Informationen zum Autor Michael Crichton Klappentext #1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the author of Jurassic Park, Timeline, and Sphere comes this riveting thriller of corporate intrigue and cutthroat competition between American and Japanese business interests. "As well built a thrill machine as a suspense novel can be."-The New York Times Book Review On the forty-fifth floor of the Nakamoto tower in downtown Los Angeles-the new American headquarters of the immense Japanese conglomerate-a grand opening celebration is in full swing. On the forty-sixth floor, in an empty conference room, the corpse of a beautiful young woman is discovered. The investigation immediately becomes a headlong chase through a twisting maze of industrial intrigue, a no-holds-barred conflict in which control of a vital American technology is the fiercely coveted prize-and in which the Japanese saying "Business is war" takes on a terrifying reality. "A grand maze of plot twists . . . Crichton's gift for spinning a timely yarn is going to be enough, once again, to serve a current tenant of the bestseller list with an eviction notice."-New York Daily News "The action in Rising Sun unfolds at a breathless pace."-Business WeekActually, I was sitting on my bed in my apartment in Culver City, watching the Lakers game with the sound turned off, while I tried to study vocabulary for my introductory Japanese class. It was a quiet evening; I had gotten my daughter to sleep about eight. Now I had the cassette player on the bed, and the cheerful woman's voice was saying things like, Hello, I am a police officer. Can I be of assistance? and Please show me the menu. After each sentence, she paused for me to repeat it back, in Japanese. I stumbled along as best I could. Then she would say, The vegetable store is closed. Where is the post office? Things like that. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate, but I was trying. Mr. Hayashi has two children. I tried to answer. Hayashi-san wa kodomo ga fur?.?.?.?futur?.?.?. I swore. But by then the woman was talking again. This drink is not very good at all. I had my textbook open on the bed, alongside a Mr. Potato Head I'd put back together for my daughter. Next to that, a photo album, and the pictures from her second birthday party. It was four months after Michelle's party, but I still hadn't put the pictures in the album. You have to try and keep up with that stuff. There will be a meeting at two o'clock. The pictures on my bed didn't reflect reality any more. Four months later, Michelle looked completely different. She was taller; she'd outgrown the expensive party dress my ex-wife had bought for her: black velvet with a white lace collar. In the photos, my ex-wife plays a prominent role--holding the cake as Michelle blows out the candles, helping her unwrap the presents. She looks like a dedicated mom. Actually, my daughter lives with me, and my ex-wife doesn't see much of her. She doesn't show up for weekend visitation half the time, and she misses child-support payments. But you'd never know from the birthday photos. Where is the toilet? I have a car. We can go together. I continued studying. Of course, officially I was on duty that night: I was the Special Services officer on call for division headquarters downtown. But February ninth was a quiet Thursday, and I didn't expect much action. Until nine o'clock, I only had three calls. Special Services includes the diplomatic section of the police department; we handle problems with diplomats and celebrities, and provide translators and liaison for foreign nationals who come into contact with the police for one reason or another. It's varied work, but not stressful: when I'm on call I can expect a half-dozen requests for help, none of them emergencies. I hardly ever have to roll out. It's mu...

Autorentext

Michael Crichton

Klappentext

"As well built a thrill machine as a suspense novel can be."-The New York Times Book Review

On the forty-fifth floor of the Nakamoto tower in downtown Los Angeles-the new American headquarters of the immense Japanese conglomerate-a grand opening celebration is in full swing.

On the forty-sixth floor, in an empty conference room, the corpse of a beautiful young woman is discovered.

The investigation immediately becomes a headlong chase through a twisting maze of industrial intrigue, a no-holds-barred conflict in which control of a vital American technology is the fiercely coveted prize-and in which the Japanese saying "Business is war" takes on a terrifying reality.

"A grand maze of plot twists . . . Crichton's gift for spinning a timely yarn is going to be enough, once again, to serve a current tenant of the bestseller list with an eviction notice."-New York Daily News

"The action in Rising Sun unfolds at a breathless pace."-Business Week

Zusammenfassung
#1 NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • From the author of Jurassic Park, Timeline, and Sphere comes this riveting thriller of corporate intrigue and cutthroat competition between American and Japanese business interests.
 
“As well built a thrill machine as a suspense novel can be.”—The New York Times Book Review
 
On the forty-fifth floor of the Nakamoto tower in downtown Los Angeles—the new American headquarters of the immense Japanese conglomerate—a grand opening celebration is in full swing.
 
On the forty-sixth floor, in an empty conference room, the corpse of a beautiful young woman is discovered.
 
The investigation immediately becomes a headlong chase through a twisting maze of industrial intrigue, a no-holds-barred conflict in which control of a vital American technology is the fiercely coveted prize—and in which the Japanese saying “Business is war” takes on a terrifying reality.
 
“A grand maze of plot twists . . . Crichton’s gift for spinning a timely yarn is going to be enough, once again, to serve a current tenant of the bestseller list with an eviction notice.”—New York Daily News
 
“The action in Rising Sun unfolds at a breathless pace.”—Business Week

Leseprobe
Actually, I was sitting on my bed in my apartment in Culver City, watching the Lakers game with the sound turned off, while I tried to study vocabulary for my introductory Japanese class.

It was a quiet evening; I had gotten my daughter to sleep about eight. Now I had the cassette player on the bed, and the cheerful woman’s voice was saying things like, “Hello, I am a police officer. Can I be of assistance?” and “Please show me the menu.” After each sentence, she paused for me to repeat it back, in Japanese. I stumbled along as best I could. Then she would say, “The vegetable store is closed. Where is the post office?” Things like that. Sometimes it was hard to concentrate, but I was trying. “Mr. Hayashi has two children.”

I tried to answer. “Hayashi-san wa kodomo ga fur . . . futur . . .” I swore. But by then the woman was talking again.

“This drink is not very good at all.”

I had my textbook open on the bed, alongside a Mr. Potato Head I’d put back together for my daughter. Next to that, a photo album, and the pictures from her second birthday party. It was four months after Michelle’s party, but I still hadn’t put the pictures in the album. You have to try and keep up with that stuff.

“There will be a meeting at two o’clock.”

The pictures…