by Peter Tonkin
But so, more to the point, was breakfast.
The girl in the restaurant was more approachable than the woman on reception and Richard was able to parlay the mid-Atlantic cuisine offering BLT, organic sausages and scrambled egg with salmon into something approaching a full English breakfast that was beautifully cooked, artfully presented – and it tasted fantastic. It was accompanied by freshly squeezed orange juice and a cafetière of Blue Mountain high roast coffee.
He finished the second cup at eight and wandered through to the work area. Once he had found a plug for his laptop he used the Wi-Fi facility to access the electronic work desk at Heritage Mariner. He spent the next hour scanning and saving to the laptop’s hard drive – and then to a couple of thirty-two gigabyte USB memory sticks that he kept handy for just such emergencies.
All in all, by the time his flight was called he had stored more than enough work in one place or another to keep him going through most of the time he proposed to spend in Tokyo – let alone the time it was going to take him to get there. But he was reckoning on working non-stop on the flight – without the need for Internet access in the air – and then he would email everything he had done back to the office from the Mandarin Oriental – if he had time before Nic took him out to dinner in Tokyo’s best restaurant tomorrow evening. He had heard great things of Akira Kurosawa – as restaurateur as well as film director – but hadn’t got across town to his legendary eatery Kurosawa in Chiyoda district on his last visit. Maybe now was the time . . .
The BA Airbus lifted off at ten thirty on the dot and Richard worked for twelve solid hours with only short breaks for a light and excellent luncheon followed four hours later by an equally excellent dinner. By that time the battery on his laptop was running out of power and his own energy was beginning to diminish as well. In his head it was ten thirty in the evening but outside it was coming up for five, and at 30,000 feet it was already dawn.
A two-hour power nap set Richard up as effectively as a full night’s sleep – and would do so for several nights in a row, he knew – but only if he got a chance to catch up somewhere further down the road. So he was able to spend the last hour filling in the required security documentation, which was a good deal less than he had to complete on his visits to Sharm el Sheikh in Egypt or to Benin la Bas in West Africa, and catching up with his Kindle edition of a couple of adventure thrillers by Clive Cussler and Wilbur Smith.
BA flight 007 whispered on to Tokyo International’s main runway at a little after ten a.m. local time. Richard was in Hadena’s main building by ten thirty and was walking through security with his suitcase before eleven, pausing only at the International Exchange to top up his supply of Yen.
The Airport Express was easy to find and he settled into a seat with Wi-Fi access, opened his laptop and paid the excess for connection. The run to Tokyo station was twenty minutes and before the first five had passed he was in contact with the Mandarin, confirming his booking and arrival time, and arranging for a car to collect him from the Yaesu South exit.
He stepped out of the back of the Mandarin’s limo on Ninobashi and ran up between the columns that might have graced the Bank of England into the Mandarin Oriental at midday on the dot. He strode across towards the reception, fizzing with excitement, only to stop, simply flabbergasted. For there, leaning nonchalantly with an elbow on the polished desktop, deep in conversation with Christian Hassang the manager, was Nic Greenbaum.
And even as Richard stood hesitating in the middle of the bustling lobby, the American swung round with gleeful theatricality. ‘Hey, Richard! Here you are at last!’ he drawled. ‘What kept you, Buddy?’
Dock
‘Five minutes,’ admitted Nic with a laugh.
‘Less,’ emphasized Christian Hassang. ‘Mr Greenbaum hardly had time to draw breath before you arrived.’
‘Still, you made it before I did,’ said Richard, shaking his head in wonder.
‘Courtesy of Richard Branson,’ shrugged Nic, still smiling. ‘Virgin all the way. Must be just about the only virgin in Vegas, I guess.’
‘Probably why they were so keen to get out of the place,’ joked Richard, beginning to relax. ‘You must have started in the middle of the night.’
‘Four a.m. red-eye and lucky to get aboard. Thought I was going to have to bribe my way on at the departures gate. But I ended up winning the seat on a bet! The flip of a silver dollar, just like that! First class too. Rockstar Treatment and all. Offered to pay up after I won but the guy said, “No – a bet’s a bet!” Only in Vegas, I tell you! Lifted off bang on time. One-hour layover in LA and straight over the Pacific, sleeping like a baby. I was down in Narita just before ten local – good tailwind so I’m told. N’Ex first-class green car to Tokyo station in fifty minutes and Christian here was waiting for me himself. We pulled up just ahead of you.’
‘I thought you were going for the Hilton.’
‘Seemed silly when I thought of it – splitting our forces like that. We’re both here on the same mission, looking for the same guy. The same gal, maybe. Seems logical to stay together if we can.’
‘As long as we’re not sharing a room,’ answered Richard, glancing at Christian as he spoke.
‘Adjoining suites,’ said the general manager. ‘And you’re booked in to Sora on our thirty-eighth floor for the eight-thirty sitting this evening. It is, I flatter myself, the finest sushi restaurant in Tokyo, perhaps in the world. You were fortunate there was a cancellation. But it seems to be Mr Greenbaum’s lucky day.’
‘Perhaps I should buy a lottery ticket,’ suggested Nic cheerfully. ‘They’re apparently thinking of going for a rollover on that one-hundred-and-ten-million-dollar jackpot if the original winner doesn’t show up soon!’
‘That’s something we can think about on our way downtown,’ said Richard. ‘The first thing I want to do is to find out how the search for Tanaka is proceeding.’
‘You have an appointment with one of the investigating officers later this afternoon at the Metropolitan Police Department headquarters at the Keishicho building,’ said Christian briskly. ‘But now let us get you signed in and you can go to your suites and freshen up. Perhaps think about lunch or late breakfast, according to where your body clocks are at present. Captain Mariner, I have the local cell phones you and Mr Greenbaum will require. They are fully charged, topped up with credit and pre-programmed as you requested. And a limousine will take you to the Keishicho in good time.’
They ate in K’shiki on the thirty-eighth floor, which was still serving Western-style breakfast on request, even though they were pushing it a little. Both of them had checked in with head office and updated everyone who needed to know where they were and what they were doing as they freshened up. So they made plans for the day as they ate. They would see the police officer together and then take their search for Tanaka from there. It seemed logical that they should split up if they went back to the university. Nic could find out quite a bit as the sponsor of Tanaka’s department and Richard would try and exercise his charm on anyone who knew the lovely Dr Aika Rei. After the publicity surrounding the launch of the Cheerio, Richard’s face was as familiar around the Tokyo University Science campus as Nic’s was and neither of them thought there would be much trouble in making some general enquiries.
Their limousine drew up outside the big grey wedge-shaped Keishicho police headquarters at ten to four, and at four precisely they were shown into the office of Police Officer Sato Ozawa. The office was not large – and neither was Officer Ozawa. Richard felt as though he and Nic had been pushed into one of the laser-guided car park pods at Heathrow. Ozawa mistook his concern about bumping his head on the low ceiling for a more formal greeting and rose to bow in return, before waving his overpowering visitors to a pair of worryingly flimsy chairs.
He arranged a pile of papers a little fussily, nodding the bald egg of his head thoughtfully. His body was also egg-shaped, Richard noted; a bantam egg, maybe. The buttons of his uniform still strained acr
oss both chest and paunch. ‘I understand you are here to ask how the enquiry into the disappearance of Professor Tanaka and Doctor Rei is progressing,’ he said after a thoughtful pause. He spoke quietly in American-accented English which sounded strange with the formality of his diction, making him seem pompous.
‘Greenbaum International sponsors his department and research,’ said Nic.
‘And Heritage Mariner is co-sponsoring his current experiment with climate change,’ added Richard. ‘He is an important man to both of us.’
‘I have seen the publicity,’ nodded Ozawa courteously. ‘And of course both yourselves and your businesses are familiar to me. I understand your concern. However, I regret to say that I can only be of limited help. We have interviewed many of his colleagues whose general opinion seems to be that his disappearance might well have been caused by the stress that the very publicity you talk of was putting him under.’
‘But if that were the case,’ probed Richard, frowning, ‘why would Doctor Rei disappear with him?’
‘At first we considered her disappearance to be coincidence,’ said the officer. ‘We do not jump to conclusions until we have proof. However, a taxi driver did admit that he had driven a couple matching their description from the university to a bar in the dock area the night before the disappearance. He said they behaved like lovers in his cab.’
Richard raised an eyebrow.
Officer Ozawa frowned. ‘No impropriety is intended by this phrase. They embraced and whispered, that is all. Another cab driver, whose company services the same bar admitted to taking what we presume to be the same couple back to the university area later that same evening. He observed that they were intimate – whispering – and seemed excited. We have of course made enquiries at the bar itself but have made no progress there. It is not, I must admit, the sort of place a man of Professor Tanaka’s standing or reputation would be likely to frequent. It is popular with passing sailors and illegal drifters. That is about all.’
‘Drifters?’ asked Nic.
‘Illegal car racers. It is a popular pastime with young undesirables. Perhaps you have heard of the Hollywood movie. Fast and Furious . . .’
‘. . . Tokyo Drift. I’ve heard of it,’ said Richard. ‘But there’s no possibility that Tanaka was involved in illegal car racing, surely?’
Ozawa shrugged. ‘It is as conceivable or as inconceivable as anything else. We have nothing solid enough to support further speculation. We have not been able to find a cab driver who will admit to transporting the missing couple anywhere on the morning that they were first reported missing. We can discover nothing of their movements then or subsequently; our best guess remains that they have run away together. But the point I am making’ – Ozawa leaned forward to emphasize the point he was making – ‘is that there is no question of kidnap or foul play. And it is not illegal for two consenting adults to run away together, even if they don’t bother warning their friends, family or employers of their intention.’
‘So, if there is no illegal act, then there is no case for the police to look into,’ Richard concluded.
‘Indeed,’ nodded Officer Ozawa, leaning back lugubriously. ‘I regret to say that you understand the situation perfectly. Unless a body – or two – or a ransom note of some kind turns up, the case is closed.’
‘So, there’s nothing else you can tell us that might help,’ said Nic.
‘No.’ The egg-shaped head shook regretfully. ‘There is, I am afraid, nothing further.’
‘Except,’ said Richard, leaning forward until his chair creaked dangerously, ‘for the name of the bar they visited on the evening before they vanished.’
‘Sore Thumbs R Us,’ observed Richard.
‘What?’ asked Nic, looking round, frowning.
‘We stick out a bit . . .’
‘Yeah. You could say . . .’ They were the only Westerners in Rage. They were dressed in a trench coat and an Aquascutum, surrounded by clients in black leather and navy donkey jackets. From the general reaction to their arrival, they were the first of their ethnic, social and financial groupings to visit in quite a while. More than that, they were a good deal older than at least half of the dockside bar’s clientele and taller than all of them by quite a way.
‘Well, I don’t drink,’ said Richard, ‘and I know sod-all about drifting. So I’ll start with the sailors, shall I?’ Without another word, he strolled across to the nearest table not surrounded by stylish teenagers and produced Tanaka’s picture. ‘Gentlemen,’ he rumbled. ‘Any of you recognize this?’
He might have been speaking to statues.
‘This?’ he tried, unabashed. Dr Rei’s attractive face joined her colleague’s. One of the sailors blinked. Another licked his lips.
‘They probably don’t speak English,’ offered Nic from the bar. ‘This guy apparently doesn’t.’
‘Not convinced,’ answered Richard cheerfully. ‘English is still the language of the sea. English and cash. Perhaps you recognize this, then, gentlemen?’ Suddenly, beside Tanaka’s picture there was a hundred-dollar bill.
Now there was a stir of interest round the table. Through the bar, indeed. Richard eased back. Let everyone have a good look. Leaned forward over the sailors’ table again.
‘All we want to know is who they talked to. If they were talking to seafarers then they’ll all be long gone. We know that. But we just want the name of a sailor. Or a vessel, maybe. We don’t want to make trouble for anyone. We’re not the law, just friends of these two wanting to make sure they’re still OK. You know they’re missing – run off together. It’s been all over the news. You know the police have been here and found nothing. But they won’t have been trying too hard. And they won’t have been offering inducements like my friend and me.’
Another hundred-dollar bill joined the first.
‘But, talking of inducements,’ purred Richard hypnotically, ‘you should know that they are limited. A few more dollars and no more time. We have reservations at Sora in an hour and we don’t want to be late. So it’s speak now’ – two more hundred-dollar bills joined the first pair – ‘or forever hold your peace . . .’
Silence. But a sweaty silence, wrestling with temptation. Four-hundred dollars was more than thirty-two thousand yen. A day’s pay for a top-flight doctor or dentist. More than a month’s wages for men like these.
Richard straightened. Pocketed the photographs and the cash. Turned and headed for the door. Nic fell in beside him. They stepped out on to the pavement and started walking along to where their taxi was waiting. By apparent coincidence a Mazda RX8 in police colours slid round the corner at the far end of the road.
‘Now that,’ said a quiet voice behind them, ‘would make a first-rate drifter.’
Richard turned to find himself apparently facing down the male cast of the musical Grease. It was wall-to-wall sixties rebooted. There was slicked black hair. There were cool shades. Drainpipe jeans and what looked suspiciously like crepe-soled shoes. Almost as much black leather as covered the seats in his Continental.
‘This is a surprise,’ he said amiably. ‘I was expecting sailors, not drifters.’
The young man who had spoken reached into the inside pocket of his leather jacket. Richard felt Nic stirring at his shoulder.
But only a phone came out. ‘This your dude?’ asked the young man. The screen showed Tanaka talking to a heavy-set Japanese in a navy donkey jacket. A sailor, clearly. The telltale bottles of the bar were in the background.
‘Yes,’ said Richard. ‘But I’m not sure that picture’s worth a thousand words – let alone five hundred dollars.’ He emphasized the word five.
‘Fair enough,’ said the young drifter coolly. ‘But this one is.’ The drifter’s thumb moved on the cell phone’s keypad. Another picture appeared. This one was moving. In it, a Toyota Corolla was skidding sideways very fast across a wet and gleaming dock. Behind the car, security lighting showed the black wall of a ship’s side, down which was suspended a gangplank.
As the car slid across the phone camera’s view, two figures, obviously a man and woman – but not so clearly Tanaka and Akia Rei – were hurrying up the gangplank.
The Toyota’s spectacular slide slowed – the driver was clearly running out of dockside. The camera stayed focused on the car. But its movement brought the top of the gangplank and the ship’s name into clearview. The car stopped. The picture froze.
If the figures caught in the act of stepping aboard were still not all that clear, the name of the ship was. Dagupan Maru, it said in Western script.
Ghost
‘Can you make out her name?’ called Liberty, leaning forward against the wheel and straining her eyes at the ghostly vessel drifting a couple of miles ahead. It was just after dawn on the fourth day of fast sailing and the sun rising behind them had cast its first great beams ahead of them to reveal the outline of a ship. The vessel was surprisingly close and drifting closer still, pulled towards them by the current while they were being pushed down on it by the wind. It had approached so close without them suspecting its presence during the night because it was apparently running dark and silent. No lights. No radio. They saw it in the bright dawn just before it registered on their simple collision alarm radar.
‘Can you make out her name?’ Liberty called again.
‘Not completely. Looks like something Maru to me,’ called back Bella Chung-Wolf. ‘Her forepeak’s a mess covered in dirt and rust. There’s something else written there but I can’t make it out. We’d need to get way nearer, even with these.’ She waved the binoculars in the air to show what she meant. The steady wind whipped her long black hair forward and moulded the cotton shirt to her back. She had all the sure-footed athleticism of her mixed heritage, half Cantonese half Cheyenne, thought Liberty. But even so, as skipper, she should have insisted on life jackets if people were going running up and down the length of the steadily heeling deck. Even given the excitement of this unexpected encounter.
