by Peter Tasker
“He’s bigger than I expected. What breed is he?”
“Mongrel. Half Akita, half spaniel.”
“Is he going to pee on my carpet?”
Saya looked aghast at the idea. “Of course not. He’s got excellent manners. These mongrels are difficult to train, but once you’ve done it they’re totally trustworthy.”
“Different from human males, right?”
“The exact opposite. Those will promise you the whole world, then piss on the carpet when your back’s turned.”
Martine gave a noncommittal smile. On the subject of men Saya’s sense of humor was always particularly dark. Not for the first time Martine wondered what kind of experience had molded it.
They went inside. Martine got coffee and rice crackers for Saya, and put a bowl of water out on the balcony for Plato.
“Great place you’ve got here,” said Saya, gazing around Martine’s living room. “It’s like something out of a TV commercial.”
“You’re joking.”
“Not at all. My entire apartment would fit into your kitchen. A cop’s salary doesn’t buy much space, you know, not these days.”
Martine nodded sympathetically. All public sector workers were being hit hard by the fiscal crisis. The police, already swamped by the surge in crime, were taking hefty salary cuts.
[199] “Anyway, I thought it would be best to drop in. I did some digging around on that subject you mentioned.”
“Really? That was quick work.”
“I have a good friend working over at the records department. He used to be my boss, but got transferred there about a year ago. The poor guy made a mistake, raided the wrong yakuza office.”
“I see,” said Martine, not seeing at all. “So have you found out anything about the terrorist woman?”
“It’s like you said. She was suspected of being behind the Atami incident. She was pulled in for questioning several times, but her alibi was completely watertight.”
“So she wasn’t involved?”
“Not directly. The top commanders of the Red Core Faction preferred to save themselves for true revolutionary actions, like planting bombs on buses and so on. These interfactional disputes were considered low-priority affairs. The actual attacks were carried out by sympathizers, usually younger men keen to prove their fitness for membership. According to the files, Matsubara provided a special reward for the ones who showed the most zeal.”
Martine blinked. “You mean sex?”
“That’s right. In her writings she claimed that sexual revolution would be a tool of the global class revolution. It seems she practiced what she preached with great enthusiasm.”
“Hmm ... And what about Nozawa?”
“There was no mention of Nozawa in the files. That doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved, of course. We never came up with any other suspects for the Atami incident. In fact, the identities of most of the Red Core Faction sympathizers were never uncovered.”
“Is that right?” said Martine, unable to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Saya’s research was intriguing, but completely lacking in hard facts. Unless there was some way of tying Nozawa to Reiko Matsubara, Martine didn’t have a story.
At that moment the balcony door creaked open and Plato nosed his way into the living room. He walked over to Saya, gave her a long, lolloping lick on the knee, then flopped down on the floor, gazing at her out of half-closed eyes. Adoration, trust, respect—it was all there, just as she’d said.
“There’s one other thing,” said Saya, leaning over to tickle Plato under the chin.
“Yes?”
“After checking Matsubara’s file, I thought it might be interesting to check Nozawa’s file too.”
Martine sat bolt upright on the sofa. “Nozawa has a police file?”
[200] “Well, that’s what I was wondering. Unlikely, of course, but worth having a look. So I made another call to my ex-boyfriend, my ex-boss I mean.”
“Go on.”
Martine was so excited that she barely noticed Saya’s verbal slip.
“Well, the first strange thing was that Nozawa does have a file. It was opened eighteen months after the Atami incident.”
“So what does it say?”
Saya broke a rice cracker in two. One half she popped in her mouth, the other she held out for Plato, who jumped up to snatch it.
“That’s the second strange thing. The file was empty.”
“Empty?” echoed Martine. “How can a police file be empty?”
“I don’t know. It must have happened when the records were computerized. The existence of the file got registered, but not the contents.”
Martine nibbled her lower lip. Now disappointment had been replaced by frustration. She was on the right track, she was sure of it. Nozawa had been in trouble with the police, and someone had airbrushed away the details.
“Was there any other information?”
“Just the date, and the name of the police station. It’s somewhere outside Nagasaki.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing else?”
“Nothing. Sorry.” Saya seemed taken aback by the directness of Martine’s questions.
“Saya, I’m the one who should say sorry. You’ve done a fantastic job, breaking the rules like this. I’ve been thinking like a journalist again.”
“Don’t worry about it. If there’s anything you need, please call me—as a journalist, as a karate opponent, whatever you like.”
“Thanks,” said Martine. Plato glanced up at her, nostrils quivering. Martine held out a whole cracker and he wolfed it down, tail thumping the carpet.
Martine left her apartment in mid-morning. It was another sticky day, with humidity in the nineties. She didn’t hurry, nor did she glance nervously at the people around her, It was time to calm down and try to put everything that had happened into a sensible framework. There was no point in being paranoid, and imagining that she was being followed down the street by that orange taxi or that the potbellied salaryman at the station was the same potbellied salaryman she had noticed near the shrine yesterday.
Except that this plump salaryman followed her down to the platform and got into the next car of the train. He got out at the same station too, staying a dozen yards behind on the escalator. When Martine dropped into a convenience store to buy some crackers for Kyo-san, he stopped half a block behind, pretending to be absorbed by the window display of a shop selling cut-price Buddhist reliquaries. Martine didn’t go straight to the Tribune building. Instead [201] she turned into an alley lined with empty yakitori bars and shuttered pawnshops and ducked into a narrow passageway opposite a couple of overflowing trash cans.
First she heard the footsteps, then the heavy breathing. Martine waited until he was level with the first trash can, then came flying out of the passageway and planted her foot in the side of his belly.
“Aagh!” The man went sprawling against the trash can, sending the lid clattering to the ground. He tried to push himself upright, but Martine jabbed a fist into his kidneys, then swept away his legs.
“Stop, stop!” The man was on his hands and knees in the trash, looking up at her imploringly.
“Who are you?” snapped Martine. “Why have you been following me for the last two days?”
“Please let me explain.” The plump man sat back on his haunches and reached inside his jacket pocket. Martine took a half-step back and steadied herself. The first flash of a knife blade and she would launch a flick-kick at his head, full power. It was a move she had practiced hundreds of times at the dojo. The man took a namecard from his pocket and held it up for her to read.
“My name is Kato, I’m a researcher for Global Executive Search. At your service.”
Martine stared at him incredulously. “You mean you’re a headhunter?”
“Yes, yes. I help to find top-class executives for challenging employment opportunities.”
“By following them around?”
“Our clients require detailed persona
l information to make their decisions.”
Martine wrinkled her nose with distaste. “Please stand up. You’re covered in trash. Now tell me what’s going on.”
Kato got to his feet, puffing for breath. There were dark stains all over his trousers, and a half-chewed yakitori stick caught in his cuffs.
“It’s the truth,” he said, taking out a handkerchief and wiping specks of soy sauce from his face. “I’m doing background research on you for a client.”
“What client?”
“I’m not supposed to tell you that.”
Martine’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not supposed to get caught either. One complaint from me, and you could lose your job.”
A shadow of panic passed over Kato’s fleshy features. Clearly this was the most respectable job he had ever had or was ever likely to have.
“All right, all right. It’s for Silverman Brothers. They’re looking for someone to handle government relations. It’s an excellent job, with an attractive remuneration package and the opportunity to contribute to international understanding. I do hope you’ll consider it, Meyer-san.”
[202] “Shut up.”
“Sorry,” said Kato, grinning apologetically.
“Now tell me why I’m on your list.”
“It’s because we heard you’re looking for a new job.”
“What you heard was wrong. I’m not looking for a new job.”
Now Kato was picking fishbones out of his hair. “Not yet. But—oh, you’re not supposed to know about that.”
Martine fixed him with her hardest gaze. “What is it? Out with it, or I’ll stick that trash can over your head.”
Kato glanced at the can, glanced back at Martine, and licked his lips nervously. “Okay,” he croaked. “You see, Meyer-san, the thing is this. We have information that your replacement has already been recruited.”
“My replacement? As correspondent at the Tribune?”
“Yes. It happened about a month ago, or so I’m told. I’m just a humble investigator. All that high-level stuff has nothing to do with me ...”
Kato carried on mumbling, but Martine wasn’t listening. She was thinking how telegenic Jim Murphy had already decided to fire her before they had even exchanged a word.
“Good morning, Kyo-san. Everything under control?”
“More or less. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing, of course. That nuclear weapons piece of yours is the biggest story for years.”
“My piece—I’m glad you said that, Kyo-san.”
Martine slung her bag onto the table. The devious embezzlement of her scoop was already enough to make her blood boil. Now there was the outright robbery of her job too!
“This new guy Murphy sounds like a real piece of work.”
“Let’s be more precise, Kyo-san. He’s a real piece of shit.”
“Oh-kay,” said Kyo-san, using a rising intonation that came from years of dealing with short-tempered journalists and husbands.
Martine took the crackers from her bag and shook them onto a plate. She put it in the middle of the table, where they could both reach it. How long would Kyo-san last under the new Murphy regime? Not long. First he had got rid of Charlie, then he had starting maneuvering behind Martine’s back. No doubt he was planning a clean sweep, bringing in a new team that would owe him total loyalty. There would be nobody to stand in the way of his “clearly defined, passionately felt” blatherings, nobody to correct his prejudices and banal simplifications. And what would Martine be doing then? Promoting smooth governmental relations for Silverman Brothers, the global [203] investment bank which had made billions out of the crisis by exploiting its high-level political connections? That was impossible to imagine. She would never be able to look Makoto in the eye again. She wouldn’t even be able to look at herself in the mirror again.
Martine switched on her computer and’ gazed dully at her messages. There were pages and pages of them, messages from diplomats, politicians, businessmen, and other journalists, as well as hundreds from readers all over the world, male and female, crazy and sane. One near the top, with no header or sender’s name, immediately caught her eye.
Woman of my dreams.
Do not waste time worrying about this man Nozawa. By the end of next week he will be dead, and then nothing can come between us.
Martine sat bolt upright, staring at the computer screen. So far the stalker—or team of stalkers, or computer program, or whatever he was—had been proved right every time. Which could only mean one thing: that Nozawa was in danger of being murdered. Martine sent her reply straightaway.
When and where is this going to happen?
Martine’s mouth felt as dry as paper. Nozawa murdered. What would that mean? Just think what the murder of Mari-chan had meant, and multiply it many times over. What you got was a nationwide collective nervous breakdown. An entire equilibrium—political, social, and emotional—would be shattered. It would be like the death of JFK. In an instant the world would become a different place.
“Are you all right?” asked Kyo-san. “You’ve gone very pale again.”
“It’s my natural complexion,” Martine muttered feebly.
“I don’t think so. I’m sure working on that computer all the time is bad for a person’s health.”
“You know something, Kyo-san? Sometimes you sound just like my mother.”
“Thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.”
But Martine wasn’t listening. She was gazing at the screen, where a new message had just appeared.
Be patient, blond queen. You will not have to wait long.
Ricky Patel’s Audi eased to a halt outside the dilapidated clapboard house. It was the only one on the block with a “For Sale” sign outside.
“Is that the one?” asked Mark, gazing dubiously at the overgrown garden.
[204] “Sure,” said Patel in his lilting Indian accent. “Can’t you see his name on the mailbox?”
Mark hadn’t noticed the mailbox, which was half hidden behind a tangle of creeper that had spilled over the fence. The “A” and the “D” of “ANDERSEN” were missing, and the mailbox itself was a discolored white that matched the shabby fence.
“This doesn’t look like the sort of place an insurance executive would live in,” mused Mark.
“Like I said, the guy’s up to his neck in credit card debt. He’s had to sell half his furniture already.”
Mark flicked through the file on his lap. Patel had done an excellent job in a short time. Not only had he located Andersen, he had also dug up enough information to make the approach worthwhile. In the file were copies of bank statements and credit card bills and a summary of his wife’s divorce filing. Fortunately, Andersen was a man of many problems.
“You sure you don’t want me to come with you?”
“I can manage,” said Mark, opening the car door. Patel might be a skilled investigator, but with his immense bulk and smooth-shaven scalp he had an intimidating presence. The whole idea was to put Andersen at ease, to create an atmosphere of trust.
Mark rang the doorbell. The man who answered was tall and balding, with pale blue eyes peering through wire-rimmed spectacles.
“You’ve come to see the house?” he muttered.
“Yes, I have. I hope you don’t mind me coming direct like this.”
Mark’s accent and appearance made him an unlikely purchaser of this piece of real estate, but Andersen didn’t seem to care.
“What do you want to see first?”
“Well, how about the kitchen?”
The kitchen was a mess. The sink was stacked with greasy plates, and a half-eaten pizza was sitting on the table between baskets of clothes ready for washing. The air was laden with the odors of sour milk and cat piss. Mark examined the plumbing and asked a few obvious questions, anxious to move on as quickly as possible. Andersen answered with a numb politeness that made Mark wonder whether he was on mood stabilizers.
“That building through the trees—I understand it�
��s some kind of prison.”
“It’s a daycare institute for female offenders. They’re no trouble at all, really. The other day I got one to come and fix up my garden.”
Andersen nodded at the tangled mass of shrubbery in the yard. If that had been fixed, Mark wondered what it must have looked like before.
“You’re English, aren’t you?”
“Australian, actually,” replied Mark with his best friendly-guy smile.
[205] “English, Australian, whatever. You’re probably wondering if this is the right kind of area for you, what with the female offenders and the black guys on the next block. Well, let me tell you something—this is a great little neighborhood and this is a great little house. I’ve had a great time here.”
Andersen spoke with jerky passion, as if he were worried about being contradicted. Mark thought back to Patel’s file. Andersen was on the verge of declaring personal bankruptcy. His wife had walked out, complaining of spousal abuse. His children had gone with her. He had lost his job with the insurance company. And yet everything was great. How could it be otherwise?
They walked into the lounge and Mark sat down on the only remaining armchair.
“Don’t you want to see upstairs?”
Mark looked him straight in the eye. “Mr. Andersen, how much are you asking for this place?”
Andersen leaned back against the smudgy wallpaper. He thrust his hands in his pockets and tried to sound casual. “Uh, well—uh, around two hundred, I guess.”
“Two hundred thousand dollars?”
“Well, uh, that’s a kind of target, I guess—but if you want to talk further ...”
“I think it’s too cheap,” said Mark soberly.
Andersen’s pale blue eyes blinked in surprise “Too cheap? How do you mean?”
“This is a two-eighty house. If I were going to buy it, I would expect to pay two-eighty.”
“You would?”
“Yes. But I’ve got to be honest with you, Mr. Andersen. The main reason I’m here today is not to look at the house. I’ve come to ask for your help.”
Andersen looked totally bewildered. “Help? What kind of help?”