The Samurai Inheritance (3 page)

‘Lewin was Australia’s first painter that anybody’d heard of, and we’re proud of our heritage, what little there is,’ Devlin explained conversationally. ‘But I’m sure a man of your taste finds him a little crude.’

Jamie wondered just how much the Australian knew about his taste, in paintings or anything else. The name Keith Devlin meant nothing to him, but the surroundings and the manner of his welcome suggested he was in the presence of business royalty. That made the summons all the more puzzling. Still, all he could do was humour Devlin until he found out enough to politely decline whatever it was he had in mind. In the meantime, he turned back to the paintings. ‘They’re a little raw,’ he agreed. ‘But isn’t that what art is all about, personal preference? I have paintings at home I’d never have bought for profit. The reason I did was because I liked them.’

‘They tell me you have a reputation as a linguist.’

Jamie blinked at the sudden change of subject. It took a second to sink in that the words were in fluent Russian.

‘It’s no secret,’ he replied in equally perfect German. ‘It says so on my CV.’

‘It’s just that it could come in handy for what I have in mind.’ Devlin had switched seamlessly into Spanish, followed by a burst of an Oriental language that left Jamie staring in incomprehension. The businessman laughed. ‘Japanese.’ He grinned. ‘Now I’m just showing off.’

‘We all have our talents, Mr Devlin.’

Devlin gave a bark of a laugh. ‘A diplomat’s answer.’ He swept through the oak doors into a room – an office? – that took up most of an entire floor of the building, with wall-to-ceiling windows on two sides overlooking Sydney Harbour and the Opera House. Jamie took in his surroundings. A desk the size of an aircraft carrier dominated a third wall. Behind it hung an enormous framed map of the world that included a large insert showing Australia and the South Pacific. A series of waist-high marble plinths were scattered artistically across the carpeted floor, each supporting a glass case containing a chunk of rock or a jagged piece of metal. At least one of them had a gleam Jamie thought he recognized. The fourth wall, where they’d just entered, held a surprisingly eclectic range of paintings and prints that included a Picasso nude and a Bruegel hunting scene; impressive enough, but not a collection, more of an accumulation. Devlin confirmed that view with his next word.

‘Investments.’ He shrugged, as if that was explanation enough. ‘The shirtlifter who designed this place had half a dozen bits of abstract rubbish hanging there, but I replaced it with stuff I liked.’ He saw Jamie blink at the casual homophobia and laughed. ‘You’re not offended, are you? Christ, I reckon I’ve been around long enough to earn the right to call a spade a bloody shovel when I feel like it. The old bugger was as bent as a nine-bob note and cost a bloody fortune.’

He led the way towards two leather couches positioned to allow the occupants to face each other while they looked out on to the most spectacular views in Sydney. Jamie realized that everything in this room was designed to impress, either by its scale or by its expense. Everything except the rocks and the map behind Keith Devlin’s desk.

‘You’ll be wondering why I brought you here?’ The Australian took the couch facing out to the botanical gardens and the Opera House and waved Jamie to the seat opposite. His expression was suddenly all business and he sat with his upper torso angled forward and his hands clasped between his knees.

‘Did you bring me here, Mr Devlin?’ Jamie’s gaze wandered out over the grass and trees forty-five floors below where Fiona and Lizzie would be among the ant-like figures in the park. ‘I was under the impression that I’d consented to a fifteen-minute chat to keep Nico happy.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve seen your art collection. You’ve impressed me with your linguistic skills. By my reckoning we have about ten minutes left.’

Rude, if you like, but he owed his host nothing and he’d felt a sudden urge to take the wind out of Keith Devlin’s sails. He might have saved his breath. The peasant face split into a broad grin of appreciation. ‘So I’m not the only one who’s prepared to call a spade a bloody shovel. Good. That’ll save us some time. Let’s get right down to the nitty-gritty. The bottom line is that you specialize in finding things and I’ve lost something.’

‘I specialize in finding artworks,’ Jamie corrected. ‘Specifically those stolen during the Second World War. So unless that’s what you’ve lost I probably won’t be able to help you.’

‘Just hear me out, Jamie.’ The other man raised a hand like a cop stopping traffic. ‘If you’re not intrigued enough to take the job on by the time I’ve finished, we’ll part with no hard feelings on either side. Agreed?’

Jamie shrugged. He wasn’t due to meet the girls for another hour.

‘Good.’ Devlin nodded. ‘First a little bit of history. All this,’ he waved a hand expansively around the enormous office, ‘started with a little scrape in the rocks beside the Cudgegong River.’ He got up, went to one of the stands and picked up the glass box sitting on it. ‘That was where my old granddad made his first strike before the war.’ He handed over the case and Jamie found he was holding a gold nugget about the size of his fist. ‘That’s not the original,’ the Australian explained. ‘He drank away what he got paid for it, but it’s about the same size and he reckoned it was proof positive he could smell the bloody stuff. He was more careful with the next one, and bought another couple of claims and hired a few pick and shovel merchants. By the time my dad took over it was a good going business and he’d moved over to Kalgoorlie. It was Digger Devlin – that’s what they called the old man – who realized that gold wasn’t the only precious metal in the mines. He invested in copper extraction and with the profits he made he was able to expand and make Devlin Metal Resources an international company. Course,’ the weathered face split in a self-deprecating grin, ‘we were pretty small beer then, and it was up to the next generation to turn it into the third biggest mining conglomerate in the world.’ Devlin waved Jamie across to the map behind the big desk. Glass shelves on either side held sporting medals and framed portraits of the host smiling with a selection of instantly recognizable world leaders, but the tycoon ignored them. ‘The red dots are the sites of Devlin mines in Oz, South America and Asia.’ He pointed out what looked like a bad case of measles in each region. ‘But what could be the biggest prize of all is out there waiting for us and that’s where you come in, Jamie.’

‘This is all very interesting, Mr Devlin, but I recover stolen art. I’m not a geologist or an explorer or a negotiator or whatever it is this job requires. I’m also on holiday with my … family.’

Devlin waved away the protest and marched to the window overlooking the botanical gardens. ‘As to the first, that’s
exactly
why I want to hire you. Second, if you take the job, Devlin Metal Resources will lay on the works for Fiona and the wee one while you’re gone. Nico tells me they have relatives in Perth and up on the Gold Coast? Well, there you are. Luxury travel to wherever they want to go, staying in the best hotels. All the possums, roos and koalas a girl could want.’ He smiled. ‘When the job’s done you can join them for as long as you like at a little private island I happen to own up near Cairns.’

Jamie saw the seductive bait for what it was, but he was still drawn towards the hook. He knew this was exactly the type of trip Fiona had always craved and the college where she lectured didn’t reopen for another month. ‘How long would it take?’

Keith Devlin’s face split in a wolfish grin. ‘If a man like you can’t track it down in a couple of weeks, you probably never will. The usual deal. A daily stipend and a finder’s fee. First Class all the way. Just name a figure and I’ll sign a cheque for half up front.’

The man’s relentless enthusiasm was overwhelming and the seemingly bottomless resources tempting, but Jamie was still cautious. First-class travel always sounded good, but experience told him all it meant was you ended up in the deep stuff with a champagne glass in your hand. ‘I’m listening, but I’ll have to speak to Fiona first before I agree to anything,’ he said warily.

‘Of course,’ Devlin said as if he had no doubts about the outcome.

‘Then I suppose it comes down to what
it
is.’

The tycoon’s grin widened if that were possible, and he reached into one of the desk drawers to withdraw a brown envelope.

When he saw the package Jamie felt a shiver of expectation. It was one of those moments. The instant his fingers opened the ancient journal from his grandfather’s wardrobe. The first time he heard the words ‘Crown of Isis’. Or when Adam Steele read the name Excalibur from the codex to a former Nazi soldier’s last will and testament. Each of them had radically changed his life and he had a sudden breathless feeling this would be no different.

Keith Devlin handed him the envelope and his fingers fumbled at the flap. The contents turned out to be a single blurred sepia image on photographic paper. His eyes struggled to make sense of an ugly little shrivelled object the size of a pomegranate hanging from what looked like a thick dark rope. Was this some kind of sick joke? ‘What is it?’

‘That, Mr Saintclair, is a shrunken human head.’

III

Jamie stared at the photograph for a disbelieving moment before he dropped it on the desk. ‘You’ve got the wrong man, Mr Devlin.’ He turned, ready to walk out of the room, but Devlin laid a hand on his arm and the charming smile, so difficult to refuse, was back.

‘Just hear me out, son. I promise you won’t regret it.’ The mining boss picked up the print and walked over to the map. He traced his finger north-east from Sydney to a series of tiny fly specks that trailed like the wake of a ship from the land mass of Papua New Guinea. The digit finally came to rest on a green streak at the top of the string of islands. ‘Bougainville.’ His voice took on an almost mystic quality as he said the word. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

Jamie shook his head.

‘I’m not surprised. Four thousand square miles of jungle, rock and mountain, with a couple of active volcanoes thrown in to keep life interesting. Some of the people are still living in the Stone Age despite everything we’ve done to help them. Until a few years ago the economy was entirely based on
copra
– that’s dried coconut shipped from the islands to be turned into oil. Not much to attract a bloke like me, you’d say?’ Jamie shrugged. ‘And you’d be right, unless it’s also home to the world’s largest copper mine.’

Jamie looked at the map with slightly renewed interest. ‘I don’t see any red dots?’

‘Naturally, because Devlin Metal doesn’t own it … yet. The mine is shut down because of a few labour problems and some local difficulties with community leaders. Helluva place. My old man sent me there to get a bit of experience when I was just starting out and, believe me, some of the natives can be a bolshie lot. The current owners are fed up of working in that kind of environment. They’re talking about offloading all or part of it, but Bougainville politics will effectively decide when, or if, the mine ever reopens, and who runs it.’

‘What has this got to do with a shrunken head?’ Jamie was puzzled. ‘Surely to God there’s no such thing as headhunting any more, even out there?’

‘Of course not.’ Devlin smiled again. ‘At least as far as we know. But the natives on Bougainville still revere the heads taken by their ancestors. Or, in this case, taken
from
their ancestor. If we can get agreement to buy the company, we still need the consent of the big chief from the area around the Panguna Mine to restart work and provide us with local labour. My fellas have been talking to him for a while, but during our negotiations a briefcase containing some very important documents went missing – some of the natives on Bougainville would steal the sugar from your tea – and we’ve asked for them back. The price the crazy old bastard is demanding is the return of
that
– his ancestor’s head. Would you believe it?’

‘What I don’t understand is how you expect me to find the bloody thing.’ Jamie didn’t hide his exasperation. ‘It could be anywhere on the island. Jungle, rocks and volcanoes? You don’t need Jamie Saintclair, Mr Devlin, you need Indiana bloody Jones.’

‘If the head was on the island maybe you’re right,’ the big Australian admitted, ‘but it hasn’t been on the island for the best part of a hundred and fifty years. Bougainville is part of Papua New Guinea these days, but before the First World War it was a German colony. German merchant adventurers exchanged trade goods worth a few
pfennigs
for boatloads of coconuts to turn into
copra
and oil. They were followed by geologists, scientists … and anthropologists. Our chief’s tribe had recovered the head of their ancestor from the group who’d killed and probably eaten the rest of him.’ He laughed at the change in Jamie’s expression. ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. They believed eating the flesh of their rivals passed on their strength and courage. The story that’s come down over the years is that it was stolen by a German who visited the islands around that time. More likely one of their own fellows traded it to him. There’s a fairly extensive record of who visited the islands. We think the original of this,’ he waved the picture, ‘was taken by the anthropologist who took the head and was part of the price he paid for it. My people have pinned it down to a bloke called Adolfus Ribbe, a Hamburg collector who spent five years touring the islands in the eighteen nineties. Apparently, he sent back bits and pieces to Berlin museums. So now you know why I was so keen to have you on board.’

‘That’s it? A German collector might have taken the head. He might have presented it to a museum in Berlin. Have you any idea how many museums there are in Berlin?’

‘No,’ Devlin said evenly. ‘But I’m sure you do.’

A few moments earlier Jamie had been on the verge of walking out, but his belligerence faded under the steady blue eyes. It was the craziest thing he’d ever been asked to do, but Keith Devlin was a difficult man to turn down. And in a twisted way it appealed to him. Take it back to the basics and it was simply tracing an artefact through the museum system. And that was a damn sight easier than chasing all over Germany looking for the sun stone with neo-Nazis dogging his every footstep or literally crossing swords with a power-crazed maniac who wanted to get his hands on Excalibur. It would be safe and whether he found the head or not he’d have two weeks with Fiona and Lizzie at a luxury resort to look forward to. He had plenty of contacts in Berlin and he worked his way through the list of museums in his head. Not the newer ones, for the simple reason that they wouldn’t have been around then. By the time they opened their doors a reputable German museum wouldn’t have touched a human head with a barge pole, not after what their compatriots had done at Dachau and Auschwitz. Likewise the specialist museums, the Bode and the Pergamon, with their massive collections from antiquity. But there were other possibilities …