Rising Sun

"About those videos," he said. "I've had Marty looking in the evidence locker. He can't seem to find 'em."



I took a deep breath and said, "No, I have them."



"You didn't log them in the evidence locker last night?"



"No. I wanted to get copies made."



He coughed. "Pete. It'd be better if you had followed procedure on that."



"I wanted to get copies made," I said.



"Tell you what," Jim said, "get your copies made, and get the originals onto my desk by ten o'clock. Okay?"



"Okay."



"It can take that long to locate the material from the evidence locker. You know how it is."



He was saying he would cover for me. "Thanks, Jim."



"Don't thank me, because I didn't do anything," he said. "Far as I know, procedure has been followed."



"Right."



"But just between you and me: get it done right away. I can hold the fort for a couple of hours. But something's going on down here. I don't know exactly where it's coming from. So don't push it, okay?"



"Okay, Jim. I'm on my way now." I hung up the phone, and went to get copies made.



Chapter 2



Pasadena looked like a city at the bottom of a glass of sour milk. The Jet Propulsion Laboratory, on the outskirts of town, was nestled in the foothills near the Rose Bowl. But even at eight-thirty in the morning, you couldn't see the mountains through the yellow-white haze. I tucked the box of tapes under my arm, showed my badge, signed the guard's clipboard, and swore I was an American citizen. The guard sent me to the main building, across an inner courtyard.



For decades, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory had served as the command center for American spacecraft that photographed Jupiter and the rings of Saturn, and sent pictures back to earth as video images. JPL was the place where modern video-image processing had been invented. If anybody could copy these tapes, they could.



Mary Jane Kelleher, the press secretary, took me up to the third floor. We walked down a lime green corridor, past several doors that opened into empty offices. I mentioned it.



"It's true," she said, nodding. "We've been losing some good people, Peter."



"Where are they going?" I said.



"Mostly to industry. We always lost a few to IBM in Armonk, or Bell Labs in New Jersey. But those labs don't have the best equipment or funding any more. Now it's the Japanese research labs like Hitachi in Long Beach, Sanyo in Torrance, Canon in Inglewood. They're hiring a lot of American researchers now."



"Is JPL concerned about it?"



"Sure," she said. "Everybody knows the best way to transfer technology is inside somebody's head. But what can you do?" She shrugged. "Researchers want to do research. And America doesn't do so much R and D any more. Budgets are tighter. So it's better to work for the Japanese. They pay well, and they genuinely respect research. If you need a piece of equipment, you get it. Anyway, that's what my friends tell me. Here we are."



She took me into a laboratory crammed with video equipment. Black boxes stacked on metal shelves and on metal tables; cables snaking across the floor; a variety of monitors and display screens. In the center of all this was a bearded man in his midthirties named Kevin Howzer. He had an image on his monitor of a gear mechanism, in shifting rainbow colors, The desk was littered with Coke cans and candy wrappers; he had been up all night, working.



"Kevin, this is Lieutenant Smith from the L.A.P.D. He's got some unusual videotapes he needs copied."



"Just copied?" Howzer sounded disappointed. "You don't want anything done to them?"



"No, Kevin," she said. "He doesn't."



"No problem."



I showed Howzer one of the cassettes. He turned it over in his hand, and shrugged. "Looks like a standard eight-millimeter cart. What's on it?"



"High-definition Japanese TV."



"You mean it's an HD signal?"



"I guess so."



"Shouldn't be a problem. You got a playback I can use?"



"Yes." I took the playback machine out of the box and handed it to him.



"Jeez, they make things nice, don't they? Beautiful unit." Kevin examined the controls in front. "Yeah, that's high-definition all right. I can handle it." He turned the box around and peered at the plugs on the back. Then he frowned. He swung his desk light over and opened the plastic flap on the cassette, exposing the tape. It had a faint silver tinge. "Huh. Do these tapes involve anything legal?"



"Actually, they do."



He handed it back to me. "Sorry. I can't copy it."



"Why not?"



"See the silver color? That's evaporated metal tape. Very high density. I'll bet the format has real-time compression and decompression coming out of the box. I can't make you a copy, because I can't match the formats, which means I can't lay down the signal in an equivalent way that is guaranteed readable. I can make you a copy, but I can't be sure the copy is exact because I can't match formats. So if you have any legal issues - and I assume you do - you're going to have to take it somewhere else to get it copied."



"Like where?"



"This could be the new proprietary D-four format. If it is, the only place that can copy it is Hamaguchi."



"Hamaguchi?"



"The research lab in Glendale, owned by Kawakami Industries. They have every piece of video equipment known to man over there."



I said, "Do you think they'd help me?"



"To make copies? Sure. I know one of the lab directors, Jim Donaldson. I can call over there for you, if you like."



"That would be great."



"No problem."



3



Hamaguchi Research Institute was a featureless, mirrored glass building in an industrial park in north Glendale. I carried my box into the lobby. Behind the sleek reception desk I could see an atrium in the center of the building, and smoked-glass-walled laboratories on all sides.



I asked for Dr. Jim Donaldson and took a seat in the lobby. While I was waiting, two men in suits came in, nodded familiarly to the receptionist, and sat on the couch near me. Ignoring me, they spread out glossy brochures on the coffee table.



"See here," one of them said, "this is what I was talking about. This is the shot we end with. This one closes."



I glanced over, saw a view of wildflowers and snow-capped mountains. The first man tapped the photos.



"I mean, that's the Rockies, my friend. It's real Americana. Trust me, that's what sells them. And it's a hell of a parcel."



"How big did you say it is?"



"It's a hundred and thirty thousand acres. The biggest remaining piece of Montana that's still available. Twenty by ten kilometers of prime ranch acreage fronting on the Rockies. It's the size of a national park. It's got grandeur. It's got dimension, scope. It's very high quality. Perfect for a Japanese consortium."



"And they talked price?"



"Not yet. But the ranchers, you know, they're in a tough situation. It's legal now for foreigners to export beef to Tokyo, and beef in Japan is something like twenty, twenty-two dollars a kilo. But nobody in Japan will buy American beef. If Americans send beef, it will rot on the docks. But if they sell their ranch to the Japanese, then the beef can be exported. Because the Japanese will buy from a Japanese-owned ranch. The Japanese will do business with other Japanese. And ranches all around Montana and Wyoming have been sold. The remaining ranchers see Japanese cowboys riding on the range. They see the other ranches putting in improvements, rebuilding barns, adding modern equipment, all that. Because the other ranches can get high prices in Japan. So the American owners, they're not stupid. They see the writing on the wall. They know they can't compete. So they sell."



"But then what do the Americans do?"



"Stay and work for the Japanese. It's not a problem. The Japanese need someone to teach them how to ranch. And everybody on the ranch gets a raise. The Japanese are sensitive to American feelings. They're sensitive people."



The second man said, "I know, but I don't like it. I don't like the whole thing."



"That's fine, Ted. What do you want to do, write your congressman? They're all working for the Japanese, anyway. Hell, the Japanese are running these ranches with American government subsidies." The first man twisted a gold chain at his wrist. He leaned close to his companion. "Look, Ted. Let's not get all moral here. Because I can't afford it. And neither can you. We are talking a four-percent overall and a five-year payout on a seven hundred mil purchase. Let's make sure we keep that in sight, okay? You personally are looking at two point four million in the first year alone. And it's a five-year payout. Right?"



"I know. It just bothers me."



"Well, Ted. I don't think you'll be bothered when this deal closes. But there's a couple of details we need to handle..." At that point, they seemed to realize I was listening. They stood up and moved out of earshot. I heard the first man say something about "assurances that the State of Montana favors and approves..." and the second man was nodding, slowly. The first man punched him in the shoulder, cheering him up.



"Lieutenant Smith?"



A woman was standing beside my chair. "Yes?"



"I'm Kristen, Dr. Donaldson's assistant. Kevin over at JPL called about you. Something about tapes you need help with?"



"Yes. I need them copied."



"I'm sorry I wasn't here to take Kevin's call. One of the secretaries took it, and she didn't really understand the situation."



"How's that?"



"Unfortunately, Dr. Donaldson isn't here right now. He's making a speech this morning."



"I see."



"And that makes it difficult for us. With him not in the lab."



"I just want to copy some tapes. Perhaps someone else in the lab can help me," I said.



"Ordinarily yes, but I'm afraid it's impossible today."



It was the Japanese wall. Very polite, but a wall. I sighed. It was probably unrealistic to imagine a Japanese research company would help me. Even with something as neutral as copying tapes.



"I understand."



"Nobody's in the lab this morning at all. They were all working late on a rush project last night, and I guess they were here to all hours. So everybody's late coming in today. That's what the other secretary didn't understand. People are coming in late. So. I don't know what to tell you."



I made one last attempt. "As you know, my boss is the chief of police. This is the second place I've stopped at already this morning. He's really riding me to get this duplicated right away."



"I'd love to help you. I know Dr. Donaldson would be happy to. We've done special work for the police before. And I'm sure we can duplicate whatever material you have. Maybe later today. Or if you'd care to leave it with us...



"I'm afraid I can't do that."



"Okay. Sure. I understand. Well, I'm sorry, Lieutenant. Perhaps you can come back later in the day?" She gave a little shrug.



I said, "Probably not. I guess it's just my bad luck that everybody had to work last night."



"Yes. It's a pretty unusual situation."



"What was it, something came up? Research problem?"



"I really don't know. We have so much video capability on site, occasionally we get a rush request for something unusual. A TV commercial that needs a special effect, or something like that. We worked on that new Michael Jackson video for Sony. Or somebody needs to restore tape that has been ruined. You know, rebuild the signal. But I don't know what came up last night. Except it must have been a lot of work. Something like twenty tapes to be worked on. And a real rush. I hear they didn't finish until after midnight."



I thought: It can't be.



I was trying to think what Connor would do, how he would handle it. I decided it was worth a stab in the dark. I said, "Well, I'm sure Nakamoto is grateful for all your hard work."



"Oh, they are. Because it turned out real well for them. They were happy."



I said, "You mentioned that Mr. Donaldson was giving a speech - "



"Dr. Donaldson, yes - "



"Where is he doing that?"



"At a corporate-training seminar at the Bonaventure Hotel. Management techniques in research. He must be pretty tired this morning. But he's always a good speaker."



"Thanks." I gave her my card. "You've been very helpful, and if there is ever anything you think of, or want to tell me, call me."



"Okay." She glanced at my card. "Thank you."



I turned to go. As I was leaving, an American in his late twenties, wearing an Armani suit and the smug look of an M.B.A. who reads the fashion magazines, came down and said to the other two men, "Gentlemen? Mr. Nakagawa will see you now."



The men leapt up, grabbing their glossy brochures and pictures, and followed the assistant as he walked in calm measured strides toward the elevator.



I went back outside, into the smog.



4



The sign in the hallway read:



Working Together:

Japanese and American Management Styles.



Inside the conference room, I saw one of those twilight business seminars where men and women sit at long tables covered in gray cloth, taking notes in semigloom as a lecturer drones on at the podium.



While I was standing there, in front of a table with the name tags of latecomers, a bespectacled woman came over to me and said, "Have you registered? Did you get your packet?"



I turned slightly and flashed my badge. I said, "I would like to speak to Dr. Donaldson."



"He's our next speaker. He's on in seven or eight minutes. Can someone else help you?"



"It'll just take a moment."



She hesitated. "But there's so little time before he speaks..."



"Then you better get going."



She looked as if I had slapped her. I don't know what she expected. I was a police officer and I'd asked to speak to somebody. Did she think it was negotiable? I felt irritable, remembering the young fashion plate in the Armani suit. Walking in measured steps, like a person of weight and importance, as he led the real estate salesmen away. Why did that kid think he was important? He might have an M.B.A., but he was still just answering the door for his Japanese boss.