The Samurai Inheritance

by James Douglas

  ‘You look like the cat that got the cream, Saintclair.’

  He grinned back. ‘What could be better than good food and good company in one of the most beautiful places on the planet?’

  Fiona smiled at the compliment to her home city. Her pleasure was reflected in dark eyes that glittered in the kind of narrow face you sometimes see on a catwalk. She had shoulder-length blond hair styled in a tight plait and strong features that made her striking rather than conventionally pretty. Her swimmer’s build – wide shoulders, a narrow waist and long legs – allied to something indefinable, had attracted him at a gallery opening in London. Somehow, she’d worked her way under his skin before he’d even realized it.

  ‘Good wine, too.’ She raised her glass of what a surreptitious glance at the wine list proved to be a mind-blowingly expensive grand cru Burgundy. ‘But I notice that you’re being very sparing, which, dare I say it, is suspiciously out of character.’

  ‘That’s because I’m savouring it.’ He picked up his own glass and put it to his lips. ‘This is a wine to be sipped.’ That wasn’t quite true. He exchanged smiles with Nico, who’d also barely touched his wine. Jamie had noticed the Australian studying him in a shrewd and quite unashamedly calculating manner that he found intriguing.

  Leopold returned, apologizing for having to leave them. ‘My afternoon nap,’ he claimed, but Jamie suspected that even at his age he still liked to keep an iron grip on his company. ‘The bill is dealt with; but feel free to stay and have another bottle of wine and they’ll charge it to my account.’ They all stood up to say goodbye. Jamie shook hands and Fiona presented her tanned cheek to kiss. Lizzie ran round the table and gave the portly figure an enormous hug that made everyone laugh. Nico stood a little apart making his own farewell with a polite, businesslike nod.

  Jamie sensed he was waiting for something.

  ‘Why don’t I walk you folks back to your hotel?’ the lawyer said, confirming Jamie’s suspicion. ‘It’s on my way.’

  They strolled back up George Street in the relentlessly bright, almost too perfect afternoon sunlight. Nico held back to allow Fiona and Lizzie to walk ahead, and Jamie kept pace with him. Jamie smiled as he watched the slight golden-haired figure dance around her mother, interested in everything. Fiona was forced to walk with a slight stoop while she explained the use of each building and the history of each statue.

  ‘You have a lovely family, Jamie,’ Nico complimented him.

  Jamie tried to disguise the inner turmoil the word created. Family? The concept conjured up an odd and disturbing mix of feelings and emotions. A missed heartbeat. A sudden loss of breath. A moment of needless panic. It had taken him a year after Abbie Trelawney’s death in a London terrorist attack to find the faltering courage to enter into a serious relationship. Fiona was his friend and lover and that was enough for now. They saw each other most evenings, but were content to live separate lives. Lizzie came as part of the package. He took her to the park, enjoyed the innocence of her smile, the pleasure she took from simple play and the way everything was shiny and new. But family? He knew the reaction was partly a psychological flaw caused by his own past. Jamie Saintclair had never known his father. Before she passed away, his mother had given up any chance of a life of her own so that her son could go to university. It was two years now since his grandfather, his last living relative, had died. Maybe that was the problem. How could someone who’d never experienced being in a family know if he was part of one? He realized Nico was staring at him and that the lawyer must have continued the conversation without him.

  ‘Sorry,’ he apologized, ‘I was in a bit of a dream. Must have been the wine.’

  ‘Of course.’ The Australian gave a tight nod of understanding. He paused and Jamie realized he was mentally preparing himself for something. ‘I wondered if you’d care to meet a friend of mine – a former client. He has a problem he believes you might be able to help him solve. A commission, if things work out. Possibly a very lucrative one.’

  Jamie’s eyes wandered to where Lizzie was trying to catch water droplets from the fountain in Herald Square. The only work he’d planned for this trip had been delivering the painting to Leopold Ungar. It was supposed to be a two-week holiday for the three of them, and a chance for Fiona to visit her extended family. Thanks to the money from the Raphael he found himself in the unusual position of being able to pick and choose his commissions, and was in no hurry for the next.

  ‘I’m not sure …’

  Nico wasn’t to be put off so easily. ‘I’d consider it a favour,’ he said.

  Jamie suppressed a surge of irritation at the man’s persistence. He’d as good as said no. Why would the lawyer keep pushing when his reluctance was so obvious? He was about to confirm his refusal when he recognized something in Nico’s eyes that might have been an appeal; desperation even. He sighed, cursing the gene that had made him so bloody accommodating. What harm could it do? ‘Sure, Nico,’ he conceded with a sigh, ‘why not? I can give him fifteen minutes. Let me talk to Fiona.’

  The lawyer visibly relaxed and reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. ‘Thanks, mate. Take your time. I’ll set it up for three.’

  II

  The private elevator rose with the seamless ease of a flying carpet towards the upper floors of the enormous glass, steel and concrete tower that was such a surreal contrast with the vivid greenery just across the way. Fiona had met Jamie’s announcement that he had some business to attend to with raised eyebrows, but she’d seemed cheerful enough as she lured Lizzie towards the nearby botanical gardens with the promise of an encounter with a possum.

  Outdoors had been balmy and breeze kissed, but the atmosphere was decidedly chillier in the brushed-aluminium confines of the elevator. Jamie’s normal easy-going demeanour had been knocked out of kilter by Nico’s insistence that he meet his mysterious former client. He’d have been much happier scratching around in the bushes for an elusive and likely nonexistent possum. Then again that would have raised the possibility of an encounter with one of the nasty eastern brown snakes he’d been warned about. In the past couple of years he’d been shot at, blown up and survived a plane crash, but he’d cheerfully go through it all again rather than come face to fangs with a venomous reptile.

  Nico shuffled uncomfortably at his side and he sensed the lawyer was just as unhappy about the position he’d been placed in. Or at least as uncomfortable as a lawyer was likely to get about anything. Even when pushed, Nico had refused to divulge the identity of the man Jamie was about to meet. ‘He’ll tell you all about himself,’ he insisted. ‘All I can say is that it will be worth your while to talk to him.’

  The lift doors opened as a detached female voice announced their arrival at the forty-fifth floor. Nico led the way out into a broad, carpeted hallway which had walls lined with golden silk and a receptionist’s desk at the far end. Framed paintings of brightly coloured exotic birds dotted the silk in clusters of four. They reminded Jamie of Audubon’s American works, but with a rougher, less realistic edge.

  ‘John William Lewin. They’re worth next to bugger all, but I like ’em.’

  The throaty growl challenged anybody to disagree with the speaker – a tall, heavy-set figure who appeared without warning through the double oak doors behind the reception desk. Jamie took in a weathered face, a nose like a Roman galley’s ram and thick grey hair swept back from a broad forehead. He found himself the focus of shrewd, pale blue eyes that had you measured, suited and booted before you could say hello. Commanding was the word he’d use to describe a man who would dominate any room he entered. The Australian wore cream slacks and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows; the gold watch on his left wrist would have bought a Ferrari. Nico hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain whether to usher Jamie forward or wait for some command. Their host’s features broke into a grin and he strode the length of the hall to greet them. Jamie stood six foot tall, but he was forced to look up as his hand was engulfed in
a callused, meaty fist.

  ‘You must be Mr Jamie Saintclair.’ The stranger nodded approvingly. ‘Good to meet you at last. Thanks, Nico.’

  The casual dismissal verged on the contemptuous, but if Nico took any offence he gave no sign of it. ‘I’ll call you later,’ he said to Jamie and walked back towards the lift.

  In the seconds that followed, Jamie and his host studied each other like prizefighters limbering up for a bout. Finally the big Australian broke the silence. ‘Keith Devlin, but just call me Keith, and we’ll get along just fine.’ The big hand released Jamie’s fingers and moved to his shoulder, easing him in the direction of the doors in a gesture that was both casual and possessive, as if, now he was here, he wasn’t going to be allowed to escape.

  ‘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.