‘Just how extended is extended?’ Magda frowned.
‘Think of it this way: we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.’
As it turned out they didn’t have much choice. Jamie thought he’d booked a luxury private berth, but at Yaroslavsky station their tickets led them to a cramped second-class compartment filled by four bunks and two other people. The scene resembled an old-fashioned English farce as Jamie stood in the doorway with tickets in hand and their luggage blocking the corridor. Meanwhile, the elderly Russian occupants sat on the left-hand bench staring stolidly at the far wall. Jamie checked the compartment number with the tickets, but there was no doubt it was correct.
Magda stuck her head round the door to take a look. ‘First Class all the way with Jamie Saintclair?’
‘There must be a mistake,’ he grimaced. ‘Look after the luggage and I’ll check with the carriage attendants.’
The two young women provodniks who looked after the carriage listened impassively and shrugged. There were no first-class compartments in their section, but they would send for their superior. When the uniformed conductor arrived fifteen minutes later he explained that the few double compartments had been booked months in advance. He could do nothing about it now, but should they wish to continue on from Krasnoyarsk he would see what he could do. In the meantime, he’d arrange for their extra luggage to be stored elsewhere. Jamie tipped him lavishly to ensure he remembered and the Russian nodded gravely. ‘On this train all service is First Class,’ he insisted without irony. ‘You will be very comfortable.’
By the time Jamie returned to the compartment, Magda was seated opposite the two Russians and their travel essentials were already stored in the capacious luggage racks above. ‘Boris and Ludmilla have been very helpful.’ She smiled at the mismatched pair on the far bench. Boris had the build of a wrestler and the deep, unfathomable eyes of the Russian east, while Ludmilla reminded Jamie of a little brown sparrow, drab and desperate to blend in with her background. He guessed they were both in their sixties. ‘We’ve been getting by in a mixture of German, English and sign language,’ Magda explained. ‘Apparently, it’s customary for the male to have the upper bunk unless he’s subject to objectionable levels of flatulence.’ Jamie darted a wary glance at Boris and Magda grinned. ‘Hopefully that’s not the case here.’
Jamie explained the situation with the compartments, and she laughed again. ‘Don’t get all uptight, Jamie. I was only kidding about First Class all the way. This is nothing new for me. I travelled a lot when I was younger and, believe me, I’ve been on worse trains than this.’
The coach jerked into motion and a junior conductor came for their main luggage, which was still in the corridor. He handed over a numbered chit to be presented when they reached their destination. Jamie asked when the dining car opened and was told another three hours. The conductor imparted the news with a rueful shake of the head that, in hindsight, didn’t bode well.
Jamie sat down on the leather bench and nodded to their travelling companions, whose enthusiasm for conversation seemed to have been exhausted for the day. Magda leaned back and closed her eyes and Jamie watched the Moscow suburbs slip past, the residential blocks and factory buildings soon replaced by a vast forest that stretched away to his right, until, with bewildering suddenness, they were back among development again. By the time they reached the countryside proper Magda’s head was on his shoulder. He smiled at the Russian couple, but they only stared impassively, like male and female versions of the largest and smallest matryoshka dolls. They were still in the same position when he woke, with darkness outside the window and Magda Ross’s pale features reflected in the glass.
‘I didn’t have the heart to wake you,’ she apologized. ‘But my stomach tells me it’s time to eat.’
Her words seemed to trigger the two Russians into movement. Without a word Boris reached into a voluminous bag on the nearest luggage rack and pulled out a large brown paper parcel and a jar of pickles. He handed two mugs to his wife and Ludmilla whispered an apology as she brushed past Jamie’s long legs and opened the door into the corridor. Jamie stretched and yawned. ‘I don’t much fancy picnicking with Boris and Ludmilla even if we had the wherewithal so we should probably try the dining car,’ he suggested.
Magda picked up her handbag to join him. When they emerged into the corridor Ludmilla was at a samovar filling the mugs as they passed. ‘Priyatnogo appetita, ser i ledi,’ she said and bowed. Jamie smiled and thanked her, explaining to Magda that the Russian woman had wished them bon appetit.
They made their way to the dining car past a mixture of Russians, some of them cheerfully drunk, European tourists and a handful of either Chinese or Mongolians. It was roomy and comfortable, with plush red seats and polished wooden tables laid with snowy-white cloth. A waiter handed them an extensive menu filled with what appeared to be mouth-watering dishes. They studied the options, but the man quickly disabused them.
‘Tonight, everything is off the menu, apart from the soup, potatoes, ham and cabbage, and cake for dessert. If you order now, there is a chance … later?’ He shrugged.
Jamie expected to be as disappointed by the food as the choice, but the soup was vegetable and wholesome, the potatoes, ham and cabbage about what you’d expect from potatoes, ham and cabbage, and the cake, accompanied by some sort of fruit liqueur, surprisingly good. As they ate, Magda made him laugh with her stories about train trips across Europe in her teens, fending off elderly Italian Lotharios, and sleeping in the luggage rack of an express between Calcutta and Delhi. He was reluctant to move, but a waiter explained that the table was required for the next sitting so he paid the bill and left a handsome tip.
When they returned to the compartment, Jamie opened the door and ushered Magda inside. As he moved to join her, she stopped abruptly. In other circumstances they might have backed out and laughed in embarrassment that they’d walked into the wrong compartment. Only it was the right compartment, except Boris and Ludmilla had been replaced by an equally mismatched pair of burly Chinese gentlemen.
XX
The two men occupied exactly the same seats where Jamie and Magda had left the two Russians, but someone had made up the four bunks. They’d also drawn the blinds, leaving the occupants entirely isolated from the outside world.
In this case it wasn’t the physique that made the two men mismatched, but the facial expressions. The intruders appeared to have inherited their DNA from the Buddha. Rounded, plump-cheeked faces sat above dark suits stretched over similarly rounded torsos. Jamie decided instantly that, in the man on the right at least, it would be a fool who assumed that rounded meant chubby or flaccid. He had a flat, lipless mouth, and the unblinking eyes of a cobra stared out from beneath a seaman’s cap of black hair. His hands were clenched in a way that hinted every muscle was ready to explode into the kind of violence you only see in Jackie Chan films. The overall effect was more than chilling. This man had assassin written all over him, and Jamie had a feeling he and Magda might both be dead by now had it not been for the presence of his smiling companion.
In contrast, the second Chinese lay back in his seat with his hands folded across his stomach as if he was in his favourite chair listening to Mozart on the radio. A benevolent smile wreathed his face and his eyes twinkled as if he, and he alone, was privy to the humour of the situation. Jamie saw Magda’s jaw set and before she could make a move he closed the carriage door and steered her to her seat. He had a feeling that as long as the man kept smiling they would be safe, but he had no illusions about how dangerous he could be. It was like sitting opposite a panda with fangs.
‘Jamie, I …’
He laid a hand on her arm. This wasn’t the time for questions. From what he could see, all of Ludmilla and Boris’s luggage was still in place. That made their absence unlikely to be permanent, which he presumed was good news for Jamie and Magda as well as Ludmilla and Boris. Someone had paid them to disappear and that someone was sitting opposite
. Now he waited for someone to let them into the secret of why.
At some unseen signal the assassin rose to his feet with his eyes on Magda and nodded towards the door. Jamie felt her bridle and her right fist clenched with the knuckle protruding in a way that suggested she wasn’t going to go quietly. The cheerful man noticed it too and the smile widened. ‘Please, Dr Ross, you will be perfectly safe with Mr Lee, I assure you.’
Her eyes widened at the familiar use of her name. ‘Jamie?’
‘I’m fairly certain these gentlemen don’t mean us any harm, Magda.’
After a moment’s hesitation she nodded and reluctantly followed the assassin into the corridor.
When they were alone, Jamie stared at the man opposite. The Chinese met his expectant gaze with the kind of humour in his eyes you knew would still be present when he put a bullet in you.
‘A remarkable young lady.’ The soft voice was immediately recognizable. ‘Such beauty and such depths of determination. I genuinely fear for Mr Lee’s safety.’ The snub nose twitched as if he’d remembered something distasteful. ‘My apologies for the surprise, Mr Saintclair. But it is always difficult to find somewhere to have a private word on a train, don’t you think?’
‘I’m not sure what we have to talk about, Mr Lim,’ Jamie said carefully. ‘Old acquaintances who turn up unexpectedly can’t always be sure of a warm welcome. Especially when those old acquaintances appear with such increasing and unlikely frequency.’
‘Ah, Mr Lim of fond memory.’ The Chinese chuckled as if his former self no longer existed. ‘It is much too long since your most stimulating, if ultimately frustrating address in Dresden. I assume the other old acquaintance of whom you speak is the dreadful Russian gangster who facilitated your exit from the Lubyanka and introduced you to your highly placed new friend.’ If Mr Lim’s smile had been any wider the top of his head would have fallen off. Jamie opened his mouth to protest, but the other man silenced him with a shake of the head. ‘We – at least I – have no interest in the Russians and their rather uncivilized pursuit of gain. Who would have forecast that Communists would become the greediest of capitalists?’ A twitch of the lips made Jamie wonder if the Russians were the only greedy Communists Mr Lim had in mind. Before he could enquire, the Chinese moved swiftly to the subject that had brought him. ‘My only interest, as it was at our last meeting, is in the most efficient and fruitful exploitation of my country’s resources at home and abroad. For instance, there may be a possibility that the interests of Mr Keith Devlin and myself coincide in certain areas. Would that surprise you?’
Given that Jamie was fairly certain Mr Lim was an official of China’s Ministry of State Security, nothing would surprise him about the man. Nevertheless, Keith Devlin’s name came as a shock. He took time to consider his next words.
‘It’s a little difficult to see how that would be the case.’
‘But why? Mr Devlin has mining interests across the globe. The Chinese government has mining interests across the globe. In certain areas it is true that these interests compete, and we are, shall we say, friendly rivals, but in other regions it is perfectly possible for us to be partners.’ He paused as the train thundered through a long tunnel. Jamie had time to reflect that if this had been a film the lights would have gone out and when they flickered back on again one of them would have added a knife to their list of unwanted accessories. Mr Lim’s smile never faltered. ‘China is the largest consumer of iron ore on the planet, Mr Saintclair, but most of the world’s iron ore deposits lie outside China. For that reason it is essential for us to pursue global partnerships, which we have done successfully for many years. We have interests from the Arctic to the Antarctic and on almost every land mass between.’
‘I thought mining was banned in the polar areas.’
‘Of course,’ Mr Lim nodded gravely, ‘but the ban will be reviewed in 2048. Who knows what will happen then? You would be surprised by the nations who wish to work with us in these areas, but I digress. My point was that it makes sense for Mr Devlin to work with China. Our current greatest need is copper, and the Panguna Mine on Bougainville has the potential to be the world’s largest copper producer. Ideally, we would like to have overall control of the mine, but for political reasons this is currently not possible. Therefore, we see a partnership as the best way forward. We would even be happy for him to retain the rights to the mine’s gold deposits. You see, we would like very much to work with Devlin Metal Resources to see the mine reopened.’
‘I can understand that,’ Jamie conceded. He could also see why Australia and China’s other Pacific neighbours wouldn’t want to see her in control of a massive strategic resource on their doorstep. ‘But I don’t know what it has to do with me. Given your obvious knowledge in other areas, you will know I am employed by Mr Devlin in a purely freelance capacity. My main interest is in the recovery of stolen art, Mr Lim. Not in mining or resources.’
The Oriental huffed. ‘What is art, once it has been created, but a commodity; a resource to be bought and sold? For instance, what if there was a man – perhaps in Germany, perhaps not – who had access to several billion dollars’ worth of artworks stolen during the Second World War? An art dealership specializing in the return of such works would surely be interested in the name of that person, or his location?’
‘That is just speculation, Mr Lim,’ Jamie protested. ‘Pure fantasy. Those rumours have been going the rounds for years.’
‘True, but—’
‘In any case, if such a person existed, why would anyone offer his name to the hardly venerable or even, let us admit, particularly well-esteemed Saintclair Fine Arts?’
‘Perhaps because the not particularly well-esteemed Saintclair Fine Arts has something to trade.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t see how that would be the case.’ Jamie felt a little like he’d just been pushed into a minefield wearing a blindfold.
‘You are seeking a certain … artefact, for Mr Devlin.’
‘I can’t talk about my commission. I’m sure you understand that, Mr Lim.’
‘Oh, don’t be coy, Mr Saintclair.’ The smile was a grin now. ‘Mr Devlin pays for the world’s best experts to safeguard his communications and his information technology network. But the world’s greatest experts in these fields do not work for corporations, they work for governments. Specifically the governments of the United States, China and the Russian Federation. I see a blink of patriotic outrage that I do not mention the United Kingdom. Surely you are aware that since the Second Gulf War your GCHQ has been nothing but an out-station for America’s National Security Agency? There are even several isolated colonies of United States settlers in your country, working under United States rule of law, paying American taxes and shopping at Walmart. They carry guns on British soil and they pay American prices for their gas. But once more I digress. So Mr Devlin upgrades his communications security, and we, the Americans and the Soviets circumvent it. All of us spy upon our friends and our enemies alike. It is a game, of which Mr Devlin is well aware he is an integral part. You will find the artefact, and Mr Devlin will arrange the exchange, is that not how it works?’ Jamie didn’t trust himself to speak as the Chinese agent’s voice turned serious for the first time in their conversation. ‘But I want you to consider this, Mr Saintclair. What if Mr Devlin’s motives for the Bougainville exchange are not what he wishes you to believe? What if they are not in the interests of, let us call it, the world community? In that situation, possession of the artefact might be embarrassing, or even dangerous.’
‘Now you’re talking in riddles. If you have something to say, why not just say it.’
Lim shook his head solemnly. ‘No, this is something you must work out for yourself. I’m aware you do not trust me, and you are quite right not to do so. In this affair you cannot afford to trust anyone.’ The Chinese stood up in a single fluid movement that was a better illustration of his capabilities than his bulk. ‘Perhaps we will meet again, Mr Saintclair, perhaps not, b
ut bear in mind what I have said. You will come to a fork in the road. Take one road and there will be perils; take the other to find rewards. Only one man can decide.’
The door opened as he reached it, and Mr Lim stepped out past Magda Ross with a polite bow. She ignored him and virtually threw herself into the carriage.
‘What was all that about?’ she demanded.
‘I’m not sure.’ Jamie stared at the closed door. ‘But I doubt if it’s going to make things any easier.’
XXI
Bougainville, April 1945
Tomoyuki Hamasuna felt a surge of emotion as he checked the fit of the senninbari thousand-stitch belt his wife had given him on the eve of his departure for Manchuria. Each stitch on the white cloth had been lovingly sewn by a family member or the wives of Hamasuna’s workmates in Nagasaki. The belt had seen him through the Manchukuo campaign, the invasion of Malaya and three months on Guadalcanal before he’d been posted to Bougainville. Sitting in the cramped, heavily camouflaged bunker, he was aware that he stank. His body and his tattered uniform were permeated with the stench of stale sweat, old urine, caked excrement and fear. Yes, fear. None of them had dared go out even for a shit since the Australians had started sending their dirty cannibals to roam the lines each night. The blacks moved like ghosts in the darkness and the first a man would know of them was a knife in the throat before his head was added to their collection.
Hamasuna had been condemned to this stinking hellhole since the ‘senior naval presence’ banished him back to the infantry for failing to secure the Yamamoto crash site. He’d wanted to explain about the missing briefcase and the bare footprint he’d found in a patch of sand nearby, but the admiral’s raw, almost demonic savagery had left him speechless with terror. He’d done what he could to impress the man with his diligence during the crash investigation, leading endless patrols to keep the natives from the site. One patrol had captured an Australian Coastwatcher, who died under Hamasuna’s knife screaming that he knew nothing of a plane crash or missing wreckage. He’d had the body secretly buried along with the spy’s still living Bougainvillean bodyguard.
The Samurai Inheritance Page 14
