kvmb Chapter 344 Overstepping Authority
Chapter 344 Overstepping Authority
November 2, 1990.
Osaka, Sumitomo Chemical Osaka Headquarters, Sales Planning Division.
Fujiwara placed the third return notice on the table and flattened it with his fingertip.
The paper was a standard receipt from the financing department of Sumitomo Bank's Osaka headquarters, stamped with an acceptance stamp in the lower right corner. The ink was very faint, like ink that was almost dry. The reason for return section contained only one line:
"The margin ratio needs to be recalculated according to the latest real estate valuation model - please provide a supplementary collateral valuation report."
She watched it three times.
First, I checked to make sure I wasn't mistaken. Second, I thought about what the sentence actually meant.
For the third time, she pulled out the draft of the application she had submitted last week—the deposit percentage was 30%, an old figure that had been used in class for five years, and it had been hers since her first day at the company.
This is an "urgent overseas settlement document" handed over by Executive Director Murata, who even said "as soon as possible" twice.
The first return was on October 19th.
Reason: The copy of the trade contract is missing a seal across the seam.
Fujiwara completed the work that same day. She stamped the Sumitomo Chemical Sales Planning Division's seal anew on every seam of the three contracts. To prevent any errors, she also made a copy for her records.
The second return was on October 26th.
Reason: The SWIFT code format of the beneficiary bank is incorrect.
She checked the "Overseas Foreign Exchange Manual of the National Banking Association" and verified the code digit by digit. She found that the "format mismatch" marked on the bank receipt referred to the branch identification code from the fifth to the eighth digit.
She called the bank in Singapore again, got the correct complete set of codes, modified them overnight, and sent them over first thing the next morning.
But it still didn't work.
And then today, the third time.
Fujiwara took the receipt and walked from his workstation in the planning department to the end of the corridor.
The corridor windows face north, towards the Dojima River.
In early November, the sky in Osaka was leaden gray, the clouds hung low, and the river was shrouded in a hazy gray, its flow barely visible. A crow perched on the lightning rod on the opposite building's rooftop, its neck tucked in, and remained motionless for a long time.
She stood by the window for a long time.
She replaced the seal across the seam. She modified the SWIFT code. Now she needs to submit a new collateral valuation report "recalculated according to the latest real estate valuation model"—but this is a letter of credit for trade settlement, what does it have to do with real estate?
She couldn't figure it out.
She graduated from the trading company university two years ago. She spent two whole years handling the basic documents for overseas orders without a single mistake.
But each of the three returns had a different reason, and each time she made up the missing parts, a new one would appear.
Is it possible that... my professional skills are really lacking?
Once the thought popped into her head, she couldn't take it back. She looked down at the thin receipt in her hand, the edge of which she had crumpled into a shallow crease.
Someone was calling her from the other end of the corridor.
"Fujiwara."
This is the secretary accompanying Managing Director Murata. "The Managing Director requests your presence."
……
Murata Yukimasa's office is on the third floor.
When Fujiwara pushed open the door, Murata was standing by the window. He didn't turn around, but simply gestured for her to come in.
"Close the door."
The moment the door closed, the noise in the office subsided. Murata turned around, his face grim.
He didn't offer Fujiwara a seat, nor did he sit down himself; he simply looked at her across the desk.
"I understand about the returned package."
Fujiwara gripped the receipt tightly. "Executive Director, I... I can start preparing the margin report today, and I'll contact the valuation team—"
"No."
Murata interrupted her.
"We don't need to go through the bank anymore."
Fujiwara was stunned.
Murata took a business card from the drawer and pushed it to the center of the table. Fujiwara looked down at it—white background, black text, and a tiny family crest in the lower right corner.
"Saionji Shoji."
"This company can open letters of credit directly," Murata said. "The dollar channel is open. You just need to prepare the documents and follow their procedures."
Fujiwara's mind went blank for a moment.
Bypassing Sumitomo Bank?
She worked at Sumitomo Chemical for two years, and the first thing she learned was the rules—overseas settlements and the opening of letters of credit all had to be handled through Sumitomo Bank's Osaka headquarters.
This was something etched into the workflow from the moment she joined the company, and it's an ironclad rule that all Sumitomo-affiliated companies must adhere to. Now, they need to bypass the main store and find an outside trading company to issue the certificate…
"Executive Director, this..." Her voice involuntarily lowered, "Isn't this... overstepping my authority?"
Murata looked at her and remained silent for two seconds.
Then he walked back to the window, his back to her. The crow outside had flown away sometime ago, and the lightning rod was now empty.
"Fujiwara," he said, "these three returned documents of yours—the official seal across the binding, the SWIFT code, the valuation report—do you think there's something wrong with your documents?"
Fujiwara didn't say anything.
"Someone doesn't want this money to leave the country," Murata said calmly. "Each refund delays the process by three to five days. Three refunds will take half a month. If this settlement is delayed any longer, the order from Singapore will be canceled."
"Five million dollars is not a large sum for Sumitomo Chemical. But for the bank, it's a test."
"If we give in this time, they will use the same method next time to withhold ten million, twenty million from us, until we are completely dependent on their credit system."
Fujiwara loosened her grip. She seemed to understand something, yet she also seemed even more confused.
"Why would Saionji Trading Company be willing to help us?"
Murata fell silent, gave Fujiwara a deep look, and then turned away.
"Fujiwara, how many years have you been at Sumitomo Chemical?"
"Two years."
"Two years," Murata repeated. "Then you should know how many years this sign hanging above our heads—Sumitomo—has been around."
Fujiwara paused for a moment. "...Four hundred years."
"Starting from the copper mines of Edo, seventeen generations," Murata turned around. "Who do you think this signboard belongs to?"
Fujiwara opened his mouth, then subconsciously replied, "It's from the Sumitomo family."
She said it as if it were perfectly natural. The main family was at the top, followed by banks, trading companies, and factories, layer upon layer, in perfect order.
This was common sense that had been ingrained in her since her first day at the company; weren't all chaebols like this?
Murata looked at her, his eyes holding something she couldn't decipher.
"It's from the same family," he said, "but in recent years, the hand holding this signboard has changed hands."
Fujiwara didn't understand.
Murata walked back to his desk but didn't sit down. He looked down at the business card of Saionji Trading Company, his fingers pressing down on the edge of the desk.
"These three returned documents were returned by the Osaka main store. From the financing department," he said. "Do you know who sits at the top of the financing department?"
"...Standing Committee meeting?"
"White Water Meeting".
The moment those three words were uttered, the air in the office seemed to freeze for a moment.
Fujiwara had certainly heard of the Hakusuikai. It was a club for the presidents of the core companies in the Sumitomo Group, where they met once a month at a ryotei (traditional Japanese restaurant).
In her understanding, it was just a social gathering within the Sumitomo family—a group of important figures sitting together, making decisions for the Sumitomo family, just like... the advisors of ancient daimyo?
But when Murata said "Hakusuikai," his tone didn't sound like he was talking about a social gathering.
It sounds more like they're talking about an opponent.
"You think Shiraizu is the one making decisions for the main family?" Murata's voice deepened. "These past few years, it's Shiraizu who's been 'making decisions' for the main family."
He emphasized the words "make the decision" very heavily.
Fujiwara's heart skipped a beat.
"You've heard something about Ito Man's affair, haven't you?"
Fujiwara nodded. In the break room and the elevator, a few words drifted over—Ito Man was in trouble, lost an astronomical sum, and the bank was still pouring money into it.
"That hole was dug by the bank. The main family wanted to plug it, but they couldn't," Murata said. "Because the decision on how much money to put in wasn't made by the main family, but by the financing department, by those big shots in the Hakusui-kai who came from the banking industry."
"They're only good at bookkeeping." His gaze passed over Fujiwara and landed on an unseen spot on the door. "The books look good, next month's report looks good, the capital adequacy ratio is above the red line—as for the rest, who cares if things go wrong, it's none of their business anyway."
"But the account will explode."
Fujiwara stood there, clutching the notebook filled with lists. She suddenly realized that the order she had taken for granted for the past two years—the main family above, the bank below—might no longer be the case.
That may have been true in the past, but not now.
"Executive Director," her voice was a little tense, "what about the main family? The main family just watches over the bank..."
She didn't finish her sentence; she couldn't find the right word.
Is it reckless? Or sabotage?
Murata turned back to look out the window. The leaden sky pressed down on the Dojima River, its surface barely visible as it flowed.
"A four-hundred-year-old brand cannot be ruined by a group of people who only know how to do bookkeeping."
This statement didn't sound like it was being said to her; it sounded more like it was repeating something someone else had said.
"Instead of letting those book-doing people drag a 400-year-old brand into the mud—" Murata's voice lowered even further, almost bouncing back from the windowpane, "we should invite an outsider in to bring in some fresh blood."
Fujiwara was stunned.
outsider.
She finally understood what that business card meant.
Saionji Trading Company wasn't there to help. They were invited in—invited in personally by the true owner of that four-hundred-year-old signboard.
And the five million dollars that had been stuck in her hands for half a month was not an ordinary overseas settlement.
It was the first injection after the blood transfusion.
And Sumitomo Chemical is the first piece in this three-way game.
Murata remained silent for a long time. When he spoke again, his eyes returned to the composed demeanor of a senior executive officer.
"I haven't said these words since we left this office, and you haven't heard them either."
Fujiwara nodded vigorously.
"Just prepare the documents properly," he said, enunciating each word clearly. "Every date, every voucher, must be accurate. Not a single word can be wrong."
"Signing is my business."
Fujiwara lowered his head and stared at the business card for a long time.
She always had a feeling that a storm was brewing, that the executive director was about to...
But in the end, she reached out and picked it up.
"……I see."
……
Back at his workstation, Fujiwara dialed the number on the business card.
The person who answered the phone was an clerk at the temporary Osaka office of Saionji Trading Co., Ltd.
The other person had a young voice and spoke slowly. He read out the requirements to her one by one and asked her to write them down.
As Fujiwara took notes, he sensed something was amiss.
She had assumed that the procedures at outside trading companies would be easier than those at banks.
However, this list is much stricter than Sumitomo Bank's requirements.
Every trade contract must be accompanied by three independent verification documents—the export customs declaration, the bill of lading, and the insurance policy. The description of the goods, quantity, and weight of the goods in the three documents must be completely consistent. If there is even a single unit difference, the entire contract must be redone.
The timeline of the trade process needs to be accurate to the hour.
The signing of contracts, loading of goods, issuance of bills of lading, and payment of funds must all be marked with the date and time, and original supporting documents must be attached.
"...Also," the person on the other end of the phone added, "please fill in all time points according to the actual times they occurred. If there are any back-entries or additions, please explain them separately."
Fujiwara paused for a moment, his hand holding the microphone still.
"Backfilling?"
"If the contract date was added later, please specify the actual signing date." The clerk's tone was gentle. "We will do cross-validation. If they don't match, they will be returned for rework."
Fujiwara paused for half a second. "...Okay, I've got it."
After hanging up the phone, she looked at the list that filled two whole pages and suddenly understood something.
The bank returned her application because they didn't want the money to leave the bank.
This company, Saionji Shoji, wanted her to lay bare the truth behind every single transaction.
She recalled what Executive Director Murata had said: "There are people who don't want this money to leave the country."
She suddenly wondered where the five million dollars that had been stuck for half a month came from and where it was going.
Fujiwara looked through the list again from beginning to end, picked up his pen, and wrote on the first line:
"Trade Contract CT-90118, Signing Date: November 1990 —"
She paused, took out the original draft, and only after confirming that everything was correct did she begin to write.
Outside the window, the surface of the Dojima River was still gray.
But when she was hunched over the table organizing the documents, her hands were steadyer than in the morning.
……
On the same day, at 11:40 p.m.
Osaka, Kitashinchi, Hakusuikai Secretariat.
Kubota is working overtime.
On the table lay the draft of the "detailed case" that Yasui and Hanoi had sent today, asking him to organize it into an official document by tomorrow morning.
One of the fluorescent lights was flickering, very slowly, dimming and then brightening every few seconds. He ignored it.
He turned to the attachment page—"Ito Man's Abnormal Prepayment Reimbursement Plan".
The pen nib glided across the paper and stopped halfway through the transcription.
In the "Return Date" column, it says:
October 12, 1989.
Kubota stared at this line for two seconds.
October.
He remembered it very clearly. On the night of October 29th, in the 8-tatami room on the second floor of the Chikufu Ryotei, Hanoi said that the contracts for those deposits needed to be filled in—at the time, Hanoi said "November".
He remembered it because he was copying that sentence into the meeting minutes at the time. Hanoi's original words were, "The date should be changed back to October 1989."
--wrong.
Kubota closed his eyes, trying hard to recall every word from that night.
Hanoi was indeed referring to "October".
Hanoi also said something else, about warehouse receipts—"The goods always circulated within the bonded zone and never actually entered the country." And the corresponding warehousing records for the warehouse receipts…where has he ever seen a November date?
WH-8919. November 3rd.
This date appeared in the audit deductions from Endo's side.
Kubota opened his eyes.
The contract was backdated to October 12th, but the goods were only put into storage on November 3rd. Payment came first, but the goods arrived later, a difference of three weeks.
This is precisely the flaw that the audit team would spot at a glance.
If we fill in the gap on a later date, will that make up for the shortfall?
His pen hovered over the paper, the ink gathering into a tiny bead at the tip.
To change or not to change?
This wasn't a question he should be asking. He was just the deputy director of the secretariat, responsible for copying documents and compiling minutes.
Hanoi wrote about October, and he copied October; Hanoi wrote about November, and he copied November.
He changed it without authorization, which was an overreach of his authority.
He hesitated for two seconds.
Then he put down the pen he was using to copy the words and took out his B5 notebook from his inner pocket—his personal notebook, which wasn't included in the meeting minutes.
He turned to the last blank page and wrote a line of very light words in pencil:
"Detailed case file attachment, date of backfilling: October 12, 1989. Original words from the teahouse: October. Inventory entry record: November 3. — Questionable."
After he finished writing, he pressed the pencil marks with his fingertip, but didn't erase them.
He stared at the handwriting on the paper for a long time.
Then close the notebook and put it back in the inner pocket.
The fluorescent light dimmed again.
Kubota picked up his pen again and carefully copied the date "October 12, 1989" onto the official document.
The characters were written very neatly, indistinguishable from any other line before or after.
He turned off the desk lamp, picked up his briefcase, and walked out of the cubicle.
Outside the window at the end of the corridor, it's a November night in Osaka.