2.7 billion yen. Roughly 18 million dollars. She looked at the contract folder under Brooks's arm. She'd seen the cover page when she'd set the table earlier.
The acquisition price, 30 million dollars. 18 million in actual revenue, 30 million on the contract. A gap of 12 million dollars. 40%.
Iris looked at the page again, read the fine print beneath the revenue line. Internal use only, not for external distribution, pre-adjusted figures. Pre-adjusted. The version Brooks had been shown, the one Yuki had translated during eight months of negotiation, was the adjusted version, the clean version.
The version where 18 became 30. Kenji saw Iris holding the papers. His face went from white to gray. He lunged across the table reaching for the documents.
"Those are confidential. Give those back." Iris stepped aside, one step, calm, the way a matador side steps a bull. She held the page out to Brooks. "Mr.
Brooks, before you leave, you should have someone translate this page." Brooks took the paper, looked at it. Japanese characters, columns of numbers, a corporate letterhead he recognized. "What is it?" "It's Nakamura Industries internal revenue report for the semiconductor division, the real one, not the version you were given." She pointed to the number. Actual revenue, $18 million.
Your contract says 30 million. The room contracted. The air itself seemed to thicken. Brooks looked at the number.
He didn't speak Japanese, but he understood numerals. He understood 2.7 billion yen. And he understood what 18 versus 30 meant. He looked at Nakamura.
Nakamura's mouth was moving, but no sound came out. Kenji had frozen mid-reach, arms still extended across the table, fingers grasping at nothing. You inflated your revenue by 40%. Brooks's voice was quiet, controlled.
The quiet of a man who has just realized he was 45 seconds away from signing a document that would have cost his company $12 million. You tried to defraud me. Brooks son, those numbers are preliminary. They're not finalized.
The accounting department and you did all of this? The lying, the fraud, the racism in front of the one person in this room who could read your own documents? Brooks held up the paper. You discriminated against the only person who could have saved you from a federal fraud investigation.
And instead of treating her with basic human decency, you threw a napkin in her face and told her to kneel. He shook his head slowly. That's not just immoral, Nakamura. That's stupid.
He turned to Iris, extended his hand. She took it. His grip was firm, his palm warm. Thank you for everything you did tonight.
Then Harrison Brooks walked out of the Meridian, contract unsigned, internal report in hand, and Takeshi Nakamura's $30 million deal and everything attached to it died on the white tablecloth of table nine. Somewhere near the bar, someone started clapping. Then another. Then three more.