Whitmore seemed not to understand why that answer did not help.
“She’s staff.”
“Yes.”
“This is a private business dinner.”
“Yes.”
“She had no right to repeat—”
Chairman Ishikawa’s expression hardened.
“You invited her into your conversation when you wagered a quarter-million dollars on her ignorance.”
Whitmore’s jaw tightened.
“That was a joke.”
“No.”
The chairman looked at the cream envelope.
“It was information.”
Naomi did not fully understand what he meant yet.
She would.
Whitmore tried a different tone.
The aggressive one disappeared.
The negotiator returned.
“Masaru, we’ve been working on this for eleven months.”
“I know.”
“Our teams have solved every major point.”
“Not every.”
“Don’t let a restaurant misunderstanding interfere with a five-billion-dollar partnership.”
Chairman Ishikawa glanced toward the envelope again.
“This is not about a restaurant.”
Whitmore forced a laugh.
“It obviously is.”
“No.”
The chairman’s voice remained soft.
“That is why you are in danger.”
He looked around the table.
“Our concerns regarding your employee-retention guarantees were not resolved.”
Whitmore froze.
Naomi noticed.
So did everyone in the delegation.
Chairman Ishikawa continued.
“Your lawyers said one thing.”
“Your operations team said another.”
“Tonight, when you believed I was not listening, you clarified which version you intended to honor.”
Whitmore’s face changed.
That was different from embarrassment.
That was fear.
“Masaru, those comments were informal.”
“Integrity is rarely tested in formal comments.”
Whitmore looked toward the Japanese executives.
One by one, none met his gaze.
The chairman closed his hand around the folder.
“Our due-diligence committee will reconvene tomorrow.”
“That’s unnecessary.”
“I disagree.”
Whitmore stepped around his chair.
“Let’s talk privately.”
“We are.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
“And no.”
Chairman Ishikawa bowed slightly toward Naomi.
Then started toward the exit.
Whitmore followed.
“Masaru.”
The chairman stopped.
Whitmore lowered his voice.
“What will it take?”
Chairman Ishikawa turned.
The question hung between them.
Money.
Concession.
Revised terms.
That was what Whitmore meant.
Chairman Ishikawa looked tired suddenly.
“Charles.”
“Yes?”
“That question is the problem.”
Then he walked away.
The Japanese executives followed.
The last of them, a forty-eight-year-old woman named Keiko Mori, paused beside Naomi.
She spoke quietly in Japanese.
“You did not cause what happens next.”
Naomi looked at her.
Keiko continued.
“Remember that.”
Then she left.
Whitmore stood motionless beside the table.
The restaurant slowly remembered how to breathe.
Daniel Preston approached.
“Mr. Whitmore.”