Kusanagi

by Clem Chambers

  He wandered into an electronics store, the professor in tow, and looked at the cameras. It was all so normal. It felt good. Heathrow was heaving with travellers milling about. They headed for the Virgin lounge.

  When they went in, Jim found it a bit strange, like the sort of place he might create a spec for if he was drunk. You could get a free haircut there or sit in a chair hung from the ceiling. It had a kind of upmarket café in it and at the door a man offering to polish his shoes. There was a pool table at the far end and big flat screen TVs everywhere.

  ‘What are we going to do when we get to Tokyo?’ he said, as a waiter left with an order for a sausage roll and a beer for him, a plate of sushi and a cup of green tea for the professor.

  Akira flexed the fingers on his short arm. ‘We will visit an old friend and then we will see.’

  ‘What will we see?’

  Akira closed his eyes. ‘Evans-san, I must find your lady and to do that I have only one plan and that is to see my friend.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t work?’

  ‘If that does not work, then the Kitsune will have to show us the way.’ He gazed blankly, but sadly, at Jim.

  ‘Kitsune?’

  ‘The celestial spirit that guides me.’

  Jim wanted to put a finger in his ears and try to fish out whatever had made him hear what the professor had just said. ‘Right,’ he replied, ‘I get it.’ What was he going to do if the professor’s friend came up blank?

  Akira wanted to explain to Jim that he wasn’t a religious man, but Shinto beliefs permeated his life, just as Christianity saturated Jim’s environment. He had seen a Kitsune and it had spoken to him, just as Jesus would speak to a typist in Birmingham. He threw coins into the box at the Meji shrine, clapped to the gods and never expected an empty heaven to reply.

  Now he had been sent to bring back the sacred items of the gods and they were manifest. Akira looked down at his feet. ‘It is difficult,’ he said.

  Jim nodded. ‘It really is,’ he said. ‘Who is your friend?’

  ‘His name is James Dean Yamamoto.’

  Jim’s eyes widened. ‘For fuck’s sake,’ he said, slumping back in his seat.

  ‘Yamamoto-san is a powerful man,’ said Akira, pursing his lips defiantly. ‘His connections run through all Tokyo, from Kagoshima to Hokkaido.’

  Jim couldn’t help but smile. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘but you know I’m totally depending on you.’

  ‘In the circumstances I believe I am depending on you.’

  The guard put a plate of sushi into the trap and pushed it into the cage. He followed it with a flask.

  Jane was standing by the bars, her hands demurely over her crotch. The guard was young, stupid looking and sweaty. His eyes darted all over her naked body. She smiled a little. His eyes glinted. He was flirting with her from a position of absolute power.

  She, on the other hand, was flirting with him from a position of utter powerlessness. He moved closer to the bars, a lascivious grin spreading across his face. So this was the boss’s new game. Perhaps he could play it for a while. The gold wires holding his teeth in place twinkled through the saliva.

  She lifted her hands up to cover her breasts.

  He looked down.

  She grabbed his head through the bars and smashed his face into the steel. He didn’t sag enough so she smashed his face again into the blood splattered steel cage. He fell. ‘No pass, no keys, no phone.’ She cursed.

  She stripped off his shirt and was removing his trousers when she heard running feet and the sudden howling of the animals. She got the trousers on just in time.

  The two new guards looked down in horror at their comrade. His nose was spread right across his face and blood was pouring out of it, his mouth and ears. He was out cold.

  She was doing up the grey shirt as she watched them. If the second guard moved a couple of inches further she was going to give him a nasty surprise. Then he did. She grabbed him by the shirt collar and smashed his face into the bars. Her grip broke and the guard fell groaning. The other man jumped back and looked at her aghast as she did up the last of the buttons. The shirt was a bit small for her. The trousers were a bit big and short in the leg, but it was better than being butt naked. She wondered about reaching through the bars and killing the first man, but thought better of it. She picked the plate up and gave the sushi a sniff.

  The guards struggled off in a kind of shamed silence.

  She sat down by the bars of the gorilla enclosure. The gorilla was watching her. She gave it a pout and watched the gorilla scratching its black furry shoulder. Then it picked up some straw and threw it gently into the air.

  She ate the sushi and examined the plate. It was metal: she would sharpen its edges and make it into a lethal weapon. She put down the wooden chopsticks: yet more raw materials.

  It was dark outside and the lights of Tokyo gleamed in the heavy rain.

  Kim watched the monitor, fascinated but horrified. The waiter brought him his plate, a live fish, its side stripped, sliced and laid out. He watched the fish panting and shivering as he ate its flesh. Its eye twitched back and forth as it suffered its slow agonising death. Could it see Kim looking down on it?

  Jane lifted her head. The floor had gone silent but for heavy footsteps coming towards her. The gorilla ambled over to her and strained to see what was on its way. Jane felt its big hand touch her shoulder. It was huffing.

  A short fat guy walked past the gorilla cage to her enclosure. Jane put her hand on the gorilla’s. She glanced laconically to the figure by the cage. He was standing well back. She pouted at the gorilla, an expression it seemed to relate to. Jane kind of related to it as well.

  ‘You,’ said the man finally, in a sharp voice.

  Jane left it for a few seconds. ‘You talking to me?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, you.’

  She rolled forwards from the gorilla’s touch. It huffed anxiously. ‘Me,’ she said.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘That’s a goddamn funny question,’ she said, moving to the bars. If only he would step a few inches closer.

  He didn’t.

  ‘You will not attack my guards again,’ he snapped.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘no problem.’ She was wondering if the plate would fly like a lethal Frisbee once she’d hacked it. Unlikely. She probably wouldn’t get time to do anything fancy. Hostages got dead pretty quick in her experience. Her chances of survival were dropping exponentially with time.

  ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you should probably let me go. If you do, I won’t kill you. If not, I can’t promise.’

  ‘I ask you again, who are you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about me, I’m just a gal. You should worry about my boyfriend.’

  ‘If I am given the regalia I will let you leave.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jane. ‘Give me your mobile and I’ll organise it.’

  He looked at her sullenly. ‘Don’t frustrate me.’

  ‘Frustrate you? I’m sorry, why don’t you come in here? I can fix that frustration for you.’

  ‘I can make this very unpleasant for you.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘That’s interesting – but can I ask you something?’ She looked at him from the left eye, then the right, then both, scanning up and down his body. He recoiled. ‘How do you want to die?’ She let the question hang in the air. ‘Because right now I think I’ll be able to grant you that wish.’ She nodded. ‘Yup. You should let me go.’ She sat down by the gorilla cage and took hold of the bar. The gorilla clutched the one just above her hand.

  Kim was bright red with rage. He could shoot her, he could drug her, he could have her bound and gagged. He would have to think of something much worse that would yet leave him with a bargaining chip.

  50

  Jim was cursing himself. The professor had told him categorically that the bus was the best way into Tokyo. It hadn’t occurred to him that he was being cost conscious rather than picking the quickest route. It was ear
ly morning. The robot voice in the coach was telling him not to use his mobile because it would annoy the neighbours, but his phone didn’t connect with the Japanese system anyway. Without his phone, he felt as if a limb had been severed. It was like losing his voice. His satellite phone was in his bag in the belly of the coach. It had helped save his life in Congo and might have to do so again in Tokyo.

  The door buzzer sounded and Stafford looked at his iPhone. Smith was outside. He prepared himself for a grilling. ‘Good evening, John. To what do I owe this pleasure?’

  Smith was carrying a heavy bag. He sniffed. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Smith walked past him and into the lounge. ‘Repair men have been quick.’ The view was a little blurred and the ladder to the window was gone.

  ‘The best bulletproof glazing money can buy,’ said Stafford.

  ‘Good,’ said Smith. He swung the holdall onto the ancient Roman table. ‘You don’t mind if I stay the night, do you?’

  Stafford was a little startled but quickly recovered himself. ‘Of course not.’

  Smith unzipped the bag, ‘I’ve brought some party things.’ He lifted out a short machine gun and held it towards Stafford.

  ‘My word,’ he said, ‘this is a beast. I take it we’re expecting visitors.’

  Smith sniffed again. ‘I think so.’ He took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose.‘I apologise if I give you my cold.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right.’

  ‘Where’s Jim?’

  ‘I’m sure you know.’

  ‘I hope he knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘I’ve pieced it all together.’

  ‘Good.’

  Smith took out his own machine gun, ejected the magazine and replaced it. ‘I hope you realise that London’s swarming with criminals from every corner of the Far East. We’ve been stopping them at Immigration all day but we can’t have got every last one.’

  ‘So it’ll be just the two of us here holed up against an overwhelming foe?’

  ‘What do you expect when I’ve got no back story to tell my lords and masters?’

  ‘I see your point.’ Stafford cocked the machine gun. ‘Did I do that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Smith, taking the mini back and uncocking it. He handed Stafford two odd looking snub pistols. ‘These new Berettas pack a good punch. Fragmentation rounds.’

  Stafford took the handguns. ‘A bit modern for me.’

  ‘You’ll catch on.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll be attacked tonight?’

  ‘Let’s just say I don’t fancy a bottle of Jim’s fine wine this minute. We’ll need to be wide awake till further notice.’

  Stafford seemed put out. ‘I wish Jim would stop playing with these people’s currencies. He’s clearly annoyed them this time.’

  Smith looked hard at him. ‘That’s a pretty good blag, but it doesn’t wash with me. Whatever you lot are up to, it must be a total mare. I really do dread to think.’ He took out ammunition and stacked it on the table. ‘If it does kick off, my boys should come running, but you never know. How about yours?’

  Stafford shook his head. ‘I rather doubt it.’

  Smith raised his eyebrows. ‘You will tell me what this is about after it’s all over, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Jim’s trading battle screens flashed into life. A virtual bell began to ring and a chart of the yen appeared. The forex market was going crazy and the yen was knifing down.

  51

  The pretty young secretary trotted quickly into Yamamoto-san’s office. She held a plastic tray in both hands. Yamamoto smiled at her, his eyes friendly and paternal. The tray contained a book barely held together by decayed old rubber bands. It was his accounts from his shady days. The boy Akira flashed into his mind.

  ‘Oh,’ he said, long and low, and picked up the relic of his past. ‘Who brought you this?’

  ‘A Professor Nakabashi and his friend present their compliments and ask if they may see you.’

  Yamamoto nodded slowly and got up. ‘Please bring them in to me.’ His round, lined face was suddenly shiny with perspiration.

  Akira was here: Akira, the honoured Imperial Curator, the esteemed professor, his determined little friend from his previous, half forgotten shadowy world. Akira was part of his past life as an outlaw, a life that was, in practice, only just submerged below the surface of a successful businessman. He supported himself on his desk. He had always wanted to see Akira again, but his new life precluded it.

  As he had risen in wealth, standing and legitimacy, so had Akira’s prestige. It had never seemed fitting that Yamamoto should re-establish contact. It seemed not in the best interest of his lost friend, the renowned Professor Nakabashi. He could not risk embarrassing or compromising Akira. Yet now Akira was here, the plucky one armed kid who had carried his nefarious packages to his no-good clients. Those were the days.

  He stood upright as his office door opened. He recognised Akira immediately, not from his pictures in the media, but from the remnants of the child in his face and by the signature of his stunted arm. A tall American was with him.

  ‘Yamamoto-san,’ said Akira, ‘it is so good to see you.’

  Yamamoto felt a tear roll down his face, ‘Akira,’ he said, embracing him. ‘It’s been so long.’

  Akira was surprised and clearly moved. ‘James Dean-san it has been too long. It has been forever.’

  Yamamoto looked up at the American and blinked.

  ‘I’m Jim.’

  He was Australian.

  ‘This is Evans-san,’ said Akira, ‘from England.’

  ‘Yamamoto.’ He pulled himself together and bowed.

  ‘Jim Evans,’ said Jim, bowing awkwardly.

  ‘We need your help, James Dean-san,’ said Akira. ‘We are in desperate straits.’

  ‘Anything, Akira, anything in my power. What is it?’

  ‘My friend Jim’s girlfriend has been kidnapped and is here somewhere in Japan.’

  ‘Kidnapped?’

  ‘By someone very powerful. Very, very, powerful.’

  ‘Oooh,’ muttered Yamamoto.

  ‘I am hoping that you can help us find her. She is American.’ He took a photo from his inside jacket pocket.

  The picture showed a woman soldier crawling under barbed wire. She was very pretty. ‘Kidnapped here in Tokyo?’ He was confused.

  ‘No, in London but brought here.’

  Yamamoto looked incredulously at Akira. ‘Kidnapped in London and brought to Tokyo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Can you help?’

  Yamamoto was staring out of the window. ‘Yes.’

  ‘How can we repay you?’

  Yamamoto laughed. ‘You can’t, Akira, not unless you have a spare ten billion yen. Maybe in a couple of years you can buy some ramen noodles for a broke old man.’

  ‘Perhaps Evans-san can help you while you look for his girlfriend.’

  Mrs Yamamoto had about thirty thousand pounds in her forex trading account. It looked like she had started with a hundred and fifty thousand but had traded it away. For everyone but Jim, forex trading was a random game where you won and lost on a fifty-fifty basis but chewed through your capital with broker expenses.

  The trading software was configurable in every conceivable language. Helping people trade away their savings with forex was a huge worldwide business and, with gambling restricted in most countries, it was a proxy for the slot machine or the roulette wheel.

  He clicked the link and the software was in English. ‘Fuck me,’ said Jim, inspecting the yen chart. ‘That’s going up.’ The account had a hundred times leverage, which meant that fifty grand could represent five million. ‘All in,’ he said, ‘buying five million in yen.’ Ten minutes later the yen was up 1.5 per cent. Mrs Yamamoto’s account registere
d a profit equivalent to 15 million yen, about $150,000. Yamamoto’s eyes bugged out. Akira stood impassively behind him.

  ‘Let’s do that again,’ said Jim, this time shorting. The yen seemed to collapse just after the trade went on. ‘Fuck me,’ said Jim. ‘This is like shooting fish in a barrel.’

  ‘What is he doing?’ whispered Yamamoto, as another ten million yen profit popped onto the screen.

  ‘Trading well,’ said Akira, quietly.

  ‘I can see that – it’s as if he’s telling the yen what to do next.’

  ‘He is a professional.’

  ‘Professional? If professional traders could do this they would own the world.’

  ‘They do,’ murmured Akira.

  Yamamoto didn’t know how to respond. Traders might own the world but even they could not trade like this. The Englishman had tripled the account in twenty minutes. ‘I will follow up with my people,’ he said, his eyes still riveted to the trading screen.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ called Jim. ‘And have you got any antacid tablets? My stomach’s killing me.’ He laughed. ‘Look at that! Blimey! Bombs away. Something really is fucking up the yen.’ Then he realised it was probably him and his stupid demand for untold billions of dollars in return for the regalia. The news and associated mutating rumours were flying around the market creating financial carnage. Was the bill a hundred trillion now? Were they talking about nuclear weapons hidden in Japan instead of a few mythical artefacts? Whatever the news had become it was causing consternation and panic.

  A motorcade of silent police bikes was making its way around the Imperial Palace. It was heading for Yamamoto Tower. In a pouch there was a letter, no text, with the ‘chops’ of the Emperor and the prime minister at the bottom.