by Mark McKay
The arrival of the morning appeared to confirm his hypothesis. Oyama’s watch had also passed, uneventfully. It was just after sunrise when they heard a knock at the door. Oyama got up from the kitchen table right away to answer it.
‘Wait a minute,’ began Nick. Oyama waved him away.
‘I know who it is,’ he said.
A moment later he was back, with Mariko. She was wearing a heavy long-sleeved outdoor shirt and jeans, both in black. She’d just taken off a black balaclava and her hair was dishevelled. She looked tired.
‘There was someone out there,’ she said. ‘He left just before dawn.’
‘You’ve been out there all night?’ asked Nick, confused by her sudden appearance.
‘And the previous day. Waiting in the forest.’ She smiled at the look on his face. ‘He was here yesterday, too. He didn’t see me, but I couldn’t get close to him.’
‘Your guardian angel,’ said Oyama. Then he began talking to Mariko, in rapid Japanese. Nick thought the best thing he could do was make some tea, Mariko looked like she could use it. While he prepared it he listened to them both conversing, not understanding a word.
‘It appears something changed his mind,’ said Mariko, when he handed her a cup of tea a few minutes later.
‘Perhaps he went for reinforcements.’
She shrugged. ‘Maybe he isn’t being paid enough.’
Mariko excused herself shortly afterwards, saying she wanted to sleep in a real bed for a while. Oyama insisted on practising as usual, even though Nick pleaded exhaustion. After breakfast, Oyama said there was nearly nothing left to eat in the house and that he was going to the supermarket. He told Nick to keep his eyes open and then he got into his Toyota and drove off.
A lot of ado about nothing then, thought Nick as he stood under the shower, washing off the sweat of this morning’s session. Now that this latest crisis had been averted, perhaps he could pump Oyama for his thoughts on what a fugitive from justice could do to avoid detection in the long run. That was something he had to figure out, and soon.
He got dressed. He knew Oyama would want to work this afternoon and as the swordsmith’s unlikely apprentice he should fill the furnace with wood and charcoal, so it would be ready for later. He was about to open the front door to do just that, when someone opened it from the outside instead.
He stopped dead. An unknown and inscrutable Japanese face looked back at him. A man, dressed head to foot in black, no mask. He was slim and light, his eyes as black as the clothes, their expression unreadable. Then he moved, very fast.
Nick stepped out of the way as a fist meant for his throat sailed past. He thought the man’s momentum would take him right by, but he halted as if the normal rules of physics didn’t apply, lashing out suddenly with an elbow. It caught Nick on the side of the head, missing his temple by a millimetre. He crashed against the wall.
He was stunned, but managed to evade the next blow and get a grip on his attacker’s wrist. This time he used the man’s momentum against him and the assailant was swung around in a circular movement, his wrist bent back at a painful angle. Somehow he managed to yield out of it and get a fist into Nick’s groin. Then he kicked Nick’s legs away. As he lay on the floor, he saw the man draw a long-bladed knife from a sheath he had taped to his side. Nick rolled up to standing. He was a little unsteady on his feet and knew if he wasn’t effective in dealing with the next attack, he was dead.
The man came at him slowly, knife outstretched. Nick looked at the eyes again. No expression, this was just business. As his attacker moved in for the kill there was a whooshing sound from behind him and suddenly the point of an arrow and about six inches of shaft was protruding from his chest. The knife fell to the ground as the man dropped to his knees. Nick saw Mariko fit another arrow and unleash it from her long bow. It found its target, right next to the first one. The man died without a sound, still on his knees.
He stared at Mariko. She had an expression on her face he hadn’t seen before. It had always been hinted at by the twist in her mouth that both she and her father shared, but now it was displayed in all its ruthless cruelty. She was completely without mercy. As she stared back, her eyes were blazing. Slowly, as she lowered the bow, he saw her face relax a little. Neither of them spoke.
A car was coming fast down the driveway, now. He looked outside and saw it was the Toyota. Oyama brought it to a stop and leaped out. He came inside and looked at the arrow-ridden corpse in the hall.
‘It worked,’ was all he said.
Nick finally found his voice. ‘What worked?’
‘We thought that if I left, he would come back.’
‘And he wouldn’t know I was here,’ added Mariko.
‘Christ,’ said Nick. ‘You could have told me.’
Neither of them replied to that. Mariko took out a mobile phone and then came round to face the dead man and took a photo of him.
‘We will send that to Yamada,’ she said.
‘What are we going to do with him?’ asked Nick.
‘Go and start up the furnace,’ said Oyama. ‘When it gets to 1300 degrees, we’ll burn him.’
Chapter 21
Mariko flew back to Japan a couple of days later. She promised to let Nick know immediately, should they discover anything useful about the two men Nick had killed in Hastings.
‘Find out where Sylvie Dajani is,’ said Nick, before Oyama drove her to the airport. ‘Last seen in Denmark. She’s resourceful, could be anywhere by now.’
He was hopeful that the contents of the phones and wallets might at least pinpoint the British cell of Le Roux’s operation. He was pretty sure that it was Sylvie calling the shots too, so someone had to track her down. For all he knew she might already have been detained but somehow he doubted it, she was too adept at covering her tracks. He wondered what Mashida could do in Japan to expedite things. Mariko seemed quietly confident about turning up something of value, as did Oyama. They were close-mouthed about how it would be done, though. When Oyama got back from the airport, he broached the subject.
‘What’s so special about Yoshi Mashida, that he can find out anything about anyone?’
Oyama looked at him blankly for a moment, then burst out laughing. ‘I didn’t think you English were so direct. What do you want to know?’
‘What does he do, exactly?’
‘Mmm, I suppose this is as good a time as any. Sit down, and I’ll tell you the story.’
Yoshi Mashida’s father was a military intelligence officer. He had been trained in counterintelligence and covert operations at a special training school in Tokyo, in 1935. His mission at that time was to collect intelligence on Russia, which he did through his appointment as a military attaché at the Japanese Embassy in Warsaw. After the Japanese surrender in 1945, Japanese Intelligence was dismantled and the Americans assumed responsibility for the country’s security. But a number of intelligence operatives, including Mashida’s father, remained active and provided information to the Americans on the Soviet Union.
As the relationship between Japan and the US developed into an alliance post-war, there was a move towards building a Japanese version of the CIA, but due to political pressures and a prevalent sentiment of anti-militarism, the idea came to nothing. Worried about Japan’s dependency on America and knowing that in time Japan would need its own secret service, Mashida senior founded an unofficial intelligence agency of his own, with covert American blessing. He named it the Crimson Dragon Society, but as far as Japan and her allies were officially concerned, it didn’t exist.
Yoshi grew up in the Crimson Dragon Society and was groomed as his father’s successor. As time went on, Japan’s increasing economic interests in Africa and the Middle East necessitated a Japanese intelligence presence in those countries, most of it provided courtesy of the CDS. By the time the cold war ended Yoshi and his father had forged a number of informal relationships with the CIA, Mossad, and the German Intelligence Service, among others. And because the Crimson Dragon Society d
idn’t exist, it was able to render services to those agencies without any political comeback.
‘And we can also ask them for assistance,’ said Oyama, concluding the lecture. ‘Does that help answer your question?’
‘So much for “Private Investigator”,’ muttered Nick. ‘What about his politics?’
‘Not militaristic, if that’s what you’re thinking. The last time Japan went down that route, we attacked America. No, Yoshi simply wants to keep Japan and her allies secure. We still worry about the Chinese and Russians of course, but the Middle East is where the focus is, right now.’
‘And you’re a member of this Society, I take it?’ When Oyama nodded, he added ‘So why tell me this?’
Oyama smiled. ‘Given the circumstances, we thought you might like a job.’ His smile broadened when he saw Nick’s astonished reaction. ‘You have some qualifications - Aikido training, you’re a policeman…’
‘Ex-policeman,’ interrupted Nick. ‘And I don’t speak Japanese, or know a hell of a lot about intelligence operations.’
‘That can all be fixed, and Yoshi has recruited people of all nationalities. But of course, you can always stay here in England.’
Not an ideal option, in Nick’s opinion. ‘Assuming I could leave undetected, where would I go? Japan?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ said Oyama. ‘Japan, probably. But if you accept, we can discuss that later.’
Nick knew he should contact either Jamie or DCI Simms and pass on the details he’d gleaned from the wallets of the two dead men in Hastings. It was also an opportunity to get some information in return. He bought a pay-as-you-go mobile phone in Sevenoaks and then drove back towards Chislehurst, in Oyama’s Toyota. If the call he was about to make was triangulated and traced to Chislehurst, they would assume he’d gone back to the flat. He parked close to the rail station and called Simms, at Bishopsgate.
‘I have some information for you,’ he said, when Simms picked up.
‘Nick… How are you?’ Simms was unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. ‘Will we be seeing you back at work soon?’
‘I doubt it. Got a pen handy?’
He gave Simms the names on the credit cards and the address on the driving licence.
‘You might find something at that address,’ he said. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get this to you sooner, of course.’
‘We did wonder why they had no money or ID on them,’ said Simms. ‘And the van they were driving had false plates, so that didn’t help. What we were able to do was run their faces against the CCTV coverage of Canary Wharf, on the day of the bombings. We got a match on both of them, in a delivery truck which dropped computer supplies at both banks. They must have planted the bombs that way.’
‘What about Le Roux? Is he saying anything?’
Simms hesitated. ‘What are your plans, Nick? I’m sorry about Lauren, we all are. If you turn yourself in you’ll be looking at a manslaughter charge. Halloran was even talking about getting it dropped, given the circumstances.’
‘I don’t think Halloran has that kind of influence. Let’s just say I haven’t made any plans. Have you found Sylvie Dajani?’
‘No, we haven’t.’ Simms paused for a second or two. ‘OK, for what it’s worth, this is the situation. Le Roux has told us that the remaining two lions are still in a container, on the docks at Copenhagen. And he claims that those two men in Hastings were the only members of his organisation in England. As for Dajani, he claims he knows nothing about where she might be.’
‘Is that it?’
‘It’s all I got from Halloran. I get the impression Le Roux had something else planned in London. But of course, now his associates are no longer around, we have nothing to worry about.’
‘I hope you aren’t buying that. Until Sylvie Dajani turns up, I think you have plenty to worry about. One more thing. Lauren’s funeral, can you tell me where and when?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Nick could hear the sound of paper being shuffled, then Simms was back. ‘She was buried yesterday, in Devon. Just outside Newquay. Yvonne went to pay her respects on our behalf. Got something to write with?’
Nick scribbled the details into his notebook. ‘Thanks, Derek. Good luck with the case.’
‘Good luck, yourself. I’ll have to report this call, you know that. But if you want to call either me or Jamie off the record at any time, feel free.’
Over the next few days, Nick reflected on what he might do next. Oyama had returned to the forge, spending most of the day there, so he had little to do other than think. He spent hours at a time walking through the woods and wondering how he’d managed to so suddenly become transformed from an upholder of law and order to a wanted criminal. He couldn’t feel any remorse for the crime he’d committed, it was biblical justice in his eyes. And his two victims hadn’t been burdened by any remorse about their murderous actions, either. He missed Lauren, the ache in the pit of his stomach was a physical reminder of just how much and how saddened he was by her meaningless death. For which he felt responsible. There was nothing left for him in England now, one act of violence had erased the last 20 years of his career. He had no option but to put it all behind him and become someone else.
Oyama wasn’t surprised when he accepted the offer to work for Yoshi Mashida.
‘I’ll let him know,’ said Oyama. ‘We’ll take you out of here by ship, I think.’
‘To where?’
Oyama shrugged. ‘Let me talk to him, first. It’s probably best if you lay low for at least six months, somewhere. You may need some cosmetic surgery, too.’
What am I getting myself into? wondered Nick. He made no comment, it seemed that becoming someone else might be a more literal process than expected.
Oyama spoke to Japan, that evening. After a few minutes, he handed the phone to Nick.
‘I’m happy that you’ve decided to join us,’ said Mariko. ‘My father isn’t here right now, but I know he will also be pleased.’
‘Let’s hope it’s the right decision. Will I be working with you?’
She laughed. ‘Perhaps, I don’t really know at the moment. But I have some news for you. Sylvie Dajani has been seen in Germany.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. She went to a passport specialist in Frankfurt, looking for a British passport. He’s on our payroll, but he didn’t let us know until she’d collected it.’
‘What name is she travelling on?’
‘Diane De Silva. We passed it on to MI5, but I think it’s too late. She entered the UK yesterday.’
‘Why would she come back here?’ He addressed the question more to himself than Mariko.
‘Perhaps she’s looking for you.’
‘That would be convenient, as I’m also looking for her. But I don’t think that’s it. I think she has unfinished business here, I just need to figure out what it is.’
‘Well, figure it out soon. We will be making arrangements to take you out of England in the next week or two. I’ll be in touch later.’
With that, she was gone.
He tried to brainstorm it with Oyama, but nothing emerged. If Sylvie wanted to plant another bomb in Canary Wharf or the City, she’d have her work cut out. The place was still on high security alert, the risk of discovery was too high. And she’d know that her two colleagues were dead by now if she kept up with the news. Even if she hadn’t been scanning the media, she would know something was wrong if she tried to contact them and received no response. Nor would she realistically expect Le Roux to hold out forever. So whatever she was up to, it must involve something or someone subject to a lower level of security. And it would need to be happening in the very near future unless she thought she could stay in the UK undetected, indefinitely. He doubted it, Sylvie was too smart to take unnecessary risks.
He thought back to the interview he and Bonnaire had conducted in Paris. Le Roux had clients in London and Sylvie had given him the details of the one in Mayfair they were seeing on the day of Simon’s murder
. The guy had checked out, though it hadn’t been Nick who’d gone to see him. Perhaps this client could paint a picture of Le Roux and Sylvie’s activities when they came to London. Maybe point him at some other clients. It would mean calling Simms again to get the name and address. He was loathe to do that, even off the record. Then he remembered that he’d copied those details into his notebook while he was in Paris. He retrieved it and checked. Yes, a Mr Jeremy Dawson, a wealthy businessman with a penchant for Islamic art. It might be risky for Nick to go into central London but he’d arrange an appointment with Dawson, anyway. As they still weren’t parading his mugshot in the media, there would be no reason to think he was anything other than a working DCI. He called the number. When a woman who could have been Dawson’s wife or secretary answered he was told Dawson was away till the day after tomorrow, but she could slot Nick in for an hour on the morning of his return. He accepted the appointment.
Dawson’s house was in a Mews, just off Curzon Street. He got there just before 11am. The door was answered by a willowy blonde, in her late-twenties.
‘He’s expecting you,’ she said, in a cut-glass accent. ‘Straight up the stairs.’
He went up into an open large lounge space, on the next floor. It was discreetly furnished with white linen sofas and chairs scattered around and a glass display case running the length of one wall. He noted the various examples of pottery and mini-statuary on display, some reminiscent of the pieces he’d seen at Le Roux’s gallery, in Paris. A few paintings of a more modern western origin decorated the walls.
Jeremy Dawson stood at the display case, as Nick came in. He was middle-aged and tall, with a broad, tanned face sporting an aquiline nose and bright blue eyes. He wore a suit that looked as though it might have been tailor made in Savile Row.
‘DCI Severance? Have a seat.’
Nick sat. Dawson took off his jacket and draped it casually over a chair, then sat down opposite.