by Ashton, Hugh
Sharpe turned round and resumed walking in his original direction. He caught sight of the street behind him reflected in a car window at one point, and noticed his shadow – still only one, it appeared – continuing to trail him at a respectful distance.
Mind you, he mused as he walked, it was one thing to say that he was going to find Katsuyama, and quite another to actually do it. In reality, he had absolutely no idea where to start looking.
-o-
Entering the block of flats, he picked up the mail from his box at the bottom of the staircase, and sorted through it as he walked up to his flat. Circulars, credit card bill, and a postcard from … where? Hanoi? He turned it over curiously, since he had no idea who might have been writing from Hanoi – none of his friends had mentioned a pending holiday there, and as far as he knew, none of his clients had an interest there.
The card was written in ball-point pen, in English, and simply said, “Keep looking. K.”
K? Kim? Katsuyama? Kitty? The K on its own was a bit Kafka-esque, Sharpe, who had never actually read any Kafka, but kept meaning to, thought to himself.
And keep looking for what? Very strange. For Katsuyama or what?
As Sharpe had said to Vishal, he had some work to do before he started at the bank, and he got as much as he could safely out of the way before he started the month’s contract. When he wasn’t clearing the decks, he continued to think about Katsuyama, and how, if possible, to find him. He went back to the Katsuyama Electronic Devices Web site, and looked at all he could see about Katsuyama. Aha! There was a link to Vietnam – there was a factory there making components for the Japanese parent. He looked up Thang Long Industrial Park and learned that it had been founded by a Japanese corporation, and was located just outside Hanoi. The plot thickens, he told himself.
So just how likely would it be that Katsuyama would take himself off there? Possible, he supposed. He wasn’t sure of the relationship between Vietnam and North Korea, apart from the fact that both were single-party states, nominally Communist (whatever that meant these days). But even supposing that Katsuyama had taken himself off to Vietnam, for whatever reason, how did that help Sharpe? Hanoi is a big place with a population of (he looked it up) over four million people, and even assuming that Katsuyama was there, there was no way to know exactly how to find him.
Was there anything else in the postcard that could help? The picture showed a view of the Ho Chi Minh mausoleum, which didn’t seem too much of a clue. Sighing, he put the card on one side and returned to a report on object-oriented database design, which had fallen out of fashion in the West, but was being touted as a breakthrough technology for hand-held devices by a Japanese software house. The report was due for delivery in a few days, and Sharpe wanted to present it in person – a tactful reminder of his physical presence to those responsible for paying him, and a subtle (he hoped) hint that more work from the same quarter would be welcome in the future.
-o-
It was always Sharpe’s habit, after completing the first draft of any extended piece of writing, to print it out and go outside the house with a couple of red and blue pencils to correct it. In fine weather, such as that of the day after he had been to Vishal’s bank, he would visit the local park next to the apartment building where he lived. Goodness knows what the young mothers indulgently watching their offspring cavort on the playground equipment made of the foreigner scribbling incomprehensible marks on a piece of paper, but Sharpe didn’t care. The advantage of this method of working was that it insulated him from unwanted interruptions (he didn’t take his mobile phone with him) and stopped him wasting time on diversions, such as computer games, surfing to irrelevant Web sites or using the time as an excuse to clean up his desk. It also gave him the chance to sit in the relatively fresh air and see something other than a computer screen.
He printed out the draft of the report and set out with a clipboard holding the printout, shouting to Mieko that he expected to be back in about an hour, if anyone were to call. Finding an unoccupied park bench out of the breeze, he sat down and started to correct the mistakes and stupidities with which his report, which had seemed almost perfect only twenty minutes earlier when he had looked at it on the screen, now seemed to be riddled.
As he reached the bottom of the second page, he became aware of someone sitting down beside him. A quick sideways glance revealed a youngish, prematurely balding and somewhat overweight man, American by the look of him, dressed in a rather loudly striped business suit and white shirt. Al S. Kowalski’s younger and dumber cousin, thought Sharpe to himself. But with a little more class. His new neighbour was breathing hard and was rather red in the face. High blood pressure or something, Sharpe thought to himself. Looked as though he was about to blow at the seams.
The other caught Sharpe’s glance and spoke, confirming all suspicions about his nationality.
“Say, you’re Kenneth Sharpe, aren’t you?” he asked in what sounded to Sharpe’s ear like a Southern accent. “I’ve seen your photo in Japan Business Monthly”. The magazine referred to occasionally took articles from Sharpe on technical subjects, and had started printing a somewhat less than flattering photo of him at the top of each article.
Sharpe nodded silently, unwilling to be drawn into conversation, and turned ostentatiously back to his work.
“Hi, I’m Kermit Winslow and I’m with the embassy here.” He handed over his card, which Sharpe accepted without offering his own in return. Would any post-Muppets parents really name their child Kermit? Sharpe asked himself. Was this guy for real? He noticed that the business card further identified Kermit Winslow as the third of his ilk, so the poor sod probably actually was called Kermit. His position in the embassy was listed as Second Secretary in the Commercial Service. Sharpe fought the impulse to do Miss Piggy impressions.
“All my cards are at home. Thank you for your card, but I really do have to finish this report,” turning slightly away from the American.
“No, listen. We need your help.”
Oh crap, Sharpe thought. As if it wasn’t bad enough to have Jon hanging round my neck, I’ve now got his American counterpart doing the same thing.
“Go on,” Sharpe said wearily.
“We have reason to believe that you are in possession of technology that’s vital to the security of the free world.” Sharpe listened in silence. Let the pompous little shit carry on. “The war on terror needs the Katsuyama technology to which you have access.”
Sharpe still said nothing, and the other, mistaking his silence for approval, continued in his overblown manner. “As a representative of the United States of America, I demand that you make this available to the US Federal government so this technology can be utilised to spread freedom and democracy round the globe. You’d be providing vital assistance to the policeman of the free world,” he added, noting Sharpe’s hesitation.
Sharpe laughed. It was not a happy laugh, and it caught Winslow by surprise. “What was the phrase you used, sonny-boy? ‘Policeman of the free world’? Dirty Harry, or KGB thug of the world, more like. When you people recognise international law and international courts, it may be time for you to start asking for your badge back. As far as I’m concerned, you people, and your psychopathic moron of a president, have forfeited any claim to any moral superiority. And your so-called ‘war on terror’ is the knee-jerk reaction of a bunch of gutless cowards who can’t stand the sight of their own blood but don’t mind how much they spill of other people’s.”
“You’re against freedom and democracy? You support the terrorists, then?”
“I’m all for freedom and democracy. That’s why I’m against the current regime of the USA that’s illegally invading other countries, destroying its own freedoms, and pissing off people around the world big-time through an insane combination of arrogance and moral hypocrisy. Listen, if I could find toilet paper with the Stars and Stripes on it, I’d use it every day with the greatest satisfaction.”
Winslow’s face had be
en growing more and more angry as Sharpe carried on with his rant. “You called my President a psychopathic moron.”
“Too right, sport. Want to hear what I call your crazy bloodthirsty crook of a Vice-President and lunatic ex-Secretary of Defence?” All of Sharpe’s built-up resentment of what he saw as American hypocrisy and bullying was coming to the fore.
“And you said you’d desecrate my country’s flag!”
“Big fucking deal. It’s a piece of cloth, not a bloody holy relic.”
By now, Sharpe was wondering if he’d gone too far. Winslow was almost literally going black in the face with rage at this latest insult to his sacred cows.
“You— you— un-American traitorous son of a—!” he illogically half-screamed, launching himself at Sharpe. Sharpe dropped his clipboard, and put up an arm to ward off the expected attack, which never came. From behind Winslow, Kim’s man, whom Sharpe had noticed following him to the park earlier, swiftly appeared from among the trees. He stepped behind Winslow and threw a muscular arm around Winslow’s neck while using the other arm to grab one of Winslow’s hands, twisting it back. Winslow seemed to be screaming something, but the pressure on his throat was too great for any sound larger than a small squeak to come out.
Sharpe’s unexpected protector looked directly at Sharpe and made a “go away” gesture with his head. Sharpe quickly picked up his clipboard and moved away. As he looked back, he could see the hapless American being dragged behind the bushes by the gangster. Sharpe felt little pity. Major-league numbskull, he said to himself.
Amazingly, the whole thing seemed to have taken place so quickly and quietly that no-one had noticed. The mothers on the other side of the park were engrossed in their children playing, and the children themselves were engrossed in whatever engrosses children. Only one toddler stood solemnly staring wide-eyed at the bushes behind which Winslow had disappeared.
-o-
Sharpe wondered what his next step should be, as he let himself into his flat. He now had (he ticked them off on his fingers) a Japanese agency, a British agency, and an American agency, not to mention a North Korean gangster outfit, all much too interested in him for his own good.
Hanoi was beginning to seem like a good place to be for a couple of days. He picked up his Internet telephone and dialled the Katsuyama factory in Vietnam listed on the Web site.
“Do you speak English?”
“Yes, a little.” Thank God for that. Sharpe’s Vietnamese was completely nonexistent.
“May I speak to Dr Masashi Katsuyama?”
“I’m sorry, he’s not at here now. Maybe you try his hotel?”
“Sorry, what’s the number of his hotel? He gave it to me, but I lost it, so I thought I’d try you.” She slowly and carefully read out a telephone number.
“Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
Sharpe dialled the number he’d just been given.
“Sofitel Metropole Hanoi,” came the voice at the other end.
“Do you speak English? Parlez-vous anglais?” asked Sharpe, with an inspired memory of Vietnam’s colonial past.
“Of course, sir. How may I help you?” replied a suave American-tinged voice.
“I’d like to speak to one of your guests, please. Dr Masashi Katsuyama.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s room 378. Ringing for you now, sir.”
Sharpe broke the connection, writing down ‘378’ on a piece of paper.
A few more clicks on the Web site of a travel company and a few more on a Hanoi hotel Web site. He hit “Print” a few times.
He shouted to the kitchen, “Mieko, how do you fancy going to Vietnam tomorrow for a few days?”
“Tomorrow? I have my yoga class then.” Mieko displayed her amazing talent for reducing the cosmic to the trivial yet again. If you told her the world was about to end in half an hour’s time, she’d calculate that it just gave her time to bring in the laundry before the fire and brimstone came raining down.
“I’m serious. What are you doing now? Stop doing it, whatever it is, and come to the Vietnamese Embassy to get our visas.”
“Don’t we need air tickets and hotel reservations and things?”
“Probably, but I’ve got them already. Just booked them on the Internet.”
“Won’t it take a long time to get the visas?”
“I don’t think so. Remember Roger and Mariko who went to Vietnam last year? They said they got their visas done on the same day while they waited.”
“You’re mad,” coming in to stare at him in disbelief.
“No, I’m not. Please, Mieko. I’m serious about this.”
“All right. In twenty minutes. Is this all to do with that stupid thing?”
Sharpe nodded.
“I thought it was. I’ll be with you soon.”
“Fine.” That suited Sharpe. “I’ll be out of the house for a few minutes and then I’ll come back and we’ll be off.”
He owed Kim a favour, he supposed. Several favours, maybe. Time to start working off the debt. Again, there was only one obvious minder around, a different one from the one who had saved him from the deranged American. The British team seemed to have called off their watch. Sharpe made straight for his shadow.
“Masashi Katsuyama. In Hanoi. Sofitel Metropole hotel. Room 378,” he said in Japanese, pressing a piece of paper into the other’s hand. “And thank your friend for his help today.”
The man grunted. It might have been thanks, it might have been surprise. He bowed. “Thank you very much indeed,” he growled. “I will make sure the boss gets this information.”
Sharpe bowed back, and walked back to the flat.
“Your mobile was ringing,” called Mieko from the bathroom, where she was doing nameless things to her face, preparatory to going out. “It stopped just as I got to it.”
The mobile was on his desk, and Sharpe pressed the buttons to call back the number that had called him.
“What the fuck’s going on?” were Jon’s first words.
“What do you mean?”
“Who the hell is beating up US diplomats? Is this yet another of your hidden talents?”
“I don’t know anything about it.”
“Oh, come off it. Kermit Winslow III of the American Diplomatic Corps has just staggered into the British Embassy minus about half his teeth and with a crushed larynx and a dislocated shoulder and the first person he wants to speak to is Tim Barclay, complaining that the British are attacking him. Tim Barclay being safely tucked away inside his little cave, I get the job of soothing some very ruffled feathers, don’t I?”
“He’s got it wrong. He was talking to me. He was going to attack me because of something I said to him. Someone else restrained him, fairly heavily, I admit. And why the hell would he go to Barclay, anyway?”
“Because, you stupid sod, he and Barclay, and I, come to that, are all doing the same thing, and we’re all of us on the same side,” explained Jon. “Theoretically, at least,” he added after a pause. “Kermit the Frog-Faced Wonder is convinced that you are now working alongside the British Government to assist us with the destruction of democracy and freedom and the rest of the bullshit. It took all of my powers of persuasion to stop him going to our Ambassador and having your balls cut off and stuck on spikes above the US Embassy gate as a warning to anyone who dares to assault an American.”
“I didn’t assault him. I never laid a finger on him,” protested Sharpe.
“All right, who was it then?”
“Probably the same one who did for Al Kowalski. And by the way, where are your bloody people when I need them?”
“Nights only from now on. Sorry. I did what I could. So it’s the North Korean mob acting as your protectors?” Sharpe said nothing. “I said to you once that you have some pretty fucking weird friends. I see no reason to change my opinion about that.”
“Suit yourself,” replied Sharpe. He considered letting Jon know that there was no need for a watcher for
the next few nights, but decided against it. It might be a good idea if someone kept an eye on the flat while he and Mieko were away.
“You’re not going to give the thing to the North Koreans, are you?” asked Jon incredulously. “I mean, you don’t believe in the Dear Leader and all that bullshit, do you?”
“Credit me with a little common-sense,” replied Sharpe.
“All right, I’ll do you that favour. But I notice that’s not a ‘no’ ,” replied Jon. “Anyway, well done.”
“What do you mean?” Sharpe answered, a little thrown by the sudden change.
“Pissing off Winslow so much he took a swing at you. Pompous little prick’s had that coming to him for months.”
-o-
The receipts for the air tickets and hotel booking that Sharpe had printed were sufficient for the smiling Vietnamese at the embassy to provide him and Mieko with visas while they waited.
“Well, if that’s Vietnamese bureaucracy, that’s incredible,” he remarked to Mieko as they walked down the hill from the embassy toward the station.
“Wonderful,” she agreed. “Why are we going, anyway?”
“I think it’s a good idea for us to be out of the country for a few days. Please, trust me on this.”
“What’s the weather going to be like in Hanoi?”
“According to the Internet, hot, and probably very humid. Even more unpleasant than here. Sorry.”
“So why Hanoi?”
“I have a little bit of business to do there, and I wanted you to come along too. You can see the sights while I do my business. Ever heard of Halong Bay?”
“No.”
“I’ll show you pictures on the computer when we get back. It’s a World Heritage site, and meant to be fabulously beautiful. Maybe I can come with you if I can get my business finished early. And there’s lots of other things to do there. I hope my business won’t take more than half a day or a day. And then we can come back on Sunday, and I start at Vishal’s bank on Monday.”
“Sounds fun.” She snuggled against him on the train ride home, and sang softly to herself in the bedroom as she picked out clothes to pack.