Terminal Compromise - Winn Schwartau (fiction book recommendations TXT) 📗

class="calibre1">friends in the US military, and a few arrangements were made to

keep business coming his way.

Taki accumulated millions quickly. Now he needed to diversify.

Realizing that the war would come to an end some day, Homosoto

begin making plans. OSO Radio sets appeared on the market before

the end of the Korean Police Action. Then, with the application

of the transistor, the portable radio market exploded. OSO

Industries made more transistor radios than all other Japanese

electronics firms combined. Then came black and white televi-

sions. The invention of the single beam color TV tube again

brought OSO billions in revenues every year.

Now, OSO was the model of a true global corporation. OSO owned

banks and investment companies. Their semiconductor and electron-

ics products were household words. They controlled a vast network

of companies; electronic game manufacturers, microwave and appli-

ance manufacturers, and notably, acres and acres of Manhattan

Island, California and Hawaii. They owned and operated communi-

cations companies, including their own geosynchronous satellite.

OSO positioned itself as a holding company with hundreds of

subsidiaries, each with their own specialty, operating under

thousands of names. Taki Homosoto wove an incredibly complex web

of corporate influence and intrigue.

OSO was one of the 10 largest corporations in the world. Reaga-

nomics had already assisted in making OSO and Homosoto himself

politically important to both Japan and the US. Exactly how

Homosoto wanted it. American leaders, Senators, Congressmen,

appointees, lobbyists, in fact much of Washington coddled up to

Homosoto. His empire planned years in advance. The US Govern-

ment, unofficially craved his insights, and in characteristic

Washington style, wanted to be near someone important. Homosoto

relished it. Ate it up. He was a most cordial, unassuming

humble guest. He played the game magnificently.

Almost the entire 66th floor of the OSO Bank Building was dedi-

cated to Homosoto and his immediate staff. Only a handful of the

more then 200,000 people that OSO Industries employed had access

to the pinnacle of the OSO tower which graced the Tokyo skyline.

The building was designed by Pei, and received international ac-

claim as an architectural statement. The atrium in the lobby

vaulted almost 700 feet skyward precursoring American hotel

design in the next decade. Plants, trees over 100 feet tall and

waterfalls graced the atria and the overhanging skylobbies. The

first floor lobby was designed around a miniature replica of the

Ging Sha forest, fashioned with thousands of Bonzai trees. The

mini forest was built to be viewed from various heights within

the atrium to simulate a flight above the earth at distances from

2 to 150 miles.

The lobby of OSO Industries was a veritable museum. The Van Gogh

collection was not only the largest private or public assemblage

in the world, but also represented over $100 Million spent in

Sothby and Christies auctions worldwide since 1975.

To get to the elevator to the 66th floor, a security check was

performed, including a complete but unobtrusive electronic scan

of the entire person and his belongings. To all appearances, the

procedure was no more than airport security. However to the

initiate or the suspect, it was evident from the accuracy with

which the guards targeted specific contraband on a person or in

his belongings that they knew more than they were telling. The

OSO guards had the girth of Sumo wrestlers, and considering their

sheer mass, they received little hassle. Very few deemed it

prudent to cross them.

The lobby for all of its grandeur, ceilings of nearly 700 feet,

was a fairly austere experience. But, the elevator to the 66th

floor altered that image at once. It was this glass walled

elevator, the size of a small office, with appropriately comfort-

able furnishings, that Miles Foster rode. From the comfort of

the living room setting in the elevator, he enjoyed a panorama of

the atrium as it disappeared beneath him. He looked at the

forest and imagined what astronauts saw when they catapulted into

orbit. The executive elevator was much slower than the others.

Either the residents in the penthouse relished the solitude and

view or they had motion sickness. Nonetheless, it was most

impressive.

“Ah, Mister Foster! Welcome to OSO. Please to step this way.”

Miles Foster was expected at the terminus of the lift which

opened into an obscenely large waiting room that contained a

variety of severe and obviously uncomfortable furniture. Aha!

Miles, thought. That’s exactly what this is. Another art gal-

lery, albeit a private one for the eyes of his host and no one

else. White walls, white ceilings, polished parquet floors, track

lighting, recessed lights, indirect lights. Miles noticed that

the room as pure as the driven snow didn’t have any windows. He

didn’t recognize much of the art, but given his host, it must

have represented a sizable investment.

Miles was ushered across the vast floor to a set of handsomely

carved, too tall wooden doors with almost garish gold hardware.

His slight Japanese host barely tapped on the door, almost inau-

dibly. He paused and stood at attention as he blurted an obedient

“Hai!”

The aide opened both doors from the middle, and in deference to

Mr. Foster, moved to one side to let the visitor be suitably

impressed. Homosoto’s office was a total contrast to his gal-

lery. Miles first reaction was astonishment. It was slightly

dizzying. The ceiling slanted to a height of over 25 feet at the

outer walls, which were floor to ceiling glass. The immense room

provided not only a spectacular view of Tokyo and 50 miles be-

yond, but lent one the feeling of being outside.

Coming from the U.S. Government, such private opulence was not

common. It was to be expected in his family’s places of business,

the gaming parlors of Las Vegas, but not in normal commerce. He

had been to Trump Tower in New York, but that was a public build-

ing, a place for tourists. This office, he used the word liber-

ally, was palatial.

It was decorated in spartan fashion with cherry wood walls.

Artwork, statues, figurines, all Japanese in style, sat wherever

there was an open surface. A few gilt shelves and marble display

tables were randomly scattered around the room. Not chaoticly;

just the opposite. The scattering was exquisitely planned.

There was a dining alcove, privatized by lavish rice paper panels

for eating in suhutahksi. Eating on the floor was an

honored ritual. There was a small pit under the table for curl-

ing one’s legs on the floor.

A conference table with 12 elegant wooden chairs sat at the

opposite end of the cavernous office. In the center of the room,

at the corner of the building, was Homosoto’s desk, or work

surface if you prefer. It was large enough for four, yet Homoso-

to, as he stood to greet Foster, appeared to dwarf his environ-

ment and desk. Not in size, but in confidence. His personage

was in total command. The desk and its equipment were on a plat-

form some 6″ above the rest of the room. The intended effect was

not lost on Foster.

The sides of the glossy cherrywood desk were slightly elevated to

make room for a range of video monitors, communications facili-

ties, and computers which accessed Homosoto’s empire. A vast

telephone console provided tele-conferencing to OSO offices

worldwide. Dow Jones, CNN, Nippon TV were constantly displayed,

visible only to Homosoto. This was Homosoto’s Command Central as

he liked to call it.

Foster gawked at the magnificent surroundings as he stood in

front of his assigned seat. A comfortable, plush, black leather

chair. It was one of several arranged in a sunken conversation

pit.

Homosoto acknowledged Foster’s presence with the briefest of nods

as he stepped down off of his aerie. Homosoto wore expensive

clothes. A dark brown suit, matching solid tie and the omnipres-

ent solid white starched shirt. It didn’t fit, like most Japa-

nese business uniforms.

He was short, no more than five foot six, Miles noticed, after

Homosoto got down to the same level as the rest of the room. On

the heavy side, he walked slowly and deliberately. Eyes forward

after the obligatory nod. His large head was sparsely covered

with little wisps of hair in nature’s futile attempt to clothe

the top of his freckled skull. Even at 59 Homosoto’s hair was

still pitch black. Miles wasn’t sure if Grecian Formula was

available in Japan. The short crop accentuated the pronounced

ears.

A rounded face was peppered with spots, dark freckles perhaps, or

maybe carcinoma. His deep set black eyes stared through the

object of his attention. Homosoto was not the friendly type,

thought Miles.

Homosoto stood in front of Miles, extended his hand and bowed the

most perfunctory of bows. Miles took his hand, expecting a

strong grip. Instead he was greeted with a wet fish handshake

which wriggled quickly from his grasp. Homosoto didn’t give