Dark Ocean

by Nick Elliott

  ‘No reason why you would have. But that’s what your dad was investigating: Golden Lily.’ He sat down heavily on one of the two flimsy metal chairs and gestured me to take the other, our beers on a table between us.

  ‘You know the Japs ran an industrial-scale looting programme both before and during the war,’ he continued. ‘From Manchuria right across Korea and China down into Southeast Asia. The Emperor, Hirohito, appointed his brother, Prince Chichibu, to head a secret organisation called Kin no yuri or Golden Lily, for that purpose – to run the operation. The loot – and it was mostly gold we’re talking about here - was intended to finance Japan's war effort. That was the plan. The Yakuza were involved of course in the pillaging. But there were others too. Secret societies like Black Dragon, and Genyosha or Dark Ocean when you translate it.’

  ‘So what’s all this got to do with my father?’

  ‘Be patient. Much of that loot was held in the Philippines – buried in sites across the country. There are theories that it was subsequently recovered and formed a massive fund run by the Americans and their western allies to fight the Cold War. But much of it was shipped up to Japan too.’

  Still talking, he got up and strolled inside to the kitchen coming back with a couple more beers from the fridge. His thirst for the stuff was prodigious.

  ‘By this time though, Japan was facing defeat.’ Ronnie slumped back onto the little chair tilting back on its back legs to the point I thought he’d topple over. I was fascinated by what he was telling me.

  ‘Looted gold intended for the war effort was conveniently channelled into the coffers of various organisations, amongst them Dark Ocean. For years they seemed to have vanished. But then they resurfaced in the early seventies as an ultra-nationalist society harbouring dreams of a resurgent Japan. There were, and still are, many such groups. They’d seem loony to you or me but in Japan they’re tolerated probably because that way the authorities can keep tabs on them. The devil you know and all that.’

  A breeze had sprung up and the air was a little cooler. ‘So, back to your dad. Dark Ocean sought to launder their ill-gotten gains through banks in Hong Kong and your dad got wind of it. As you know he was attached to the Marine Police and the gold would have come in by sea.’

  ‘Would?’

  ‘Yes, would. Once he’d uncovered their scheme, London got involved. First the Fraud Squad, then it became a matter for the intelligence services – what had been Naval Intelligence but had recently been merged into Defence Intelligence under the MoD. The whole matter was hushed up but the shipment was blocked without a word of it getting out. And your dad was at the heart of it.’

  He lit another cigarette. I didn’t interrupt him.

  ‘But to uncover all this you might say he had to sup with the Devil. He knew the risks, but life’s not always black and white, especially in our business, right? There were those in this town who speculated that your dad was in cahoots with Dark Ocean. That was never proven. I don’t believe it for one minute and neither did anyone else who knew him well. After all, he thwarted the whole scheme. But you know how mud sticks.’

  The lights glittered as the boats in the bay moved about on their moorings with the easterly breeze.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘but tell me what all this Golden Lily stuff has to do with the Lady Monteith. She was carrying some of this loot back to Japan was she?’

  ‘Yes, she was. One hundred and seventy-five so-called imperial treasure vaults were charted across the Philippines, each with its own map showing the location. There’s plenty of conspiracy theories about that, but Buchan’s ship didn’t go down in the Philippines, did she? She went down not twenty miles from where we’re sitting. The Lady Monteith became known by the Dark Ocean people as Site 176, the last of the sites but never properly charted.’

  So that was it. I had the second half of Alastair’s cryptic message.

  ‘How do you know all this, Ronnie?’

  ‘You may have come across a chap called Alastair Marshall? He’s investigating the whole sorry affair. I’m acting for him, in an unofficial capacity of course, as ever with him. I…’

  ‘Alastair’s dead, Ronnie - murdered.’

  ‘Christ, no!’ He was visibly shaken and stared at me as if not quite believing what I’d just said. ‘When the hell did that happen?’

  ‘A week ago. So Alastair knew about my father’s involvement in Golden Lily?’

  ‘He ran your dad. He was your dad’s case officer and your dad was Marshall’s field agent.’

  ‘My father was working for the IMTF then? How did that work?’

  ‘Seconded to them, yes. The IMTF is an offshoot of the Naval desk within Defence Intelligence. Always was.’

  This much I knew but other questions were mounting. Who killed Alastair, and why? Where was Monty Buchan and what was he up to? And where exactly was the wreck of the Lady Monteith? I put them to Eastfield.

  ‘Sure. Fair questions to which I have no answers,’ he said. ’But the underlying question is this: what is Dark Ocean’s agenda? As I say, on the face of it they’re just another one of those ultra-nationalist groups who drive their buses around the streets of Tokyo with loudspeakers blaring out propaganda messages and old war-time songs. There are over a thousand right-wing extremist groups in Japan. Their themes are boringly consistent: anti-leftism, hostility towards China and Korea - North and South; and the justification of Japan's role in the war. But there’s a lot more to Dark Ocean than that, only I've no way of telling what they're up to and I wouldn't want to mislead you into thinking I did.’

  ‘Ever heard of the Toyama Maru?’ I asked him.

  ‘That old tub? Sure, she comes in and out of here from time to time. Why?’

  ‘Because Alastair Marshall was murdered aboard the Toyama Maru and it happened on his own doorstep, or just off it.’

  ‘Bloody hell. In Greece you mean? How did he die then?’

  ‘Poisoned.’

  ‘Why’d they kill him? Because he was closing in on them? Are you saying the Toyama Maru is connected with Dark Ocean then?’

  ‘It seems likely, don’t you think?’

  ‘What was she doing in Greece? There must have been easier ways to assassinate Marshall than sending a ship all the way from the Far East.’

  ‘I agree it doesn’t make sense, Ronnie. There must have been some other reason for the ship being over there.’

  Chapter 9

  It was after midnight when I left. He’d sent out for food and we’d continued drinking his San Miguel, then his whisky. Ronnie was slumped in his chair snoring loudly as I let myself out.

  After wandering around Sai Kung for half an hour, I managed to find a taxi and dozed off myself on the journey back into town. Back at my hotel on Hong Kong side I fell into bed and went out like a light.

  But I woke in the night, my mouth dry. I’d been dreaming: swimming under water off Alastair’s jetty. I reached the little dinghy on the sea floor and as I did, Ronnie’s face appeared out of the murk. He moved closer to me, then his face morphed into my father’s I recalled from old photographs. I struggled to the surface waking as I did so, my heart hammering in my chest. I got up, drank three glasses of water and sat by the window looking out over the harbour, the air clear and the city lights shining brightly.

  It had struck me as a coincidence discovering Ronnie had known my father. But the more I thought about it, the less improbable it seemed. They were both police officers in the same force after all and Hong Kong was a small place. What was more of a coincidence was Ronnie acting for the IMTF with Alastair Marshall as his case officer. But was that so unusual given that they’d both known my father? So the three of them were all connected. And two were already dead.

  But something else was nagging at my brain. It had been one-thirty by the time I’d got back to the hotel. The lobby had been almost empty. I’d picked up my room key from Reception and headed for the lifts. While I was waiting I’d looked back towards the lobby lounge. The only tw
o people who’d been there when I arrived were now leaving. Two big, hefty Chinese guys, unusually big and hefty in a city of predominantly slender Cantonese. At the time I’d assumed they must be from northern China. I remembered now they’d glanced over at me as they got up to leave; nothing unusual about that since we were the only people around at that time of night so I hadn’t given it a second thought. Now I wasn’t so sure. Was it hangover-induced paranoia or had they been watching me?

  ***

  My hotel was located in Western District which suited my purpose as well as anywhere and after a largely unsuccessful fried breakfast and coffee hangover cure, I walked out into the hot and humid chaos of Sai Ying Pun. I’d heard it described as the new hotbed of urban cool. I couldn’t see it, especially with the headache I was nursing, but I figured I could use this old part of town to my advantage. The brothels and opium dens were long gone now, replaced by hole-in-the-wall restaurants, shops, office and apartment blocks. But the area was run down and the relatively low rents had attracted young expats who weren’t fortunate enough to be employed on expat terms. I’d seen plenty of these types on the streets around the hotel and figured I wouldn’t stand out too much myself with them out and about.

  I headed south on Water Street turning left onto Second Street and weaving my way through the crowds of office workers. My plan was to allow my tails, if that’s what they were, to follow me, identify them, and at some point turn the tables and observe them in the hope they would lead me to their masters, whoever they might be.

  My plan failed of course. Before I’d even spotted them they acted. I'd just passed the Memphis Dry Cleaning and Laundry Company, skirting past a group of construction workers removing piles of scaffolding bamboo when I noticed a black Tesla coming towards me down the one-way street. These cars were two-a-penny in Hong Kong and I thought nothing of it. I continued up the hill and as I reached a junction, glanced back over my shoulder. Before I could react the two Chinese from the previous night, my height but twice as wide, came up one either side of me, linked their arms into mine and bundled me into the Tesla. I barely had time to struggle. It would have been futile anyway. Once in the car I was sandwiched between the two of them on the back seat. There was an overpowering smell of sweat. As we drove off the larger of the two extracted a pistol from his jacket and held the barrel to my head.

  ‘You try anything, I shoot you.’

  Then the other guy pulled a black hood over my head.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked in vain.

  ‘Shut up,’ said Fat Boy, prodding me with his gun again. I followed his advice telling myself this could still work out. After all, I’d wanted to find out who these heavies were and now it looked like I was going to without the hassle of trying to follow them undetected. That’s what I told myself.

  We drove through congested streets. After half an hour or so our speed picked up and I could sense we were climbing a winding hill. Magazine Gap Road, I guessed. We must be heading to The Peak. I was wrong about that too for no sooner had I had the thought than we were going downhill, again the road twisting. My geography of the place was still limited but if we weren't heading up to The Peak then we must be passing to the south side of the island, to Deep Water Bay, Repulse Bay or Stanley, or anywhere in between. As it turned out I was wrong about that as well. The time the journey took soon told me we’d driven way beyond the south side of the island.

  Eventually we stopped and I was hauled out of the car. Despite the hood, I could smell the sea. A strong offshore breeze was blowing and I could hear waves crashing onto a beach.

  I was led across sand then into the sea. Water came up to my knees, then my waist. So was this it? Murder made to look like a drowning accident? The way Alastair had been dealt with, I was ready to believe anything.

  The water wasn’t cold but there was a swell and an undertow. I struggled then and broke free, tearing the hood off my head but before I had much chance to look around both the goons had hold of me again. But it was with relief that I saw what was happening. I was being loaded onto a RIB. A third man hauled me aboard and Fat Boy clambered in after me still waving the pistol around. This was the first time I’d had the chance to look at him properly. He was like Oddjob on steroids.

  ‘Hood on,’ he shouted, gesturing with the gun to the hood I had in my hand.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I asked once in the boat.

  ‘Hood on!’ he shouted again, only this time he reinforced his order by kicking me hard in the stomach. For a man of his size he was agile. The boat was pitching. He’d had to raise his foot to the horizontal to get that kick right and it had landed just where he’d intended pushing me, winded, onto the floor of the boat. I stayed there and pulled the hood back over my head.

  The outboard engine roared into life and we headed out to sea. For half an hour or more we bounced across the waves. Then the engine was cut as we came up against the hull of a bigger vessel. This time the hood was removed so I could climb onto and up the gangway, unimpeded. The ship’s hull and accommodation were white, her boot-topping dark blue and the deck, onto which I now stepped, was teak. A slight vibration and the deep thrum of a diesel engine beneath my feet added to the boat’s overall feel. I didn't need to see the name on her lifebuoys to confirm what I’d suspected. I’d boarded the Toyama Maru.

  But what did surprise me was the appearance of Monty Buchan coming out on deck to greet me.

  Chapter 10

  Dressed in cream linen trousers and a dark blue blazer, Monty Buchan looked like he'd stepped straight out of Central Casting. All that was missing was a jaunty Captain’s cap.

  ‘Sorry about the subterfuge, Angus. You weren't mistreated were you? Come on in.’

  ‘Never mind the civility. Just tell me what you’re doing here. What am I doing here?’

  ‘No need to take offence. Come and have a drink and all will be revealed.’

  It was hot and humid and although I was still soaking from boarding the RIB, the ship’s air-conditioning was welcome. I was angry with myself for having been so easily abducted; and the hangover from last night still lingered. We entered a saloon, all brass, teak and leather opulence. I looked around as he poured drinks from a bar in the corner. Was this where Alastair Marshall had felt the first twinges which led to an agonising death? I shuddered involuntarily.

  ‘Aircon too cold for you?’

  ‘It's fine,’ I said taking the whisky from him.

  ‘Well, here’s to our little venture,’ said Buchan raising his glass. He took a drink. I stepped over to the bar and added a splash of water to the whisky.

  ‘Okay, so what gives, Monty? Your daughter says you've gone AWOL. She tells me to find you and instead you find me. What's going on?’

  ‘I'm sure you can figure it out, Angus. The Club wasn't much use so I had to strike a deal with the Japs. Dark Ocean to be specific. It’s isn't the criminal organisation it used to be. They're not Yakuza you know.’

  ‘That's not what I hear.’

  ‘Hear from whom?’

  ‘From Ronnie Eastfield for a start.’

  ‘Oh. So you've met Ronnie have you?’

  ‘It was your daughter who told me about him. And he told me about my father’s role in winding up Dark Ocean’s money laundering operations back in the seventies. So don’t tell me they're some benevolent society, unless the beneficiaries are retired Yakuza of course.’

  ‘Angus, let me tell you why we got you here. I know the Club can't help in pursuing a claim but we figured maybe you could, by coming at it from a different angle, on a freelance basis. We'd pay you well.’

  ‘To do what exactly?’

  ‘Let me call Nakamura-san in on this. He's my liaison with Dark Ocean. By the way he calls it by its Japanese name, Genyosha.’

  He picked up the phone, spoke a few sharp bursts of Japanese and put the phone down. ‘Handy language to have,’ he said.

  ‘I agree. Especially now you're in league with this lot.’

&nbs
p; Before he could reply Nakamura came into the room, a short thickset man, grey hair cropped almost to his scalp. Unlike Buchan he was dressed conservatively in a black suit, white shirt and black tie. He looked as if he was due to attend a funeral.

  Monty Buchan made the introductions. We shook hands, Nakamura bowing slightly as we did so. Something about his handshake seemed odd to me. I waited for him to speak.

  No preliminaries: ‘Buchan-san has told me of the work you do in the marine insurance business. You will want to know why we brought you here. How you can help us.’ His English was good, if heavily inflected. I sat down in one of the leather wing chairs waiting for him to continue.

  The Toyama Maru rocked gently in the wash of another vessel that had passed. I wondered how close we were to the main shipping lanes. I’d noticed several islands within a few miles of us as I’d come aboard.

  Monty Buchan went back to the bar and poured more drinks. Nakamura liked his Scotch too. Monty sat down opposite me while Nakamura stayed standing. As he took a drink I saw what had struck me when we shook hands. Half of the little finger on his right hand was missing. It was as if he was wearing a lapel badge saying Yakuza. Even I knew that this was Yubitsume, a ritualistic act of self-mutilation performed in front of the offended party, usually the boss, as an apology for some misdeed or another. I wondered whether the conservative dress hid a body tattooed with elaborate designs and symbols; and what this man’s ranking was in the complex Yakuza hierarchy.

  As if reading my mind, he said, ‘You are observant. But do not imagine the organisation I represent here today is Yakuza. You might call me,’ he paused, ‘an emissary.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For Japan!’ he exclaimed whether in hope or triumph I couldn’t tell. The man exuded volatility along with self-control. It was unsettling. I looked at Monty Buchan. He was staring at the carpet.

  ‘Japan?’ I asked hoping he would expand on the subject.

  He turned and walked over to the saloon window to admire the view of an empty grey sea. Then he turned back to face us.