by Mark McKay
‘Thank you for everything, Nick. I’d take you to bed, but you know how it is. Young people are so judgemental.’
He laughed. ‘Later, then. I’ll hold you to it.’ He got up. ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind a walk on the beach myself. I won’t be too long.’
He wrapped himself up and went walking. The beach was almost deserted. He got a gruff ‘Guten Tag’ from a dog-walker, who then strolled off in the other direction while his Alsatian played tag with the sea. Nick threw pebbles into the waves and watched the dog sprinting back and forth and wondered what Mariko had in store for him next. He wasn’t sure whether to welcome the prospect, or dread it. But he knew he wouldn’t turn it down.
He turned away from the sea and started walking back towards the house. The breeze was picking up and he pulled his coat in tighter. He’d go running here tomorrow morning. Kamiko would still be in his thoughts, as would Max and Alix. But the pain was almost gone, now. He quickened his pace. It was time to move on.
The Revenge Season
The Revenge Season
Mark McKay
(The Severance Trilogy, Book 3)
Copyright © 2016
All Rights Reserved
For more information on the author, and forthcoming books, visit
http://www.markmckayauthor.com
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 1
Julian Frost was a happy man. After two months in the steaming rainforests of South America, it was a relief to be back in the not so demanding climate of an English summer. Today had been sunny and warm and he’d spent several hours in the garden, tapping away on his laptop. Eventually the screen glare was too much and he’d retreated into the shade of the house. It was evening now and he was still working, and the warmth of the day still hung in the air. But now there was a cooling breeze creeping through his study window, and the blue sky outside was fading to black.
He typed the last words of the day and shut the machine down. Just the summary left now and his research paper would be complete. He stood up from his desk and stretched his arms overhead, yawning. It was warm enough to sit outside with a gin and tonic and take in the sounds of the evening, so he went into the kitchen and made himself one. Maria, his wife, was doing a yoga class at the village hall, but she’d be back by 9pm. Then they’d have a light supper and another drink, and then bed.
He took his drink and went through to the lounge and then out through the open French doors. He sat at the garden table and sipped the gin and tonic, luxuriating in its cooling taste. He looked over the fields that stretched beyond the cottage garden towards the horizon, where a thin blue line of sky was still visible. It was good to be home. His trip to South America had been profitable, in the sense that he could lay claim to discovering something that very few people knew anything about. A discovery that if he played his cards right, was going to make him a fortune. He was happy enough to share his findings with the scientific community in due course, but not until his position was unassailable.
He heard footsteps on the patio area outside the French doors. Must be Maria, he thought. A little early for her. He turned in his chair and saw someone walking towards him. Whoever it was had something clasped in both hands. When Julian realised what it was he stood up as quickly as he could and started to back away.
‘Who the hell are you?’ he said, in a tone somewhere between horror and indignation. ‘What do you want?’
There was no reply. The intruder closed the distance between them with one giant stride.
‘Are you mad?’ shouted Julian.
He never did get the answer to that question. The last thing he was aware of was the gleam of steel swinging through the twilight and then his head left his shoulders and rolled across the lawn. When it came to a stop, Julian’s eyes were wide with shock and staring at the stars. But he couldn’t see a thing.
It was early morning in Japan and Nick Severance had just woken to the sound of a bullfinch greeting the dawn. He swung his legs out of bed and walked over to the window to see if he could spot it, but it was nowhere to be seen. Don’t mind being heard though, do you, he thought. At 5.30 every morning this week, the bird had been waking him like some sort of avian alarm clock.
He was the only resident in one of the three guest lodges that Yoshi Mashida, his boss, had available for students who came to his Aikido retreat centre in Kiyosato, a resort town two hours away from Tokyo by train. Students or otherwise, the routine had been mostly the same for the past six months since he’d come here from Germany. In what had started with the snows of winter and was now the early morning drizzle of a June morning, he would get up and have a quick shower and a cup of tea. Then he would put on a track suit and some running shoes and do a circuit of the estate; through the woods and back to the lodges again and then past the main house and across a wooden bridge to the dojo. It looked more like a temple really; a pagoda on three levels with a life-size standing Buddha figure on the roof summit. He watched you coming over the bridge with one hand held up palm-outwards in the ‘no fear’ gesture. Once in the dojo he would spend the next hour and a half practising Aikido with Yoshi and his daughter, Mariko. They would finish with a half hour meditation.
He finished his tea and put on his running shoes. After a few minutes of stretching, he began to run through the lightly falling rain. The droplets were small and gentle and as he ran it was like parting a curtain of tiny liquid beads, that went on forever. Tiny, liquid and wet. Sometimes Mariko joined him for these runs through the woods, Mashida senior never did. This morning he did the circuit alone. He knew that running was his particular addiction and that the weather would need to be a lot more hostile than this to keep him from getting his fix. When he got to the dojo, Mariko was there to greet him with a towel.
‘That must have been refreshing,’ she said, casting a skeptical look at the still misty scene outside.
‘Invigorating,’ he replied.
She grinned. Mariko Mashida was in her late-twenties and tall for a Japanese woman. She was slim with jet-black hair, which was now tied into a pigtail which fell past her shoulders. Her eyes were almost as dark as the hair and she had an unusual and cruel twist to her mouth, something which had fascinated Nick from the moment they met. There was a grace in the way she moved and when she smiled and laughed the cruelty was gone. But he knew her well enough to know that when the occasion demanded it, the ruthless side of her nature could easily assert itself.
‘Just me, this morning,’ she said. ‘My father is going to Tokyo for the day.’
‘OK, give me a minute and I’ll get changed.’
He changed into his Aikido gear and went into the dojo. Most of the floor space was taken up with padded mats and it looked rather empty with just the two of them practising. Mariko was already seated on the mats and facing a photo of the founder of Aikido, hanging on the wall opposite. He joined her and they went through a short preliminary ritual before doing some warm-up exercises. Then she attacked him. He never knew quite what to expect from Mariko. She was superior in skill and if he didn’t counter her strikes effectively he usually found himself on the receiving end of a technique that left him face down on the mat and immobilised by some hold or other. But he liked this freestyle approach, which was teaching him to move and respond appropriately to whatever came at him. It wasn’t without its dangers, though. Both attacker and defender needed to be skilful enough to both apply and submit to the attack. Without that skill it was quite easy to do some lasting damage.
After six months of training together, they knew each other well as martial artists and trusted the partnership. There was affection in their relationship too, but Mariko had always kept a little distance between them. She was, after all, also his boss. In fact, since he’d known her in his capacity as an agent for the Crimson Dragon Society, it had been her who had given the orders and essentially run the show. They worked for the usual hour and a half, and then sat in meditation for another half hour. Then it was time for breakfast. It had been a fluid and energetic session, as always. He was probably fitter now than he’d ever been. Mariko never lacked in energy or stamina, either.
He went back to the lodge for another shower. Sometimes they had breakfast together, but today Mariko was doing some research for her father and she wanted to get started right away. She’d eat as she worked. From Nick’s perspective, he’d been busy enough since returning to Japan. He was continuing with his study of Japanese and Mariko had introduced him to counterintelligence techniques. She was also teaching him the art of archery, Japanese style. He couldn’t see how the use of the long bow would transfer into a weapon that could be used on assignment, but he enjoyed practising, nonetheless. Like Aikido, there was a spiritual zen-like quality to the practice of archery, and the technique was quite different from the use of the western bow and arrow. Mariko told him it was all part of his ongoing development and would build focus and concentration.
He’d also taken the occasional trip to Tokyo or some other part of the country. He still felt like a tourist in Japan. Mariko had promised him another assignment, which he’d expected to have started by now, and he had to admit he was getting restless. He’d also left a woman behind in Germany and although they were in touch, it was no substitute for being there. Perhaps it was time to take a short holiday. Some people might consider his current existence as something akin to a holiday, but you could have too much of a good thing. He was halfway through breakfast when he heard someone coming into the lodge.
‘Nick, where are you?’ Mariko’s voice.
‘In my room.’
She came in. The room was small and functional, like so many things in this country. He had a desk by the window and one chair. The bed was a futon arrangement, on the floor. Apart from a wardrobe, there was very little else in the room. Nick was sat at the desk eating, so Mariko sat herself down cross-legged on the bed. He noted the look of concern on her face.
‘What is it?’ he asked her. ‘Have you even had breakfast, yet?’
‘Not yet. I just had a phone call from Katsu Oyama, in England.’
Oyama had been Nick’s Aikido teacher in England and had introduced him to the clandestine intelligence agency known as the Crimson Dragon Society when Nick had sought his help after killing the two men who had kidnapped his pregnant girlfriend. That was eighteen months ago, now. Oyama was an agent of the Society, too, and he was also an accomplished swordsmith and Aikido practitioner. Without Oyama’s help he might well have ended up in an English jail cell.
‘How is he?’
Mariko waved her hand. ‘Yes, he’s fine. He has a problem, though, and he wants your help.’
Nick’s ears pricked up. ‘Go on.’
‘He had the police around, earlier. Asking about one of his swords.’
‘I don’t understand. Why?’
‘Last night in England, a man was murdered. Decapitated with a samurai sword. It was one of Katsu’s swords.’
‘Yes, but surely they don’t think…’
‘He bought the sword from Katsu,’ Mariko cut in. ‘It has disappeared and the police are trying to trace it. So they went to see Katsu to “eliminate him from their enquiries”. Isn’t that what you say?’
Nick had forgotten about breakfast. ‘So he’s a suspect, though not exactly a prime suspect. What does he want me to do?’
‘Katsu has only made three swords in the last year and he feels some responsibility for what happened with this one. He phoned the man’s wife and said he had a private investigator who would look into the case if she agreed. She said yes.’
‘Ah,’ said Nick. ‘And this private investigator is me, I take it?’
Mariko smiled her slightly crooked smile. ‘Yes, it’s you. If you get packed and ready you can be on a flight to London this afternoon. Welcome to your next assignment.’
Katsu Oyama owned a picture-postcard cottage with thatched roof, just outside Sevenoaks, in Kent. When Nick arrived in England early next morning, he hired a car at Gatwick Airport and drove over. The cottage was in a rural setting and there were no neighbours close by. A long driveway led to the house and there were outbuildings just behind and to one side of it. Once upon a time they had been stables, but Oyama used them now as a dojo and a forge to make his swords. When Nick arrived it was mid-morning and Oyama was expecting him. The front door opened as he got out of the car.
‘Good to see you again,’ said Oyama, and bowed slightly.
Nick returned the bow, a little lower. ‘You too, sensei.’
Oyama was in his fifties and had a handsome face, if a little worn by the years. He was solidly built without being bulky and his physical presence projected unshakeability, almost as if he were somehow well-rooted to the earth. He could be quite taciturn on first acquaintance, but mellowed with time.
‘Come in,’ said Oyama, smiling. ‘We have some catching up to do.’
Nick followed Oyama into the lounge, which had stained wooden roof beams that gave the place an ‘olde worlde’ feel. Oyama had made some tea.
‘How’s the sword-making business?’ asked Nick. The memories of being a fugitive and spending time in the cottage only eighteen months ago were flooding back.
‘It’s fine. But I haven’t made many since you were last here. It takes longer, because I have to do everything.’
‘I don’t understand. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?’
Oyama poured the tea. ‘In Japan I would have someone to help with the initial shaping of the steel. Then normally I would work on the blade and then send it to someone else for polishing and sharpening. That is a highly skilled job and takes time. But of course there’s nobody in England who can do it, so I must do it myself.’ He passed a cup to Nick. ‘I have a student to help me with the hammering and shaping, and that’s it.’
‘Who’s he, then?’
‘She,’ Oyama corrected him. ‘One of my Aikido students in London.’
Nick waited, but that was all Oyama was prepared to divulge, it seemed. He changed the subject.
‘Tell me about the murder, then.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Oyama sat on one sofa and gestured to Nick to take a seat on the chair opposite. ‘A Mr Frost, who lived in Cornwall. I sold him a sword about a year ago, now.’
‘Was he a martial artist?’
‘No, a collector. Swords from everywhere, he told me. Rapiers, broadswords, claymores. He came here to pick it up. Paid me in cash, too.’
A sword made in the traditional way by a master swordsmith could be expensive. Probably no change from £10,000, thought Nick.
‘And then he left it around the house, so anyone could pick it up and use it. Is that what happened?’
Oyama shrugged. ‘I don’t know. You will have to ask his wife about that. All I know is that the man was a botanist. Why he was murdered is up to you to find out.’
‘We could leave that to the police. It is their job after all.’
‘That’s true. And perhaps they will find out, and quickly. You can help them, unofficially. With our resources we might just expedite things.’
Nick was curious. ‘Why are you so keen to help?’
Oyama sighed. ‘I’m sure they think I have some connection with this. I’d like to prove them wrong. And it disturbs me that this man Frost was killed with a sword I made, and by someone who seems to know how to use it. There are plenty of other ways to kill a man.’
Nick had to agree. Decapitating someone with a samurai sw
ord was a rather gratuitous way of dispatching them, when it was so much easier just to shoot your victim instead.
‘You think there is some connection with you? The murderer, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know, Nick. It seems unlikely, but bear it in mind when you start asking questions.’
‘I will. Speaking of swords, is mine still here?’
Oyama had gifted him a sword the last time he was here, but the circumstances of his rapid departure from England had meant he couldn’t take it with him.
‘Yes, of course. I’ll get it.’
Oyama went upstairs and Nick could hear him rummaging around in the back bedroom. A few minutes later, he was back.
‘Here.’ He laid the sword, in its scabbard, on the floor in front of Nick. ‘We should do some practice together, before you leave for Cornwall.’
Nick looked at the deadly weapon, with its beautifully crafted hand guard and silk-wrapped hilt. He decided not to unsheathe it. The last time he did that in anger he’d killed a man, in exactly the same way Julian Frost had met his end. He knew only too well how lethal these swords could be.
‘Practice sounds like a good idea. With wooden swords, that is. I’ll do some solo work with this. And I’ll take it with me.’
‘Good,’ said Oyama. ‘Stay here tonight and you can tell me what you’ve been doing since you last saw me.’
‘Thank you, sensei. And you can tell me all about your new swordsmith. Do I know her?’
Oyama laughed. ‘All in good time. You’ll probably meet her soon, anyhow.’
Nick was certainly curious about this mystery woman. Oyama had high standards, he wouldn’t let just anyone help him. He looked forward to making her acquaintance. But before that he had to visit the recently widowed Maria Frost, in Cornwall. He only hoped that she would have more to say about her husband than Oyama did about his new assistant. It was time to assume his private investigator persona and find out.