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possible.”
    “Can you tell us what exactly is being done, Daijin?” a third reporter queried. “The Japanese economy is in bad enough shape without Yakuza clans draining it still further.”
    “I agree completely,” Ushiba said. “I assure you that we at MITI are on a crusade to curb all illegal activities of any nature. We must, at all costs, restore public confidence in our way of life. I needn’t remind you that over the decades MITI has been the staunch watchdog in our country’s phenomenal but often difficult and painful economic growth. MITI never once flinched from its duties. Now we see our mandate as expanding. You can count on MITI to protect the interests of the people of Japan.” He went on to give them an impressive list of statistics his ministry heads had compiled on areas of corruption that had been cleaned up or were currently under investigation, answered several more questions, then turned the press conference over to a dark-faced man of impressive countenance, Tanaka Gin, the most renowned member of the terrifying Tokyo prosecutors with whom Ushiba had been liaising for months.
    Back in his office, Ushiba ran a hand through his hair and found it wet. With distaste, he went into his private washroom, swallowed a pill. He pushed a towel over his hair, then splashed cold water on his face.
    Though he had initiated these press conferences, he found them to be an increasing burden. However, he was locked into them. He had become like a poster boy or a talento. His brainchild had given him a kind of instant celebrity, and since this devolved onto MITI, it was deemed beneficial for the beleaguered bureaucracy as a whole.
    His intercom was buzzing when he returned to the office. His secretary announced that Yukio Haji wished to see him. Ushiba glanced at his jam-packed schedule book. He did not see Haji’s name listed, but since Haji was one of the young ministers whom Ushiba was training, he bade his secretary send the man in.
    Haji, in a somber mood, entered, sitting in a steel-frame chair that Ushiba indicated. Haji was an earnest young man who had come to MITI with the highest possible grades, honors, and recommendations. Ushiba had been determined from the outset to make something special of him.
    “Daijin, I know how busy you are, but there is a serious matter that cannot wait.”
    Ushiba sat back, lit a cigarette while he studied the young man’s unlined face. Here was a product of the new Japan, under pressure to perform at full capacity at every level of his education, examined, probed, pushed at every level after graduation. Being accepted at MITI was his reward, but Ushiba made certain he knew that was not the end of it. Haji might be a product of postmodern life, but Ushiba was seeing to it that he was possessed of kanryodo, the spirit of the samurai-bureaucrat. A code of honor, as strict as the ancient samurai’s Bushido, operated here, and recruits either accepted it as gospel or they were transferred to another, lesser ministry.
    “What is the problem?” Ushiba said.
    “I went to my checking account to pay my rent this month and found that I had insufficient funds.” Haji drew forth a folded sheet of paper. “Please accept my resignation. I am leaving ministry service. It is clear that I have worked hard but learned little.”
    Ushiba took the proffered resignation but did not open it. Instead, he opened his lighter, put the flame to the corner of the paper. When the last ash had crumbled from his fingers, he said, “How much do you owe?”
    When Haji told him, he wrote out a check, which he handed over to his astonished protégé. “Read the Hagakure, the Book of the Samurai. Your ignorance of its wisdom is your true transgression.” He did not ask what Haji had spent his money on because he did not care. All that mattered was that kanryodo be adhered to, that misconduct within the class remain undetected by those outside. “Youthful indiscretion is understandable, even to be