and now she was suddenly confronted with an element that could undo everything she had worked on for months. Yet, she wasn’t about to go to bed just to sell the merger agreement. It would never come to that. Still, she found it important, in an entirely personal way, not to offend this strange but attractive man.
“You aren’t building up to making what we call a pass? A pass is a—”
He laughed again. “I know what a pass is. Believe me, Mrs. Giles, if I thought it had any chance of success I would certainly try it. No, I merely want us to know each other better. I find you most attractive, not only as a woman, but as a business associate.” His dark eyes seemed almost to sparkle; it was a definite change. “I seldom make passes at business associates.” He sipped his Scotch. “Besides, I presume you are happily married.”
She hesitated, and regretted it instantly as she saw the quick understanding in his eyes. “As I mentioned, my husband is a doctor, very successful, very busy—we have our son. I have my career. Yes, I think our family situation is most satisfactory.”
He nodded, his face once again a mask. “Before we discuss anything more, let me assure you that I am going to approve your agreement.”
“That’s wonderful.” Her broad smile was genuine. “Now if I can persuade the others…”
He sighed. “The others all work for me, in one connection or another. So everything is arranged. I was most taken with your plan this morning and I had determined to approve it. You know, you are a most remarkable person, with an almost devious mind.” He smiled. “Your mind, I might say, and this is meant as a compliment, is really more Oriental than Western. Perhaps in some other life you were Japanese.”
“Do you believe in reincarnation?”
He shook his head. “No. I was raised in a number of religions as I progressed in age and was passed along to various surrogate parents. First, the Shinto priests filled my mind with their theories, then your Anglican ministers at Oxford led me into the mysteries of their Christian beliefs. I think there may be a God, perhaps, but I don’t know. I believe in nothing except the present, and,” he added with a flash of his boyish smile, “myself.”
“Oxford?”
“You wonder how I speak your language, yes?” It was a perfect imitation of a screen Japanese villain, then the throaty laughter again erupted, but softly. “Yes, Oxford. I took a First at Oriel College, Oxford, and I rowed for the college. My father was English.”
“But, Kuragamo…”
“My mother’s family name. I thought it better for business, so I adopted it. That is not at all unusual in Japan.”
“I didn’t mean to imply there was anything wrong, Mr. Kuragamo.”
He smiled. “I know that. Believe me, I have been asked that question hundreds of times in my career. Do you know what they called me at Oxford?”
She shook her head.
“Apparently Taro, at least the way I pronounced it, sounded to my schoolmates like Tiger, so they started calling me that. Tiger Kuragamo. It really doesn’t fit, but I somehow came to like it. All my close friends call me Tiger.”
“You seem far too gentle to be called Tiger.”
His eyes again seemed to become pools of mystery. “Sometimes the name is more apt than you might believe.”
There was a sense of power about him, and she became aware of his thick and muscled shoulders.
“I’d like to see you tonight,” he said.
She started to protest, but he raised a hand and his smile was disarming. “Mrs. Giles, I don’t propose anything other than dinner, perhaps a show, or maybe just a talk. I promise no passes.” He paused, but this time there was no smile. “I can buy sex. I need someone to talk to, someone who is intelligent. In other words, Mrs. Giles, you have no worry with me, but you would be doing a kindness for a very lonely man.”
She was surprised to find herself speaking the words: they just seemed to tumble out. “I’d be happy to have dinner with you.” Suddenly she felt extremely flustered and she realized that she must be blushing.
He nodded slowly, his eyes dark and expressionless. “I am most honored. Shall I pick you up?”
She felt her heart beating wildly. She couldn’t believe what was happening. “It would be better if I met you somewhere.”
“The Algonquin at seven? We can have a drink and then decide where to go.”
She merely nodded.
“Oh, something most important,” he said.
She looked up quickly.
He smiled. “May I call you Christina?”
She nodded. “Of course, in fact, many of my friends call me Chris.”
“Christina is a lovely name—I prefer that. Shall we order?”
She had forgotten all about food. Her mind seemed to be totally without thought; she felt as though she had just pushed off from the top of a slide, a very long, mysterious slide, and she couldn’t see the bottom.
Dan Spencer knew he shouldn’t be trying the case. If he lost, it would be a black mark against him. The firm never forgot the losers. If he wanted to become one of the Twelve Apostles, a record of court losses could kill whatever chance he had, which was slim in any event.
“Mr. Dixon, what kind of materials were used in the construction of the garage?” The voice of the opposing counsel cut into his thoughts.
“In terms of quality?”
Dan was about to object, but decided against it. He could predict what the man would eventually say anyway. He wanted him to say it.
“Yes, in terms of quality.”
“The very best.”
The testimony was completely predictable. Dan only half listened.
Dan Spencer, Massachusetts born and bred, was one of the Spencer family. Back Bay Bostonians. Not much money, but the bluest blood on the Eastern Seaboard. He could have snuggled comfortably into his uncle’s Boston law firm and found safe harbor among the bank and brokerage house clients, but he wanted the challenge and excitement of trial work. So he had clerked in the court of appeals, then served as an assistant district attorney doing criminal and antitrust work. He had first been brought into Nelson and Clark as an associate. They needed trial men, and they definitely preferred blue-blooded people. He had used his trial skills to good effect, and now he was a participating partner, the second man in the litigation department of the firm. But he knew full well that litigation was the lowest ring in the firm’s pecking order. Oh, they needed it done, but it was dirty work, something that real gentlemen avoided. The real money and importance was in the elite corporate and finance-desk jobs. Still, he was drawn to trial practice, and he had sharpened his skills, building a good record for winning cases. The main partner and head of litigation was Frank Johnson. Frank was only fifty, so it was unlikely that there would be an opening for years to become a fullfledged Apostle. No two men from litigation had ever served as Apostles at the same time.
Still, to have any chance it meant he had to keep winning. He could delegate the tough cases, but that would soon become apparent. Even if Frank Johnson were to switch to another firm—most unlikely since there was no precedent for that—or, even more unlikely, die, Dan would have no chance at Johnson’s slot unless he continued to run up an impressive string of victories. It meant risk, considerable risk.
“Mr. Spencer,” the judge said, “the witness is yours. Do you have any cross-examination?”
In New York the trial court is called the Supreme Court; it is the state’s basic trial court. The final and highest court of last resort, called the Supreme Court in almost every other state, is called the court of appeals in New York.
Spencer stood up, taking his notepad in one hand. “Just a few questions, your honor.”
They were in a typical Supreme Court civil division courtroom. Paneling covered part of the walls, but like the judge’s bench, hadn’t seen a coat of wax or any other attention in years. The tile floor was old and worn. There were thirty seats for spectators, but only a few were occupied. The jury members sat in worn, even torn, old theater-type seats. There was a dinginess about the place, as if it had been deserted for many years and then only recently reopened but without being cleaned. But now it was in constant use and dingy or not, it was an arena, a place for battle.
The jury watched him make his slow, deliberate trip toward the back of the courtroom. He wanted to get their attention, because it would all be up to them. He was keenly aware that this witness would make or break his case. The witness had sounded good during direct examination; his quiet demeanor had obviously impressed the jury. Somehow, Spencer needed to find a way to reverse that impression.
Once more he regretted taking the case. He could have assigned it to a number of others in the office. They would have done an adequate job, but none of them had his experience. And a loss would mean ruin and bankruptcy for his client. And to get ahead in the firm it was unwise to take too many chances.
Dan Spencer was a tall, lean man. After having been a basketball player at Brown, he had had one season with the pros prior to entering Harvard Law. He knew that he looked much younger than his forty years, and his shock of sandy hair made him appear even younger. The small half-glasses he had to use for reading helped him look somewhat older. Juries always liked older lawyers. Extracting the glasses, he slipped them over the tip of his nose, glanced down at his notes, then up at the witness.
“Mr. Dixon, how long have you worked for Consolidated Engineering?”
The man was heavy set and had a leathery face. He looked like the type who was most comfortable out of doors. “For almost thirty years,” he answered.
