The Samurai Inheritance

by James Douglas

  ‘Did he tell you what he brought back from his first visit to Berlin?’ Jamie tried to get the conversation back on track.

  ‘Trinkets,’ Berzarin shrugged, ‘things of little value. He handed them all to Litvinov. For all I know they ended up with Stalin. He had a liking for things that glittered.’

  ‘Nothing from the South Sea Islands?’

  Berzarin laughed. ‘You think the Nazis presented my father with a canoe.’

  ‘I was thinking of something a little more personal. An artefact with a history.’

  The Russian shook his head. ‘Nothing.’ Jamie couldn’t hide his disappointment and the billionaire sighed. ‘You see, I cannot help you. I can hardly help myself. And now Sergei wants to take it all away from me and give it to his gangster friends. How would you feel about that, Mr Saintclair? How would you feel if everything you had worked for every day of your life was about to be robbed from you by a man who has betrayed every value he ever possessed?’ He rose from his seat and went to the broad window that made up most of the rear wall of the room, beckoning Jamie and Magda with him. ‘Bomb-proof glass mirrored on the outside so no one can send me an RPG for breakfast.’ He extended an arm to take in the bare expanse of tundra that stretched more than a mile before it turned to dark green forest. ‘Everything you can see from here is mine, but I almost lost it all in the crash of 2008. The only reason I still have it is because I was negotiating with the same fools who caused the disaster in the first place. It turned out the banks were in a weaker position than I was. They backed off when they understood I would never give up what was mine without a fight. Now I must fight for it again and my opponent is a man without morals or pity who will use any weapon to get what he wants. Just as he is using you.’

  ‘It seems we have been wasting your time,’ Jamie said carefully.

  The Russian turned away from the window, his face thoughtful. ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did he send any message?’

  ‘No. All my contact said was to say that your old friend Sergei sends his regards.’

  ‘Then you are the message.’ Berzarin’s voice turned harsh. Suddenly, the man who had wheeled and dealed and fought his way to control one of Russia’s strategic industries was revealed. ‘He knew about this artefact you seek?’

  Jamie thought back to his meeting in the sterile dacha outside Moscow; the feeling that the Russian had been able to see into his soul. ‘I believe so.’

  ‘Then he would know that my father never had it. That means he has sent you on what you English call a “wild-duck race” …’

  ‘Goose chase,’ Jamie corrected automatically.

  ‘… or there is some other reason.’

  Jamie felt himself the focus of two sets of eyes, the one appraising, the other filled with a mixture of confusion and anger. This was the first time Magda Ross had heard about his meeting and it would take some delicate diplomacy to convince her he’d been right to keep her in the dark. But that would have to wait. The question now was would Vatutin’s shadowy boss send them all the way to Krasnoyarsk simply to increase the pressure on his enemy? Berzarin himself had said he would use any weapon, so it was possible, but there could be another explanation.

  ‘Were you acquainted with the businessman Oleg Samsonov?’

  Berzarin frowned at the change of subject. ‘Of course. Sometimes we were allies and sometimes rivals, but always we were friends. I was genuinely devastated by what happened to him and Irina.’ He glanced sharply at Jamie. ‘Was it Sergei’s doing?’

  ‘No,’ the Englishman assured him. ‘The shootings were the work of a disgruntled employee.’ He hesitated. ‘I only wondered if you were aware of his interest in art?’

  The Russian had a way of becoming very still, which wasn’t threatening until you realized it was the stillness of a hunting leopard just before the pounce. ‘Why would you ask such a question?’

  ‘Because,’ Jamie looked past Berzarin’s shoulder to the central Jackson Pollock, a monstrous kaleidoscopic spatter of reds and blues like the eye of a hurricane, ‘Sergei’s messenger mentioned he had a similar interest.’ He ignored the billionaire’s disbelieving snort. ‘In fact,’ he went on carefully, ‘he suggested that a certain recently acquired painting in Oleg Samsonov’s collection was a loan between friends. When Oleg died, it appears there was some confusion about the picture’s origin and it went missing, purloined, claimed or otherwise placed in the custody of a person, or persons, unknown.’ Jamie allowed a sympathetic smile to touch his lips; the odd things that happened to billionaire art collectors. ‘Apparently, Sergei was quite put out and he’s very keen to get it back.’

  ‘And he believes I have this painting?’

  ‘He didn’t say as much, but the possibility crossed my mind.’

  ‘Come with me, both of you.’ Berzarin marched from the large room and up a set of wide stairs to a pair of double doors that led to the bedroom suite, an even larger space with a raised bed about the size of a tennis court in the centre. Other doors led off to what must be dressing rooms, showers and, for all Jamie knew, an Olympic-size swimming pool. His eyes searched the room for the explosion of gold that would release him from the Faustian contract he had struck, but if it was here it was well hidden. ‘He knew I had always admired it.’ The Russian stopped in front of an alcove that would be the first thing the bed’s occupant would see when they woke in the morning. ‘Even so, I was surprised when the attorney called to let me know I’d been left it in his will.’ He moved aside to allow his guests a view of the contents and Jamie stepped forward eagerly – only to be disappointed. Not the only copy of Van Gogh’s Sunflowers in private hands that would get him off Sergei’s carefully forged hook, but a rather drab-looking portrait of a plump, arrogant man wearing a velvet doublet and with his hands on his hips.

  ‘It is wonderful,’ Magda Ross whispered, and, looking closer, Jamie had to agree. The artist had encapsulated the sneering man’s entire personality in that expression and that stance; his disdain for the proceedings, the near violent feelings he had for his tormentor and the raw physical strength hidden by the shining cloth. A substantial gilt frame surrounded the picture.

  ‘The papers are entirely in order,’ Berzarin growled. ‘If Sergei wants it he’ll have to fight me for it. There is a full company of ex special forces soldiers in the grounds and I can have a battalion here within the hour. Let him come with his gangsters. He will find that Siberia is not Moscow.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to worry about that, old chap,’ Jamie assured him. ‘Though I’ve no doubt he’d be interested if he knew about it. One of Meinheer Rembrandt’s better efforts, I think.’ Berzarin’s lips clamped in a thin smile at the artful dismissal of Portrait of a Man, half-length and with his arms akimbo, which, to Jamie’s certain knowledge, had captured a record price for the artist from an anonymous buyer at Christie’s a couple of years earlier. Their eyes met and he searched the other man’s for any sign of a lie, but found only wary defiance. ‘On the other hand, if you happen to be offered a temporarily mislaid Van Gogh, please give me a call.’

  ‘So, we are done,’ the Russian said. ‘The only concern now is how I dispose of you.’

  XXVI

  ‘I’m glad Comrade Berzarin’s English wasn’t entirely up to scratch,’ Jamie said as he and Magda shared a table at the internet cafe near the hotel. ‘Just for a moment I thought we were going to end up buried in a Siberian bog with a bullet for company.’

  He accompanied the observation with a wry smile that wasn’t reciprocated. In fact, there was something quite intimidating about the way his companion was playing with her bread knife. Almost as intimidating as the scowl she’d worn for the past hour and the silence that had accompanied it.

  He sighed. ‘You’re not still angry about the Sergei thing? I told you,’ he carried on with what he considered was impeccable logic, ‘it was nothing to do with the Bougainville head. An entirely separate issue. A loose end left over from a previous commission. I
n any case,’ he sought out her hand, but she whipped her fingers away, ‘there are some things it’s better not to know. I didn’t want you involved.’

  ‘I can look after myself, Jamie.’ The brown eyes skewered him. ‘But don’t you think I deserved to be kept informed after the visit from your Chinese acquaintances?’ She let her eyes drift across their fellow customers. ‘If I’d known someone like that was taking an interest it might have explained the familiar faces I keep seeing from the train.’

  ‘What familiar faces?’ He followed her gaze.

  ‘Not here.’ She shook her head. ‘On the streets. They’re mostly men, but at least one woman. I think one of them might have been the drunk who questioned me on the way from the bathroom on the train.’

  ‘Coincidence.’ He ignored her withering look. ‘Krasnoyarsk is one of the more scenic attractions on the Trans-Siberia route. You’d expect tourists to stop off here for a couple of days.’

  ‘These men aren’t tourists. I think they’re following us.’

  ‘It might have been helpful if you’d mentioned it before.’

  ‘I didn’t know then that a very intimidating person was in partnership with my travelling companion.’

  ‘Would it help if I apologized again?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not even if the good news is that I’ve booked us first-class tickets to Tokyo.’

  Her eyes turned suspicious. ‘If that’s the good news, what’s the bad news?’

  ‘The flight’s at four tomorrow morning.’

  ‘I suppose that puts paid to my beauty sleep again.’ She sighed. ‘It’s a pity this was all such a waste of time.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Jamie said cheerfully. ‘It’s how the business works. Sometimes you end up chasing shadows, but you don’t know it’s a shadow until you’ve caught it. We might have walked into that room and found the Bougainville head on the mantelpiece between his Jackson Pollocks. “Take it away, Mr art dealer Saintclair, Berzarin is fed up with it and needs to make room for a Ming vase.” All right, it didn’t happen, but we’d never have known without being here.’

  She smiled at his passable imitation of Berzarin’s voice. ‘So tomorrow night we’ll be in Tokyo and out of the clutches of Sergei’s annoying followers.’ The knowledge clearly invigorated her because her eyes glittered with excitement and Jamie reflected that she appeared to have as much invested in this quest as he did. The thought gave him another twinge of guilt.

  ‘Look, I really am sorry I didn’t tell you …’

  ‘You’re forgiven, but from now on we’re proper partners. No more secrets, right?’

  ‘No more secrets.’ He stood up and went to pay the bill, hoping she was right about the minders, but not entirely convinced. That wasn’t the way it usually worked out for Jamie Saintclair.

  They walked back to the hotel along one of the city’s broad avenues and she linked her arm through his, suggesting he really was forgiven. Even through the padded jackets he could feel the curve of her breast against his bicep and he tried to think of Fiona back in Sydney or wherever she would be at this time, which reminded him he still needed to phone her. If it was 8 p.m. in Krasnoyarsk what time did that make it in Australia? He was still trying to work out the time difference when the drunk stumbled into him with a slurred ‘yob tvoyu mat’ and it wasn’t until the man was past that Jamie realized he’d felt a sharp sting in the hip at the exact moment of collision.

  He stopped and looked back in confusion as the man disappeared into an alleyway.

  ‘Is something wrong, Jamie?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He pulled up his jacket and shirt and in the light of a streetlamp tried to check the area of flesh where he’d felt the sting, but the angle and the bulk of the coat made it too awkward. ‘Can you see anything?’

  Her face was already pale in the artificial light, but he could have sworn it went even whiter. The dark eyes filled with concern. ‘I think …’

  ‘What?’ he demanded.

  ‘It looks like a puncture mark.’

  For a moment Jamie’s head spun and he felt like vomiting. Breath became hard to come by and Magda acted as a prop as she helped him to a nearby doorway. It was a combination of shock and fear – or was there something coursing through his system turning his blood to tar? Pull yourself together, idiot, it was just a drunk. But a drunk on the train had harassed Magda. Was it the same man? After what she’d said earlier surely she’d have recognized him? But this one had been wrapped up in a winter coat with a cap low over his face. Jamie had an image of a bald man lying back on a hospital bed, patches on his chest and tubes and electrical leads hanging from his emaciated body. What had his name been? Litvinenko, that was it. Alexander Litvinenko. A former FSB officer who’d fled to London seeking asylum, he’d accused his former masters of arranging the Moscow theatre siege that had left a hundred and thirty people dead, along with forty Chechen terrorists. He’d also accused high-ranking members of the government of complicity in the death of a prominent Moscow journalist. Someone had poisoned him with a radioactive isotope and it had taken him three painful weeks to die.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  Christ, he’d forgotten where he was. ‘I think so.’ Magda took his arm and they stumbled in the direction of the hotel. What reason could anyone possibly have for …? He thought back to his conversation with Berzarin. If the FSB had somehow managed to get a bug into the aluminium mogul’s living room had he revealed too much to Sergei’s sworn enemy? No, it wasn’t possible. But what about their new friend Berzarin? For all his comradely bonhomie – Do you understand how difficult it is to be both honest and rich in today’s Russia? – he was a ruthless tycoon who’d built his fortune on the bodies of lesser men, some of them undoubtedly in the ranks of the Russian mafia. Maybe Berzarin had decided it would be more convenient to get rid of the nuisance away from his home?

  Jamie’s head had cleared a little by the time they reached the hotel and he was able to walk up the steps unassisted. They took the lift up to the third floor and Magda opened the door to the twin room. When they were inside Jamie staggered to the toilet and was sick into the bowl.

  ‘I’ll get the front desk to call a doctor,’ Magda said as he emerged, wiping his mouth with a paper towel.

  ‘No. I don’t think so … If you do that I’ll end up in hospital where they’ll want to do tests and keep me under observation. I could be there for a week and I don’t fancy a week in a Russian hospital. I’m feeling much better now. We have to get out of here tonight.’ He saw her face harden and shook his head. ‘I think it’s only shock and over-reaction. Get them to book a taxi to the airport and set the alarm for one a.m.’ He stripped off his jacket and threw it over a chair, pulling the tail of his shirt and opening his jeans so he could study the mark she’d seen. There it was: a tiny dark spot surrounded by about an inch of reddened skin. A thin line of watery blood wept from the puncture. No dark lines reaching out from it, which had to be good news. He returned to the bathroom and washed the wound before applying copious amounts of antiseptic cream. His vaccinations were up to date, which should rule out hepatitis and tetanus. If the needle had been infected with HIV there wasn’t a lot he could do about it, and if someone had injected him with Polonium or whatever they’d used on Alexander Litvinenko, he was already dead, which was a cheerful thought. There was only one thing for it. He lay down on the left-hand bed and closed his eyes. ‘In the meantime, I’m going to try to get some sleep.’

  Magda stood over him, waiting for his breathing to regulate. When she was certain he slept, she went to the door and silently opened it before slipping out into the corridor. She returned a few minutes later and contemplated the two beds for a moment before lying down fully clothed beside Jamie and pulling a coverlet across both their bodies.

  XXVII

  They arrived in Tokyo two days later after an overnight stop at Beijing airport. Jamie’s hip throbbed and he barely registered the low descent over the grey waters of Tokyo B
ay with the city’s soaring skyline a spiky, gap-toothed rampart painted stark against the low hills beyond, and both dwarfed by the snow-dusted vastness of Mount Fuji in the far distance.

  When they reached the multi-storey Hyatt hotel in Minato, Magda insisted on sending for an English-speaking doctor to examine him and a young Japanese man arrived at their suite within thirty minutes. He probed the area around the puncture mark with a gloved finger and frowned at it for a while before asking Jamie to remove his shirt and checking his heart and lungs. Then he wrapped an inflatable bandage around the Englishman’s arm to take his blood pressure. Another study of the wound was necessary, this time with the help of what looked like a pair of binoculars, before he made his prognosis.

  ‘I think you’ll live, Mr Saintclair,’ he announced, with what Jamie felt was a rather casual air given the circumstances. ‘Your blood pressure is a little low, which would account for the lack of energy you’re feeling, but that’s probably a result of the shock you had and I’ve no doubt it will pass.’

  ‘You’d have been shocked too if you’d been stabbed by a hypodermic syringe of unknown origin.’

  The doctor picked up his odd-shaped binoculars again. ‘I don’t think either the dimensions or the characteristics of the wound would suggest a syringe. It’s also quite shallow. You’re worried about HIV, I take it?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you be?’ Jamie said.

  ‘I suppose it’s possible that someone could contract HIV from something like a nail, or more likely the pin of a belt buckle.’ He shrugged. ‘On balance, I’d say the odds are against it. I’ll take a blood test, of course, but …’

  With a wince, Jamie remembered the jacket the drunk had been wearing when he barged into him – the one festooned with straps and buckles. He ignored Magda’s raised eyebrow.