well-mannered Japanese.
Phelps stared into his dark eyes and tried to find the reality behind the mask. He wasn’t rewarded with even the smallest clue.
A chauffeur drove them away from the hotel in a Shensu limousine. First they went to the Caffe Bongo, a surrealist cafe on the ground floor of the store Parco. Jack stared at the bizarre combination of architectural styles, from minimalist to classical; above him was suspended a silver aeroplane wing and an engine. He was offered a baffling array of drinks and was surprised by how much alcohol Aito consumed.
There was a war of wills taking place. Aito watched with amusement as Jack tried to match him drink for drink. He knew from past experience that no Westerner could match his capacity for alcohol. It was an advantage he had used on many occasions to weaken the tongue of a prospective gaijin client.
From the Caffe Bongo they drove to Shiruyoshi, a res taurant with a reputation for serving first-class Japanese food in a distinctly Western atmosphere that appealed to tourists and foreign businessmen like Jack Phelps. They enjoyed tempura and kaiseki with a bottle of saki, from which Aito drank steadily. The dark eyes never lost their intensity.
At the end of the meal Jack was feeling unsteady on his feet. He could hardly credit the amount of alcohol Aito had consumed, without any apparent effect.
‘Now for some real entertainment, Jack.’
Their next stop was a very, very exclusive club. As Jack had expected, the hostesses were beautiful, but he was wise to the ways of Japanese business and knew he would need all his energy and all his wits about him for the next few days of intense negotiation.
‘Aito, I am tired after my flight.’
‘I am a bad host. I apologise. We’ll go back to your hotel.’ Round one to me, thought Jack. He knew the routine: drunk and sated, he would have talked, maybe a little too freely, to one of the girls. His revelations would then immedi ately have been reported to Aito Shensu. On his own territory he would have enjoyed one of these women, but here he was on dangerous ground and the stakes were high. He needed this deal far more than Aito - and he certainly didn’t want the astute Japanese magnate to know that . . .
He collapsed on his bed at three that morning. Aito would collect him at seven. He downed some more pills and prepared himself for another brief sleep.
The next day was an intense and exhausting series of meetings with different members of Shensu’s senior management team. Jack was impressed by the research and development that had already gone into Shensu’s Formula One programme; the engines and gearboxes had been thoroughly tested. He won dered just how hard Aito Shensu would be when the time came to negotiate the deal.
Aito Shensu sat in his office, poring over a long series of reports on Phelps Co.. However, more interesting by far was the story of Jack Phelps himself. The man was the very essence of the American dream - a boy from Brooklyn who had made good in the motor spares business, eventually listing his company on the stock exchange and embarking on a meteoric succession of mergers and takeovers. There was no doubting Phelps’s financial credentials - though the current low trading price of Phelps Co. shares was of some concern. As to Phelps’s own personal financial health, Aito could not access any information.
Phelps had never married, but had courted most of New York’s society beauties as well as a few film stars. This might explain his lack of interest in the women the previous evening, Aito reasoned. Clearly, a man who could have his pick of that sort of woman would not be interested in such entertainment.
The rest of Jack Phelps’s life was shrouded in mystery. He only kept a few loyal men close to him, and they could not be bought. His passion for motor-racing had started at an early age when he had competed in his own machine on the American circuit. After that came his Formula
Phelps stared into his dark eyes and tried to find the reality behind the mask. He wasn’t rewarded with even the smallest clue.
A chauffeur drove them away from the hotel in a Shensu limousine. First they went to the Caffe Bongo, a surrealist cafe on the ground floor of the store Parco. Jack stared at the bizarre combination of architectural styles, from minimalist to classical; above him was suspended a silver aeroplane wing and an engine. He was offered a baffling array of drinks and was surprised by how much alcohol Aito consumed.
There was a war of wills taking place. Aito watched with amusement as Jack tried to match him drink for drink. He knew from past experience that no Westerner could match his capacity for alcohol. It was an advantage he had used on many occasions to weaken the tongue of a prospective gaijin client.
From the Caffe Bongo they drove to Shiruyoshi, a res taurant with a reputation for serving first-class Japanese food in a distinctly Western atmosphere that appealed to tourists and foreign businessmen like Jack Phelps. They enjoyed tempura and kaiseki with a bottle of saki, from which Aito drank steadily. The dark eyes never lost their intensity.
At the end of the meal Jack was feeling unsteady on his feet. He could hardly credit the amount of alcohol Aito had consumed, without any apparent effect.
‘Now for some real entertainment, Jack.’
Their next stop was a very, very exclusive club. As Jack had expected, the hostesses were beautiful, but he was wise to the ways of Japanese business and knew he would need all his energy and all his wits about him for the next few days of intense negotiation.
‘Aito, I am tired after my flight.’
‘I am a bad host. I apologise. We’ll go back to your hotel.’ Round one to me, thought Jack. He knew the routine: drunk and sated, he would have talked, maybe a little too freely, to one of the girls. His revelations would then immedi ately have been reported to Aito Shensu. On his own territory he would have enjoyed one of these women, but here he was on dangerous ground and the stakes were high. He needed this deal far more than Aito - and he certainly didn’t want the astute Japanese magnate to know that . . .
He collapsed on his bed at three that morning. Aito would collect him at seven. He downed some more pills and prepared himself for another brief sleep.
The next day was an intense and exhausting series of meetings with different members of Shensu’s senior management team. Jack was impressed by the research and development that had already gone into Shensu’s Formula One programme; the engines and gearboxes had been thoroughly tested. He won dered just how hard Aito Shensu would be when the time came to negotiate the deal.
Aito Shensu sat in his office, poring over a long series of reports on Phelps Co.. However, more interesting by far was the story of Jack Phelps himself. The man was the very essence of the American dream - a boy from Brooklyn who had made good in the motor spares business, eventually listing his company on the stock exchange and embarking on a meteoric succession of mergers and takeovers. There was no doubting Phelps’s financial credentials - though the current low trading price of Phelps Co. shares was of some concern. As to Phelps’s own personal financial health, Aito could not access any information.
Phelps had never married, but had courted most of New York’s society beauties as well as a few film stars. This might explain his lack of interest in the women the previous evening, Aito reasoned. Clearly, a man who could have his pick of that sort of woman would not be interested in such entertainment.
The rest of Jack Phelps’s life was shrouded in mystery. He only kept a few loyal men close to him, and they could not be bought. His passion for motor-racing had started at an early age when he had competed in his own machine on the American circuit. After that came his Formula
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