The Gentleman from Japan

by James Church

  The retreat behind the barricade of “I can’t do anything until my Ministry says so” had been automatic and might even have worked with someone who knew less about me. This man had tossed it aside, like an angry bear flinging a rabbit over its head. Sometimes the angry bear act is just that, an act. But sometimes it reflects a sense of authority. I adjusted my initial impression. The man might be more central to this operation than he let on. He was not just a bit player delivering a message. Luis’s role in all of this was still a mystery I wanted solved, but couldn’t solve at the moment.

  What remained was the obvious question, so obvious there was no need asking—why would anyone go to such elaborate lengths to recruit me over concerns about dumpling machines? No one was going to tell me at this point, certainly not sitting on a bench near the castle gate, but it wasn’t a question that could lie around for very long. A few seconds later, I came up with one more question that I needed answered, maybe even more urgently than the first: What did this all have to do with the restaurant deaths in Yanji?

  “Dumpling machines,” I said. “Maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe the real concern is that dumplings from Japan are radioactive. Their vegetables are, their fish are, why not their dumplings?”

  “Let’s not sit here all morning, Inspector.”

  “You realize I could tell you that I don’t want to play. What would you say to that?”

  He shrugged. “You know what they say, you can’t go home again.” He paused. “You really don’t have a choice. You shouldn’t have gotten on the airplane if that’s the case. You shouldn’t have sat down on this bench if you didn’t want to play. It would have been easy for you to walk right past me. No one would have stopped you. You could have turned around and gone back to your hotel, packed your bags, and left for the airport. The clerk would have handed you the return ticket. In fact, this morning while eating your roll you could have decided not to come up here at all. But you did. You did everything without being under any duress. It was all your own doing. Now you’re in, one way or another. No exit.”

  “You are not Portuguese.” It dawned on me why this man had registered in such a strange way on my mental map. He was operating in foreign territory. His gestures, his posture, his accent—they all fit someone who wasn’t on his home turf. “So, who are you? I like to know who I’m dealing with, when and if I decide to deal with them.”

  “Inspector, this meeting was supposed to run two hundred and seventy seconds according to the scenario. We practiced it five times. I knew it might run over because I’d heard you could be difficult, so I got permission to give it an extra thirty seconds. You’re almost out of time.” He yawned and looked at his watch, which I could see had a stopwatch on its face.

  “There’s a minute left. When I get up and leave, the door closes. And you’ll be on the wrong side of it. So will your nephew.” He leaned back and looked up at the sky through the trees that filtered the sunlight. “Your choice.”

  “My choice,” I repeated, rather pleased that he hadn’t answered my question, which told me I had probably been right. He was working for someone other than the Portuguese government. “In that case, only one question. Why me?” I left aside the second question—Why did they keep bringing up my nephew? Were they trying to get to him through me? Was he involved in something that had attracted attention halfway around the globe?

  The man stood up and stretched. As he did, one of the old men two benches away put on a fisherman’s cap and strolled up the lane toward the castle. He no longer looked like he was out of breath, or even that he was old. At that moment, a workman emerged from the house opposite us, crossed to the empty bench, ripped off the Wet Paint sign, and sat down. He pulled a small, sharp, ugly knife from his belt, took an apple from his pocket, and began to peel it. Just downhill from the row of benches, at the entrance to the ruins of a church, a short man in overalls appeared with a large black dog, which pulled at its leash and whined.

  That left one exit not covered, a narrow street straight ahead that seemed to lead down the hill. The man beside me put his hand on my shoulder.

  “Not a good route, Inspector. It leads nowhere. Dead end.” He looked at his watch again. “Fifteen seconds.”

  “What good am I to you if I accept under duress? You can’t trust someone like that.”

  “Yes or no. Ten seconds.”

  “All right, but I’m warning you from the start, even if I play along you might not be happy with how I do. And what should I know about socks?”

  The man walked away without saying anything more, leaving his magazine on the bench. I sat down and flipped through the pages. There was nothing. They were all blank.

  As I walked down the hill, the black dog sniffed my shoes and then looked up at me with greedy yellow eyes. “Nice dog,” I said stiffly and continued on my way.

  5

  Back at my hotel, the clerk waved as I entered and pointed me to the concierge desk. I do not normally take direction from hotel clerks, but in this case I was tired and, after the morning’s events near the castle, not in a mood to risk another confrontation, which I felt sure I would lose. I sat down and waited. The lobby was pleasant, filled with brightly colored, oddly shaped furniture. The bar along the back wall was deserted. What I needed was a drink, I thought to myself. Vodka, if they had such a thing here. Russian vodka if it was available, otherwise Finnish, Mongolian, or Polish, exactly in that order. As I considered whether I would want a single or double, the concierge, who had glided out of the shadows, cleared his throat and shuffled some papers.

  “May I help you?” His voice was pleasant, almost musical. It probably had been a requirement for getting the job.

  “That I don’t know.” I set aside the question of vodka for the moment. “The desk clerk suggested I see you. About what, I thought you would have some clue.”

  “And you are … ah, here it is. Room 336. Your name is…?”

  “Alejandro.”

  He frowned. “That’s a first name.”

  “You think I don’t know that? My father thought if I had to fill out forms my whole life, it would be easier if my last name was also a first name.” The concierge could clearly see what my passport said. Maybe he was just trying to test me, or get under my skin.

  “You are from Costa Rica? You don’t look Costa Rican.”

  “That’s because I am Dominican. When they hear that, many people say I don’t look Dominican either, and they are all wrong. Do you doubt my patrimony?”

  “No, no, of course not. I’m just interested, being in the travel business.”

  “Because if you doubt my patrimony…” I rose from the chair and looked menacingly at him.

  “Really, nothing of the sort. Please, make yourself comfortable. Can I get you a drink … ah … senhor?”

  “Call me Alejandro, as I pointed out already. And you are?”

  “Senhor Alejandro.” He extended his hand. “I am delighted to meet you. I apologize for not recognizing you immediately. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Bernardo Prehola Sineola des Cartes Vin. Not so simple, I fear.” He smiled and showed his teeth. They were picture perfect—doubtless another requirement for the job. “I think you may know my uncle, Luis?” This was not really a question, but he posed it as one.

  I was not so easily taken in as this fellow might have thought. Why would I believe Luis was his uncle just on his say-so? Why would I believe anything he told me, including his name? The meeting on the benches had put me in an unusually suspicious frame of mind. “Luis?” I pondered. “Do I know a Luis?” I knitted my brow. “Plays the guitar?” I ventured hopefully.

  Bernardo Prehola Sineola des Cartes Vin looked over at the front desk clerk and then sighed deeply. “Inspector.” He was speaking softly. “In your room, under the laundry bag in the bottom drawer of the chest, you will find a note. It makes no sense to anyone here.”

  “You’ve read it?” Somehow it didn’t surprise me that he knew who I was. Luis had picked the ho
tel, so I supposed his people had someone in place to keep an eye on me.

  “Read it? Of course!” This was said with some surprise, as if my even asking the question revealed some deep flaw in my understanding of the universe. “Would we leave notes for guests when we didn’t know what they said? In this case, we know what it says, but we don’t know what it means. Don’t worry, it is clearly not our business to know, but I wanted to be sure you retrieved it before the maid came through to freshen your room.”

  “She hasn’t been there yet? And what would the maid be doing going through the drawers?”

  “It’s complicated, I’m afraid. Just understand you have one of the cheaper rooms…”

  “And?”

  “And the Spanish couple in the next room asked that their room be cleaned first.”

  “Spanish couple?”

  Bernardo blushed slightly. “They registered as Mr. and Mrs., but the staff have been comparing notes and are doubtful.” He reached in his drawer and discreetly took out an envelope. “I believe this is yours,” he said quietly. “It fell out of your luggage when you arrived.” He shrugged. “Things happen.”

  6

  The door to my room was ajar. Since I hadn’t left it that way, it meant the maid was probably there already. I stepped quickly inside to catch her unawares. Right away I heard what sounded like voices coming from the bathroom, and then a pretty laugh as what sounded like the taps to the tub were turned on. The bed was not made; bedding and dainty underclothes were strewn across the floor. I looked in the closet, and my eyes focused on a red dress just as a short scream came from the bathroom. My first thought was to complain to the concierge, followed immediately by a second, better thought—wrong room. I backed out quickly into the hallway. The number on the door was 335, but in an effort to be artistic, someone had made 5s look like 6s. Then it occurred to me. Was this the “Spanish couple,” the one the concierge had not so slyly suggested was up to no good? Before I could answer, a maid appeared from out of a doorway across the hall, carrying towels.

  “I’m cleaning your room.” She pointed to the small sign hanging from the doorknob. “You can’t come in until I finish. It’s hotel policy. Especially since you’re a single male.” She gave me an acid look. “We’ve had incidents.”

  The maid was middle-aged, very plain-looking, though her eyes held more intelligence than she seemed to want to convey. She spoke English with a refined accent, as if she had learned it at a good school.

  “Listen,” I said. “I’m an old male. I couldn’t even begin to cause an incident. In any case, I don’t want to make any trouble.” I pointed at my room. “There is a pair of socks I need to get from the drawer. It won’t take me a few seconds, then I’ll be out of your way.”

  “There is nothing in the drawers. I looked carefully when I was cleaning. We have to go through the drawers to make sure the previous guest didn’t leave anything.”

  “But I am the previous guest. I checked in yesterday. And I know I put socks in the drawer. Also a clean shirt and a change of underwear.”

  Her mouth looked doubtful, but her eyes drilled into me. “Are you accusing me of stealing your underwear?”

  This was not a conversation I wanted to have standing in the hall with someone I had a feeling was charged with doing more than cleaning rooms. Perhaps Luis’s people had floor watchers, the same as we had. It made sense. Most hotels were crawling with guests who were not who they said they were.

  “How about I call the front desk and ask if the maids are supposed to rummage around in the drawers of the guests? Or would you like to put everything back where it was?”

  “No, go ahead and call.” She stood her ground. “I’m not worried.” She pulled a piece of paper from the pocket in her apron. “Is this what you want?”

  “I don’t know. If it’s what I think it is, everyone but me seems to have read it already. Should I?”

  “It’s a series of numbers. Lottery numbers. Phone numbers, maybe. We haven’t had a chance to check. Could be suspicious. How do we know it’s not? We’re supposed to watch for unusual things these days. Terrorists.”

  “We?” I filed the question away, though the answer seemed clear enough. “I see, very good, you haven’t had a chance to check. Well, by all means, shall we try these numbers and find out where they lead?”

  The maid shook her head. “I’m going to replace your towels. You are going to stand in the hall.” She paused. “Understood?”

  I gave no hint either way.

  “If you put one foot inside the room while I’m there, I’ll have you arrested. And don’t think the hotel won’t back me up.” She waved the paper in front of me. “This is evidence of criminal activity. Terrorism, maybe.”

  “I thought you said it was lottery numbers.”

  “It is whatever the police want it to be, and they will want it to be what they are told to want.”

  Another question for my mental file: Who was going to tell the police what to think? Surely not this woman, she was too far down the chain. There wasn’t a midlevel in any organization I knew that would replace towels. I decided it was time to go on the offensive. “Are you going to let me see the paper, or not?”

  Again she stood her ground. “It is against hotel policy for guests and cleaning staff to exchange anything other than linen, towels, and pleasantries. It says so in the regulations posted on your door. You should read them.”

  “I should. I will. Meanwhile, how about you give me the towels, and we bid each other farewell. Something pleasant, perhaps. I don’t know Portuguese. Maybe you could help me with such a phrase.”

  A few minutes later, I was in my room looking at a series of numbers on the piece of paper the maid had finally handed over in return for several large euro bills. Fortunately, a wad of those had been in the envelope the clerk at the front desk had handed me, along with a note in Luis’s handwriting. For matches, it said.

  The paper from the maid had been folded many times, and creases made some of the numerals hard to read, but it looked like 341932 51332405516. It was a phone number, so lightly coded it would have made me laugh if I weren’t so annoyed. This was what Luis said I should expect? The only thing to do with a phone number is dial it. I pulled the international dialing instructions from the desk drawer, found what I wanted, then dialed the number. There was a faint click, and then a voice on the other end, a woman, answered in Spanish. Based on what I’d heard the hotel clerk say, I figured it was hello.

  “Sorry,” I said in English. “My Spanish is rusty. Do you have an English speaker?”

  A male voice came on the line. “Hello. May I help you?”

  “I’m calling about some machinery that’s been ordered.” I didn’t know exactly—not even really approximately—where this was supposed to lead. But based on my conversation with the man on the bench, I knew the general subject. It wasn’t normal to know so little about an operation, but so far in this one, nothing was normal. Probably they didn’t trust me. At this point, I wouldn’t trust me either. All they knew was whatever Luis had told them and whatever was in a probably thin file with a few vague reports. It wasn’t much, and it made me a risk, but one they had to take since, as far as I could tell, they needed someone in a hurry. They also probably didn’t want me to sound rehearsed, since that would risk putting the other party on guard. Better if I was making things up as the conversation moved along—just like a normal conversation. I was used to this; it was not so different from working in Pyongyang. Walk in darkness, operate in darkness, stay alive in the darkness. If higher-ups didn’t want to supply a flashlight, that was just the way it was.

  “Order number?”

  “It’s in my luggage at the airport. I thought I put it in my briefcase, but apparently it was in a suit jacket.” I paused, figuring there was no turning back. “You know how it is, traveling.”

  “Actually, I don’t. Most customers keep track of these things rather well.”

  “You are looking to lo
se a big order of màquines dumpling?”

  There was a slight intake of breath over the phone. “That’s Portuguese. I assume you mean dumpling machines.” He paused. “There’s no trouble, I hope.”

  “That’s what we’ll have to see, isn’t it. The order was to be filled a week ago. It did not arrive.” Here I was hang-gliding, relying on invisible currents to keep me aloft. “There is considerable concern something happened to it. That’s why I was sent over here. Straightening out these things on the Internet or over the phone is a nightmare. Face-to-face, that’s what we believe in.”

  “Perfectly right. May I have a name? I can pull a file.” No hint of suspicion in the voice, though a trace of annoyance.

  “No, I do not want you to pull a file. I don’t want anyone to do anything until I get there. I don’t want anything prettied up. My company wants to know what happened and whether we can trust you in the future.” If hot air was going to keep me aloft, I might as well make the best of it.

  “But—”

  “Never mind. I can’t make it today; we are looking at alternative suppliers. Tomorrow will be good. About two P.M.?”

  “Of course, señor, ah, whom shall I tell our salespeople is coming?”

  “I don’t want to meet salespeople. I want to meet your vice president in charge of international operations.”

  “But he’ll be—”

  “He’ll be at the front door to greet me. Two o’clock tomorrow. Adios.”

  Given that I had no idea whom I was talking to or what I was supposed to say—other than that the morning’s conversation on the bench had been about a machine, something to do with dumplings—I thought I deserved high marks for improvisation. The number I had called was in Barcelona; I figured that out from the 3493 sequence of the numbers the maid had handed over. Maybe that was why Luis had hurried me to Barcelona—so I could see the city, but even more important, so somebody would see me there. That’s what the green van must have been all about. Didn’t Luis tell me I was chum? As for the note, the maid must have found it in the drawer before I got there. Whether she’d been sent to get it, or she just happened on it looking for loose change, there was no way to know. If she was working for someone trying to spoil the operation of the man on the bench, she wasn’t very good. She was tough enough, but a little too flustered. And in the end, she could be bought. East or west, in darkness or bright light, one thing always worked—cash.