The Ends of the Earth (4 page)

‘We’re both a long way from home, Sam,’ said Morahan, drawing on a cigarette. ‘About as far as we can be, if it comes to it.’

‘Are you really going to go on without Max, Schools?’

‘That’s my intention. But the risks are greater than ever. You understand that, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I do.’

‘See that building along there – the one with the policeman out front?’ Morahan pointed to an imposing pile just past a kink in the moat.

Sam squinted through the glare towards it. He saw a group of men in morning suits and top hats exit the building, saluted by the policemen, and climb into waiting cars. ‘What about it?’

‘That should be the Home Ministry, if I’ve remembered Yamanaka’s directions right.’

‘Yamanaka?’

‘I had a word with him before I left Paris. Contacts can be the difference between life and death in a strange city, Sam, so take note. Yamanaka’s elder brother, name of Fumiko, is some kind of Home Ministry bigwig. We can turn to him for help if we need it. He’ll have had a letter from Eisaku by now, assuring him we’re owed a lot of favours by the Yamanaka family.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because we’re in enemy territory. There’s no knowing what might happen.’

They walked south-west along the line of the moat as far as the Imperial Hotel, a slice of Paris to Sam’s eyes, then headed for the elevated railway line and followed it through a noisy, crowded shopping district to Shimbashi station, where, amid the swirling mobs and rumbling trains, they found Everett and Duffy waiting.

‘I propose an early supper, gentlemen,’ said Morahan. There were no objections.

Supper was taken in the cramped booth of a noodle restaurant virtually underneath the railway line. Afterwards they adjourned to a café, where the demeanour of the waitresses suggested some of the establishment’s services were not listed on the menu. There they drank coffee while darkness fell over Tokyo.

When they left, the lanterns were lit outside the numerous eateries and drinking dens of the neighbourhood. This was Tokyo as Sam had imagined it: the sing-song alien language; the kimono-clad women with their glossy hair and child-like faces; the rickshaws and bicycles weaving between the pedestrians; the clacking of wooden sandals on the pavements; the fluttering of gigantic moths in the humid air.

It took them about half an hour to find Sakashita’s shop, with the red bicycle suspended outside and Sakashita working on repairs at a small bench by the dim light of an electric lamp, surrounded by bicycles in various stages of dismantlement and reassembly.

At this point Duffy drifted away across the street, there to keep watch, on Morahan’s instructions, for any kind of dangerous development. Sam and Everett followed Morahan into the shop. Sakashita, a thin, wizened little man with a nervous smile, looked up at their approach and greeted them in Japanese.

‘Mr Sakashita?’ asked Morahan.

‘
Hai.
’ This was one of about three words of Japanese Sam had so far learnt.

‘Madam Tarazumi sent us.’ Morahan handed Sakashita the note.

It appeared to require lengthy study despite the brevity of its contents. Sakashita twirled a tiny screwdriver in his fingers as he read the message. As he did so, he kept glancing at Sam in a far from reassuring fashion.

Eventually, he laid the screwdriver and note aside, stood up and moved round the edge of the shop to a far corner, where he pulled back a curtain to reveal a steep and narrow flight of steps. There was no handrail, only a rope stiffened with wooden rings. He pointed up the steps and said something in Japanese.

‘Let’s go up and take a look-see,’ said Morahan.

THE FLOOR DIRECTLY
above the shop was in darkness, but there were a couple of green-shaded electric lamps lighting the floor above that, little more than an attic in effect, with a sloping ceiling and small paper-panel dormer windows. Furnishings were few, comprising a couple of battered cabinets and some dusty tatami mats. A curtain was drawn across the other end of the room, which was in deep shadow.

‘We can disport ourselves on the chaise longue until Farngold shows up,’ quipped Everett.

Morahan moved to one of the windows, slid open the panel and glanced down into the street. ‘Everything normal out there,’ he announced.

‘Al in sight?’

‘No.’

‘I told you he was good. Don’t worry. He’ll have seen you.’

‘How will he warn us if there’s trouble?’ asked Sam.

‘A pebble at the window,’ said Everett. ‘He has a pitcher’s arm.’

‘So, we just—’ Sam broke off. They all stood stock still. A sound – a groan – had come from the curtained-off part of the room.

Morahan padded silently across to the curtain and pulled it back. The other two caught up with him and gasped at what they saw.

A thin futon had been spread on the floor beneath a bamboo wall-hanging. On the futon, wrapped in a threadbare green kimono, lay a European man, grey-haired and bearded, his face haggard and marked with scars and bruises. His eyes were open but unfocused, his gaze drifting. His mouth was open, his lips encrusted with dried spittle. He looked to Sam to be a man of sixty or more. On the street he could have been taken for a vagrant, insensible with drink. But there was no smell of alcohol on him, only stale sweat and a strange chemical odour.

‘Is that … Jack Farngold?’

‘Could be, Sam,’ said Morahan. ‘In which case friend Sakashita has some questions to answer, because this man didn’t climb up here without help.’ He crouched beside the occupant of the futon and patted his cheek. ‘Hey, feller, can you hear me?’

The eyes moved woozily in Morahan’s direction, but no words came.

‘Jack Farngold?’

Sam thought he saw some reaction in the man’s face. His lips quivered. He was surely trying to speak.

‘Are you Jack Farngold?’

The mouth wavered. The gaze wandered.

‘He is Jack Farngold,’ said Everett suddenly. Sam heard the click of a gun being cocked and turned to see that Everett had retreated to the centre of the room, from where he was training his revolver on them. ‘So I’m told.’

‘What in hell are you doing?’ Morahan stood up and glared at Everett.

‘Sorry, Schools, but I don’t work for you. I never did.’

Sam saw by the heave of Morahan’s chest how shocked and angry he was. ‘Whose payroll
are
you on then, Lew?’

‘Lemmer’s. Seems he guessed you’d be the man Sir Henry asked to organize this little rescue party. So, he sent one of his agents to New York to offer attractive terms to the kind of people you’d be likely to use, me included. Looked like it wasn’t going to happen when Sir Henry was rubbed out, but then Max turned up at your end and here we are. Like I say, I’m sorry. Herr Lemmer just pays too damn well.’

‘The lead you picked up in San Francisco …’

‘Bait, Schools. Which you swallowed.’

‘Who’s in this with you?’

‘Al and Howie. Ward and Djabsu are on your side, for all the good it’ll do you. We never foresaw the Chicago diversion, I’ll give you that.’

‘And Farngold? What’s been done to him?’

‘How the hell should I know? He looks drugged to me. They’ve had him over a year. Forced him to sign a confession to God knows what crimes. Crimes they’re going to lay at your door as well. Along with one other. Stand away from him.’

Morahan took a single long stride away from Farngold – and closer to Everett. Sam edged back.

‘It’s time to put the old salt out of his misery.’

Everett aimed the gun and fired. Sam flung himself in shock against the wall. Two more shots followed. A smell of cordite filled the air. And blood oozed from the wounds in Farngold’s chest. A sound came from his throat, choking and guttural. Then his head lolled to one side and he was silent.

Morahan made a move towards Everett, but stopped short when the gun swung back in his direction. ‘Don’t do it, Schools. I don’t want to kill you. They mean to take you alive. And while there’s life, etcetera.’

‘I’ll make you pay for this, Lew.’

‘I’ve already been paid. And you and I are never going to meet again. The police will be here any minute. They’ll only have been waiting to hear the shots. You and Sam are going to be arrested for the murder of Jack Farngold – among other things.’

‘They’ll never believe we killed him when you’re holding the only gun that’s been fired.’

‘Yes they will. They have their instructions too. This is a Kempeitai operation. Know who they are? Japanese Secret Police. Not nice people. Not nice people at all.’

There was a sound from the window of cars drawing up outside, followed by a slamming of doors and a jabber of voices.

‘Here they come. Nearly time for our goodbyes.’

It was only a fleeting glance Everett cast towards the window, but it was enough for Morahan. He lunged forward and felled Everett with the force of his attack. The gun went off, the bullet splintering the bamboo on the wall behind Sam. The two men crashed to the floor. In a second, Morahan had a grip on Everett’s gun-arm and they were wrestling for control.

In the same second, there came the sound of heavily shod men running up the stairs. Sam took a step towards Morahan and Everett, intending to intervene in the struggle, but Morahan caught his eye as Everett pushed his head back with the heel of his hand and the gun waggled dangerously between them.

‘Get out, Sam,’ Morahan shouted. ‘Save Malory.’

But there seemed nowhere for Sam to go. The shadow of the first man up the stairs loomed into view ahead of him. Then Sam noticed the bullet hole in the bamboo. He could recall no sound of impact with the wall behind it. He tore the bamboo aside. It screened a paper-panel gable window. The bullet had gone straight through.

Sam glanced round at a shout from the head of the stairs. ‘
Tomare!
’ Two burly policemen were in the room. Morahan and Everett were still grappling on the floor. There was no time to wonder or calculate. There was time only to act.

Sam flung himself at the window. The paper panels and flimsy wooden bars gave way. He was through it and falling.

Then he struck the roof of a lower building next door. His momentum carried him in a crazy slide down the roof and over the eave. His flailing hand caught a chain suspended from the corner of the eave that arrested his fall, aided by the lid of a water-butt into which the chain fed.

There were shouts from behind and above him. He knew it could not be long before he was pursued. He also knew Morahan was right: Malory was in as much danger as they were. He had to get to Yokohama.

He was in a courtyard to the rear of the building next to Sakashita’s shop. There were ramshackle structures visible in the gloom, a pond and a low-growing tree. More buildings lay beyond, with lights showing. He headed towards them, following his instincts in the absence of any other guide. Flight was his sole recourse.

He wrenched open a sliding door and entered what looked like someone’s home. A woman rounded a corner and cried out in alarm. He ran through a couple of rooms, blundering past a goggle-eyed old lady. He could not grasp the internal layout of such a house. He could only aim to hold his course.

Another door, stouter than the others, yielded to his tug. Then he was out in the next street, where lanterns blazed and crowds milled. He plunged in amongst them, trying to remember the direction of the station.

Sam bitterly regretted abandoning Morahan, but he knew there was no one better equipped to look after himself. According to Everett, Morahan would be taken alive, which was a blessing to cling to. Sam did not understand the entirety of the trap they had walked into, but Jack Farngold’s death would be blamed on them. That much seemed clear. And Malory would surely be arrested, along with Ward and Djabsu, as their accomplices. Still, it was likely that would only be done after confirmation had been received in Yokohama that the operation in Tokyo had gone according to plan. If Sam could warn them of what was afoot—

He stumbled, believing at first he had been jostled by another pedestrian. But then he realized how light-headed he felt. Raising a hand to his brow, he winced at a stab of pain and felt blood on his fingers. He must have hit his head at some point during his escape, perhaps when he was descending from the roof. He could not recall the exact sequence of events. Everything had happened so quickly.

Ahead, to his relief, he saw the lights of Shimbashi station and staggered in among the throng. He bought a ticket for Yokohama, needing only to state his destination and dole out coins until the clerk signalled enough. Then he climbed to the platform.

The light-headedness was growing worse. There was a sharp pain now, whether he touched the wound or not. The wary glances other people on the platform were giving him suggested he was not a pretty sight.

A train drew in and he clambered aboard. It was only when he had sat down that he wondered whether he could rely on all southbound trains going to Yokohama. ‘
Sumimasen
,’ he said to the man sitting opposite him, deploying one of his very few words of Japanese. ‘We go … Yokohama?’

‘Yokohama?’ The man shook his head. ‘Kofu.’

Wherever Kofu was, it was evidently not to be reached via Yokohama. The train had only just jolted into motion. There was still time for Sam to jump off. He leapt to his feet.

That was when the pain hit him like a fist. And he went down into darkness.

MALORY DINED ALONE
and fretfully at the Eastbourne Hotel. She could only pin her hopes, as Schools was pinning his, on the rendezvous with Jack Farngold. What worried her most was how little they knew. They had relied on Max to tell them more when he arrived. But now he would not be arriving. Jack Farngold was merely a name to them.

It was all very well to declare their determination to carry on. Malory had recoiled from the notion of retreat. But Everett and the others did not know Max was dead. Sooner or later, they would have to be told. And then …

‘Message for you, Miss Hollander,’ interrupted the bellboy, a Portuguese youth called João who had displayed a consistent eagerness to please her throughout her stay. ‘From a Meester Monteith.’