June 28, 1991, 11:17 PM Washington time.
Quite a few lights were still on in the West Wing of the White House.
Frank sat in a fairly small office and had not touched the cup of coffee in front of him for nearly twenty minutes.
The television was placed on a low cabinet against the wall.
The picture quality was not good.
After being relayed several times, the transoceanic satellite signal had a noticeable graininess, and the logo of a Japanese television station could still be seen in the upper right corner. The host's voice was kept very low, overlaid with a layer of simultaneous English interpretation that occasionally fell half a sentence out of sync due to delay.
Frank did not listen to a single word.
He was only looking at the person in the footage.
The camera swept past the dense crowd of reporters outside the funeral venue and finally landed on a black sedan that had just come to a stop.
The car door opened.
The first thing to step out from inside was a foot wearing a black low-heeled shoe.
Afterward, the girl whose photos he had seen countless times and whom he had personally welcomed in New York appeared in the center of the frame.
Satsuki was wearing a very simple black dress.
Her complexion was much paler than usual, and a prominent white dressing was still affixed to her right cheek. After the camera zoomed in, several small scars that had already begun to scab could even be seen clearly.
Only, she looked somewhat haggard.
And she was even more petite than in Frank's memory.
Perhaps because the people standing around her were all wearing black suits and mostly taller than her by a head, when Satsuki walked among them, her figure even appeared somewhat frail.
Frank's jaw slowly tightened.
Satsuki in the television had already walked up before the memorial altar.
She stopped.
Her hands hung naturally in front of her.
Then she solemnly bowed toward the portrait of the S.A. Security Department personnel who had died protecting her.
This bow lasted for a very long time.
The sound of surrounding shutter clicks came through the television speaker, dense like an unsuppressable rain.
Frank stared at that dressing.
The fire in his chest that had been suppressed for a full two days flared up bit by bit once more.
Two days ago, he had received the call from Tokyo in his office in Manhattan—the office that Satsuki had personally promised him.
When he first heard the words "the motorcade was attacked," he thought it was just some Japanese gangsters doing something stupid, actually overestimating themselves and wanting to challenge Saionji's authority?
Until subsequent news was delivered one piece after another.
Grenades exploded at the scene, and automatic rifles opened fire.
And then foreigners, professional gunmen appeared.
And then after that.
Someone died.
Satsuki was rushed to the hospital by helicopter.
During those few hours, Frank could no longer remember how many phone calls he had made.
He had switched all lines related to Tokyo in the New York office to the highest priority; legal, banking, clearing... every single one of them was hauled out of bed by him.
Until confirming that Satsuki was alive did he realize that the fountain pen in his hand had been cracked by his own twisting, the barrel skewed from the joint, ink staining half his hand.
If the confirmation message had arrived ten minutes later back then...
Frank felt that he probably really would have gone crazy.
He even seriously wondered if he should drive out that red Ferrari, and then storm all the way to Capitol Hill with all the explosives he could find.
This thought was quite absurd, because driving a Ferrari straight in would not allow one to break into Capitol Hill and blow up the parasites there.
Now that he had calmed down, he also knew that was probably just crazy talk popping into someone's head during extreme rage.
But during those few hours, he truly felt it was a very good idea.
After all, that was Satsuki.
It was she who told him not to sell before Black Monday.
It was she who, before the whole world understood the Japanese bubble, had already laid out tens of billions of dollars in short positions.
It was she who made himself, originally just an ordinary trader on Wall Street, know for the first time what it felt like to stand on the truly correct side of the market.
In his life, Frank had seen many so-called geniuses.
Mathematical geniuses.
Trading geniuses.
Fund managers who could remember the balance sheets of dozens of companies at the same time.
Capital brokers who could simultaneously coax senators, bankers, and mobsters into happiness at a dinner table.
Yet in front of Satsuki, those people were all like people who could only see the very next card.
While she knew how the entire deck would be dealt.
At least that was what Frank had always believed.
After this belief lasted for too long, it had long since ceased to be merely professional awe.
Therefore, when someone told him—
Someone had almost killed his faith.
Frank felt that not losing control on the spot could already be counted as the last bit of professional decorum left by years of training on Wall Street.
In the television footage, Satsuki had straightened her body back up.
The camera captured the dressing on her face from the side.
The corners of Frank's mouth twitched slightly.
"Bastard."
The office door happened to open at this moment.
Frank did not look back.
Footsteps came from behind, and then stopped beside another sofa.
"I originally thought you would at least curse the Japanese first."
A familiar voice rang out.
"After all, the incident happened in Tokyo."
Only then did Frank shift his gaze away from the television.
Richard had already taken off his coat, wearing only a shirt and waistcoat. Remaining at the White House at this hour, he obviously was not here to enjoy a Japanese live television broadcast either.
He walked over to the edge of the table and lowered his gaze to look at that completely untouched cup of coffee.
"It seems the White House's coffee is not to your taste."
"I did not come here to drink coffee today."
Frank replied very calmly.
Hearing this tone, Richard instead gave him an extra glance.
This was not their first meeting.
The last time Satsuki came to America, Frank sat right beside them, watching this old fox representing the White House channels discuss Texas, Carlyle, the Pentagon, and the political protection the U.S. government could provide with that girl not yet eighteen years old.
At that time, Frank remained silent most of the time.
Because the person who truly made the decisions was right beside him.
Today was different.
Today, Tokyo sent him here precisely to let him speak.
Richard did not rush to sit down.
He likewise glanced toward the television.
The host in the footage was introducing the process of the attack from two days ago, and those vehicles peppered with bullet holes reappeared at the bottom of the screen.
"She looks like she is recovering well."
Frank's gaze snapped over instantly, glaring at him.
Richard paused.
Then, very tactfully, he swallowed back the second half of his sentence.
"At least being able to attend today's ceremony in person is a good thing."
"Her right cheek was scratched by glass, she suffered a mild concussion, and there are impact injuries on both her chest and abdomen."
Frank stared at him.
"Tokyo says her chest still hurts when she takes deep breaths."
The trace of polite expression on Richard's face slowly faded.
Frank continued:
"And someone else died."
"I know."
"He was originally just responsible for protecting her."
"Regarding this matter, the White House side is deeply regretful."
"Regretful?"
Frank finally smiled slightly.
There was not a shred of warmth in that smile.
"Mr. Richard, if I came tonight just to hear that word, I could have stayed in New York to watch TV."
The office fell silent once more.
Richard was silent for a moment.
He walked over to the opposite side and sat down, placing the documents he brought with him onto his knees.
"Then what do you want to hear?"
"Explanations."
Frank answered very quickly.
"Why did M16A1s appear on the streets of Tokyo?"
"Why did a retired CIA operative appear in the operational chain targeting Saionji's successor?"
"Why did some of the six people truly responsible for the second-phase operation have long-term activities within the military and private security contracting systems?"
He did not speak fast.
Yet with every sentence he spoke, the expression on Richard's face grew a bit more serious.
"Most importantly—"
Frank leaned forward slightly.
"I want to know whether this matter has anything to do with the U.S. government."
Richard's brow furrowed.
"I can answer you on this point right now."
"The U.S. government has never approved any operation targeting Saionji Satsuki."
"The White House has not."
"The Pentagon has not."
"According to the internal confirmations we have obtained so far, the CIA has not either."
Saying this, he deliberately paused for a moment.
"Washington has not tacitly allowed anyone to go to Tokyo to kill her either."
Frank looked at him.
After a few seconds, he asked:
"Where is the evidence?"
Richard was slightly stunned.
"What?"
"I said, where is the evidence?"
Frank's tone remained very calm.
"Mr. Richard, I am willing to believe every single word you just said."
"The question is, why should Tokyo believe it?"
"A retired CIA operative provided the contact channels. U.S. military standard weapons arrived in Japan. The people actually carrying out the mission have private military and defense contracting backgrounds."
"And then the U.S. government tells us this has nothing to do with the U.S. government."
He spread his hands.
"Very well."
"Bring something to prove it."
Richard looked at him for quite a while.
In the past when he negotiated matters with Saionji, the most difficult one to deal with was always Satsuki.
Although Frank was in charge of such massive funds and assets in New York, he was more like an extremely reliable executor. He understood Wall Street and knew how to turn Satsuki's requests into transactions, yet he rarely pushed negotiations to a political level on his own initiative.
Sitting here for the first time today, Richard suddenly felt that he might have underestimated him in the past.
Or rather—
Saionji's people were indeed very much alike on certain matters.
"Tokyo has already grasped the identity of that retired operative now?"
Richard asked.
"You guys should know clearer than I do."
Frank did not answer directly.
"If you did not know, why would I be sitting here today?"
Richard did not continue to press.
Over the past two days, this matter had already triggered quite a bit of trouble inside Washington.
The Japanese side inquired about the source of the weapons through diplomatic channels.
Inside the CIA, someone started reinvestigating those former personnel who had long been responsible for Asia affairs in the past and entered the private security industry after retirement.
The Pentagon was likewise asked to verify the procurement and circulation channels that several weapons might have passed through.
The problem was that all these matters were still at a very early stage.
No one could provide a complete chain of responsibility within forty-eight hours.
Frank obviously knew this as well.
Therefore, what he truly wanted coming over today probably was not a name.
Richard placed the files onto the tabletop.
"Go ahead."
"What does Tokyo actually want?"