by Mark McKay
‘There’s an assembly area set up on Fisherman’s Walk, sir. Anyone who isn’t physically injured should be steered in that direction. That’s where Lauren will be, if she…’
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Good thinking, Yvonne.’
‘Why don’t you go straight down there, you might find her.’
‘I will. When you’ve finished here, don’t wait for me. I’ll find my own way back.’
There must have been several hundred people assembled on Fisherman’s Walk. He looked for an hour, but couldn’t see her anywhere. People were waiting for taxis or being picked up by friends. The Underground was shut for security reasons and there weren’t many buses, either. It was going to be a long wait for some. He picked up a ride in a police vehicle going back into the City. Casualties were being taken either to the Royal London or Bart's hospitals, and he decided to stop by the Royal London first. They were nearly there when his phone finally rang, it was the hospital admissions department. A Ms Lauren Hunt had given them his name. She had been knocked unconscious by the force of the blast, but was OK and suffering now from what they hoped was nothing more than a temporary hearing loss.
‘She asked us to call you, Mr Severance. She was brought in unconscious, only came round about twenty minutes ago. She can’t hear very well, but I can assure you she is fine otherwise. Standing right next to me.’
‘Thank you, I’ll be right there.’
She was in a designated waiting area, along with several other dishevelled blast escapees. There was a television on one wall showing live coverage of the affected area, which they were all watching. Their facial expressions conveyed either disbelief, confusion, or in some cases, blank acceptance. Lauren sat in one corner, her eyes flitting between the screen and the shoe she was holding, the heel of which was dangling precariously. She kept pressing it back into place, as if she could repair it by willpower alone. She wasn’t aware of him until he touched her shoulder.
‘Nick…’ She stood up barefooted and threw herself into his arms. He buried his face in her hair and just held on to her. The feeling of her unharmed body against his was the best antidote to anxiety he could wish for.
‘Let’s get out of here,’ he said.
She came out of the embrace to look at him, tapping one ear. ‘Can’t hear too well.’
He kissed her. ‘Let’s go.’
She read his lips. ‘OK.’ Then the words came out in a torrent. ‘I got out of the building right away, then the blast knocked me over. Lost my phone, don’t know where my other shoe is, guess it doesn’t matter because this one’s useless, anyway.’ She pointed at the offending shoe. ‘I was unconscious, then they brought me here. They say I should stay, I’m probably concussed. I said you’d look after me. There were still people inside when the bomb went off…’ She stared at him. ‘We had less than ten minutes to get out, Nick. Bastards.’
‘I know. We’ll talk about it when I get you home.’ He put his hand on her abdomen. ‘This one OK?’
She nodded. ‘I think so. I hope so.’ Then she looked at her feet. ‘I can’t walk around town barefoot. You’ll have to get me some shoes.’
They went out into the corridor, where he asked a passing hospital porter where the nearest shoe shop might be. The man was bewildered, then he saw Lauren’s predicament.
‘No idea, mate.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Tell you what, I’ll get you a pair of operating theatre clogs. What size are you, Miss?’
While the porter left to fetch the clogs, Nick called for a taxi. Half an hour later, after promising to return her new shoes at the earliest opportunity, Lauren held his arm as they walked out of the hospital. Once they were both in the taxi and it began to move, she pressed herself against him, closing her eyes. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. He was fortunate to still have her. Tonight, there would be a lot of newly bereaved families in this town who weren’t so fortunate. Someone needed to answer for that.
Chapter 13
Nick was late in to the station the following day. He had stayed home to wait until the local surgery opened, so he could make an appointment for Lauren to have a check-up. She insisted that she felt fine, although she was clearly worried about her limited hearing and how long it might stay that way. And she thought her pregnancy was fine too, she just wanted a doctor to agree with her. There was no need for her to go into the office, someone from there had called while they were on their way back from the hospital, tracking down the people they had on site at Canary Wharf. Lauren was advised to take a day or two off and recuperate.
As a consequence, it was almost 10am when he arrived at Bishopsgate. With what had happened yesterday, he wondered if he should cancel his trip to Japan. Nobody had as yet claimed responsibility for the bombings, but to Nick’s mind the photo accompanying the message on the bank’s monitors was indication enough. He decided to call Bonnaire in Paris and share his concerns. The Paris detective might have some news on Le Roux’s business dealings by now, too. Before he had the chance to translate that thought into action, Yvonne appeared at his desk.
‘You found Lauren, I hear. She OK?’
‘Partly deaf, but yes, she is.’
‘That’s good. I thought you should know, two men from SO15 are here. They want to talk to you.’
SO15 was the Police Counter Terrorism Command. It was their job to prevent events like yesterday’s attack. They worked with the Intelligence Services and anyone else who could help achieve that objective.
‘Ah, they must have worked it out, then. Where did you put them?’
Yvonne looked bemused. ‘Upstairs in meeting room 3. Worked out what?’
‘Tell you later. Better not keep them waiting.’
He took DCI Derek Simms upstairs with him. Simms would be handling the case in his absence, so whatever SO15 wanted, Simms would need to know about it.
The two men seated in meeting room 3 didn’t get up when he and Simms walked in. They were casually dressed, both in their mid-thirties. They introduced themselves as Flynn and Halloran, no mention of rank. Flynn was small and slim. He had thinning black hair, brushed back from his forehead and plastered down with jell. His face was dark and humourless. Halloran had no hair at all. He was taller than Flynn and thickly built and his chubby red face mirrored his colleague’s disenchantment.
‘Wondering why we’re here?’ asked Halloran, once Nick and Simms had made their own introductions.
‘I assume it has something to do with the message on the bank monitors.’
The two SO15 men exchanged glances. ‘How do you know about that?’
Nick told them about Lauren.
‘I see,’ said Halloran. ‘Bad business. Five hundred dead and counting. Two major investment banks disrupted and an attack on the financial system to boot. And a major embarrassment all round. We had no intelligence on this one.’ His look suggested that this might have been avoidable.
‘Are you blaming me?’ countered Nick.
‘We don’t know yet. We saw the photo and it came to our attention that you were investigating the theft of the golden lions. Is there a connection?’
‘I’m investigating a murder, the lions are a consequence of that. I made a connection with terrorism just last week when I met someone who had been abducted by the people who stole the lions. She thought they were being sold to finance terror.’
‘Seems she was right.’ Flynn had spoken. ‘You should have told us that, right away.’
The man had a point. Nick had assumed that until Le Roux and Sylvie had made delivery and received payment, they wouldn’t be in a position to attack anyone.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘In the light of yesterday’s bombing, I’d have to agree. Assuming they are the people responsible.’
Halloran drummed his fingers on the table in a steady rhythm.
‘We want all the details of your case. In fact, we’ll take it from here.’ He held his hand up as Nick opened his mouth to intervene. ‘We’ll need you and DCI Simms here on
a consultancy basis, of course. But this is a national security matter, now. Our province.’
‘You sure about this?’ said Nick. He was annoyed, but Halloran was right. The case had taken on a whole new aspect that transcended his authority. He had his doubts, nonetheless. ‘A photo on a desktop doesn’t prove a thing. Could well be misdirection, from god knows who.’
‘If it turns out to be misdirection, we’ll give it right back to you. Just give us all the known facts, first.’ He noted Nick’s grim expression. ‘Don’t know why you’re so annoyed, DCI Severance. Aren’t you on holiday next week? I’d say we came along at just the right time, wouldn’t you?’
‘No comment. Let us know where you want everything sent, by secure email if possible. We’ll have it to you by the end of the day.’
‘Excellent.’ Halloran pulled out his wallet and extracted a card. ‘Send it to this email address,’ he said, handing the card to Nick.
The SO15 men stood. ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Flynn as they made their way out.
‘Likewise.’ Nick and Simms stared at each other.
‘Think you can handle your new consultancy role, in my absence?’ asked Nick.
Simms smiled. ‘With those two on the case, do you think I’ll be needed?’
Nick grunted. ‘Amen. Well, let’s do as we’re told. It’s their problem, now.’
They went downstairs, where Nick began compiling a list of contacts to accompany the case reports. Halloran or Flynn could get in touch with everyone and ask them to report to SO15, until further notice. He might have handed the case over, but he had no intention of forgetting about it. He would still call Bonnaire, Shah and anyone else he needed to for an update. He wouldn’t be doing his job as a ‘consultant’ otherwise.
His phone rang. It was Jameson, from Sotheby’s.
‘I talked to my colleague in the Islamic Art department,’ said Jameson. ‘He knows Le Roux by reputation, seen him at the odd sale. Apparently it’s a well-known fact that Le Roux does the occasional, shall we say, less than kosher deal with certain people. No questions asked about the origin of the piece on sale, that sort of thing.’
‘Do we know who they are?’
‘Only two people we can think of who might be in the market for something like your lions. One is in Texas, an oil billionaire who isn’t too fussy about who he buys from, but we don’t think he’s dealt with Le Roux before. And the other is a Japanese industrialist.’
‘Does the Japanese know Le Roux?’
‘We’re not sure, though we do know he buys Islamic art, among other things. And that he’s rumoured to have one or two pieces that are missing from the collections of certain museums and galleries in Europe.’
‘Bit of a long shot all the same, don’t you think?’
‘The Texan, yes’ replied Jameson. ‘However, I was talking to a colleague in Tokyo yesterday, which prompted this call.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Japanese industrialist is Takashi Yamada, and he’s known to be quite reclusive. My colleague was out at his estate, yesterday. She’d been asked to look at a painting Yamada wants to sell. She valued it and then got in her car to leave. Unfortunately, the exit was blocked by a lorry. She could see two large wooden crates in the back, about to be unloaded by a man on a forklift. She would have thought little of it, but one of Yamada’s people turned up and started shouting at the lorry driver. They closed up the lorry quick as a flash and moved it so she could get out.’
‘Maybe they didn’t want to inconvenience her,’ ventured Nick.
‘Perhaps. One last thing. There’s a rumour doing the rounds in the Tokyo art world that Yamada just spent over $100 million on acquiring something. My colleague simply wondered if that $100 million was on the back of the lorry. Just thought I’d mention it.’
Nick pondered for a moment. There was a certain synchronicity at work here. He most definitely wouldn’t cancel his trip to Japan.
‘Could you give me your colleague’s name and phone number? I’d like to speak to her.’
‘Sure. Her name is Kate Suzuki. Half English, half Japanese. I’ll let her know you’ll be in touch.’
‘Email it to me if you don’t mind. You’ve still got my card? The address is on that.’
Jameson still had it. He promised to send the relevant details as soon as he got off the phone. Nick thanked him and ended the call. He leaned back in his chair and contemplated the ceiling. The paint was peeling, he’d never noticed that before. He really had no choice other than to follow up on what Jameson had just told him, long shot or not. Oyama had said the retreat would be held in an isolated spot, but he couldn’t remember the name of the place. Still, Japan wasn’t that big and they had bullet trains, didn’t they? It wouldn’t take long to get to Tokyo and see Ms Suzuki. He thought one or two days had been set aside for sightseeing anyway, so he wouldn’t be disrupting the training schedule or inconveniencing anyone. In the meantime, he should find out more about Takashi Yamada.
It was early morning when the flight touched down at Narita airport. The best thing about a twelve hour overnight flight was that it co-incided with the normal circadian rhythm and he had managed to sleep for some of those hours, something of a rarity for him on a plane.
Tokyo was oppressively humid. The group, made up of Oyama plus Nick and four other London club members, took two taxis straight to Shinjuku station. They boarded a train bound for Kiyosato, a town in the mountains of Yamanashi Prefecture. It was a two and a half hour journey and Oyama had said it would be cooler up there, for which he was grateful. Training in this kind of humidity would de-energise even the fittest of them, certainly if you weren’t used to it.
When they arrived at Kiyosato there was a further taxi ride through the town and up into the highlands. They arrived at the retreat site some ten minutes later. It was situated well back from the main road and consisted of three guest lodges, each containing four bedrooms. The living, bathing and kitchen space of each lodge was shared between residents. Beyond the lodges there was another house of a more sophisticated design, built on two levels. The upper storey was a rectangular shape, which sat centrally on the larger rectangle below it. It had a long curving roof on two sides, drawing the eye skyward. The lower level had a raised verandah at the front, approached by a set of wooden steps leading to the main entrance; a solid hardwood door. There was no other building in sight and Nick wondered where the dojo might be.
There was no one around to greet them, either. Oyama told them he would be staying in the house and that the five of them could apportion themselves between the first two lodges. They were due to be joined later by four Japanese students, who would take the third. Nick and his companions picked up their luggage and moved towards their homes for the next two weeks.
‘Don’t forget to take your shoes off,’ said Oyama, as he walked towards the house.
Nick unpacked, once he’d claimed his room. The traditional sliding door with the paper panels would take some getting used to. It had no lock on it and seemed too flimsy to provide a real sense of privacy. The single bed was set low on the floor on a wooden frame, covered by a thin mattress. A chest of drawers stood beneath the outer wall window, next to a small wardrobe and a wooden chair. The impression was one of neat and Spartan simplicity, all packed into a space half the size of his bedroom in Chislehurst. He looked out the window, over a stretch of lawn that ended in a grove of trees. He hadn’t expected luxury and as long as the bed was comfortable, he’d be fine. He slung his now empty suitcases into the wardrobe and went out to explore the rest of the lodge.
About an hour later Oyama reappeared accompanied by a young woman, who he introduced as Mariko. She was the daughter of their host Yoshi Mashida, who was in Tokyo on business and would return later this evening. Mariko was tall for a Japanese woman. She was in her mid to late twenties, with shoulder length jet-black hair framing a long and attractive oval face with very pale, unblemished skin. Her mouth got his attention. Her lips were shapely
, but the mouth had a hint of cruelty about it. She smiled as Oyama introduced her and the cruelty transformed into warmth. And she spoke English.
‘I brought you all some lunch. Chicken bento. You can have it hot or cold.’
‘Meat, rice and vegetables,’ explained Oyama, in answer to Nick’s quizzical expression.
She handed two lunch boxes to Nick and his fellow resident, Rory. ‘Microwave through there,’ she pointed.
‘You have the rest of the day to look around,’ said Oyama. ‘Dinner is at 8pm this evening, then tomorrow we eat breakfast at 6.30. Training starts at 8.’
‘And I thought this was a holiday,’ said Nick. ‘No late night drinking, then.’
Oyama smiled. ‘Stay up as late as you like. But I think after a few days, you might be too tired for that. We have a lot of work to do.’
The next day it began, with a half-hour run through the countryside behind the house. Ten minutes in and with Nick’s lungs feeling the strain, he thought he’d been somewhat optimistic about his fitness. The four Japanese men, who had arrived late last night, ran ahead with easy strides. Mariko was right behind them, followed by Oyama. The British contingent brought up the rear.
They followed a circular route which brought them back to the guest lodges, past the main house and then over a wooden bridge spanning a ravine, which led to the dojo entrance. The building was quite beautiful; a pagoda on three levels, set on a stone base. A flight of stone stairs led up to the first level. The balconies were rich reddish-brown, the walls white and the roof black. The whole edifice was crowned at the roof apex by a life-sized Buddha statue, gazing serenely over the bridge with one hand raised, palm outwards. They assembled at the foot of the stairs and then climbed up to the entrance door. They were already dressed for the dojo in the customary Aikido costume, so all that it was necessary to do was remove their running shoes and enter barefoot, bowing as they did so.