Thursday, November 10, 1988
7:00 PM
Port Area, Hotel Okura
As one of Tokyo's "Big Three" hotels, the Okura was the city's social heart in the truest sense. Unlike the nouveau riche ostentation of the Akasaka Prince, the Okura's lobby was steeped in an old-school quiet that bordered on stifling.
The French restaurant, "La Belle Époque," was tucked into the annex. An Art Nouveau stained-glass dome filtered the evening light and painted the interior in an ambiguous amber hue. Heavy brocade carpets swallowed the footsteps of waiters, and the air carried the scent of black truffles and aged Bordeaux.
Saionji Satsuki sat by the window.
Across the quiet street stood the wall of the American Embassy. The Stars and Stripes hung limply in the night breeze, bleached pale by searchlights.
Satsuki wore a black velvet evening gown tonight. Under the lights, her exposed shoulders were dazzlingly white. Around her neck, a Mikimoto Akoya pearl necklace gleamed, its mellow luster matching her face — still touched with youthful innocence, yet already carrying a cold elegance.
The seat across from her was empty.
"Miss Saionji."
The voice was old but energetic.
Satsuki set down her silver cutlery, stood, and performed a textbook curtsy, lifting the hem of her skirt.
"Good evening, Ambassador Mansfield."
Mike Mansfield. At seventy-five, he was not only the U.S. Ambassador to Japan but a perennial figure in American politics who had served as Senate Majority Leader. In Japan, his influence sometimes eclipsed even the Prime Minister's.
"My apologies for making a lady wait," the Ambassador said, taking his seat with a waiter's help. Though aged, his eyes were still sharp as an eagle's.
"Not at all. I arrived early," Satsuki replied with a smile as she sat.
A waiter glided over silently and poured the decanted red wine for both of them.
"This is a 1982 Lafite," Satsuki said, gently swirling her glass. "I heard you enjoy the structure of a Bordeaux."
Mansfield took a sip and nodded approvingly.
"Excellent wine. But Miss Saionji, you didn't invite me here tonight just for a tasting, did you?"
The old man's gaze swept over Satsuki's composed smile.
"I've heard about S-Food's recent troubles. The Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications moved quickly, and crudely. In this country, people often say 'the customer is God.' Sometimes, the bureaucrats are."
"Indeed."
Satsuki showed no trace of grievance or anger. She picked up her knife and fork and sliced a small piece of foie gras with elegant, unhurried movements.
"For a local Japanese company, this is a catastrophe. But for the United States..."
She paused, placed the foie gras into her mouth, and chewed slowly as if savoring a rare delicacy.
Mansfield set down his glass. His fingers tapped lightly against the table.
"I'm listening."
Satsuki dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. The white linen came away spotless.
"Mr. Ambassador, do you consider Cisco routers to be 'dangerous, non-compliant electrical appliances'?"
Mansfield blinked, then burst into laughter. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes smoothed out.
"Non-compliant appliances? No, Miss Saionji. In Silicon Valley, those are gifts from God. They are the bridges to the future."
"Is that so?"
Satsuki set down her cutlery.
Clink.
The silver touched the porcelain with a soft, precise sound.
She drew a photograph from her handbag and slid it across the white tablecloth toward Mansfield.
It showed the scene from S-Food's server room that afternoon. In the image, an official from the Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications, dressed in a gray uniform, pointed at a piece of equipment with an arrogant expression.
Mansfield put on his reading glasses and studied it.
"Is this... a Cisco router?"
"Exactly."
Satsuki's voice was calm, but each word landed like a nail.
"This morning, an official from the Telecommunications Supervision Division pointed at this machine marked 'Made in USA' and announced in front of everyone that it was a 'non-compliant electrical appliance endangering Japan's network security.' He said it must be removed and destroyed."
Mansfield's brow furrowed. His relaxed smile gradually vanished.
"Destroyed?"
"Yes. On the grounds that it does not meet Japan's JIS industrial standards."
Satsuki met the Ambassador's eyes, a hint of irony curling her lips.
"Furthermore, the TCP/IP protocol we use — the very standard established by your Department of Defense's Advanced Research Projects Agency — has been officially characterized by the Japanese authorities as an 'unstable, security-risk-prone illegal connection method.'"
Bach's cello suites flowed through the restaurant, melodious and deep.
But the air at their table suddenly froze.
Mansfield removed his glasses and wiped them slowly. The motion was deliberate, the precursor to anger.
Maybe he wasn't truly angry yet. Or maybe he already was. But none of that mattered now.
Because this was no longer a minor case of a private Japanese company running an irregular network.
This was a slap in America's face.
In 1988, Japan-U.S. trade friction was at its peak. Hegemonism was being pursued across the world outside the Soviet Union. Semiconductors, automobiles, agricultural products... Americans were using microscopes to hunt for Japan's "non-tariff barriers."
And now, the Japanese government had publicly declared America's most advanced network hardware and communication protocols to be "non-compliant appliances" and "security risks"?
"Miss Saionji," Mansfield said, putting his glasses back on. His voice was cold as ice. "Are you certain those were the exact words of the Ministry official?"
"I have a recording of the scene," Satsuki said nonchalantly. "If needed, it can be on the Embassy's desk by tomorrow morning."
"Very well."
The Ambassador raised his glass, but this time he didn't drink. He studied the Embassy outside the window through the red liquid.
"If even the pride of Silicon Valley is defined as 'illegal' by Tokyo bureaucrats, then I think Representative Yeutter in Washington might develop some new, less-than-pleasant views on Japan's 'sincerity' in opening its markets."
Satsuki raised her glass.
"This isn't just my loss, Mr. Ambassador," she said softly.
Her voice was quiet, like a serpent offering an apple in Eden.
"This is the Japanese bureaucracy telling Silicon Valley that American standards are not welcome here. If they aren't taught a lesson, tomorrow it might be IBM mainframes or Motorola phones being seized."
Mansfield clinked his glass against hers.
Chime.
A crisp sound of glass on glass.
"I think the air in Kasumigaseki will become very thin tonight."
"To free trade," Satsuki said with a smile.
"To free trade." The Ambassador drained his glass.
11:00 PM
Port Area, U.S. Embassy, Basement Level 2, Encrypted Communications Room
This was the only piece of "territory" in Tokyo that belonged absolutely to the United States, and it was the most heavily guarded black box in the city.
The air was thick with ozone and stale coffee. Several massive IBM encrypted teletype machines spat out paper tape with an anxious, dense clack-clack-clack.
The communications officer didn't even have time to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Holding the memorandum personally signed by Ambassador Mansfield, his fingers flew across the keyboard.
The document was marked "FLASH" — the highest diplomatic priority, second only to "Outbreak of War."
With each keystroke, blocks of text were converted into encrypted binary streams and sent through undersea fiber optic cables, racing at light speed across the dark Pacific.
The memorandum was concise but cut straight to the bone:
Subject: Discriminatory Treatment of American High-Tech Products by Japanese Telecommunications Regulatory Authorities
Summary: Today, the Japanese Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications used administrative means to forcibly dismantle and seize network equipment produced by Cisco Systems of the United States. Japanese regulatory personnel publicly disparaged the TCP/IP protocol established by the U.S. Department of Defense as an "unsafe illegal technology" and defined high-end American-made routers as "non-compliant electrical appliances."
Assessment: This action exceeds simple technical regulation and appears to construct a serious "non-tariff technical barrier" intended to exclude American high-tech companies from the Japanese telecommunications market. This is not only an infringement on American commercial interests but a public humiliation of American technical standards.
Recommendation: Immediately initiate a "Super 301" investigation. This case should be used as a core bargaining chip in trade negotiations.
Washington, D.C., 9:00 AM
Winder Building, Office of the United States Trade Representative
The morning sunlight spilled onto the building across from the White House, but a thunderstorm was brewing in Clayton Yeutter's office.
The U.S. Trade Representative, known for his toughness, was clutching the newly decrypted fax. The paper was still warm, but the temperature in his eyes had dropped to freezing.
"Absurd."
Yeutter forced the word through his teeth.
He slammed the document onto the mahogany desk. The spoon in his coffee cup clattered.
"Are the Japanese trying to tell us that things built in Silicon Valley aren't as safe as their rice cookers from Akihabara?"
He stood and strode to the window, looking out at the Washington Monument.
Lately, congressmen on Capitol Hill had been shouting "Japanese threat" in his ear every day, accusing Japan of selling cars and VCRs to America while refusing to buy American beef and chips. He'd been worried about not having a perfect excuse to strike at these arrogant Asian allies.
Now, an excuse had been delivered to his door. And it was perfect, occupying the moral and technical high ground.
Yeutter turned and roared at his secretary, pointing at the document.
"This is a slap in the face to the Pentagon. TCP/IP is the Department of Defense's baby, and the Japanese dare to call it 'illegal'?"
He grabbed the red secure phone on his desk — the hotline connecting directly to department heads around the world.
"Get me Tokyo. I don't care who it is, as long as they're in charge, drag them out of bed!"
Tokyo, predawn
Setagaya Ward, Residence of the Vice-Minister for Foreign Affairs
The telephone in the bedroom rang like a piercing alarm, shattering the late-night silence.
The Vice-Minister crawled out of bed in a daze and glanced at the clock.
Damn it, who would... He grabbed the receiver. The moment he let out a groggy "Hello," he was jolted awake by the roaring voice on the other end, as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head.
"This is Clayton Yeutter."
There were no diplomatic pleasantries. Raw fury came rushing at him.
Even across ten thousand kilometers of Pacific, the Vice-Minister could feel the condescending pressure of the great power's special envoy.
"Mr... Mr. Yeutter?" the Vice-Minister stammered in English. "It's currently Tokyo time..."
"I don't care what time it is. I only care about one thing —"
Yeutter's voice was low and destructive, like a bomber on approach.
"Just now, I heard that the Japanese government considers American network technology to be 'garbage' and 'non-compliant appliances.' Mr. Vice-Minister, is this the official position of the Japanese government?"
"What? No, this must be a misunderstanding..." The Vice-Minister clutched the receiver in a panic, cold sweat trickling down his back.
"A misunderstanding?"
Yeutter let out a cold laugh.
"Your Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications officials just seized a company using Cisco equipment this morning on the grounds that it 'doesn't meet Japanese standards.' What, were Japanese standards set by God?"
"Listen, my friend."
Yeutter's tone shifted, becoming sinister and dangerous.
"We are re-evaluating our import tariff list for the next quarter. If Japan insists that American routers are 'illegal,' then we have reason to believe that the Lexus cars and Sony TVs exported to the United States might also have some kind of 'non-compliant with American standards' security risk."
This was a naked threat.
Routers for cars. Cisco for Toyota.
"No! Mr. Yeutter, please be calm! This is absolutely an individual administrative error. We have absolutely no intention of discriminating against American technology!"
The Vice-Minister was so terrified he nearly fell to his knees on the bed. If this led to an increase in automobile tariffs, the people at MITI would eat him alive.
"I don't want explanations. I want results."
Yeutter glanced at the clock on the wall.
"It is 9:10 AM Washington time. I'm giving you 24 hours."
"If by tomorrow's breakfast table I still don't see a reasonable explanation that satisfies Silicon Valley, then..."
Yeutter paused, emphasizing every word:
"The sanctions list will be on the President's desk by tomorrow noon. And I will personally hold a press conference to tell the world: Japan is blockading internet technology."
"Beep—beep—"
The call disconnected.
Only the dial tone echoed in the deep night of the bedroom.
The Vice-Minister sat blankly in the darkness, receiver in hand, his heart pounding like a drum.
Five seconds later, he jumped up as if struck by lightning, grabbed another phone, and frantically dialed the home number of the Vice-Minister of the Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications.
"Pick up the phone! Baka!!! What kind of trouble have you idiots caused?!"
The roar echoed through the empty mansion.
Outside, Tokyo Bay before dawn was pitch black and calm.
No steam warships spewing black smoke were visible, but the suffocating feeling of having a cannon pressed to one's throat was no different from that morning in Uraga 135 years ago.
And in the face of this "opening of the country" ultimatum, they were still powerless.