An hour later, Jamie attempted to shrug off the melancholy the museum visit had inspired by spending the rest of the afternoon browsing art galleries and dealerships along Auguststrasse. Partly, it was disappointment that he’d reached a dead end in the search for the Bougainville head so quickly, but it went deeper than that. For some indefinable reason that had its roots with Adam and Eve, Magda Ross exerted a kind of magnetic influence on him. The thought of calling Fiona temporarily raised his spirits, but he worked out that if it was early evening in Berlin it must be the middle of the night in Sydney.
As dusk approached he wandered back to the hotel by a circuitous route. When he entered the lobby it was filled with after-work drinkers and people gawping at the giant fish bowl. He decided against eating in the restaurant and went straight to his suite. Inside, he shut the curtains in the lounge and went to do the same in the bedroom – and froze. It wasn’t anything he could see, not yet, but an indefinable something had changed. The maids had cleaned the room while he was having breakfast, so it should have been exactly as he’d left it, but …
Since embarking on his alternative career in art recovery he’d developed certain habits designed to give him peace of mind in a new world littered with moral contradictions and shadowy, sometimes dangerous characters. Not security, as such. Nothing could stop someone putting a bullet in your head, or even a knife in your back if they were determined enough. Not security, but something to give him an edge. It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d mention even to his best friend, because it made him look paranoid, but it had worked in the past and it worked now. For instance: the shoes he’d left that looked as if they’d been carelessly abandoned had been at an exact angle to each other, and placed just so to triangulate with the power point. Now they didn’t. The book on the bedside table with the business card marking the page and the pen perfectly touching the edge of the cover. The pen was still in place, but whoever had moved the book had been so absorbed in getting the pen right, that he’d been careless with the business card.
Someone had searched his room.
VIII
Bougainville 1943
Kristian Anugu sat in the depths of the bikbus listening to the sound of his pursuers crashing through the undergrowth like water buffalo. A tall, spare man with arm muscles like tree roots and handsome, almost Aryan, features, his hair flared in a wiry, untamed bush and his skin appeared so black it could almost be called purple. He carried a long spear in his right hand and the yelopela treasure under his left arm. He knew it must be treasure because the white soldiers who unwittingly supplied him with his belt and loincloth carried similar kes and they protected them with unusual vigilance for men usually so careless. His theory had been confirmed one day when he’d watched them worshipping the contents of the kes as they talked to God on the dit-da machine that travelled everywhere with them.
Curiosity had drawn him to the crashed flying machine and the yelopela king who looked as if he was asleep. There’d been many things from the machine he’d have liked and had it not been for his natural wariness he would have taken them. Property ownership was not a concept familiar to Kristian Anugu, a warrior of the Koki, a sub-clan of the Naasioi people who populated Papa’ala, in the southern centre of the island. He was the son of Osikaiang, the queen, who owned the land, the sky and the sea. Osikaiang owned, and Kristian Anugu fought to keep. That was the way it was and the way it had always been. If a man could not protect what he had and a stronger or more cunning man managed to take it away, then he deserved nothing. He’d first been attracted to the yelopela king’s long knife with its glittering handle and silken braid. Yet even as he reached for it something made him pause. The way the dead man’s hand still gripped it confirmed his instinct that the king’s spirit was still strong and one of the ensels who surrounded God was guarding the long knife. Kristian Anugu considered himself one of the most cunning warriors on the island, but that didn’t make him foolish enough to mess with the ensels. He’d been watching from the bush when the yelopela soldiers came with their long guns with knives on the front. Once, beneath a full moon, he’d seen two yelopelas holding a man from another tribe while a third plunged the gun-knife into his body. He had no wish to be discovered by them and treated in a similar fashion.
Unlike other islanders who made alliance with one or the other, Kristian saw no difference between the yelopelas and the white soldiers who always stared at the sky through the glas bilong kaptens he coveted. They were outsiders and nothing to do with him, or his clan. If they trespassed on his lands on big mountain he would kill them if he believed they were weak, or avoid them if they were too strong. Sometimes the yelopelas would destroy crops or burn houses, but that didn’t change his attitude to them. More food might always be found and it was simple enough to build another house. Kristian’s attention had been drawn to the treasure by the chief yelopela who had quartered the crash site like a dog marking out his territory. He’d seen him worship the body of the yelopela king before going to the kes and spending much time furtively studying the contents. At first, Kristian had feared the man would remove the treasure. His heart had thundered like the waves on Loloho beach as he’d watched the soldier’s indecision before leaving the precious kes where it lay. When he’d been certain the men were gone he recovered the kes and set out for the longhouse on big mountain.
That was when he made the mistake. His way had taken him past the road where God sometimes rained fire on the yelopelas, who appeared to have incurred His wrath more than the white soldiers they hunted. He believed this must be the case because the whites were left untouched. Or perhaps they were too few and insignificant? Normally a man might cross the road with ease, because there were not enough yelopelas to guard it properly. Today he’d been delayed by the same soldiers who had surrounded the crashed machine.
After some thought he took a different route, using the bed of a stream a little to the north. By the time he reached big mountain he could hear the yelopelas and their Black Dogs, the native Bougainvilleans who supported them, not far behind. He was not overly concerned, he could outwit the yelopelas easily enough, but the Black Dogs were a different matter. They might be salt-water people from the coastal settlements, but even their limited skill would allow them to track him back to the longhouse. He must not let that happen. Maintaining his pace to stay just far enough ahead, he considered his position. If he abandoned the yelopela treasure it was possible he could talk his way past them, though it would cost him some pride. Normally, they did not kill without reason, however insignificant that reason might be. But he sensed that the crash of the flying machine and the death of their king would make the yelopela soldiers more murderous than usual, and, in any case, the treasure fascinated him. He would continue, he decided, and lure them away from the longhouse until he decided what to do.
The patch of thick jungle was like a hundred others and he had no idea why it attracted him. He burrowed deep in its centre with the treasure under his arm and the sounds of the hunters closing in. Once he was settled, Kristian closed his eyes and sought to make himself as insignificant as possible. When the sonorous voice began to echo inside his head it seemed entirely natural and proper.
Not far away, he could hear the yelopelas blundering through the brush, crushing twigs and leaves underfoot and making more noise than the wild pigs he often hunted. Sometimes he could smell them – the yelopelas – before he could see them. They perspired freely in the sultry jungle conditions and the scent of their bodies was acrid in his nostrils, along with the rice-cooking odour they carried with them. But the sounds in closest proximity were much stealthier: the soft, wary treads of a barefoot hunter. The Black Dogs were almost upon him.
You must trust in me, the voice of his long-dead grandfather advised. I will be the cloak that shields you from the yelopelas and their Hat Men. Hold the treasure of their king to your chest and sing me the song of the fire dance that was never sung and without which I will never be at peace.
&
nbsp; At first, Kristian found the advice perplexing. Logic told him his grandfather was long dead and to make a noise would be fatal. The old man had been killed in a blood feud that had only ended, according to family tradition, when the jemeni polis hanged three members of each clan from the same tree. Kristian’s mother, the queen, had always preached respect for their ancestors, but it was the mention of Hat Men that convinced him to comply with the old man’s wishes. The Hat Men had been the Black Dogs of the jemeni polis in the days before yelopelas and Big War, but they had not been generally spoken of since long before Kristian was born.
Sing, the voice insisted, and I will sing with you.
In the sultry depths of the bush Kristian closed his eyes and the rhythm of the ceremonial drums filled his head, the click of wood on wood sharp and rapid. He could feel the flames all around him, could see their flicker as if through the eye slits of a ceremonial mask. The drone of the fire dance song filled his throat and his grandfather’s strong voice echoed his, the sound spiralling around the jungle grove where it hung like a protective fence against the outside world. As he sang, Kristian Anugu’s fingers worked at the straps of the yelopela king’s treasure and removed a thin sheet from within. On it were strange scratchings that looked like a five-toed bird had danced across a sandbank. Kristian knew this was how the outsiders communicated with their gods.
Now you understand, his grandfather whispered. But there is another task you must fulfil before I am freed.
The drone died in Kristian’s chest and he blinked as if he were waking to a new day. Birds twittered in the bushes around him and their voices told him he was alone. An intense sense of release made him want to leap in the air in imitation of the fire dance, but it was immediately overwhelmed by the responsibility he had felt when he replaced the god words in their leather kes. He ran a hand over the rough surface and nodded to himself. Yes, he understood everything.
IX
Jamie was staring out of the hotel window over the oily waters of the Spree when his cell phone chirped. The vibrate setting made it dance across the bedside table and he had to grab it before it fell. He studied the small screen. The incoming number wasn’t one the phone recognized.
‘Yes,’ he said tentatively.
‘Mr Saintclair?’ The female voice surprised him and his heart gave an involuntary flutter when he realized the identity of the caller.
‘Dr Ross,’ he managed to keep his tone neutral, ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you again.’
‘And I didn’t expect to be calling you,’ she laughed, but it sounded a little forced to Jamie’s ears. ‘It seemed very unlikely that I could help. But your puzzle intrigued me and I did a little more digging. I think I may have something.’
‘Yes?’ He doubted the laconic monosyllable was the reaction she expected, but the prospect of meeting Magda Ross again caused mixed emotions. He wasn’t sure how he should react and her next suggestion only compounded his confusion.
‘I thought perhaps it might even be worth you buying me lunch.’
Jamie blinked. ‘Did you have anywhere in mind?’
‘Yes, but I hope you are not a vegetarian.’
The Grill Royal turned out to be not far from the hotel, on a riverside terrace just off Friedrichstrasse, by the Weidendamm Bridge. It had been across the Weidendamm that Martin Bormann, Hitler’s right-hand man, made his fateful and ultimately fatal bid to escape Berlin. Jamie couldn’t look at the bridge without seeing the single Tiger tank roaring forward into an ambush of Soviet anti-tank guns, followed by thousands of terrified refugees and soldiers. Most of the escapees had been mown down by the pitiless soldiers of the Red Army.
As he walked into the understated foyer he reflected that a Tiger tank might come in handy to protect him during the coming meeting. Not so much from Magda Ross, but from himself. In spite of being, he considered, a perfectly intelligent specimen of the male of the species, women – Abbie Trelawney apart – had somehow managed to remain a constant mystery to him. He wasn’t altogether sure why. He hoped that would change with Fiona, but there were times when he felt hopelessly out of his depth. What was worse, even on short acquaintance Magda Ross had the same effect. Just being in the same room with her had been a drug on the senses.
He’d done a little research on the venue after he’d agreed to the meeting. His first thought was that Dr Ross didn’t get out much, because she was certainly making the most of the opportunity. The Grill was part art house, part restaurant, and part place to be seen if you were a certain type of Berliner: the type with more money than you knew what to do with. Jamie had plenty of experience of upmarket restaurants in London and elsewhere, but the £150 steak was a new personal high – or low, depending on your point of view. If Magda had the same taste in wine she did food, Keith Devlin’s retainer was in for an interesting afternoon. He only hoped it was worth it.
Undeterred, he marched briskly into the restaurant thinking virtuous thoughts that were immediately banished when he was confronted by the table she occupied. Magda Ross sat with her back against the wall directly below a larger-than-life picture of a pretty girl with her left nipple hanging provocatively from her top. Jamie was far from inexperienced with women, but the combination caused his steps to falter. His smile froze and even though he kept his eyes firmly on the woman at the table his expression must have told its own story. Magda turned and craned her neck to look at the picture on the wall behind before facing him with a wry grin.
‘Don’t get any ideas, Mr Saintclair,’ she warned. ‘This is none of my doing. You can blame it on the drooling waiter across there. He claims this is the last seat in the house, but I have my doubts about his motives.’
Taking his seat with as much decorum as he could muster, Jamie looked over his shoulder to where a heavy-set young man in a white shirt did indeed only have eyes for table number nineteen. That would have been understandable even without the attraction of the mammarian study on the wall. Magda Ross looked as if she’d just stepped off a catwalk. She wore a suit of shimmering raw silk that exactly matched her hair, and the opaque ivory of her complexion and scarlet lips provided a startling contrast to the dark material. The effect was striking. No, it was more than striking. She was the most beautiful woman in the restaurant by a long way, and her expression said she knew it.
He realized he was staring and the red lips twitched into a smile. ‘If you find the picture a distraction, I can always ask to move table again,’ she suggested. ‘If they can’t come up with something perhaps we could go somewhere a little less formal?’
‘Not at all.’ Jamie returned her smile. ‘It’s not a part of the anatomy I’m unfamiliar with. In any case, my table companion eclipses anything that adorns the walls of this fine establishment.’
He’d intended to sound like a man of the world, but he found himself the focus of deep brown eyes and knew he was in trouble. ‘Are you flirting with me, Mr Saintclair?’
‘We hardly know each other, Dr Ross.’ He struggled to hold her gaze and his nerve. ‘All I did was state a simple truth. And please call me Jamie.’
‘Is there a significant other in your life, Jamie?’
The enquiry was so unexpected Jamie wasn’t sure he’d heard right. ‘That’s a very direct question.’
‘You’ll find that I’m a very direct lady.’
It was a relief when the waiter interrupted to take their drinks order.
‘Eiswasser, bitte,’ Magda said.
‘Oh, you can’t come to a steak restaurant and drink water.’ Jamie smiled, struggling to regain the advantage. He turned to the young man. ‘Do you have a bottle of Nuits-St-Georges premier cru?’
‘Of course, sir, the 2005 or the 2007?’
‘Which was the best year?’
‘I’ll check with the sommelier, sir.’ He placed two menus on the table in front of them and moved away.
‘I get the feeling you’re trying to impress me.’ Magda’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. ‘But you haven’t
answered my question.’
‘You’ve lured me to this wonderful restaurant,’ Jamie pointed out. ‘It would be very mean of me if I couldn’t repay you with a glass of rather special wine. Besides, my client is paying. To answer your question: yes, there is a significant other in my life, and we’re very happy together.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad we got that out of the way. Now we can both relax.’
‘Why did you ask?’
‘Because you’re an interesting and quite attractive man, and in other circumstances we might have spent a bit of time together while you’re in Berlin. But I have a policy of not encroaching on other people’s lives. In any case,’ she smiled, ‘I appreciate your compliment. She scrubs up well, as my old dad used to say.’
‘And I appreciate yours.’ Jamie laughed, glad to be back on safer ground. ‘I’ve occasionally been called interesting, but seldom attractive. Scrubs up well? My grandfather used to say that about my mum. She hated it. Where did your dad come from?’
She hesitated, as if she was unsure where to start and how much to tell. ‘My dad’s originally from Scotland, but we travelled a lot. He was a Royal Navy helicopter pilot based in Somerset, which was where I was born. Later on he became a military attaché. He was posted to Athens, Prague and a few other places and he insisted I attend local schools so I could get an ear for the languages. I never took to Czech, but some of them stuck …’
‘German?’
Magda shook her head. ‘My mother is German and we spent almost every summer holiday with Oma just outside Hamburg – hence the accent. I was pretty much fluent by the time I was twelve. Dad’s retired now and they have a nice little place near the coast in Somerset.’
She paused as the waiter returned, along with a second man carrying a bottle of wine who bowed and introduced himself as the sommelier. ‘I am afraid we didn’t have the 2005, sir, may I recommend the 2003 as an alternative.’
The Samurai Inheritance Page 6
