by Mark McKay
Chapter 13
Nick was late in to the station the following day. He had stayed home to wait until the local surgery opened, so he could make an appointment for Lauren to have a check-up. She insisted that she felt fine, although she was clearly worried about her limited hearing and how long it might stay that way. And she thought her pregnancy was fine too, she just wanted a doctor to agree with her. There was no need for her to go into the office, someone from there had called while they were on their way back from the hospital, tracking down the people they had on site at Canary Wharf. Lauren was advised to take a day or two off and recuperate.
As a consequence, it was almost 10am when he arrived at Bishopsgate. With what had happened yesterday, he wondered if he should cancel his trip to Japan. Nobody had as yet claimed responsibility for the bombings, but to Nick’s mind the photo accompanying the message on the bank’s monitors was indication enough. He decided to call Bonnaire in Paris and share his concerns. The Paris detective might have some news on Le Roux’s business dealings by now, too. Before he had the chance to translate that thought into action, Yvonne appeared at his desk.
‘You found Lauren, I hear. She OK?’
‘Partly deaf, but yes, she is.’
‘That’s good. I thought you should know, two men from SO15 are here. They want to talk to you.’
SO15 was the Police Counter Terrorism Command. It was their job to prevent events like yesterday’s attack. They worked with the Intelligence Services and anyone else who could help achieve that objective.
‘Ah, they must have worked it out, then. Where did you put them?’
Yvonne looked bemused. ‘Upstairs in meeting room 3. Worked out what?’
‘Tell you later. Better not keep them waiting.’
He took DCI Derek Simms upstairs with him. Simms would be handling the case in his absence, so whatever SO15 wanted, Simms would need to know about it.
The two men seated in meeting room 3 didn’t get up when he and Simms walked in. They were casually dressed, both in their mid-thirties. They introduced themselves as Flynn and Halloran, no mention of rank. Flynn was small and slim. He had thinning black hair, brushed back from his forehead and plastered down with jell. His face was dark and humourless. Halloran had no hair at all. He was taller than Flynn and thickly built and his chubby red face mirrored his colleague’s disenchantment.
‘Wondering why we’re here?’ asked Halloran, once Nick and Simms had made their own introductions.
‘I assume it has something to do with the message on the bank monitors.’
The two SO15 men exchanged glances. ‘How do you know about that?’
Nick told them about Lauren.
‘I see,’ said Halloran. ‘Bad business. Five hundred dead and counting. Two major investment banks disrupted and an attack on the financial system to boot. And a major embarrassment all round. We had no intelligence on this one.’ His look suggested that this might have been avoidable.
‘Are you blaming me?’ countered Nick.
‘We don’t know yet. We saw the photo and it came to our attention that you were investigating the theft of the golden lions. Is there a connection?’
‘I’m investigating a murder, the lions are a consequence of that. I made a connection with terrorism just last week when I met someone who had been abducted by the people who stole the lions. She thought they were being sold to finance terror.’
‘Seems she was right.’ Flynn had spoken. ‘You should have told us that, right away.’
The man had a point. Nick had assumed that until Le Roux and Sylvie had made delivery and received payment, they wouldn’t be in a position to attack anyone.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘In the light of yesterday’s bombing, I’d have to agree. Assuming they are the people responsible.’
Halloran drummed his fingers on the table in a steady rhythm.
‘We want all the details of your case. In fact, we’ll take it from here.’ He held his hand up as Nick opened his mouth to intervene. ‘We’ll need you and DCI Simms here on a consultancy basis, of course. But this is a national security matter, now. Our province.’
‘You sure about this?’ said Nick. He was annoyed, but Halloran was right. The case had taken on a whole new aspect that transcended his authority. He had his doubts, nonetheless. ‘A photo on a desktop doesn’t prove a thing. Could well be misdirection, from god knows who.’
‘If it turns out to be misdirection, we’ll give it right back to you. Just give us all the known facts, first.’ He noted Nick’s grim expression. ‘Don’t know why you’re so annoyed, DCI Severance. Aren’t you on holiday next week? I’d say we came along at just the right time, wouldn’t you?’
‘No comment. Let us know where you want everything sent, by secure email if possible. We’ll have it to you by the end of the day.’
‘Excellent.’ Halloran pulled out his wallet and extracted a card. ‘Send it to this email address,’ he said, handing the card to Nick.
The SO15 men stood. ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Flynn as they made their way out.
‘Likewise.’ Nick and Simms stared at each other.
‘Think you can handle your new consultancy role, in my absence?’ asked Nick.
Simms smiled. ‘With those two on the case, do you think I’ll be needed?’
Nick grunted. ‘Amen. Well, let’s do as we’re told. It’s their problem, now.’
They went downstairs, where Nick began compiling a list of contacts to accompany the case reports. Halloran or Flynn could get in touch with everyone and ask them to report to SO15, until further notice. He might have handed the case over, but he had no intention of forgetting about it. He would still call Bonnaire, Shah and anyone else he needed to for an update. He wouldn’t be doing his job as a ‘consultant’ otherwise.
His phone rang. It was Jameson, from Sotheby’s.
‘I talked to my colleague in the Islamic Art department,’ said Jameson. ‘He knows Le Roux by reputation, seen him at the odd sale. Apparently it’s a well-known fact that Le Roux does the occasional, shall we say, less than kosher deal with certain people. No questions asked about the origin of the piece on sale, that sort of thing.’
‘Do we know who they are?’
‘Only two people we can think of who might be in the market for something like your lions. One is in Texas, an oil billionaire who isn’t too fussy about who he buys from, but we don’t think he’s dealt with Le Roux before. And the other is a Japanese industrialist.’
‘Does the Japanese know Le Roux?’
‘We’re not sure, though we do know he buys Islamic art, among other things. And that he’s rumoured to have one or two pieces that are missing from the collections of certain museums and galleries in Europe.’
‘Bit of a long shot all the same, don’t you think?’
‘The Texan, yes’ replied Jameson. ‘However, I was talking to a colleague in Tokyo yesterday, which prompted this call.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Japanese industrialist is Takashi Yamada, and he’s known to be quite reclusive. My colleague was out at his estate, yesterday. She’d been asked to look at a painting Yamada wants to sell. She valued it and then got in her car to leave. Unfortunately, the exit was blocked by a lorry. She could see two large wooden crates in the back, about to be unloaded by a man on a forklift. She would have thought little of it, but one of Yamada’s people turned up and started shouting at the lorry driver. They closed up the lorry quick as a flash and moved it so she could get out.’
‘Maybe they didn’t want to inconvenience her,’ ventured Nick.
‘Perhaps. One last thing. There’s a rumour doing the rounds in the Tokyo art world that Yamada just spent over $100 million on acquiring something. My colleague simply wondered if that $100 million was on the back of the lorry. Just thought I’d mention it.’
Nick pondered for a moment. There was a certain synchronicity at work here. He most definitely wouldn’t
cancel his trip to Japan.
‘Could you give me your colleague’s name and phone number? I’d like to speak to her.’
‘Sure. Her name is Kate Suzuki. Half English, half Japanese. I’ll let her know you’ll be in touch.’
‘Email it to me if you don’t mind. You’ve still got my card? The address is on that.’
Jameson still had it. He promised to send the relevant details as soon as he got off the phone. Nick thanked him and ended the call. He leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. The paint was peeling, he’d never noticed that before. He really had no choice other than to follow up on what Jameson had just told him, long shot or not. Oyama had said the retreat would be held in an isolated spot, but he couldn’t remember the name of the place. Still, Japan wasn’t that big and they had bullet trains, didn’t they? It wouldn’t take long to get to Tokyo and see Ms Suzuki. He thought one or two days had been set aside for sightseeing anyway, so he wouldn’t be disrupting the training schedule or inconveniencing anyone. In the meantime, he should find out more about Takashi Yamada.
It was early morning when the flight touched down at Narita airport. The best thing about a twelve hour overnight flight was that it co-incided with the normal circadian rhythm and he had managed to sleep for some of those hours, something of a rarity for him on a plane.
Tokyo was oppressively humid. The group, made up of Oyama plus Nick and four other London club members, took two taxis straight to Shinjuku station. They boarded a train bound for Kiyosato, a town in the mountains of Yamanashi Prefecture. It was a two and a half hour journey and Oyama had said it would be cooler up there, for which he was grateful. Training in this kind of humidity would de-energise even the fittest of them, certainly if you weren’t used to it.
When they arrived at Kiyosato there was a further taxi ride through the town and up into the highlands. They arrived at the retreat site some ten minutes later. It was situated well back from the main road and consisted of three guest lodges, each containing four bedrooms. The living, bathing and kitchen space of each lodge was shared between residents. Beyond the lodges there was another house of a more sophisticated design, built on two levels. The upper storey was a rectangular shape, which sat centrally on the larger rectangle below it. It had a long curving roof on two sides, drawing the eye skyward. The lower level had a raised verandah at the front, approached by a set of wooden steps leading to the main entrance; a solid hardwood door. There was no other building in sight and Nick wondered where the dojo might be.
There was no one around to greet them, either. Oyama told them he would be staying in the house and that the five of them could apportion themselves between the first two lodges. They were due to be joined later by four Japanese students, who would take the third. Nick and his companions picked up their luggage and moved towards their homes for the next two weeks.
‘Don’t forget to take your shoes off,’ said Oyama, as he walked towards the house.
Nick unpacked, once he’d claimed his room. The traditional sliding door with the paper panels would take some getting used to. It had no lock on it and seemed too flimsy to provide a real sense of privacy. The single bed was set low on the floor on a wooden frame, covered by a thin mattress. A chest of drawers stood beneath the outer wall window, next to a small wardrobe and a wooden chair. The impression was one of neat and Spartan simplicity, all packed into a space half the size of his bedroom in Chislehurst. He looked out the window, over a stretch of lawn that ended in a grove of trees. He hadn’t expected luxury and as long as the bed was comfortable, he’d be fine. He slung his now empty suitcases into the wardrobe and went out to explore the rest of the lodge.
About an hour later Oyama reappeared accompanied by a young woman, who he introduced as Mariko. She was the daughter of their host Yoshi Mashida, who was in Tokyo on business and would return later this evening. Mariko was tall for a Japanese woman. She was in her mid to late twenties, with shoulder length jet-black hair framing a long and attractive oval face with very pale, unblemished skin. Her mouth got his attention. Her lips were shapely, but the mouth had a hint of cruelty about it. She smiled as Oyama introduced her and the cruelty transformed into warmth. And she spoke English.
‘I brought you all some lunch. Chicken bento. You can have it hot or cold.’
‘Meat, rice and vegetables,’ explained Oyama, in answer to Nick’s quizzical expression.
She handed two lunch boxes to Nick and his fellow resident, Rory. ‘Microwave through there,’ she pointed.
‘You have the rest of the day to look around,’ said Oyama. ‘Dinner is at 8pm this evening, then tomorrow we eat breakfast at 6.30. Training starts at 8.’
‘And I thought this was a holiday,’ said Nick. ‘No late night drinking, then.’
Oyama smiled. ‘Stay up as late as you like. But I think after a few days, you might be too tired for that. We have a lot of work to do.’
The next day it began, with a half-hour run through the countryside behind the house. Ten minutes in and with Nick’s lungs feeling the strain, he thought he’d been somewhat optimistic about his fitness. The four Japanese men, who had arrived late last night, ran ahead with easy strides. Mariko was right behind them, followed by Oyama. The British contingent brought up the rear.
They followed a circular route which brought them back to the guest lodges, past the main house and then over a wooden bridge spanning a ravine, which led to the dojo entrance. The building was quite beautiful; a pagoda on three levels, set on a stone base. A flight of stone stairs led up to the first level. The balconies were rich reddish-brown, the walls white and the roof black. The whole edifice was crowned at the roof apex by a life-sized Buddha statue, gazing serenely over the bridge with one hand raised, palm outwards. They assembled at the foot of the stairs and then climbed up to the entrance door. They were already dressed for the dojo in the customary Aikido costume, so all that it was necessary to do was remove their running shoes and enter barefoot, bowing as they did so.
It was spacious inside. A walkway extended down the right hand side as you came in and became a corridor some fifty feet later, off which there were one or two rooms that spread across the width of the place. The rest of the space was taken up with padded mats. Once they were lined up in grade order on the mats, Oyama took them through a warm up routine of stretches, jumps and squats, after which there was a short period of meditation. Nick sat with eyes closed, using the opportunity to catch his breath and relax a little. When he opened them again there was another man sitting with Oyama at the front, facing them. He had appeared as if by magic, there’d been no indication of anyone else entering the room. Oyama clapped his hands and the students focused their attention on him.
‘Sensei Mashida,’ he said, nodding his head in the direction of the new arrival. The students, who were sat on their heels, bowed their heads to the mat in respect.
Yoshi Mashida was tall, like his daughter. When the two senseis stood up, he was a head above Oyama. He had a broad, well defined face with intelligent enquiring black eyes and he sported a full head of thick black hair, tinged with grey in places. Fifty-something, Nick guessed. There was that same twist of the mouth that Mariko had, though on him it conveyed a kind of calm ruthlessness. Like her, the ruthlessness vanished when he smiled, which he did now as he said a few words of welcome in both Japanese and English.
Then he demonstrated a very basic technique - the application of an arm lock against a striking opponent, in this case Oyama. The ease and fluidity of his movement was astonishing. He did it quickly to start with, taking Oyama down to the mat in a split second. It was a tribute to the skill of both men that they could perform the manoeuvre so fast and then Oyama could get up intact. Mashida repeated the move, slowing it down as he did so. Then the students paired off to do it themselves. Mariko was the only woman in the group, but that was no disadvantage. Relaxation and good movement would overcome a stronger opponent, and as he cast the odd surreptitious look
her way he saw her display the same speed and grace her father had just demonstrated.
They practised various other techniques for the next three hours and then there was a two hour break, followed by another three hours. By 4pm, when they finished for the day, even the studious and obviously much fitter Japanese students looked a little lacklustre. Nick was knackered. He went back to the lodge and lay down on the bed for an hour, luxuriating in the feeling of simply not moving. If this was the daily routine, he wasn’t sure he could go the distance. Today was Monday and he wanted to spend at least part of one working day this week in Tokyo, talking to Kate Suzuki. He decided to walk over to the house and broach the subject with Katsu Oyama.
Mariko opened the door.
‘Hope I’m not disturbing you,’ said Nick. ‘Just need to speak to Katsu for a moment.’
‘Please come in. We’re having some tea, I’ll get another cup.’
She showed him through to the living room. Oyama and Mashida were seated on the floor, around a low table. Oyama gestured towards a vacant cushion and Nick took a seat, cross-legged. He explained the reason for his visit.
‘This is something of a working holiday for me. There’s a lady at Sotheby’s in Tokyo, who may be able to help me with my investigation. I want to make an appointment and visit her sometime this week.’
Mashida raised an eyebrow. ‘Investigation? What exactly are you investigating?’
Mariko joined them. She poured Nick a cup of green tea from the teapot on the table and passed it to him. Between sips, he summarised the case for Mashida, repeating the conversation he’d had with Jameson regarding the reclusive billionaire, Takashi Yamada. He noticed a quick look of surprise on Mashida’s face. Oyama almost scowled.
‘What is it?’
Oyama answered. ‘We know Yamada. We have known him for a long time, from when we were all young men. He took something from both of us.’
It was Nick’s turn to look surprised. He looked across at Mariko, but her eyes were fixed firmly on the table top. Mashida was looking out the partly open sliding door behind Mariko, through which there was a path into a garden beyond. Then he brought his mind back to the room and looked directly at Nick.
‘You won’t need to visit Tokyo to find out about Yamada. I can tell you a great deal.’ He paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘I am doing some work for certain people. You could call me a private investigator, I suppose. We are both policemen, though I have more, shall I say, freedom in my work.’
‘Your work involves Yamada? What did he take?’
Mashida’s expression darkened and Mariko looked slightly uncomfortable. Nick thought he might have made a faux-pas, but there was no taking it back.
‘It is not important,’ said Mashida. ‘It is interesting that you say he may have bought these lions. My own investigation involves the recovery of money invested in a property development. The money was advanced by a group of investors in Tokyo, but the development never took place. They are still waiting for a refund.’
‘I thought Yamada was a billionaire. Couldn’t he finance the development himself?’
‘He is head of Yamada Steel, but according to him, until his father dies he has only a handful of shares in the company. The property development was run using an entirely separate company which conveniently went bankrupt. Still, if he spent $100 million on something recently he must have access to more liquid assets than I realised.’
‘How do you intend to recover the money he owes his investors?’ asked Nick.
‘I have a man on the inside. We know he has an alternative source of income and when we find it we will demand repayment.’
‘You’ll take him to court, you mean.’
Mashida smiled. ‘No, we have our own way of settling these matters.’ He turned his eyes to the garden again, thinking. ‘Perhaps you should meet Ms Suzuki,’ he said. ‘Find out exactly where she was on the property when this lorry was about to be unloaded. Whatever was on it is probably not far away. Mariko will accompany you to Tokyo.’
Mariko looked up and nodded her head in agreement. ‘It will be my pleasure,’ she said.