About the Book
In April 1943, a stricken Mitsubishi transport plane plunges from the skies over the islands of New Guinea. On board is Admiral Isoruku Yamamoto, architect of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor. And in a document case chained to his wrist is possibly the greatest secret of the Second World War – a secret that would change the world if it were ever to be revealed...
Seventy years on, and art recovery expert Jamie Saintclair is celebrating the successful return of a valuable painting to its rightful owner when ruthless Australian mining tycoon Keith Devlin offers him a commission that he finds impossible to refuse: to track down the shrunken, severed head of a legendary Pacific Island warrior...
With every twist and turn to a search that takes him from Berlin, to Moscow, Tokyo and a near-fatal brush with the Yakuza, Jamie realizes he’s embroiled in something far greater and more dangerous than simply finding a lost piece of history...
The answer lies in the foetid jungles that have already swallowed up one terrible conflict – and are now being torn apart by another that the world isn’t even meant to know about...
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Also by James Douglas
Copyright
THE
SAMURAI
INHERITANCE
James Douglas
To Jimmy and Helen, proofreading has never been such a pleasure.
PROLOGUE
Bougainville, 18 April 1943
The plane had been in the air for almost two hours and would begin its descent to Buin airbase in a few minutes. Long experience had taught the man in the immaculate green uniform that he could allow himself to doze despite the all-pervasive drone of the twin engines and the constant vibrations running through the aluminium fuselage. He tried to relax. If the relentless metallic clamour meant nothing useful could be achieved, forty years of naval discipline and his Samurai blood dictated he should rest body and mind. But how could a man, even a man as inured to discomfort as he, ever become accustomed to this cramped steel bucket seat? The damned thing seemed to sink its claws into every piece of flesh it touched. He allowed himself an inner smile, though his lips didn’t twitch. Not even an admiral had the privilege of a cushioned seat in a converted Mitsubishi G4M, but that was no one’s fault but his own. After all, he’d personally approved the design of the swift and agile light bomber the crews called the Flying Cigar.
It occurred to him that the American enemy, five hundred miles south at Guadalcanal, called the plane a different name. For reasons that escaped him despite his familiarity with their ways, they’d nicknamed the G4M ‘the Betty’. He turned to stare out through the perspex blister over his right shoulder. A second, identical transport flew in formation five hundred feet away carrying the remainder of his staff for the long-delayed inspection tour of the Solomon Islands defences. He’d witnessed the scene a hundred times, but he was always oddly moved by the sight. The jungle green of the plane’s upper surfaces contrasted starkly with the hazy eggshell blue of the South Pacific sky, and the scarlet disc of the Rising Sun shone like a drop of fresh blood on its flank. A few thousand feet above, out of sight but a comforting presence, six Zero fighters supplied top cover in the unlikely event of a stray Allied pilot happening on the formation.
Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto of the Imperial Japanese Navy grunted as he attempted to manoeuvre himself into a more comfortable position. The weight on his right arm came almost as a surprise. Nothing useful could be achieved? What was he thinking? He reached down to grasp the handle of the heavy buffalo-hide briefcase chained to his wrist and lifted it on to his lap. As he remembered the contents, Yamamoto’s eyes glowed with suppressed rage at his compatriots’ stupidity. How could they have kept it from him for so long? The information had only reached the fleet headquarters in Rabaul on New Britain the night before; a report from a well-connected agent in one of the Allied capitals. For the last twelve months specialist officers at the military intelligence HQ in Tokyo had been evaluating it. Evaluating. He knew exactly what that meant. Shunted on a conveyor belt of bureaucracy from one office to the next, and back again, and everyone with a different opinion. I think it is authentic. I’m not so sure. It’s a fake. Our man’s been turned, we know he was under suspicion. He has never let us down. Analysed, re-analysed and analysed again, until the actual significance of the message was lost. Only now they sent him one of the two existing copies.
Yamamoto had been presented with the briefcase by his American friends at the end of his second posting as naval attaché to Washington. He stroked the thick leather with a fondness alien to his martial nature. Unhampered by the two fingers missing from his right hand, he opened the straps and withdrew the file. A few paltry sheets, and of those only one truly mattered. A year ago this would have been a weapon as potent as the terror bombs the scientists of the Nishina programme claimed the enemy was incapable of producing. His eyes ran down the long columns of script, and he gritted his teeth against the frustration that was almost a physical pain. In the summer of 1942, at the high watermark of Japan’s victories, he could have used the information to tear the western Allies apart: bankrupted the one and isolated the other. The war would have ended with honour and Japan dominant in the Pacific. The destructive battle at Midway would never have been fought and his beloved Nippon would have been spared years of war and countless lost sons. But now? He studied the document intently, dark eyes roaming the script for inspiration, pausing only to flick an annoyed glance when he sensed the curious gaze of Fukusaki in the seat opposite. The young naval commander, a trusted aide for two years, looked away sharply. Ha! Yamamoto was disproportionately pleased his reputation as a disciplinarian still had the power to awe.
He returned to the typed sheet. It had a shiny surface caused by the new compound he’d been told made it impervious to damp, but would, conversely, incinerate at the touch of a naked flame.
Yamamoto’s studies at Harvard had inspired an affection and a respect for the Americans not shared by most of his countrymen. Likewise, familiarity ensured he understood and feared the strength of United States manufacturing. He’d argued against making war almost to a point that invited death at the hands of Prime Minister Tojo’s assassins. Only Imperial conne
ctions and the fact he could count on the loyalty of the navy saved him. But when the Emperor decided the only way to break America’s economic stranglehold on Japan was to fight, his duty was clear. Isoroku Yamamoto would become his nation’s shield and lead the battle line with knife, bullet and bomb; he would do whatever it took to bring eventual victory.
It had been he who planned the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, destroying or damaging eight of the enemy’s battleships and killing thousands of American sailors. Yet he felt a dull ache of disappointment at the memory. The action had been a stunning tactical victory, but not the overwhelming blow he’d intended because the enemy’s aircraft carriers had been at sea and escaped the bombs.
In the euphoria after the attack he’d warned that true victory would only be achieved when the first Japanese soldier marched into Washington. The message had been intended as a reminder to his people of the great sacrifices that would be required, but the Americans had interpreted it as a boast and a threat. In his heart of hearts he’d known then that little Japan could never destroy the mighty American industrial machine. Their only hope was to inflict casualties so terrible as to ensure the American public became sick of war. His face hardened and his thoughts turned to his children back in Tokyo. How many sacrifices would they have to make before the end? This document, which he believed was genuine, contained a single provable and undeniable fact. As the true implications of that fact dawned, his heart soared at the possibilities it created. He nodded slowly to himself. There was still time. He lay back against the angled metal and closed his eyes. Before he had the opportunity to expand on the thought a cry of alarm rang out from the rear of the plane.
‘Sentoki! Enemy fighter! On our tail.’
The tail gunner’s shout was followed instantly by the staccato rattle of his 20mm cannon and within seconds the acrid stench of burning cordite filled the aircraft. Yamamoto’s mind raced, calculating the odds against them. If it was only a single plane all they had to do was survive until the escorting fighters could intervene. As well as the tail cannon, the G4M also carried four light machine guns, but only the nose and top turrets were permanently manned. Whoever was attacking them would have vastly superior firepower. Everything depended on the skill of the pilots and the accuracy of the defence. Fukusaki had already snatched up the port blister weapon, while Commander Toibana, the admiral’s second aide, was firing at some unseen opponent with the starboard machine gun. Yamamoto’s stomach lurched as the pilot put the plane into an emergency dive for the cover of the trees below. In his seat behind the cockpit the radio operator screamed a panicked plea for help into his microphone.
‘This is impossible,’ Fukusaki shouted over the buzz-saw rasp of the machine guns. ‘Where have they come from?’
Yamamoto ignored the frantic cry and calmly replaced the papers in the briefcase. With only the slightest change of expression he strapped himself into his seat, closed his fingers over his ceremonial sword and shut his eyes.
Though he couldn’t know it, sixteen P-38 Lightnings of the 339th fighter squadron based on Guadalcanal made up the force that shouldn’t have been within a hundred miles of Admiral Yamamoto’s plane. They’d flown north to Bougainville using long-range drop tanks designed to allow them to make the two-hour flight with just enough fuel remaining to get home. The pilots of the ambush planes knew only that a high-ranking Japanese officer had been seen boarding a plane by a Coastwatcher on New Britain. The reality was that the Japanese naval code had been broken long ago. Yamamoto’s route and itinerary were known down to the minute.
By some miracle combination of expert navigation and downright luck, the P-38s had arrived at the interception point four minutes early, after a complicated dogleg journey of almost five hundred miles. The attacking Lightnings split into four flights. Three roared upwards to take on the escorting Zeros and one, led by Captain Tom Lanphier, closed in on the two Bettys. The flight’s second pair were forced to turn away because of problems with their drop tanks, but Lanphier and his wingman Lieutenant Rex Barber pressed on despite the drastic change in odds. Unique in the Second World War, the Lockheed P-38 Lightning was designed with twin booms and a central nacelle where the single pilot sat flanked by two Allison V12 engines. It had a speed advantage of almost 180 miles an hour over the fragile Japanese bomber.
‘Zeros at twelve o’clock.’ Barber heard Lanphier’s laconic voice in his headphones. ‘I’ll take them. You go after the bombers.’
The wingman was vaguely aware of his commander’s fighter peeling away, but he only had eyes for the green-painted plane ahead and a thousand feet below. Barber, a twenty-six-year-old engineer from Oregon, curved in, always turning right, so he was a little to the left of his target. He flinched at the familiar twinkle of gunfire from the Betty’s tail and the flash of tracer rounds, but he held the big twin-engined fighter steady and waited. When the plane’s airframe filled his reflector sight his fingers crept towards the firing buttons. He was hardly aware of touching them until the three Browning machine guns and single 20mm cannon in the nose opened up, making the whole plane judder. Rex Barber liked the P-38 because it had two engines. That was important when you were flying over impenetrable jungle and shark-infested seas, fighting an enemy more inclined to chop off your head than rescue you. But he also liked it because the guns were concentrated all together in a bunch. No need to wait for the bullet streams to converge like on the Thunderbolts he’d flown in training. You just hit the buttons and poured it on.
Tiny firefly sparks flickered on top of the enemy plane’s fuselage just in front of the tailplane. He allowed the big Lightning’s nose to drift slightly to the right so his cannon shells hammered into the wing roots and the starboard engine. A split second later the big bomber seemed to stop in mid-air and fell away to be lost in a pyre of smoke in the dense jungle below.
Without another thought Barber turned his attention to the second Betty.
I
New South Wales, Australia, 2010
The lunchtime view across the bay to Sydney Opera House justified all the ludicrous superlatives heaped on it during the flight over, but Jamie Saintclair seemed to be the only person at the table interested. Certainly Lizzie, the six-year-old daughter of his partner Fiona Carter, appeared entirely absorbed by the multicoloured mountain of ice cream in front of her. He felt a surge of what he disconcertingly realized might be paternal affection as she wiped a smear of melted pink across the front of her specially bought, pale yellow cotton dress. Fiona, being Australian, albeit of the exiled variety, had seen the view from the Rocks often enough not to be awed by its glory. In any case, she was absorbed in conversation with Nico, the young lawyer with swarthy, handsome features, who probably dined at the Rockpool at least three times a week.
Their host, Leopold Ungar, just the right side of eighty, but as sharp eyed as a teenager, noticed Jamie’s look and smiled. ‘This city is like every other, Mr Saintclair; sadly, no matter how iconic the building, when you’ve lived here for a while it begins to blend in with the background, don’t you agree?’
Jamie wondered how many times he’d have to ask Leopold to call him by his first name before the Jewish haulage company owner remembered. Ungar was short, broad in the chest, with a bald head scattered with the liver spots of age. His choice of clothes reflected his age and affluence: razor-creased tan slacks and a navy blazer with a yacht club badge on the breast pocket, over an open-necked shirt.
‘I’m just glad to have the chance to see it, sir.’ Jamie opted for equal formality. ‘We have to thank you again for bringing us out here and giving us the opportunity to spend some time in this wonderful country.’
The older man nodded gravely, acknowledging that the thanks were nothing but his due. Leopold Ungar was not the kind of person who splashed out on business-class return flights for just anyone. Born in Bratislava, he’d spent two of the first eight years of his life with his twin brother, Felix, in the Auschwitz death camp, a painfully memorable part of them
under the tender ministrations of Dr Josef Mengele. In the diabolical lottery of Mengele’s clinic it had been Leopold’s fate to survive and subsequently emigrate to Australia.
For thirty years it had been enough that he lived, even if he couldn’t have children of his own, but with the success of his business, came a certain amount of wealth. Wealth brought both responsibility and guilt. Over the past decade he’d expended much energy and money trying to recover a painting that had hung above the mantel of the family home. It was a portrait of a young girl at a window, perhaps by Vermeer, but probably by an apprentice, and possibly even by the artist’s daughter Maria. It was not artistically important or even particularly valuable, but the Ungar brothers had formed a childhood attachment to the girl in the picture.
Leopold had convinced himself that Felix would never be at peace until it was back in the family’s hands. After several disappointments, his lawyer Nico had contacted Jamie Saintclair. It took a year of searching, but Jamie finally tracked down the painting to a private gallery close to the Ponte Fabricio in Rome, where it had arrived by some tortuous route. Eighteen months, and much legal wrangling, later Leopold was confirmed as the rightful owner. When the transaction was complete he invited Jamie and his partner to escort the painting to Australia as a bonus for the successful recovery.
‘It was the least I could do,’ Ungar said appreciatively. ‘You succeeded in a year to do what others – well-paid others, I should add – have failed to do in a decade. It gives me a sense of peace to have the portrait hanging where it belongs, in an Ungar household, and, to me at least, it is priceless.’ A diffident smile transformed his wrinkled features. ‘An old man’s foolish fantasy, you may say, but we must find happiness and contentment where we can. You would be surprised where it can be found,’ he shook his head at some painful memory, ‘even in the very heart of evil a child can find something to be cheerful about.’
Jamie Saintclair took genuine pleasure from the hard-won praise. He knew Leopold Ungar had been initially sceptical about his ability to do the job, believing he was too young at just past thirty, too inexperienced, and that his methods were, frankly, too unorthodox. All that changed when the Princess Czartoryski Foundation in Cracow announced that the Raphael Jamie had discovered in a secret bunker in the Harz Mountains two years earlier was, indeed, the real thing. The foundation’s decision also brought with it a substantial finder’s fee. It meant that for the first time since opening for business in the tiny shoebox of an office in London’s Old Bond Street, Saintclair Fine Arts was in funds. Jamie was still puzzling over the unlikely combination of good fortune when the old man excused himself and disappeared in the direction of the men’s room. He felt Fiona’s eyes on him, that curious way she had of making his skin feel as if it had been stroked by soft fingers, and turned to meet her gaze.
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