Kusanagi

by Clem Chambers

  ‘These items,’ said Stafford, ‘if I’m not incorrect, are the Imperial Regalia of Japan.’

  Jim wanted to say, ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Whatever the Imperial Regalia of Japan were, he couldn’t be in possession of them. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You do not mean, “What do you mean?”, Jim,’ said Davas. ‘You mean, “How can this be?”’

  ‘OK,’ said Jim. ‘How can this be the Imperial Regalia of Japan? Have they been stolen?’

  ‘No,’ said Davas, ‘they have not.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jim, putting the mirror down and picking up the sword. ‘Let’s start at the beginning. What’s regalia?’

  ‘The British Crown Jewels are regalia,’ Stafford told him, before Davas could reply. He picked up the mirror and began to examine it. He glanced at Jim, then returned to the object.

  ‘Yes,’ said Davas. ‘They are approximately the same. When your queen was crowned, she was given the orb, which here is the mirror; the sceptre, which in this case is the sword Kusanagi, and–’

  ‘The crown, which here is Yasakani no Magatama, the green necklace,’ interrupted Stafford.

  Davas helped himself to a shot of cognac.

  The rain tapped on the window like a handful of gravel. Jim pulled the sword a little from its scabbard. The steel shone iridescently, the surface whirled with blue, black and red, which shone and flickered in the light. ‘How can these be the Japanese Crown Jewels?’ he said, grinning at the two old men as if they had gone mad. ‘Wouldn’t they have noticed they were missing?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Davas.

  Stafford was shaking his head at the mirror. He picked up the necklace with his other hand. ‘These were responsible for coaxing the sun back into the sky,’ he said. He coughed. ‘According to Japanese legend.’

  ‘Well, Jim,’ began Davas, giving Stafford a look of frustration, ‘these objects predate recorded Japanese history. They are both real and legendary. The sword was retrieved from one of the tails of a many-headed dragon and, as Stafford pointed out, the mirror and the jewel were hung on a tree to coax the sun goddess out of a cave where she was sulking. She of course, ascended back into the heavens. More important than the stories is the probability that the regalia were lost in a shipwreck in the fourteenth century.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jim.

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Stafford, handing the mirror to Davas, ‘the Japanese preferred not to mention it. You see, the objects are symbolic of Imperial legitimacy. Lose them, lose legitimacy, lose power.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jim.

  ‘And,’ continued Stafford, ‘it’s even harder to admit they’re gone when the next coronation comes around. Then the next one and the next. So the ugly truth simply doesn’t come out.’

  ‘The regalia appears at coronations wrapped in paper,’ said Davas. ‘I’ve always thought it ironic.’

  ‘How do you two know all this?’ said Jim.

  ‘You appear to be surrounded by connoisseurs,’ said Davas.

  Jim offered him the samurai sword, which he took. The scabbard was of a dense dark wood, with a matt finish that felt secure in his grip. ‘Ama no Murakumo no Tsurugi,’ said Davas, pulling the blade out. ‘Amazing.’ He held it up. ‘The Sword of the Gathering Clouds of Heaven.’ He sheathed it. ‘The Japanese Excalibur.’ He offered it back to Jim.

  ‘Excalibur?’ queried Jim.

  Stafford nodded. ‘The fabled “grass cutter” of Japanese legend.’

  ‘So is it a Flymo or an Excalibur?’ he said, pulling the blade right out and holding it up, as Davas had done. The wind was whipping down the Thames and a flash of lightning sent a white afterglow around the wall. ‘All this and special effects,’ he said, putting the sword back into its scabbard. ‘If you’re right, this lot’s worth an absolute bomb! How much?’

  ‘I dread to think,’ said Davas. ‘Do you want to sell them?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Jim. ‘They’re amazing. I think I want to own them for a bit. Then I could give them to a museum. I mean, the Japanese would be really happy to get them back, right?’

  ‘I’m not sure they could admit to receiving them,’ said Stafford. ‘What would that do to the legitimacy of the royal line? You’d have to give them back secretly.’

  Davas was thinking hard.

  ‘That would be no good,’ said Jim, scowling. ‘It wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘They’d pay a king’s ransom,’ said Davas, just before a rumble of thunder passed overhead, ‘but you don’t need money.’

  ‘Well, there’s no hurry,’ said Jim. ‘If it’s all been missing for six hundred years, a few more won’t matter. I can leave it to Japan in my will.’ He took the sword out again and postured with it. He felt the base of the blade with his thumb. ‘Razor sharp.’

  Davas was gazing out of the window at the storm. He seemed to be pondering something unpleasant. ‘If you want to hang on to these objects, you’ll need to keep it very quiet. I cannot imagine what the Japanese would do to get them back. It will be like living with the Mona Lisa and the Turin Shroud, having had them stolen on demand.’

  ‘At the very least,’ interjected Stafford.

  Davas hauled himself to his feet and walked to the window with his brandy. He watched the churning river sweep towards the sea.

  Jim stood up and held the blade to the light. ‘I’ll keep them for a bit, then maybe see if we can do a deal. They should be pretty happy.’

  ‘Very wise,’ said Davas, ‘and probably very lucrative also. Tell me when you want to go ahead and I will act as go-between.’

  ‘It could prove hard to get off on the right foot,’ said Stafford.

  ‘It probably will,’ said Davas, absently.

  ‘How hard can it be?’ Jim brandished the sword. ‘Excuse me, mister, how would you like your Crown Jewels back?’ He sheathed it. ‘That’s sorted then.’

  Davas was holding the necklace to the light. He was smiling to himself. ‘Remarkable,’ he breathed.

  Jim took it from him and put it on again. He picked up the mirror and the sword. ‘Am I the Emperor of Japan now?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Davas.

  The necklace felt rather good. It lay softly on his shoulders and sent a rather comforting sensation through him. The last person to wear it had been a Japanese emperor, five hundred years ago. Jim decided to wear it for a bit.

  23

  Akira had only ever seen the Emperor in person twice before and then only as he had passed through the Archive on a tour of the objects.

  The Emperor smiled, his entourage flanking him on both sides. He was a god. No matter what the Americans had said, no matter what papers were signed, he and his forebears were gods and his offspring would be gods too. Not that Akira believed in gods, but he did believe in logic. Before the Second World War the Emperor had been a god and nothing could logically remove godly status. Rabbits were classed as birds in Japan, but whatever their classification, a rabbit could not fly and was a mammal. They could count rabbits as they wished and eat them on fasts with birds, but still rabbits were mammals. So a god was a god, whatever humankind cared to call it for their own convenience.

  Akira withdrew the fingers of gold. ‘This is the fan of the concubine Yosihida.’ He opened the golden supports, bereft now of their exquisitely painted silk. ‘It has been recovered. I beg a private audience with the Emperor.’

  The Imperial party stood rooted to the spot.

  A fat old man appeared from the far right and approached the Emperor. He whispered into his ear. A conversation followed.

  The Emperor smiled. ‘Please leave me and the professor alone.’

  The room cleared, rather hesitantly.

  Akira bowed deeply. ‘I believe Kusanagi, Yata no Kagami and Yasakani no Magatama have been recovered.’

  The Emperor’s brow furrowed. ‘So,’ he said, the word elongated, part agreement, part question.

  ‘They are in London and I believe I can bring them home.’

  �
�Enough,’ said the Emperor. ‘To continue our talk we must be truly alone.’

  Akira’s mouth fell open in shock and disappointment. He bowed.

  Kim’s private restaurant was famous. The billionaire was perhaps the only man in the world to own his own personal five-star restaurant and keep it for his sole purposes.

  Hananaka was often entertained in luxury restaurants. As a junior member of the Cabinet Secretariat he was frequently fêted. One of his functions was to indicate intentions to powerful people outside the government, and he did this in any number of ways, most of which were invisible to the Western eye. This was the first time he had called on Kim and for once it was to his own benefit.

  In his quiet way Hananaka had become a desperate man. He was supporting his family’s four ancient and decrepit parents and was slowly but surely sinking into terrible debt. For him, it was not hard to borrow money at a minuscule interest rate, but he could no longer repay it. Meanwhile the debt was ballooning as he borrowed more to pay for the parental care and the interest he could not cover. Soon he would have to resort to moneylenders, the ruthless underbelly of Japanese financial life. Then his only escape would be an arranged accident to pay out insurance on his death.

  Now life had dealt him a terrible temptation. A simple way to pay off all his debts.

  The head waiter ushered him through the restaurant, which had a dozen tables. All were empty. Two shuffling geisha in red and white silk kimonos joined them in procession. He was ushered into a small dark dining room. There was a fish tank across the far left wall with coral, and tropical fish that drifted back and forth. To the right of the tank hung a painting he recognised as by Toulouse Lautrec. A dresser in heavy lacquer stood against the back wall, a Tang camel prancing across it in desiccated biscuit terracotta. The fish tank seemed very deep, as if it was the size of a room all by itself.

  Kim looked up from his phone. He smiled like someone who had just heard that something awful had happened to an enemy. He stood up and they bowed. Hananaka felt Kim bowed too low, and he tried not to overcompensate. They exchanged pleasantries, then drink and food started to appear. As Hananaka had expected, it was all exquisite.

  Hananaka began to appear more drunk than he was. The only way he could make his proposal was to be drunk and then it could be rejected, laughed away or denied at will. He was laboriously pouring his heart out about the state of his family. How his own sainted parents and his perfect wife’s beloved mother and father were so fragile.

  Kim was nodding, smiling happily in the knowledge there was advantage to be had and, apparently, at the small cost of four old people’s care. ‘So, so, so,’ he punctuated Hananaka-san’s sad story.

  Hananaka steeled himself. He had made it plain what he required in return for what he was about to give. Kim was duty bound to supply it. What he was about to give was worth infinitely more than he could ask, so there would be no quibbling. Kim would not disappoint him, even though, under his perfect Japanese exterior, he was from Korea, of a despised people.

  The door opened. The two geisha scooted in and cleared the middle of the table. They manipulated various invisible latches and the centre collapsed. The cloth parted and there was now a large hole between Hananaka and Kim.

  Kim turned as a trolley was rolled in and slotted between them. Under a cloth there was a large mound.

  Hananaka smiled and nodded. ‘What is it? A giant fish?’

  ‘Nyotaimori,’ said Kim, with a hungry smile. He smacked his lips.

  ‘Oh,’ said Hananaka. He wondered how Kim’s restaurant would serve such a dish.

  The geisha lifted back the sheet to reveal a naked girl. A selection of thinly sliced sashimi lay across her body, covering her like a silken dress. Between her legs there was a gigantic pile of Beluga caviar.

  ‘Oh!’ gasped Hananaka.

  ‘Come,’ said Kim, ‘tell me your news.’

  Hananaka looked at the perfectly still girl, whose only sign of life was her breathing. He hesitated. What if she heard?

  ‘Please go ahead,’ said Kim, spooning some caviar from the girl’s groin with a carved bone utensil.

  Hananaka sat up a little. It would be rude to remain silent and, after all, the sashimi plate was only some stupid girl.

  ‘The Imperial Regalia have been recovered and are in England. I am sure if you came by them, all my debts and yours would be extinguished.’

  Kim seemed to freeze, a spoonful of caviar poised just before his mouth. He looked down at the girl. She knew her life depended on her discretion. ‘This is almost too hard to imagine,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hananaka. ‘I knew you would understand.’

  Kim put the spoon into his mouth and savoured its load as he thought. He swallowed. ‘And you will help me acquire them.’

  ‘Acquire them before anyone else does.’

  ‘So, so, so…’

  24

  Stafford sat up in bed. His iPhone was vibrating on the table – an intruder alert. He looked at the outlined figure poised at the first-floor window, trying to open the latch. He allowed himself a little smile as he saw the blade slide between the sash frames and flick the latch. The agile balaclava-clad man who balanced on the slim sill would get nowhere trying to raise the window. It was dead-bolted with screw-in keys. Stafford had been fortifying the house, taking every opportunity, whether Jim was around or not, to make the riverside warehouse into a fortress.

  Jim was a serious target, be it for the money he was worth or for the skill he had in calling the markets. A rich man needed good security, whether he cared for it or not. It was now being tested.

  He wondered about calling the police, but as he did so he saw the intruder swing off the sill and climb down the drainpipe. From a different camera he watched the expert motions of the cat burglar. This was no junkie after money for drugs. He watched the figure walk up the street and disappear into a side road about a hundred yards ahead.

  25

  The moonlight was almost perfect. He could see as well as if he was working in daylight. He liked to run across the rooftops: it was a skill that made him different. He was no common criminal. He didn’t kick down doors when people were out to steal their jewellery and cash. He was a craftsman. He had never been caught.

  In one sense it was a simple job: get in, get the object, get out, leaving as little trace as possible. His trusted network of dealers would call on him when they needed something purloined. It was an expensive collector’s game, robbing between the rich. It paid very well indeed.

  He was no leery villain, off down the nightclubs to big it up. He was a professional with perhaps another ten years of lucrative work ahead of him.

  He was learning to drive a London taxi, not because he would ever need the money but because the wait between jobs would get to him and make him anxious. He was addicted to the challenge and without it he needed a distraction.

  One day he might fall off or through a roof but for now he scampered over the building tops with acrobatic grace, a happy man.

  The job was immense. Fetch three items for one million pounds. It was almost too good to be true. These days, Oriental collectors must be rich beyond belief. They must be going crazy with their new-found wealth. Everyone knew the Far East was taking over the world. He tried not to think as he walked across the eaves: balance was skill and pure concentration.

  Stafford sat up in bed again. ‘Good grief,’ he muttered. Someone was on the roof. He looked at the image on the phone. It was another intruder, the second night in a row. The same balaclava-clad figure was taking tiles up on the roof. He would be coming in through the attic. Someone so skilled and resourceful would be inside the house in moments. He got out of bed and threw on his dressing-gown over his silk pyjamas. He put his slippers on and went to his bedside drawer.

  He took out the PPK and quickly screwed in the silencer. He left his room and made his way upstairs. He had to protect Jim’s bedroom and he had only seconds to get into place. If he called the
police now, he would lose the video feed and tracking of the intruder.

  He castigated himself as he went as fast as he could up the stairs. They had no panic room or alarm buttons. The house was practically unprotected. It seemed he had spent too much time on securing the perimeter and on surveillance. He had let the side down badly.

  The black-clad figure lowered himself through the hatch in the roof space to the floor below. He held himself and judged the drop. It was little enough that getting back up would be no problem. He lowered himself and dropped the last feet to the floor. Normally he would have gone in through a ground-floor window, but this house was well secured. However, no one protected their roof. He would most probably leave through the front door. Getting out was always much easier than getting in.

  The tricky bit would be finding the items. He had a copy of the plans bought from the firm that had put in the alarm of the previous owner. He would start in the waterside lounge and go from there.

  Stafford stood by the doorway to Jim’s room and watched the figure on the screen make his way quickly down the stairs. If the intruder turned into the hall where he was waiting, he would shoot. His palm was hot and slippery and he remembered the feeling of excitement and dread from all those many years ago when he had waited, gun in hand, for the shadow of a returning target.

  The figure was coming down the stairs and would either keep going to the floors below or turn right towards him. Right would mark the figure as an assassin, straight on, as a robber.

  The shadow flickered by and was gone downstairs.

  Stafford walked carefully away from Jim’s door and after the robber.

  He stopped by the open door and listened. He always took stock before crossing a threshold. He went in. He was looking for a rectangular gold box with the rising sun on it. There it was, right in front of the window, on a table.

  Brilliant, he thought. He trotted gracefully over to it. He took out a penlight, the end of which was covered in cloth. It threw a faint light. He picked up the box, which was extremely heavy, and turned it to catch the moonlight from the window. Bingo, he thought. He pulled out a fine nylon holdall that filled his left trouser pocket. It would take the box.