The Gentleman from Japan

by James Church

  “All right,” I said, “for the sake of argument, let’s suppose for the moment we are working together. What are we doing? I can’t help it if I don’t know what is going on.” Exposing ignorance is always a good tactic; it makes the enemy think he has the advantage. In this case, I had to admit, I was ignorant and he did have the advantage.

  “These”—Yuri pointed to three tarp-covered wooden crates—“are the sections to a new model of a flow-forming machine.”

  “I’m greatly impressed,” I said. “Would you care to squeeze out a little more in the way of explanation? I am supposed to be the moneyman, not a technical type. It never hurts if I know what I’m paying for.”

  “They didn’t tell you? Flow-forming machines are crucial in making centrifuges. With one of these machines, every year you can make a thousand cylinders.”

  “And? So what?”

  “The cylinders that are the basic building blocks for centrifuges.” Yuri paused. “Before you ask, we’re talking about a capacity to produce a lot of highly enriched uranium.”

  “Not dumplings?”

  Yuri gave me a quizzical look. “I don’t think so.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why centrifuges?”

  Yuri’s neck muscles tightened slightly. He was suddenly very suspicious. “They spin, they spin really fast, and if you want to make nuclear bombs, that’s good. The more centrifuges you have, the more bomb fuel you can make.”

  “And the more bomb fuel you have…”

  “… the more bombs you can make.”

  At that moment, most of what I needed to know clicked into place. That’s why people far above Luis wanted me in the middle of this. They thought the so-called dumpling machine was meant for North Korea. The factory pretended not to know, though the man at the oak table seemed to have a pretty good idea of where the machine was going. Maybe others did, too, despite the smoke and mirrors meant to hide the actual buyer. Transportation, obviously, was key. You could hide a lot through paperwork, but sooner or later, you had to deliver. The transport route had to be closely held. Everyone involved was suspicious of everyone else because someone’s intelligence service—Luis and his friends on the bench beneath the castle walls were only foot soldiers—had partially penetrated the network involved, and they had made some efforts to sabotage the factory. That’s why the factory’s special section had been created, with highly paid technicians who were kept isolated from the rest of the workers. I had probably been recruited because someone had concluded I could get into the factory and slip past the elaborate security once I had convinced the management that I was the new representative sent by the buyer to finalize the deal.

  One big problem—no one warned me about Yuri. I ought to have known someone was working on the inside. He knew about me, why didn’t I know about him? It struck me that Yuri didn’t seem to have all the pieces to the puzzle either. He knew what these machines were, but he didn’t know for sure where they were going or how they would get there. And despite what he said, it wasn’t clear whether he was sure his job was to send them on their way or prevent them from moving. The death of José, if that was his name, was an accident, so that didn’t lead me anywhere. The fact that Yuri was working undercover, disguised as a bumbling butler, could put him in either column—move the machine, in which case we were working against each other, or stop it, in which case we were on the same side. The key piece of evidence was going to be whether he killed me, in which case I would be ill placed to act on my knowledge.

  In effect, Yuri had the same problem that I did. He wasn’t absolutely sure whether I was here to finish the deal or disrupt it. Someone had alerted him that I was arriving, but that someone didn’t seem to know the details. It could have come from someone at the hotel in Lisbon who had seen the call to the factory listed on my bill. It could have come from the Spanish couple in the room next door once they got out of the tub. It could have come from someone in Luis’s group. Or, and this would definitely not be good, Yuri could have learned from Perez. There were a lot of people who didn’t seem to trust each other on this peninsula. Maybe there was something about having the ocean on three sides that made people suspicious.

  I wasn’t sure about Yuri, and he wasn’t sure about me. That would have made it a standoff, except he had a gun—two guns, actually—and I had none. He was also taller, heavier, in better shape, and younger than I was. He could move faster, see better, and had probably been trained in killing arts I preferred not to dwell on. But all of this meant I had one advantage. He thought I was not a threat. I was a mouse; he was the cat. He could bat me around in his paws, toy with me, watch me try to run and pull me back until, when he finally tired of the game, finish me off—if that was what he wanted to do. Only I was smarter than he was—I had to believe that—and I had instincts he couldn’t even imagine as long as he thought I was a mouse.

  “But the contract only calls for one of these machines,” I said. “There are three of them.” I pointed at the crates.

  Again Yuri looked at me quizzically. “No, this is one machine. It’s been specially engineered to be shipped in three sections for easier handling.”

  I realized my mistake. I should have guessed that. The best way to compensate for a fatal error is to laugh, which I did. “Yes, easier handling and in smaller separate shipments, which will be easier to get through customs. But I was told the disassembly would take place in my presence, so I could double-check. That’s what has me confused.”

  “You’re an engineer? Funny, I didn’t have that impression. You just said you were only the moneyman.” Yuri’s Slav eyes narrowed, so he looked more like a wolf than an undercover butler. He pulled his main pistol from his belt. “I wasn’t sure where you stood, but I think I figured you out.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “You’re here to interfere with this shipment.”

  “And you’re not? You just told me you were supposed to slip something small into the machine to keep it from working. Well, there’s the machine. Why don’t you do your job?”

  The barrel of the pistol described a small circle. “Because I don’t have what I need with me. It’s in the butler’s pantry. I didn’t think I’d get into this area so soon. I needed to find out a few things first. So yes, I’m here to make sure it doesn’t work, but for different reasons than you.”

  “What makes you think you know my reasons?”

  “Because you are Japanese.”

  This annoyed me, and so I clenched my fists at my side. Yuri stepped back, apparently alarmed, or perhaps to get a better shot, and struck his head on the open hatch door to the ceiling. It must have been made of steel, or maybe the back of his head was unusually soft, because he staggered, his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the floor.

  “I am not Japanese,” I said as I knelt and removed the big pistol from his hand, and then the smaller pistol from his belt. “And you think so at your peril.” I rolled him partway over to get at the keys hanging from the other side of his belt. “I think it was the green one. One turn left, one turn right.” I stood to go but then remembered the box of ammunition. I do not like carrying boxes, so emptied it into my jacket pocket. For a moment I thought of taking the explosives, but figured that would be overkill, especially if they went off in my pocket. Instinctively I pulled the ID from the chain around Yuri’s neck. If it had to be read by a machine, no doubt it would sound an alarm, but if I merely had to wave it, the chances were good it would be enough. Guards are supposed to check passes. They rarely do, not carefully anyway, especially near the end of their shift.

  Before leaving, I decided I needed to look at the dumpling machine. I lifted the covers on each of the three sections. The center section seemed to be the most important, but I had no way of knowing for sure. There was a thick notebook hanging from a hook attached to the end of the right section. It might have been an instruction manual, but I didn’t have time to read anything complicated. I
flipped through and in a flap attached to the last page found what looked like a shipping document. I folded it and put it in my pocket. I replaced the covers, extinguished the lights, and turned the key, hoping the interior lock would not have been jammed by the broken one on the outside. It wasn’t.

  “Adios,” I said, and let myself out the door.

  3

  Good to his word, once I strolled out of the gates past the guards, waving Yuri’s pass to the desired effect, the taxi driver stood behind a tree smoking a cigarette. “I wondered if you would get out,” was all he said.

  “Very kind,” I said. “Your steed is nearby?” I patted the tree. “Oak.” I looked up at its thick boughs. “Very ugly.”

  The driver flicked the end off the cigarette and put the butt in his shirt pocket. “Parked beyond those trees. You hungry? We could stop for dinner. Or do you need to get back to the airport right away?”

  “Actually, I don’t since I don’t have a ticket. I also don’t have a hotel. You know of one that might still have room at this hour? Something out of the way, off the normal track so to speak.”

  “So to speak,” he said. He drove for about a kilometer without any lights along a dirt road. “The cameras at the gate won’t have spotted this car, and they won’t have seen me either. All they’ll know is that you disappeared behind some big trees. They’ll look there, find tire tracks and try to follow them when it’s light enough to see at dawn.”

  “And what will they see?”

  “Different people will see different things. The federales from Madrid will see one thing, the locals will see something different.”

  “Who will carry the day?”

  He laughed. “No one. They’ll argue until noon, when they’ll break for lunch. Besides, these tires don’t belong on this model car.”

  At this point, there seemed a pretty obvious hole in the operation’s planning, and it looked like someone was going to fall through it—namely me—if I didn’t point it out. “What about a lookout at the airport? They’ll have a watch on for me, won’t they?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Maybe that’s good enough for your sleepy culture, but I need precision, in fact, a lot more precision, on something like this. ‘Perhaps’ doesn’t work.”

  “They’ll circulate your picture from the surveillance cameras in the building, no doubt. They’ll see an elderly Japanese gentleman. Can you look less Japanese?”

  “I hope so. How should I look?”

  “Have you ever thought of having white hair, cut short, bristly, like a kung-fu instructor?”

  “I haven’t.” It hadn’t occurred to me, but it obviously already had to them. This was the first reassuring sign I’d seen. It’s one thing to have an operation mapped out in advance, it’s another to have exits prepared along the way in case something goes wrong. And something always goes wrong.

  “Well, think about it. There’s a kung fu delegation in town putting on a demonstration. We’ll say you have to leave early to make preparations for the next stop, in Portugal.”

  “Two questions.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Why are you so helpful all of a sudden? I thought you were going to be sick after you saw that body in the dining room. You left in the hurry. Now you’re fine.”

  “What’s the second question?”

  “How come you know so much?”

  “This is not a simple operation, Inspector. It’s been years in the planning.”

  So there was some planning to this thing after all. Years? So far it didn’t seem that intricate. If there were layers to it, they only wanted me skating on the surface, which was not a good place to be. “Did you know Yuri?”

  “Who?”

  “The Russian butler who was in the dining room. OK, maybe not really a butler. But I take it you know Luis.” The driver must have known who I was from the beginning, when he first picked me up at the airport. He drove a taxi, but he wasn’t really a driver. The fact that he hadn’t left the cigarette butt on the ground meant he wasn’t just fussy about litter.

  “I don’t know anyone.” He looked in the rearview mirror. “I don’t know you.”

  “You never had an uncle either, I take it.”

  “I did, but he died ten years ago.”

  “From his injuries at the factory? And you, you worked at the factory? Or was that just a story?”

  “I did, actually, but not for very long.”

  “But long enough to know the layout.” I sat back. “You have a place already picked out for me to stay, I’m guessing.”

  “It wasn’t part of the plan, but we adjust when we have to.”

  4

  The next morning, when I climbed into a taxi, a different one from the night before, I had white bristly hair, a canvas carry-on bag with the logo of a Korean kung fu federation, and a plane ticket to Lisbon purchased by the Barcelona Sports Exhibition Alliance. The driver, different than the one I’d had before and not the least interested in his passenger, didn’t even bother with a word of greeting. As soon as the rear door shut, we pulled away from the curb and drove in silence for the next forty minutes. At the airport, the taxi stopped long enough for me to get out and then was gone.

  No one looked twice as I went through security. There were no old ladies seated in the waiting area, and no women with tight skirts either. As far as I was concerned, that meant I was being watched from somewhere else. I did a couple of kung fu moves that I remembered from years ago, bought a bottle of water, and spent the time looking out the window, waiting for the Spanish police to ask me to come with them, if that was going to happen.

  5

  At the bottom of the ramp at Lisbon Airport, Luis waited with two other men. They had pasted-on bored looks around their mouths, but their eyes were alert and worried. Luis nodded slightly when he saw me, no sign of surprise at my white hair. The three of them formed a triangle around me, and we moved smoothly through the terminal and out the door to the curb, where a small blue car with bald tires waited. Luis held the rear door open and indicated I should get in. Up till then, no one had said a word.

  “No one asked if I needed the restroom,” I said.

  “Not interested,” Luis said. “Get in before you get shoved in.”

  One of his tight-lipped friends climbed in the front passenger’s seat. The other one stood next to Luis, scanning the scene.

  “OK.” Luis slammed the door and tapped on the roof of the car. “See you around, my friend.”

  There was a click as the driver locked the doors from his control, and we moved into traffic, out of the airport onto one highway, then onto another that passed through open countryside. No one volunteered anything from the front seat, and I decided they probably didn’t know very much anyway. Whatever was going to happen would wait until we got to wherever we were going. Agonizing over a future no more than an hour or two away wasn’t worth the trouble. The sky broadened as the road turned toward the ocean, climbed a steep hill, wound through a tiny settlement of several worn houses and what looked like a small restaurant with a few tables out in front, and then into an open field. The driver stopped, got out, and opened my door. The other man rolled down his window and lit a cigarette.

  “End of the line,” the driver said.

  Behind him I could see the land fall away. From the sound of it, waves were crashing on rocks below. There was no one else in sight.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  The driver walked me to the edge of the cliff. “See that?” He pointed to a spit of land off to our left. “You know what it is?”

  “I have no idea.” The breeze had picked up, and I was suddenly very hungry. “I don’t suppose there’s a place to eat. There was a restaurant back there. Why don’t I buy you some lunch?”

  “This is Cabo da Roca. Right over there”—he pointed—“is the farthest point west in Europe. You could swim from here to New Jersey.” He grinned.

  I took a small step away from the edge, nothin
g too obvious, but enough to give me a margin for error. “Very impressive,” I said. “But first, why not get lunch? We can swim later.” I took another small step back.

  A big car drove up. Luis emerged from the passenger side in front. He moved quickly to open the rear door, then stepped aside. A tall man in a white suit got out and looked around. The wind played with his hair for a moment before he ducked back into the car to retrieve a hat. He nodded at Luis, who pointed at me. The man smiled. “Inspector,” he said. “I am glad to see you.”

  “We haven’t met,” I said. “But I’m sure the pleasure is supposed to be mine.”

  The tall man turned again to Luis. “You’ll excuse us for a moment? The Inspector and I have a thing or two to discuss. We’ll walk along the cliff. You”—he pointed to Luis, then to my driver who had been standing off to the side—“and you, leave us alone for about fifteen minutes.”

  When the two of us had walked about twenty meters without speaking, at a point where a sheer cliff and the Atlantic seemed to be locked in a constant battle, the man stopped. He looked past me, out toward the ocean, facing into the wind. “Your stay in Spain,” he said, “it went well?” His English was heavily accented. It had a Russian tread to it, though nothing else about him struck me as Russian. Maybe he was German, originally from the east.

  “We still haven’t been introduced,” I said. “I don’t know who you are, why you brought me here, and what you think I’m going to do tomorrow, other than get on the next flight home.”

  “Home,” the man said. “Where would that be, Inspector? A mountaintop? Do you think you are Zarathustra?”

  “People have been cute with me about that already,” I said. “You want me to recite the opening line in German? I can, you know. Wenn ich—”

  “Never mind that. How about the little house in Yanji with your nephew, the illegitimate son of your despised brother?”

  “Big deal,” I said nonchalantly, though I felt my stomach tighten. “Someone handed you a file. You skimmed it. Does it have pictures? I would love to see them.”