Dying to Tell (34 page)

More of the same followed, merging seamlessly into sympathetic questions about the travails of a Customs and Excise officer. All this proceeded while Townley and I tracked slowly along the sides of the pallets, looking up and down the stacks of aluminium in search of a clue to where Rupe might have lodged the letter, exchanging shakes of the head between the stacks as we drew progressive blanks.

I had the torch, and soon needed it, as visibility deteriorated the further we went. We were about two-thirds of the way along when I saw what I suppose I'd subconsciously been looking for: a strip of red-and-white caving tape wrapped round the strut of a pallet. I crouched down and shone the torch in and around the area beneath the pallet. There didn't seem to be anything there. I lay on my side for a closer look. And then I saw it.

A square of brown thick-gauge plastic was parcel-taped to the underside of the pallet. I stretched my hand in and peeled off one length of the tape, then pulled the rest away. The plastic square was in fact a sealed packet. I could feel a slim, flimsy object inside it. Standing up, I leaned back against the stack of ingots, forced a hole in the plastic with my finger and tore it open.

There was a letter inside. This one wasn't addressed to me. It was the letter. I didn't have a doubt of it. For some reason, the memory of Rupe as Simon Yardley had seen him, grinning from ear to ear as he walked towards London Bridge, flashed into my mind as the torch beam fell across the face of the airmail envelope. Mayumi Hashimoto, Golden Rickshaw, 2-10-5 Nihombashi, Chuoku, Tokyo, Japan, was written in a scratchy, looping hand, with old-fashioned Rs and Ns. There were two US five-cent stamps on the envelope. My eye tracked from them across to the postmark: DALLAS, TX, 22 NOVI think I knew it all then. As if I'd entered a darkened room and the light had suddenly come on, revealing the cobwebs, thick as a forest, that hung around me. There was fear, like a clutch at the throat. And fascination, like a beckoning finger. I turned the envelope over in my hand. It hadn't been slit open, but the flap was no longer stuck down. I hesitated, then lifted the flap.

"Don't do it, Lance." Townley's voice, so close to my ear, made me jump with surprise. I whirled round and saw him, face in shadow, standing less than a foot away. "I really do advise you not to." He held out his hand. "Give the letter to me."

What else could I do? I passed it to him and watched as he slipped the single sheet of paper out of the envelope and held it up to the light behind him. He didn't need to read it, of course. He knew what it contained.

"Good," he said softly, sliding it back into the envelope. "Secure at last."

"I'd like it back, please."

There was a faint widening of his eyes as he stared at me. "Pardon me?"

"The letter. I want it back."

"You do, huh?"

"Until I see Yamazawa alive and well. That's when I'll hand it over for keeps."

"If I refuse?"

"I reckon I can kick up enough of a fuss to have you stopped at the gate. I'm sure you don't want that to happen."

"I'd prefer a quiet exit."

"And you can have one. If I get to carry the letter."

There are two of us, Lance. We can overpower you any time we like."

"And I can tell Gordon about our deal any time I like. Can you be certain he won't believe me?"

Townley thought about that for a second, then nodded. "OK." He handed the letter back to me. "Put it in your pocket and leave it there until we pick up Yamazawa."

"Right."

"Now, let's go."

Our departure, once Townley had signalled to Ledgister with a nod that we had what we'd come for, was swift swifter than a clearly bewildered Harris had expected. We left him to re-seal the container, got into the car and drove away.

"You're sure it's the original?" said Ledgister.

"I'd stake my life on it," Townley calmly replied.

"That's what you are doing, Stephen. Me too."

"Lance is keeping it for us until you reunite him with his Japanese friend. But he hasn't read it, I can assure you."

"Good. Better still for him."

"And he's not going to ask us any of the questions the date and place it was mailed are bound to have planted in his mind. Are you, Lance?"

"I have no questions," I said levelly.

"Smart of you." Ledgister glanced across at me as we neared the gate, where the barrier on the exit lane was obligingly raised. "Real smart."

I had plenty of questions, of course dozens of them, swarming inside my head. Dallas, Texas, 22 November 1963. One of the most famous dates of the century. The ultimate hit. The grand tragedy. The corkscrewing conspiracy. And the day I was born.

Who had Mayumi known in Dallas? Why was he writing to her that day of all days? The answer was there, nestling in my pocket. Maybe the answer to all the questions.

I remembered the photograph from Rupe's briefcase of Townley, Loudon and a third man drinking at the Golden Rickshaw the photograph that was waiting for me in my bag at the Polaris. I remembered it so clearly I could almost have been staring at it. Staring closely. At the third man. At the side of his face. A face that would never turn to meet my stare. Because, if it did .. .

We hit the main road and headed for London. Ledgister drove fast and in silence, his normal garrulousness stifled. Townley too said nothing. There was nothing to say. Nothing safe, anyway. I wanted out more than I wanted the truth. That was the only truth that mattered. I wanted it to stop. And maybe, as long as I didn't think too hard, it would.

"Make the call." We were on the dual carriage way slicing through Dagenham

Motor Works when Townley broke the silence in his quiet but commanding voice. Ledgister didn't say anything in response. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and jabbed at some numbers with his thumb. The call was answered almost immediately.

"It's me," Ledgister growled into the phone. "Yuh, I know ... It hasn't been straightforward, but it's OK now .. . Shut up, for Christ's sake, and listen. It's all set. We'll be there within a half-hour. Have everything ready. OK? .. . Good." With that, he rang off. That was Carl, Lance. He's looking forward to our arrival. Not as much as Yamazawa is, though, I'll bet. It'll be a sweet parting for all of us. Quiet and civilized. A straight swap. OK by you?"

"Just fine."

"Great."

We covered more wordless miles through the grey sprawl of East London.

What would I learn if I pulled the envelope out of my pocket and read the letter? What would I understand about Townley that made him more dangerous than ever? I remembered a night out with Rupe and Simon Yardley at Durham to celebrate my twentieth birthday, back in November 1983. It had been the twentieth anniversary of the Kennedy assassination as well, of course. I remembered arguing with Simon about the hoary old $64,000 question: did Oswald do it, or was it a conspiracy? Simon had favoured the lone nut theory, naturally. Even as a student, he'd been an establishment man. I'd gone for conspiracy, just to annoy him. The truth was that I'd never bothered to study the evidence. But Rupe had. Oh yes. Even then, Rupe had known what he was talking about. There can't be any serious doubt there was a conspiracy," he said, reeling off an army of facts about ballistics and forensics and doppelganger Oswalds and dead witnesses and God knows what. (I'd been too stoned to take much of it in.) The only question that really counts is: who were the conspirators?"

I glanced over my shoulder at Townley and realized he was already looking at me. Neither of us spoke. Then I looked back at the road.

It was a surprise when we left the A13 at Canning Town and pulled into the empty taxi rank in front of the Tube station. This couldn't be the han dover point, I reasoned. It was too public.

"Stephen and I need to have a private word, Lance," said Ledgister. "Why don't you step out for a moment?"

"That would probably be best," agreed Townley.

"But don't go far, hey? Stay where we can see you."

"OK." I got out, slammed the door behind me and took an aimless stroll of ten yards or so ahead. When I looked back, Townley was leaning forward between the front seats, watching me and listening as Ledgister spoke. Ledgister was doing most of the talking and their private word lasted no more than a couple of minutes (during which I wished I'd enrolled for lip-reading classes last time Strode College had pushed out their adult education prospectus). Then Townley got out of the car and came to meet me.

"Gordon feels and I agree that it would be ... inadvisable ... for me to be seen by either Madron or Yamazawa. Best for me to maintain a low profile. So, I'll go on from here by subway and meet up with him later." Nothing in Townley's expression remotely hinted at what he must have known I'd be thinking: Ledgister had shown his hand.

"What about the letter?"

"Surrender it to Gordon when Yamazawa's free. As agreed."

"You know what I mean."

"Everything's under control, Lance. Get back in the car." I almost believed a smile was flickering at the edges of his mouth, but his beard meant I couldn't be sure. "You can trust my son-in-law."

"But '

"Get back in the car."

I got back in. And watched Townley vanish into the Tube station entrance as we drove away. Events were gathering momentum. And I wasn't in control of them. Townley had apparently consented to an arrangement that would let Ledgister walk away with the letter. He shouldn't have done. But he had. It made no sense. Yet I knew that, somehow, it must.

"Not far now," said Ledgister as we headed down the approach to the Blackwall Tunnel. "Our business will soon be concluded."

"Good."

"And don't worry. It'd be crazy even if kind of satisfying to kill you and Yamazawa once I've got the letter. I aim to leave London without a trace of a sign I've ever been here."

"Don't you mean "Once we've got the letter"?"

' "We've" as in my father-in-law and I? Yuh. Of course. That goes without saying." Ledgister chuckled. "Not trying to come between us, are you, Lance? That's a bad habit of yours." We plunged into the dark mouth of the tunnel. "Just as well I soon won't need to worry about your habits any more."

Ledgister took the first turning off after the tunnel and followed a winding route into the industrial wasteland of North Greenwich. Away to the east I glimpsed the roof of the Millennium Dome (a Wheatsheaf coach trip to which I'd eagerly opted out of earlier in the year). I could have sworn someone had told me the Dome had revitalized the whole area, but revitalization I didn't see, just a dismal sprawl of disused warehouses and derelict chemical works.

We drove along an alley between the rotting flanks of a couple of such premises towards the westward meander of the Thames, beyond which soared the teeming spires of Docklands. Then we turned through a seemingly purpose-cut gap in a security fence into the pot-holed, weed-pocked loading yard of an abandoned depot. Ledgister cut the engine and opened his window to the dank, ammonia-tinged air.

"It had to be select accommodation, Lance, seeing as

Yamazawa's a friend of yours. Time for him to move on, though, I reckon, don't you?"

"Where is he?"

"Patience, patience." Ledgister gave the horn three short blares. "We'll soon have you back together. See?"

A figure appeared out of the shadows on the loading platform of the ruinous warehouse ahead of us. It was Carl Madron. He raised a hand in acknowledgement, then scuttled back into the shadows.

"Let's get out," said Ledgister. "He won't be long."

We got out of the car and walked slowly round in front of it. A few second passed. Then Carl reappeared, this time with Yamazawa beside him. Toshi looked tired, unshaven and overdue for a bath, but otherwise none the worse for his experience. He blinked in the daylight (what there was of it) and waved at me, almost cheerily. The Blue Hawaii shirt would clearly never be the same again, but I reminded myself (which took some doing) that every cloud has a silver lining.

Yamazawa hurried down the steps from the loading platform and started across the yard towards us, Carl following. "I'll take the letter now, Lance," said Ledgister. "If you please."

I took the letter out of my pocket, glanced one last time at the handwriting and postmark, then handed it over.

"Thank you kindly." Ledgister prised the letter open inside the envelope and peered down at it, as if checking I hadn't removed it earlier in some piece of legerdemain I certainly wasn't capable of. He nodded in satisfaction. "That's it all right."

"I am OK, Lance," said Yamazawa. "But I am glad to see you, for sure."

"Get in the car, Carl," said Ledgister. "We've got what we wanted." He held up the letter like a trophy. Time to go time."

Carl kept his distance as he moved past me. He had a bruised jaw to remember our last encounter by and it was Echo who'd suffered for that. We had nothing to say to each other. What sort of deal he'd struck with Ledgister I didn't know, but I doubted there was much of a chance Ledgister would honour it. That, though, was something I was content to let Carl find out for himself. I had another deal to think about mine with Townley and how, if at all, it could survive this turn of events.

Carl got into the passenger seat of the car and slammed the door. That was the cue for Ledgister to pocket the letter and treat us to an ironical smile. "Good day, gentlemen. It's been a pleasure doing business with you." He ambled to the car, got in, started up, reversed across the yard, then drove straight past us and out through the gap in the fence.

"I am in your debt, Lance," said Yamazawa, smiling wanly at me. "Thank you for doing whatever you had to do to free me."

"No problem, Toshi," I said, watching the car pick up speed until it vanished round the corner of the warehouse. "It was a doddle."

"Really?"

"No. Not really. But '

My voice was drowned in a sudden, deafening, buffeting roar. Instinctively, I crouched down, squeezing my eyes shut. When I opened them a couple of seconds later, I saw a vast plume of smoke rising beyond the warehouse roof. Fragments of metal and other debris were raining down onto it. Seagulls, scattered from their wharf side perches, filled the sky, their screeches of alarm slowly drowning the fading roar.