Kusanagi (11 page)

Stafford sat up in bed. His iPhone was vibrating on the table – an intruder alert. He looked at the outlined figure poised at the first-floor window, trying to open the latch. He allowed himself a little smile as he saw the blade slide between the sash frames and flick the latch. The agile balaclava-clad man who balanced on the slim sill would get nowhere trying to raise the window. It was dead-bolted with screw-in keys. Stafford had been fortifying the house, taking every opportunity, whether Jim was around or not, to make the riverside warehouse into a fortress.

Jim was a serious target, be it for the money he was worth or for the skill he had in calling the markets. A rich man needed good security, whether he cared for it or not. It was now being tested.

He wondered about calling the police, but as he did so he saw the intruder swing off the sill and climb down the drainpipe. From a different camera he watched the expert motions of the cat burglar. This was no junkie after money for drugs. He watched the figure walk up the street and disappear into a side road about a hundred yards ahead.

The moonlight was almost perfect. He could see as well as if he was working in daylight. He liked to run across the rooftops: it was a skill that made him different. He was no common criminal. He didn't kick down doors when people were out to steal their jewellery and cash. He was a craftsman. He had never been caught.

In one sense it was a simple job: get in, get the object, get out, leaving as little trace as possible. His trusted network of dealers would call on him when they needed something purloined. It was an expensive collector's game, robbing between the rich. It paid very well indeed.

He was no leery villain, off down the nightclubs to big it up. He was a professional with perhaps another ten years of lucrative work ahead of him.

He was learning to drive a London taxi, not because he would ever need the money but because the wait between jobs would get to him and make him anxious. He was addicted to the challenge and without it he needed a distraction.

One day he might fall off or through a roof but for now he scampered over the building tops with acrobatic grace, a happy man.

The job was immense. Fetch three items for one million pounds. It was almost too good to be true. These days, Oriental collectors must be rich beyond belief. They must be going crazy with their new-found wealth. Everyone knew the Far East was taking over the world. He tried not to think as he walked across the eaves: balance was skill and pure concentration.

Stafford sat up in bed again. ‘Good grief,' he muttered. Someone was on the roof. He looked at the image on the phone. It was another intruder, the second night in a row. The same balaclava-clad figure was taking tiles up on the roof. He would be coming in through the attic. Someone so skilled and resourceful would be inside the house in moments. He got out of bed and threw on his dressing-gown over his silk pyjamas. He put his slippers on and went to his bedside drawer.

He took out the PPK and quickly screwed in the silencer. He left his room and made his way upstairs. He had to protect Jim's bedroom and he had only seconds to get into place. If he called the police now, he would lose the video feed and tracking of the intruder.

He castigated himself as he went as fast as he could up the stairs. They had no panic room or alarm buttons. The house was practically unprotected. It seemed he had spent too much time on securing the perimeter and on surveillance. He had let the side down badly.

The black-clad figure lowered himself through the hatch in the roof space to the floor below. He held himself and judged the drop. It was little enough that getting back up would be no problem. He lowered himself and dropped the last feet to the floor. Normally he would have gone in through a ground-floor window, but this house was well secured. However, no one protected their roof. He would most probably leave through the front door. Getting out was always much easier than getting in.

The tricky bit would be finding the items. He had a copy of the plans bought from the firm that had put in the alarm of the previous owner. He would start in the waterside lounge and go from there.

Stafford stood by the doorway to Jim's room and watched the figure on the screen make his way quickly down the stairs. If the intruder turned into the hall where he was waiting, he would shoot. His palm was hot and slippery and he remembered the feeling of excitement and dread from all those many years ago when he had waited, gun in hand, for the shadow of a returning target.

The figure was coming down the stairs and would either keep going to the floors below or turn right towards him. Right would mark the figure as an assassin, straight on, as a robber.

The shadow flickered by and was gone downstairs.

Stafford walked carefully away from Jim's door and after the robber.

He stopped by the open door and listened. He always took stock before crossing a threshold. He went in. He was looking for a rectangular gold box with the rising sun on it. There it was, right in front of the window, on a table.

Brilliant, he thought. He trotted gracefully over to it. He took out a penlight, the end of which was covered in cloth. It threw a faint light. He picked up the box, which was extremely heavy, and turned it to catch the moonlight from the window. Bingo, he thought. He pulled out a fine nylon holdall that filled his left trouser pocket. It would take the box.

The light went on.

Shit! He twisted around, blinded by the light.

‘Put it down,' said the voice of an old man.

He laid the box down, buying time for his eyes to adjust.

He turned. An old man was holding a gun on him, aiming straight between his eyes. It was a bluff – the gun was a replica. He reached for his belt and pulled out a long knife.

Stafford fired instinctively, as he had many times before.

The body fell.

Stafford sighed. ‘Oh dear,' he said. He laid down his gun and slipped off his dressing-gown. He folded it and put it under the bleeding head of the robber. It would catch most of the blood. He tried to take the man's pulse. He was dead.

It had been a long time since he had taken a life and he would have shed a tear if it wasn't for the fact that there was work to be done.

He called the main number; a female voice answered. She wasn't well spoken like the women of the old days: she sounded like a checkout girl in a supermarket. ‘Removals, please,' he said.

‘Identification.'

‘Bertie fourteen.'

‘Do you have a five digit number?'

‘Just fourteen.'

‘Triple zero one four?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘I have it,' she said. ‘Biometrics failed.'

‘Good Lord,' he said. ‘Can't you just put me through?'

‘Let me try again with that voice print.' There was a click. ‘Putting you through.'

‘Night supervisor.'

‘Is that Removals?'

‘No – I don't know why you've come through to me.'

‘Can you transfer me?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Good grief,' muttered Stafford. ‘Look, can you be relied upon to get a message to Removals?'

‘Well, I don't know.'

‘Listen, my man, the message is, “Bertie fourteen has a removal at his address.”'

‘I'll try.'

‘You know what a removal is?'

‘I think so.'

‘Well, then, please try hard.'

There was the clattering of a keyboard. ‘Yes, sir.'

Stafford hung up with a sigh.

There was a knock at Professor Nakabashi's office door.

‘Come in.'

A tall, thin man in a black suit entered. His shirt was very white against the harsh black of his jacket. His cuffs almost shone as they poked out from under his sleeves. His hair was heavily oiled.

Akira stood up and bowed politely.

They exchanged cards.

‘Sensei, I have brought you your travel itinerary. The delay has been unfortunate.'

‘I am nonetheless eager to go.'

‘I have been asked to warn you that news has travelled far and wide.'

‘Then I am honoured that I have been selected to go.'

‘You will have two companions from the DID for your protection.'

‘I am grateful.'

‘You fly tonight.'

Jim noticed the Persian rug in front of the table with the golden box. If he had been curious enough he would have lifted it and found that an area of carpet beneath it had been cut away. He went to his computer and checked his email. Nothing from Jane. He opened his currency charts. Interest rates were going to explode in the coming month: he could jump on them and short bonds into the ground.

Davas wouldn't like that because Davas was the guardian of the US Treasury bond. He was the fund manager famous for his currency calls and his powerful hedge fund, when in reality he was the US Treasury's market manipulator who propped up the giant superpower by being one step ahead of the market. Jim had no desire to play Samson and pull the temple down on everyone. He felt no need to dispel the illusion of money. The Turkish lira looked like it wanted to be tweaked; he could knock it back for a few million. He curled his fingers and stood up. ‘Argh,' he grumbled. He had to get used to leaving the markets alone.

Stafford came in with his morning cup of tea. He noted Jim was wearing the necklace.

Jim noticed that Stafford was not his normal rosy-cheeked self. ‘You OK?' he asked.

‘Yes, thank you, sir,' he said. ‘The storm has damaged the roof tiles and I've been clambering around in the loft.'

‘Don't go straining yourself,' said Jim.

‘I'll try not to,' said Stafford.

Jim pressed his ribs. They were feeling much better.

‘I think perhaps, sir, that we might put the items in storage at a bank. Selfridges has a very good facility, or the bank on the Strand.'

‘Why bother?' said Jim. ‘You've turned this place into Fort Knox.'

‘Very good, sir,' said Stafford, smiling weakly.

There was a fanfare from Jim's computer and he shot out of his seat, clattering the cup down on the low coffee table. The fanfare meant only one thing: an email from Jane.

Hey Jim, got leave. You free?

He called but her phone went straight through to voicemail.

Of course. I'll clear all the decks. How long have you got?

He sent the email on its way. It was three a.m. on the east coast, he thought. Maybe she was east of him instead.

He paged through stock charts as he waited, occasionally buying stock in companies that looked like they were on the up. He was spreading some good news. He stumbled on an Italian retailer that looked like it was going to go bust unexpectedly. He looked up news on the company and it was all good. Interesting, he thought. He was naturally inclined to short its stock there and then. He groaned. Why bother?

The fanfare sounded and he sat up straighter, a smile on his face.

Don't know. Meet in Naples?

Jim liked Italy – or, rather, he liked Venice where he had stayed with Davas. He pulled up Naples on Wikipedia. There was a picture of a bay. ‘Oh, shit,' he muttered.

It's got a flipping volcano. Can we meet somewhere else?

If he never saw another volcano he'd be a happy man. A brush with death in the one at Las Palmas had been the start of it. Then, in short order, a lethal escapade in Congo under the erupting Mount Nyiragongo had nearly done for him. The thought of meeting Jane near Vesuvius just seemed like a bad idea.

The idea of Naples pulled him back to the Italian store with the imminent collapse in its chart pattern. He looked at it closely: it would fold in a year or so. Negoziomundo seemed to the entire world a hugely successful company. It sponsored the World Cup and Formula One. He fancied that its office must be set on the slopes of Vesuvius, just like Pompeii, ready to be swept away by an unpredictable and instantaneous disaster. But it wasn't sited under a volcano: whatever the disaster was going to be, it wasn't a geological one.

The fanfare blasted.

Ha, ha. OK, I'll come to London. Going dark.

When?

There was no reply.

Jim looked at Negoziomundo's stock price. It took all his willpower to stop himself firing up his trading robots to sell the company into the ground. He looked out at the river. The tide was going down nicely. He had forgotten: there was going to be a very low tide this morning.

Stafford hadn't. He entered the room with Jim's boots and his green padded coat. Jim jumped up. ‘Thanks, Stafford,' he said. ‘You've saved my life.' He went to the window and pulled on the boots. ‘Jane's coming,' he said.

‘Very good, sir.'

Jim slung on the coat.

‘Perhaps Sir might like to leave the priceless crown of the Japanese behind?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Jim, sliding it over his head. ‘Wouldn't want to lose that in the mud.' He noticed his butler had perked up. ‘See you later.'

Jim laid out the contents of his pocket on the coffee table. He pushed aside the modern coins.

‘The Romans threw away their small change,' noted Stafford, picking up a bent piece of metal. ‘Part of a silver watch case.' He sniffed. ‘Various buttons, Victorian or later. Harrington farthing from the reign of Charles the First. Rather charming. Rivet heads.'

‘I thought they might be corroded coins.'

‘Sadly not.' Stafford picked up two twin brass disks held together by a wire.

‘Georgian cufflinks.

That's it,' said Jim, rummaging in his pockets. ‘Hold on, there's this.'

There was a buzz from the front door.

‘Musket ball,' said Stafford, and tugged out his iPhone. ‘There appears to be a Japanese gentleman at the door.'

‘Holy crap,' said Jim, a phrase he had picked up from Jane. They went to the door.

‘Hello,' said Stafford, intent on the video of the view outside that had appeared on a console by the door. The Japanese man was looking at the door, awaiting a response. He was alone.

‘Yes,' said the caller. ‘I have come to see Jim Evans-san.'

‘Do you have an appointment?'

‘No. I am sorry.'

‘What do you think?' said Jim to Stafford.

Stafford didn't reply. ‘Who may I say is calling?'

‘Professor Nakabashi from the Japanese Imperial Archive.' The letterbox opened and a card fell into the cage.

Jim fished it out. ‘It's all in Japanese.'

Stafford took it from him. ‘So it is.'

‘Let him in.' Jim smirked, ‘I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it?'

Stafford frowned. He looked at the image of the man, then at a broader view around the door. There was still no one in sight. ‘Please come in,' he said.

Jim turned the lock and opened the door.

The professor looked up at him. ‘Nice to meet you,' he said, offering his hand. They shook and he followed Jim along the hallway; Stafford brought up the rear. They went through into the lounge and the guest stumbled. Jim turned, grabbed his guest's left hand and steadied him. He discovered that the hand came straight from the man's armpit. ‘You OK?' he said, letting go.

‘Yes.'

‘Let's sit down.'

Akira Nakabashi was trying not to look at the box, Jim thought, though his eyes were drawn to it. He took out a handkerchief and mopped his top lip.

They sat. ‘How can I help you?' said Jim.

Akira coughed and tried to clear his throat.

‘Could we have some tea, Stafford?' said Jim.

‘Certainly.' Stafford didn't budge an inch.

‘That would be very kind,' said Akira.

‘It's OK,' said Jim to Stafford. ‘You go ahead.'

Stafford looked doubtful. He pulled out his iPhone and dialled. He was going to keep a remote eye on proceedings.

‘So, how can I help you?' said Jim again.

‘I had heard that you were in possession of a very rare plaque.' Akira turned in his chair. ‘I see it there. I am very keen to examine it with a view to purchasing it for the Japanese Imperial Collection.'

‘Oh,' said Jim. ‘I've only just bought it.'

‘Yes,' said Akira, ‘but I'm sure I can make you a good offer. May I look at it?'

‘Go ahead,' said Jim. They stood and walked over to it. ‘You said plaque,' remarked Jim, ‘why do you call it a plaque?'

‘It is a figure of speech,' said Akira. ‘My English is very weak.'

‘It's very good.'

‘Thank you,' said Akira. ‘May I pick it up?'

Jim nodded.

Akira awkwardly lifted it. ‘If I may sit down with it?'

‘Go ahead.'

Akira went back to the sofa and laid the heavy gold box on his legs. ‘It is very beautiful,' he said. ‘May I ask what you paid for it?'

‘Three million dollars.'

‘You bought well,' said Akira. He took his handkerchief out again and mopped his brow.

‘I bought it because it's so beautiful, and with gold heading for two thousand dollars an ounce, well, there's a big intrinsic value there too. I love old things.' He smiled at Akira, who, he knew, was well aware of what he was holding. ‘Did you see the table?'

‘No,' said Akira, looking up from the box.

‘That's second-century Roman. It's the only Roman wooden table in private hands. I bought it off the Pope.' Jim laughed.

‘And you use it?'

‘Of course,' said Jim. ‘Some abbot had been having his lunch off it for a thousand years in some monastery somewhere. I didn't see any reason not to carry on.'

Akira's eyes returned to the box.

‘I've never heard of plaques,' said Jim.

‘No?' said Akira. ‘Very popular in medieval Italy. Also quite a fashion in the Edo period in Japan.'

‘Oh,' said Jim.

Stafford reappeared with Japanese tea in rough-hewn clay mugs.

‘
Domo arogato
,' said Akira, with a little nod. ‘Will you consider an offer?' He took the teacup in his short hand. He put it down again and picked it up with the other.

‘Yeah,' said Jim. ‘Of course.'

‘Thank you.' Akira's mind raced. He knew Jim had paid $3 million and he was planning to offer $6 million on the basis that a hundred per cent profit might prove irresistible. He noticed Stafford was floating in the background. Should he offer $10 million and clinch a deal, or $4 million and not appear too keen? ‘Six million dollars.'

‘Ten million,' said Jim, ‘and you're done. Get me the money and you can take the…' he almost said ‘box' ‘…plaque.'

‘One request,' said Akira, almost dizzy with tension. ‘May I have some time alone with the object to examine it further?'

‘No, that won't be possible.' Jim smiled but Akira saw he was angry suddenly.

‘I need to examine it very closely if I'm to pay such a price.'

‘You can examine it right here, right now. Take it or leave it. You see, I was thinking of donating it to the British Museum. They'd name the plaque after me – you know the sort of thing. The Portland Vase, the Evans Plaque.'

Akira winced. ‘I see.'

‘The Elgin Marbles,' offered the butler, from across the room.

‘The Elgin Marbles,' echoed Akira. Those magnificent treasures had been stolen by the British two hundred years ago and they refused to return them to Greece. His heart sank. ‘Ten million dollars. I agree.'

Jim stood up. ‘I'll get you my bank details. As soon as the money hits my account, you can come back and pick her up.' He went to his computer and, with a few clicks, was printing out a page. He handed the A4 sheet to Akira and heaved the box from his lap. He placed it back on the table.

Akira stood up. ‘Thank you,' he said, with a bow. He touched the old table. It was also a treasure. He felt sad.

‘Please follow me,' said the butler, pointing to the door.

‘Until our next meeting,' said Akira.

A few minutes passed, then Stafford came back into the room. ‘Was that wise?'

Jim had the necklace on again and was holding the sword in a fencing pose. ‘Fucking bastard was trying to rip me off.' He waved the sword and watched its blade flash. ‘I'm not going to lie down for that.' He held the sword above his head in a cod-samurai stance. ‘He can have the box for what Davas says it's worth. He's going to have to pay a fuck of a lot more to get the rest.'

‘Perhaps you might consider tempering your annoyance.'

Jim lowered the sword. ‘Yeah well – probably.' He put the sword back into its scabbard. ‘But you can see my point. In just five minutes he managed to piss me right off.'

Stafford sighed. ‘Very good, sir.'