The Samurai Inheritance (18 page)

At some unseen signal the assassin rose to his feet with his eyes on Magda and nodded towards the door. Jamie felt her bridle and her right fist clenched with the knuckle protruding in a way that suggested she wasn’t going to go quietly. The cheerful man noticed it too and the smile widened. ‘Please, Dr Ross, you will be perfectly safe with Mr Lee, I assure you.’

Her eyes widened at the familiar use of her name. ‘Jamie?’

‘I’m fairly certain these gentlemen don’t mean us any harm, Magda.’

After a moment’s hesitation she nodded and reluctantly followed the assassin into the corridor.

When they were alone, Jamie stared at the man opposite. The Chinese met his expectant gaze with the kind of humour in his eyes you knew would still be present when he put a bullet in you.

‘A remarkable young lady.’ The soft voice was immediately recognizable. ‘Such beauty and such depths of determination. I genuinely fear for Mr Lee’s safety.’ The snub nose twitched as if he’d remembered something distasteful. ‘My apologies for the surprise, Mr Saintclair. But it is always difficult to find somewhere to have a private word on a train, don’t you think?’

‘I’m not sure what we have to talk about, Mr Lim,’ Jamie said carefully. ‘Old acquaintances who turn up unexpectedly can’t always be sure of a warm welcome. Especially when those old acquaintances appear with such increasing and unlikely frequency.’

‘Ah, Mr Lim of fond memory.’ The Chinese chuckled as if his former self no longer existed. ‘It is much too long since your most stimulating, if ultimately frustrating address in Dresden. I assume the other old acquaintance of whom you speak is the dreadful Russian gangster who facilitated your exit from the Lubyanka and introduced you to your highly placed new friend.’ If Mr Lim’s smile had been any wider the top of his head would have fallen off. Jamie opened his mouth to protest, but the other man silenced him with a shake of the head. ‘We – at least I – have no interest in the Russians and their rather uncivilized pursuit of gain. Who would have forecast that Communists would become the greediest of capitalists?’ A twitch of the lips made Jamie wonder if the Russians were the only greedy Communists Mr Lim had in mind. Before he could enquire, the Chinese moved swiftly to the subject that had brought him. ‘My only interest, as it was at our last meeting, is in the most efficient and fruitful exploitation of my country’s resources at home and abroad. For instance, there may be a possibility that the interests of Mr Keith Devlin and myself coincide in certain areas. Would that surprise you?’

Given that Jamie was fairly certain Mr Lim was an official of China’s Ministry of State Security, nothing would surprise him about the man. Nevertheless, Keith Devlin’s name came as a shock. He took time to consider his next words.

‘It’s a little difficult to see how that would be the case.’

‘But why? Mr Devlin has mining interests across the globe. The Chinese government has mining interests across the globe. In certain areas it is true that these interests compete, and we are, shall we say, friendly rivals, but in other regions it is perfectly possible for us to be partners.’ He paused as the train thundered through a long tunnel. Jamie had time to reflect that if this had been a film the lights would have gone out and when they flickered back on again one of them would have added a knife to their list of unwanted accessories. Mr Lim’s smile never faltered. ‘China is the largest consumer of iron ore on the planet, Mr Saintclair, but most of the world’s iron ore deposits lie outside China. For that reason it is essential for us to pursue global partnerships, which we have done successfully for many years. We have interests from the Arctic to the Antarctic and on almost every land mass between.’

‘I thought mining was banned in the polar areas.’

‘Of course,’ Mr Lim nodded gravely, ‘but the ban will be reviewed in 2048. Who knows what will happen then? You would be surprised by the nations who wish to work with us in these areas, but I digress. My point was that it makes sense for Mr Devlin to work with China. Our current greatest need is copper, and the Panguna Mine on Bougainville has the potential to be the world’s largest copper producer. Ideally, we would like to have overall control of the mine, but for political reasons this is currently not possible. Therefore, we see a partnership as the best way forward. We would even be happy for him to retain the rights to the mine’s gold deposits. You see, we would like very much to work with Devlin Metal Resources to see the mine reopened.’

‘I can understand that,’ Jamie conceded. He could also see why Australia and China’s other Pacific neighbours wouldn’t want to see her in control of a massive strategic resource on their doorstep. ‘But I don’t know what it has to do with me. Given your obvious knowledge in other areas, you will know I am employed by Mr Devlin in a purely freelance capacity. My main interest is in the recovery of stolen art, Mr Lim. Not in mining or
resources
.’

The Oriental huffed. ‘What is art, once it has been created, but a commodity; a
resource
to be bought and sold? For instance, what if there was a man – perhaps in Germany, perhaps not – who had access to several billion dollars’ worth of artworks stolen during the Second World War? An art dealership specializing in the return of such works would surely be interested in the name of that person, or his location?’

‘That is just speculation, Mr Lim,’ Jamie protested. ‘Pure fantasy. Those rumours have been going the rounds for years.’

‘True, but—’

‘In any case, if such a person existed, why would anyone offer his name to the hardly venerable or even, let us admit, particularly well-esteemed Saintclair Fine Arts?’

‘Perhaps because the not particularly well-esteemed Saintclair Fine Arts has something to trade.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t see how that would be the case.’ Jamie felt a little like he’d just been pushed into a minefield wearing a blindfold.

‘You are seeking a certain … artefact, for Mr Devlin.’

‘I can’t talk about my commission. I’m sure you understand that, Mr Lim.’

‘Oh, don’t be coy, Mr Saintclair.’ The smile was a grin now. ‘Mr Devlin pays for the world’s best experts to safeguard his communications and his information technology network. But the world’s greatest experts in these fields do not work for corporations, they work for governments. Specifically the governments of the United States, China and the Russian Federation. I see a blink of patriotic outrage that I do not mention the United Kingdom. Surely you are aware that since the Second Gulf War your GCHQ has been nothing but an out-station for America’s National Security Agency? There are even several isolated colonies of United States settlers in your country, working under United States rule of law, paying American taxes and shopping at Walmart. They carry guns on British soil and they pay American prices for their gas. But once more I digress. So Mr Devlin upgrades his communications security, and we, the Americans and the Soviets circumvent it. All of us spy upon our friends and our enemies alike. It is a game, of which Mr Devlin is well aware he is an integral part. You will find the artefact, and Mr Devlin will arrange the exchange, is that not how it works?’ Jamie didn’t trust himself to speak as the Chinese agent’s voice turned serious for the first time in their conversation. ‘But I want you to consider this, Mr Saintclair. What if Mr Devlin’s motives for the Bougainville exchange are not what he wishes you to believe? What if they are not in the interests of, let us call it, the world community? In that situation, possession of the artefact might be embarrassing, or even dangerous.’

‘Now you’re talking in riddles. If you have something to say, why not just say it.’

Lim shook his head solemnly. ‘No, this is something you must work out for yourself. I’m aware you do not trust me, and you are quite right not to do so. In this affair you cannot afford to trust anyone.’ The Chinese stood up in a single fluid movement that was a better illustration of his capabilities than his bulk. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, Mr Saintclair, perhaps not, but bear in mind what I have said. You will come to a fork in the road. Take one road and there will be perils; take the other to find rewards. Only one man can decide.’

The door opened as he reached it, and Mr Lim stepped out past Magda Ross with a polite bow. She ignored him and virtually threw herself into the carriage.

‘What was all that about?’ she demanded.

‘I’m not sure.’ Jamie stared at the closed door. ‘But I doubt if it’s going to make things any easier.’

XXI

Bougainville, April 1945

Tomoyuki Hamasuna felt a surge of emotion as he checked the fit of the
senninbari
thousand-stitch belt his wife had given him on the eve of his departure for Manchuria. Each stitch on the white cloth had been lovingly sewn by a family member or the wives of Hamasuna’s workmates in Nagasaki. The belt had seen him through the Manchukuo campaign, the invasion of Malaya and three months on Guadalcanal before he’d been posted to Bougainville. Sitting in the cramped, heavily camouflaged bunker, he was aware that he stank. His body and his tattered uniform were permeated with the stench of stale sweat, old urine, caked excrement and fear. Yes, fear. None of them had dared go out even for a shit since the Australians had started sending their dirty cannibals to roam the lines each night. The blacks moved like ghosts in the darkness and the first a man would know of them was a knife in the throat before his head was added to their collection.

Hamasuna had been condemned to this stinking hellhole since the ‘senior naval presence’ banished him back to the infantry for failing to secure the Yamamoto crash site. He’d wanted to explain about the missing briefcase and the bare footprint he’d found in a patch of sand nearby, but the admiral’s raw, almost demonic savagery had left him speechless with terror. He’d done what he could to impress the man with his diligence during the crash investigation, leading endless patrols to keep the natives from the site. One patrol had captured an Australian Coastwatcher, who died under Hamasuna’s knife screaming that he knew nothing of a plane crash or missing wreckage. He’d had the body secretly buried along with the spy’s still living Bougainvillean bodyguard.

But Hamasuna’s efforts had come to nothing. On the morning the admiral left he’d stood shaking as his own commanding officer questioned his integrity, his competence and his loyalty in an interview that was as frightening for its remoteness as it was for the implied threat of summary justice. In the end, he felt fortunate to be transferred to the infantry and placed in charge of a company digging in on the Buin road against the imminent American invasion.

Three years on they occupied the same stinking, airless bunker in the same stinking patch of jungle, only his ‘company’, which had started out with a hundred and fifty men, now numbered fewer than forty. The Americans had kept them waiting another six months before surprising General Hyakutake, Bougainville’s commander, with a landing at Empress Augusta Bay. Within hours the invaders had wiped out the bay’s few hundred defenders and established a bridgehead.

By the end of November, despite desperate counter attacks by Seventeenth Army, the invaders had built an airfield capable of sending bombers to hit the main supply base at Rabaul. Unless the Americans could be thrown off the island, the Japanese garrison of Bougainville would eventually be starved out. For four months Hyakutake had contented himself with pinprick attacks, but in late March Hamasuna and his men had been roused from their bunker to take part in a full-scale counter-offensive.

What followed was three weeks of terror, hunger, exhaustion and death as he and his comrades launched attack after attack against the American-defended hills protecting the bridgehead. They spent endless nights throwing themselves at the entrapping coils of barbed wire through an invisible wall of lead from the heavily dug-in positions. As the first waves were cut down, the survivors clawed their way over the bodies of the dead and wounded to grenade the dugouts and work themselves into the enemy trenches. Once through the wire it was bayonet to bayonet, knife to knife and man to man, screaming and hacking at the enemy until he was a bloody caricature of a human being. Then on to the next trench and the next, until only a visceral determination to survive – to live through this unbelievable horror and eventually return to his loved ones – gave a man the strength to lift his arm and strike the fatal blow. Daylight brought the inevitable bombs and artillery fire that shook the earth and turned the tree canopy into a blinding, eviscerating blizzard of shrapnel and splinters from torn branches. Soon it would be followed by the thunk-thunk-thunk of mortars that heralded a new barrage and the inevitable counterattack. Then it was your turn to cower in the trenches and fire your machine gun until the barrel became red hot, and the bodies were piled three deep across your front. In twenty-one days they took the same hill four times only to be driven off again. Not once had they come close to breaking the main American line. Eventually, even Hyakutake realized it could not be done and ordered a withdrawal. He’d started out with twenty thousand men. By the time he pulled out five thousand were dead, with three thousand wounded and no medical supplies to care for their injuries.

Hamasuna and his depleted company had stumbled, exhausted, back through the jungle to their bunker complex overlooking the road, and waited for the inevitable counter-stroke. But the Americans, it seemed, were content to hold what they had. Instead of attacking they decided to allow the Japanese garrison to starve, which they duly did. For months Hamasuna had been kept alive by cups of watery rice eked out with stringy, bitter strips of vegetation and unwholesome squirming grubs the medical officer claimed were nourishing. Beriberi, dengue fever, malaria, typhus and a curious enervating, wasting disease that came in many forms that the men simply called jungle fever caused more casualties than the enemy in the miserable hunger months that followed. But all that changed when the barbarians came.

The barbarians wore slouch hats and were aggressive even to each other. Since they had replaced the Americans five months earlier they had given Hamasuna and his men no rest. The barbarians patrolled by day and sent their cannibals by night. Half-starved and exhausted, each day that passed left the Japanese defenders weaker and less able to counter the constant probes and patrols by the Australians and their native allies. When General Hyakutake’s health began to fail he’d been replaced as commander of Seventeenth Army by General Matasane. With the enemy advancing steadily down the Buin road, Matasane decided he had only one course of action.