there anything I should know? I haven’t had much time to brush up on Japanese etiquette.”
They approached a bank of elevators, one of which was separated from the rest and guarded by two uniformed men—who were, to Nina’s relief, genuine human beings and not robots. “Don’t worry about it, Dr. Wilde,” said Kojima. “You are Takashi-san’s honored guest. You would have to work very hard to offend him.”
“I’ll try not to anyway,” she said as they reached the guards. She expected them to check her identity, but instead a line of laser light from a sensor above the door danced briefly over a barcode on her pass. The absence of alarms and sirens satisfied the two men that she was approved to enter, and they bowed to her before moving aside.
“This is Takashi-san’s private elevator,” said Kojima as the doors opened and they entered. Despite the building’s height, there were only three buttons on the control panel. He pushed the topmost. “It only serves the parking garage, the lobby, and the penthouse. But,” he continued as the car started to rise, accelerating quickly enough for Nina to feel it in the pit of her stomach, “he rarely uses it these days.”
“So it’s true he hardly ever leaves the penthouse? Why?”
“I wouldn’t presume to speak for Takashi-san. But I’m sure he will tell you if you ask.”
Nina was indeed curious, but she had more important questions for the reclusive industrialist. Before long, the elevator stopped. “Follow me, please,” said Kojima.
The hallway of Takashi’s penthouse was decorated with pale wall panels intercut with beams of contrasting dark hardwood, the floor varnished and polished to a lacquered shine. It was austere and minimalist, yet clearly extremely expensive. Windows to one side looked out across the sunset sprawl of Tokyo, the white peak of Mount Fuji visible in the distance. “That’s a hell of a view,” she said, feeling a twinge of vertigo.
They passed several doors before arriving at the end of the hall. Kojima knocked on the double oak doors there, waiting for several seconds until hearing a reply from within and opening them. With another bow, he gestured for Nina to enter.
The room beyond ran the entire width of the skyscraper, windows on three sides providing a panoramic view of the city. Despite its size, it was sparsely appointed, with more potted plants than items of furniture. A large desk was the focal point, a single elegant chair placed before it.
Behind the desk was Takashi Seiji.
The official photograph Nina had seen on the company website was considerably out of date. She guessed him to be in his seventies, at least twenty years older than his public face. He was bald but for thin gray wisps above his ears, wrinkles and bags narrowing his eyes to sleepy slits. However, there was nothing remotely tired about his gaze, which locked on to Nina as she entered the room. He stood, revealing a hunched, but still strong, figure.
Kojima guided Nina to the desk, then spoke to Takashi in Japanese. She recognized her name among the words. The old man said nothing, but bowed deeply, so far that she thought his head would touch the desk. When he straightened again, he spoke, his secretary translating. “Welcome to Japan, Dr. Wilde. I am most honored by your presence.”
“Thank you, Mr. Takashi,” she replied. “It’s my pleasure to be here.”
Kojima relayed this to his boss, who sat back down and nodded at the solitary chair. “Please take a seat,” Kojima told her.
Nina did so. The plain wooden chair looked as ascetic as the rest of the room, but turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. “Would you care for any refreshment before we begin?” Kojima asked. “Tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine,” she said. “I’d like to get down to business.”
Takashi made a small sound of amusement before Kojima could translate for him. He understood English? “Takashi-san appreciates your attitude,” the younger man told her after his boss spoke. “The Japanese obsession with protocol slows down business and wastes too much time.”
“And at my age, time is a more precious resource than money,” Takashi added. Though he had a strong accent, his English was precise. He smiled slightly. “My apologies, Dr. Wilde. Speaking through a translator is another protocol that is expected. But now that I see you have as little patience as I for such things, we can continue in a more efficient manner.”
“What would you have done if I’d asked for coffee?” Nina asked mischievously.