At the Sharpe End

by Ashton, Hugh

  “All right, I think I get what you’re driving at. Where does the North Korean connection fit into all of this?”

  “Ah,” lacing his fingertips together. Some of the former playfulness crept back into his voice. “That naughty Kim Jong-il. The Dear Leader and his henchmen. Oh dear, what a mess.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, let’s try and imagine North Korea. Not the poor buggers starving to death – unfortunate as they may be, they play no part in our discussions. What we’re seeing right now – those of us with the eyes to see, that is – is a struggle between the Party and the Army as the old order changeth. And they’re not the same at all, no indeed they’re not,” he insisted, wagging a warning finger, although Sharpe had shown no sign of promoting any view to the contrary. “The Party would like to see their country as a proud independent state true to the spirit of Iosif Vissarionovich, God damn his soul to hell, free of all contaminating influences – that old juche self-reliance thing of Daddy Kim’s. The Army generals, bless them, being hairy-chested men of action, take a somewhat more practical view, and feel that their country needs the helping hand of another.”

  “Like China?” asked Sharpe.

  “Just like China. Absolutely. And with China trying to win gold medals in the space race, you can see that Katsuyama’s doodad would actually be quite a feather in their cap. So put two and two together?” he invited.

  “Katsuyama’s in-laws are on the military side of the argument. They want the imaging technology to give to China. China backs the military against the Party. Military wins. Katsuyama wants to keep it out of their hands, for obvious reasons.”

  “Very good indeed,” Barclay applauded again, moving his hands together soundlessly. “Of course, I forget that you do this kind of thing for a living, in a slightly different field, of course. Fancy joining our little mob?”

  “Thank you, but no. Jon’s already asked.”

  “Has he now? That was a very naughty thing for our Jonnie-boy to do. He has absolutely no authority to go round saying that sort of thing. We shall definitely have to have words, I can see that.”

  Sharpe found it hard to summon up much sympathy for Jon’s fate. He decided it was time to change to a more urgent topic of conversation. “So what happens to me now? Am I going to be pursued and harassed by renegade CIA agents and North Korean spies all the time? “

  “No, don’t be so silly. We’d be keeping an eye out for you.”

  “Just like you kept an eye out for Katsuyama?”

  “Touché there, Ken,” acknowledged Barclay, shaking his head, though whether in sorrow at Katsuyama’s death or not, it was impossible to tell.

  “Who killed the poor sod, anyway? Do you know, and would you tell me if you did?”

  “No and no,” replied Barclay calmly.

  “And just like you kept an eye on my flat while Ben or Al or whatever he calls himself this week turned the bloody place upside-down?” Sharpe was aware that he was starting to shout, but he didn’t care. It felt good.

  “Temper, temper,” Barclay admonished him. “You may consider Al as an elemental force of nature. Like the wind, he bloweth where he listeth. The only thing that can faintly be described as a control over Al is the thought of a future in a small secure room in the USA shared twenty-four hours a day with three other men, who might not always respect the fact that Al likes to be the one on top in his little games. And believe me, Ishihara reminds him of this possible change to his lifestyle at reasonably frequent intervals.” He patted his hair once again. “Not that it always seems to do a lot of good,” he added.

  “What about the kid that they pulled in who was watching my flat? Where does he come into all of this?”

  “He sounds like Al’s bit of rough for the night who got called on to do a bit of extra. From what I hear, he’s the original tart with a heart. Might even like to meet him myself when all this is over.”

  “I think that was my point – when is all this over?”

  “I’d have thought that was rather obvious, Ken,” replied Barclay, smiling like a panther. “The answer is in your hands, isn’t it? Or if not actually in your hands, it could be within a few minutes, I am sure.” He got up out of the chair and moved to the door. “Well, it’s been fabulous meeting you today, Ken,” reaching for the handle. “You know my name, and you know where to find my little nest. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other very soon.” He pulled the door open. “So nice to have met you. Good-bye, or should I say au revoir?”

  Sharpe didn’t bother to say anything in reply, but picked up his things and walked out.

  As he made his way towards the station, Jon came running up to meet him. He had changed from the Australian hitchhiker look to a business suit. The tattoos seemed to have vanished as well. He could have been taken for any of the yuppie bond traders Sharpe spent much of his spare time avoiding in Roppongi bars.

  “How did you get on with our very own poison dwarf?” he asked. “Fabulous coffee,” he breathed.

  “Piss off,” growled Sharpe.

  “Don’t blame you there. I had to take you to meet him, though.”

  “You, lad, told me a damn sight more than you should have done, and you are now in deep shit with Major Tim Bloody Barclay,” answered Sharpe with some satisfaction.

  “So what’s new?” responded the other. “Can I buy you a drink later this evening? Meet you at the Press Club in Yurakucho? Meet a somewhat more attractive companion or companions than the one you’ve just been talking to?”

  “You’re not referring to yourself there, I take it? Wouldn’t be hard to find something more attractive, I agree. OK, as long as you’re buying. I’m not a member. What time?”

  “Quarter past seven. See you in the bar. Here’s my mobile number,” handing over a piece of paper. “Just in case you get held up.”

  “Or you do.”

  “I never get held up – always on time – that’s one of my virtues, as I am sure the poison dwarf informed you? No? He should have done. Well, I’m back to the embassy now. See you later.” He set off down the street as Sharpe descended the steps to the Metro station.

  Now Sharpe thought about it a bit more, he was beginning to get an understanding of the value of the thing. Did that mean Vishal and Meema were in danger? If so, he’d have to do something about it. Such as moving the contents of Hello Kitty to a bank deposit box? But that was an obvious thing to do, and he had no doubt that Ishihara/Sugita and his organisation would have little difficulty in obtaining permission to open such a box, or opening it anyway, even if permission were not forthcoming.

  Like most people, Sharpe found it difficult to maintain a concentrated train of logical thought. Thoughts of Meema led to other things, and before he realised what he was doing, he found himself in a semi-erotic daydream. That in turn led to slightly guilty thoughts of Mieko. He decided to call her, realising that he hadn’t actually spoken to her since he’d left her and Meema shouting at him that morning as he set off for the police station.

  There was no answer at the flat. He left a message on the answering machine and checked his watch. Probably out shopping. He called her mobile number. No answer, not even the recorded message telling him her phone was off-line and asking him to leave a message.

  Sighing, he wrestled with his mobile phone’s interface and sent a short text message to her mobile telling her that he’d be out that evening, and she wasn’t to wait for him or cook for him. He hoped to God she wasn’t out shopping now – she became righteously angry when she bought and cooked food that he was unable to eat as the result of a late-running meeting or last-minute work coming his way.

  He decided to call Meema’s to see if Mieko was still there. There was still a stiffness in Meema’s voice.

  “No, she left me about an hour after you went. No, she didn’t say where she was going. She told me she was going to cook something for you and Vishal when he comes round tonight. I think she’s forgiven you. I must say, I wouldn’t.” There wa
s an distinctly audible sniff of contempt at the other end of the line.

  Hell and damnation! He’d arranged for Vishal to help out with getting things straight, and now he had to put him off, and appease Mieko. Or put off the meeting with Jon. Two against one. Jon lost.

  The phone was answered after five rings. “Jon, it’s Kenneth Sharpe. Look, I can’t make tonight – forgot I had something else on this evening. Can we make it some other time?”

  “Sorry to hear that. Same place, same time tomorrow OK by you?”

  “Can’t promise anything right now. Let me call you tomorrow and I’ll let you know.”

  “Fine. You take care of yourself, right?” and the phone clicked off. Sharpe was left wondering exactly what he meant by that last phrase.

  Time enough to make his way back home and try to make his peace with Mieko. On the way from the station to his flat he stopped and bought a small bouquet of flowers. Not large enough to look like an obvious bribe, but large enough for a serious peace offering, he thought.

  -o-

  The front door of the flat was unlocked. Not like Mieko, he thought. She was usually obsessive about locking the door whether she was in or out of the flat. Like many Japanese recently, she was worried by the media reports of a “crime wave” in Japan, as the result of the wicked foreigners (mainly Chinese) coming in and taking over. The fact that the Japanese organised crime families had effectively been running the country through their Liberal Democratic Party stooges since the end of the war never bothered the media, but half-a-dozen burglaries a month in a city of twelve million were blown up into a civilisation-threatening crime wave. Silly to think about all that, though, when the place had just been thoroughly worked over.

  “Hello, I’m home,” he called. No answer. He walked into the living-room. It looked just the same as he had left it that morning – overturned furniture and mess everywhere. The wind was blowing in through the smashed window. Have to do something about that. Not urgent, though – it wasn’t exactly cold.

  No-one in the kitchen, which looked almost normal. Someone had been tidying up. No-one in the bedroom, or his office, which both looked exactly as he had left them that morning. Feeling a bit of a fool, he even knocked on the toilet door, but there was no answer.

  Weird, he thought, opening the fridge for a glass of milk. He saw a pack of crab claws – one of his favourite foods, which Mieko also loved – which he didn’t remember having seen the night before. Must be her shopping for this evening. Mieko’s attempt at a peace offering, he told himself.

  But where was she? He called Meema again.

  “Kenneth here, Meema. Mieko hasn’t called you recently, has she?”

  “No, isn’t she at home?” A little of the chill had gone out of Meema’s voice.

  “No, no sign of her, but she’s done some shopping.”

  “Perhaps she’s with the neighbours?” suggested Meema.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” agreed Sharpe. “Thanks.”

  He wasn’t sure of his last words, though. As the unmarried once-divorced partner of a foreigner, Mieko was tolerated, but not openly welcomed, as a part of the neighbourhood association. She wasn’t that close to any of the neighbours, and he didn’t think she’d be sitting there gossiping while the flat was in such a mess.

  Maybe her parents’ house? He took a deep breath and dialled, hoping it was her father who picked up the phone. It wasn’t. Damn. “Mrs Nishimura? Has Mieko been round to see you today? No, we haven’t had an argument, but we had a bit of an accident in the flat last night, and I thought she might have wanted to tell you about it. All right. Thank you. And best regards to your husband.” He put the phone down and sighed. Mrs Nishimura seemed to want to blame him for everything that had gone wrong with her beloved daughter’s life, even though he’d met Mieko more than a year after the failure of her marriage.

  Happily, her father was a much more practically minded man who welcomed the idea of an exotic connection to the family, and happily exhibited Sharpe to his friends at the local pub as a sign of his international broadmindedness. Sharpe usually woke up the next morning with a deepened appreciation of Japanese generosity, and an aching head.

  Well, wherever Mieko actually was, someone had to get the evening meal ready. Sharpe dumped his briefcase in the study, put the flowers into water, and rolled up his sleeves. As he put the carrots into the sink for washing, he noticed a slip of paper beside the sink – a till receipt from the local supermarket listing some vegetables and a pack of crab claws. Looking at it more closely, he noticed the time and date – about four hours ago. Mieko’s apron was draped over the back of a chair. So where was she?

  His mobile phone rang, and he snatched at it with dripping hands, but it wasn’t Mieko.

  “Hello, Vishal.”

  “Look man, I am very very sorry. Bloody boss needs me to explain the new procedures to the New York office on a conference call, and that means that I am not going to be able to be helping you tonight. He is fixing this bloody thing for half past nine o’clock this evening and I am having a meeting with him before that.”

  “I understand, Vishal.” Actually, Sharpe was a little relieved. If Mieko wasn’t back, it might be embarrassing to try to explain her absence.

  “No, man, I really am sorry. Let me come round to you tomorrow evening, I swear, yes?”

  “No problem. Just let me know a few minutes before you come round, right?”

  “Sure. Very very sorry.”

  “Vishal. Just shut up. You can buy me a beer some time if you really feel that bad about things, but it’s not your fault. Don’t worry about it, OK?”

  Sharpe continued washing and peeling the carrots. He’d just sliced them and had put them into a saucepan when the doorbell rang. Probably Mieko, forgotten her key, he hoped to himself, opening the front door.

  He was wrong. Standing on the doorstep was a slightly built woman in a dark raincoat with a headscarf concealing her hair and most of her face, which was turned away from him. He couldn’t for the life of him work out who it was.

  “Yes?” he asked in Japanese.

  Without revealing her face, she spoke to him in Japanese with a noticeable accent that he had difficulty placing. “Sorry to bother you. My name is Tomiko Katsuyama. I believe you knew my husband. May I come in?”

  She slipped through the door quickly, glancing behind her.

  “Is someone following you?” asked Sharpe, closing the front door.

  “I hope not,” she replied.

  Sharpe led the way into the living room, momentarily forgetting the state of the room. As she entered the doorway, Mrs Katsuyama froze. “Oh goodness,” she said, her hand fluttering to her mouth. “I never thought it would look like that.”

  And what the hell was that meant to mean? thought Sharpe, tidying a chair for her to sit on. He decided to let it sort itself out in the course of conversation. “Excuse me a minute,” he said. “I was just about to fix that,” pointing to the broken window, though which the wind was continuing to blow.

  He went to his study and came back with a roll of duct tape and a cardboard box. She watched in silence as he taped cardboard over the broken window panes before drawing the curtains. Only then did she seem to relax.

  “Please, I know it’s not that great here at the moment, but please try to make yourself as comfortable as you can,” said Sharpe. “Tea or something?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like a little whisky.” Sharpe noticed her hands were shaking. “Just a little. Straight, please.”

  Whisky was one of the few alcoholic drinks that Sharpe didn’t really like. However, grateful clients kept showering him with expensive Scottish malts and bourbons, so he was well-stocked.

  “Wait a moment,” going into the kitchen. When he returned with a small glass of whisky for her, and a vodka and orange juice for himself, he nearly dropped the drinks. She had removed her headscarf and coat, and even in a black “formal” funeral dress, she was one of th
e most attractive women he had ever seen off a cinema screen, and the tightly fitting black dress appeared to be cut considerably lower in the front and have a much shorter skirt than seemed appropriate for mourning. However, Sharpe had never considered himself an expert on women’s fashion. Perhaps this is what the well-dressed widow wore these days. He remembered Mieko’s more “comfortably rounded” figure and tried unsuccessfully not to think disloyal thoughts. Although he was convinced his eyes were popping out of his head like chapel hat pegs, as his Derbyshire grandmother used to put it, somehow he managed to cross the two miles of floor to her chair without collapsing, spilling the drinks, or otherwise making an obvious fool of himself. Beautiful women always had an unfortunate effect on him, it seemed, making his feet twice their usual size and making them trip over anything in their path that was higher than a matchstick, and increasing his natural clumsiness factor by several hundred percent.

  “Is this all right?” he croaked like a raven, handing her the glass. At least, he assumed it came out as a croak. His throat was so dry and constricted he was surprised he could make any intelligible sound at all.

  “Thank you,” she said. He put down his glass, heaved the sofa into some kind of normality, and collapsed into it.

  He was about to make some cheerful and flippant toast, when he remembered that he was in the presence of a recently bereaved widow. “To the memory of your husband,” he said, lifting his glass solemnly.

  She said nothing, but raised her glass in reply. The finger of whisky he had poured for her went down with no apparent pause, and no apparent effect. Sharpe sipped his drink, trying desperately not to stare too hard at her profile. There was a silence that lasted for a minute or so, during which Sharpe managed to gulp most of his drink. The sound of his drinking sounded in his head like feeding time at the zoo, and the ice swirling in his glass crashed in his ears like the iceberg that hit the Titanic, but she didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary.