At the Sharpe End

by Ashton, Hugh

  “Can you get me that consulting gig, then?” Sharpe asked Vishal.

  “No problem, man. I’m up to my balls in alligators right now, and I really honestly need some help with the bits that aren’t much fun.”

  “Usual rates? Pass us one of those fish, would you?”

  “Sure, would I let you down on this? I’ll give you a call in the next couple of days to let you know when you can come in and sign the contract and the rest of the shit.”

  “Great. Take all the Katsuyama stuff with you then, so it can go into work with you tomorrow. I’d feel a lot happier with it all behind your security system than out in the open.”

  “OK.” Vishal started to pack the card and CD back into the plastic bag and then into his backpack.

  “And before we drink all the beer, would you mind giving me a hand with some of the heavier bits of furniture? Let’s get the place a little tidier while we’re both a bit sober, right?”

  “Fine,” replied Vishal good-naturedly, and they went into the other room to put things straight. With the two of them working together, and Mieko standing around offering advice and encouragement (as well as a steadying pair of hands sometimes), the job didn’t take nearly as long as Sharpe had feared it would, and it didn’t seem long before Vishal and Sharpe found themselves sitting down drinking beer again, and feasting on a selection of small Japanese snacks prepared by Mieko.

  “Thanks, Vishal. It would have been so much more difficult on my own. I really appreciate it.”

  “No problem.” He looked at his watch. “I have to be getting back now. No offence, Kenneth-san, but it’s a long day tomorrow.”

  “I understand. Thanks for everything.”

  Sharpe let Vishal out of the door and went back to the office. The computer had finished the backup process by now, and he had just started to clean up some of the papers that seemed to breed like rabbits whenever his back was turned, when the doorbell rang. He looked around for something that Vishal had left behind, but couldn’t see anything.

  -o-

  Opening the front door in answer to the repeated ring, he was surprised to see Jon standing there in his “young executive” outfit.

  “All right, come in. And take your bloody shoes off,” he snapped, as Jon started to step into the hallway.

  “Gone native, have we?” smirked Jon. “All right, keep your hair on,” as he slipped out of the black oxfords.

  “You’d better come in here,” said Sharpe, gesturing to the office and the chair that Vishal had just vacated.

  “Thanks,” said Jon, accepting the fresh can of beer that Sharpe had extracted from the fridge. He took a swig. “Who was that who left just now?”

  “Vishal. He’s a friend of mine – don’t ask me to give you his last name right now – it’s long and Southern Indian – works with one of the banks in Tokyo. He came round to help me move some of the furniture back after Al Kowalski’s Martha Stewart efforts at home makeover, and he talked about a consulting job at his bank.”

  “Which bank?” asked Jon. Sharpe told him. “What department?”

  “It doesn’t matter which bank, and he’s in Fixed Income Commodities and Currencies.” That was true. For some reason, unique in Sharpe’s experience, the bank where Vishal worked put its developers into the divisions for which they developed programs, rather than into a centralised IT department.

  “OK. Any news of Katsuyama?” He accepted one of the small dried fish that Sharpe held out to him.

  “You’re meant to eat the head, you know,” pointed out Sharpe as Jon started to lay the remains on his plate.

  “You’re joking?”

  For answer, Sharpe ate two fish, heads and all, in quick succession.

  “All right,” said Jon, who’d watched the performance somewhat dubiously. “Here’s looking at you, kid,” he addressed the fish head he was holding, and crunched his way through it. “Not too bad,” he conceded. “A bit like fish-flavoured pork scratchings.”

  “And talking of heads …?” Sharpe asked. “What about friend Al over at Tokyo station?”

  “Bloody thing’s still in the locker. It would make life a bloody sight simpler if you gave us the key, you know.”

  “All you had to do was ask,” grumbled Sharpe, as he fished in his pocket for the key, and passed it to Jon.

  “Why didn’t you give it to me this morning?”

  “Why didn’t you ask?”

  They glared at each other over the beers and were still trying to stare each other down when Mieko walked in.

  “Has Vishal gone yet? Oh?” as she caught sight of Jon.

  “Jon, Mieko. Mieko, Jon,” introduced Sharpe. “Jon works at the British Embassy. He’s taken over from James Bond.” Like many Japanese, Mieko was a fan of James Bond, especially the earlier Sean Connery films.

  “Autographs later,” smiled Jon. Sharpe reached into the fridge, and without being asked, passed her another beer.

  “Thanks,” said Mieko. “I really wanted to know if you would be ready for dinner in about ten minutes. I can make it serve three, if Mr Bond is staying. It’s sukiyaki.”

  “That sounds delicious,” replied Jon, before Sharpe had a chance to answer. Mieko smiled and left the room.

  “Sorry to intrude like this,” said Jon before Sharpe could say anything. “But you have no idea what it’s like not to eat home cooking and to have to rely on the embassy canteen and eat out at restaurants where you don’t even understand the menu all the time. My many finely-honed skills don’t extend to the kitchen.”

  “All right, but for God’s sake don’t say anything about the whole Katsuyama thing to Mieko. She’s upset enough as it is. Were you following me today on the way to the electronics store?”

  “Not personally I wasn’t, but we had people on you all day, and there’s one outside right now. And we’re not the only ones following you around.”

  “I’d noticed that.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell me who they are?”

  “I don’t know. I like to think they’re on the side of the angels, and it makes me feel nice and safe with two lots looking after me. Just co-operate with whoever it is, that’s all I ask. And again, don’t say anything about all this to Mieko.”

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” asked Jon. “Oh, don’t answer that,” he said as Sharpe opened his mouth to reply. “Of course I’m not going to say anything.”

  “What will you do about the package in the locker?”

  “Me, personally? As little as possible. We have people to deal with that kind of thing. Miles and miles away from the likes of me, let alone Major Tim Barclay. As soon as I get the key to them, they’ll make their way to Tokyo station in the wee small hours of the morning, and probably leave Al’s head in a suburban park somewhere before sending an anonymous fax to Ishihara.”

  “They can trace faxes, can’t they?”

  “Of course they can, but the fax will be sent from some large multinational corporation somewhere. All enquiries end at the automated switchboard and Ishihara’s not going to make a fuss with Mitsui or Toshiba or Fujitsu about it, you can be sure. And you can be sure that will be the last that you, or anyone else will ever hear about the late Al S. Kowalski. May God have mercy on his immortal soul.”

  “Sounds like there’s a bigger secret embassy presence than I ever imagined, doing things I’ve never heard about.”

  “Quite probably. Unlike our American cousins, our boys don’t take up valuable drinking space in Roppongi pubs, telling the world what they’re up to.”

  Mieko called them from the other room, telling them that the food was ready. “If you want to wash your hands?” offered Sharpe, indicating the small room on the left of the passageway.

  “Thanks,” replied Jon and ducked inside. When he came out, Sharpe guided him to the main room, and they sat down to the table.

  The conversation throughout the meal was lively. Jon quickly explained to Mieko that he was not actually James Bond (she protested flir
tingly that she didn’t believe it for a moment), but kept her entertained with comic stories of diplomatic bedlam in Paris, Bangkok and Seattle.

  “How did you come to know Kenneth-san?” she asked Jon.

  “Oh, we bumped into each other at a coffee shop a few days ago,” replied Sharpe quickly, “and we started talking. We found we had some friends in common.”

  “Kenneth’s been really helpful to the embassy, and we hope he’s going to continue to be useful to us in the future.”

  Sharpe stifled the urge to kick Jon hard under the table.

  “Well, that would be nice, working for the embassy, wouldn’t it?” asked Mieko.

  “Yes, it would, as long as I was working with Jon, I’m sure. The problem is that sometimes you don’t know who you’re working for, when you work for the government.”

  “That reminds me,” interrupted Jon, “of a driver we had in Bangkok. Charming old gentleman, but he often got somewhat confused as to the rank of his passengers …” He skilfully spun out the story so that it ended at the same time as the meal, and then helped to clear away the dishes at the end.

  “We might even invite you round again,” said Sharpe as he and Jon sat together in the office demolishing some fruit.

  “Thanks,” Jon replied with a disarming simplicity. “I enjoyed myself being in someone’s home and eating real food for a change. I’m not really a tough guy or a spy, you know, and even we civil servants get a touch homesick now and again. If you could try to see me as an ally, it would be helpful for both of us, I think. I’m sure there’s a use for you with our people, and we’d probably be able to scrape up some money from somewhere to pay you well, even by your demanding standards, for your help.”

  “As long as I don’t have to be friends with your poison dwarf boss,” Sharpe remarked.

  “Confidentially, I think he’s on his way out, or at least on his way back home,” replied Jon. “There are stories that he’s feathered his own nest a little too well on the proceeds of insider trading. And even though he has full diplomatic immunity, any scandal about a diplomat making an illegal killing on the Tokyo Stock Exchange would be enough to finish his career. Not to mention that the whole thing would probably blow Ishihara sky-high.”

  Sharpe thought back to the definitely non-governmental appearance and furnishings of Major Barclay’s lair, and nodded. “I can see where that would make things complicated. If Tiny Tim goes back in disgrace, would you take over from him?”

  Jon shook his head in an ambiguous gesture. “If there was any justice in the world, I would do. I have the experience in the field and the track record. But I don’t have the Japan experience that someone like you does. I’d need someone like you to work with me. It could be a nice little career for you.”

  “And what would you want in exchange for this fine favour you’re offering me?”

  Jon sighed. “I can’t put anything over on you, can I? Fuck you. Of course I want that Katsuyama shit from you. If I had that to pass on to Whitehall, I’d have the pick of whatever job I wanted in Japan, and the right to pick my own assistants.”

  Sharpe remained silent.

  “Well, I can’t force you to hand something over,” continued Jon.

  “Especially if I don’t have it,” retorted Sharpe.

  “Oh for Christ’s sake, don’t play silly buggers. All right, let’s get theoretical. If by some strange chance you happened to have Katsuyama’s gizmo, and if you were to pass it on to HMG through me, I can tell you there would be a lot in it for you.”

  “I’m sorry, Jon, but you don’t know the half of it. And neither do I,” he added quickly, as Jon opened his mouth to protest. “Just drop it for now, can you? Maybe in a few weeks’ time I’ll be able to tell you some things you want to hear. But not right now. OK?”

  Jon closed his mouth and nodded. “OK. I hear you.”

  “OK, take that bloody locker key, and get out and do what you have to do, or get other people to do your dirty work for you. And who knows, behave yourself, and you might find yourself invited round some time soon.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  Jon struggled into his shoes, and Sharpe, sighing heavily, closed the door on him.

  “Thank you, Mieko,” he said, going into the kitchen. “You did a good thing there.”

  “He was fun,” she replied. “Can we invite him round for a proper dinner some time?”

  “Probably,” Sharpe replied abstractedly. He seized a cloth and started to dry the dishes. “Want to play cribbage tonight?” Mieko won again.

  -oOo-

  Chapter 5: Tokyo

  The weekend passed peacefully enough. No police suggesting that he drop round to watch suspects get beaten up. No unexpected body parts turning up in public places. No strangers abducting those near and dear to him, and beating him about the head with a pistol. A pretty boring couple of days, all told. He used them to catch up on his e-mail and do Web research for a magazine article he’d promised to write.

  On Monday morning, Vishal rang from his workplace.

  “Kenneth-san, can you come in this afternoon at three to talk to our team leader about the project we talked about the other day?”

  “No problem.”

  After lunch, Sharpe put on his best suit, armed himself with a stack of business cards, and set forth on the train to the centre of Tokyo. Once again he noticed two minders behind him, but he didn’t recognise either of them this time.

  He left them at the doorway to the building housing the bank’s offices, which it shared with a number of other companies. As he rode the lift up to the twentieth floor, he was annoyed, as always, by the obsessive need of Japanese to push the “close door” button in the lift the instant they stepped inside. The practice seemed to be restricted to the Japanese workers in the building – the others seemed content to leave the lift to do its own thing, which it did in a matter of seconds, but the Japanese workers had actually worn the markings off the button. Come to that, Sharpe thought, the button probably wasn’t connected to anything anyway. He’d noticed the same tendency with Mieko, who never seemed to trust the automatic programs on washing machines or microwaves and so on, and insisted on making manual settings instead, often with disastrous results (Sharpe still had a once-white shirt that was now a streaky pink). The lift announced its arrival at the twentieth floor in Japanese and English and Sharpe stepped out, noticing wryly that someone was pushing the “close door” button even as he was stepping out of the lift. The door still took another three seconds to close.

  He’d been to Vishal’s bank often enough to be recognised by the receptionist, and he accepted his visitor’s badge along with a smile. After he’d waited for about five minutes in the reception area, Vishal came to meet him.

  “Thanks for coming along, Kenneth-san. Come this way.” He led the way to a meeting room on the floor above the reception area and closed the door.

  “Now, about the compliance contract?” he asked Sharpe.

  “Shouldn’t we wait for the project leader?”

  “I am the bloody project leader on this one, Kenneth-san!” Vishal laughed. “So I got the approval this morning to hire you for a month or so. Usual rates.”

  “Great. Thanks a lot.”

  “Sure. No problem. It’s not being a special urgent thing anyway, but we must be making sure the Bloomberg feed to the traders’ desks after the back end has processed it is presenting the same basic information as we receive. The SOX and J-SOX requirements are starting to hit us,” referring to the US legislation and its Japanese equivalent, supposedly designed to promote transparency in financial affairs.

  “Sounds quite a job.”

  “Not as bad as it is sounding and we don’t have the FSA on our back, so you are not having to do it yesterday. Anyway, I’ve set up a workstation for you with a Bloomberg and a FIX feed, and a special hardware attachment.” He winked. “And I’ll be spending quite a lot of time helping you get everything set up and working.”
/>   “Oh, I see,” said Sharpe as the meaning sank in. “Thank you very much.”

  Vishal dropped his voice. “The work should actually take about two weeks, even at your slow speed, so you can spend a fair bit of time on the other stuff.” He grinned.

  “I think you’re starting to enjoy this,” said Sharpe.

  “I am indeed,” replied Vishal. “I wish I had the opportunity to do this kind of thing myself all the time. But it’s almost as good if you are being here to do it. Can you start next Monday?”

  “No problem. There is one small thing, though? Can we make the first two weeks four days a week rather than five so that I can tidy up a few things?”

  “Fine, if that’s what you want to be doing.”

  Sharpe was whistling to himself as he made his way back home and stopped off at the local supermarket to buy a bottle of slightly better wine than usual. Quite apart from trying to solve the problems of the mysterious Katsuyama package, the money that he would earn over the next four weeks was going to be a useful boost to his bank balance. Worth a modest celebration, he told himself.

  As he came out of the supermarket, he looked for the two men tailing him. One seemed to have stopped following him, or maybe he’d become a little better at his job and had learned to keep himself hidden. The other was obviously from Katsuyama’s father-in-law. Sharpe made a sudden decision and started to walk back the way he’d come from, directly towards his shadow.

  The gangster appeared to panic, and stopped short, turning towards and away from Sharpe alternately, seemingly unable to make up his mind. A few more quick strides, and Sharpe was within speaking range.

  “Matte – wait,” he called in a low voice. “Listen,” he went on in Japanese, “I am going to be working at that bank for one month. I have not forgotten about Mr Katsuyama, and I will do my best to find him when I am not working. Please tell your boss that.”

  The other coughed, seemingly embarrassed at the impropriety of his quarry turning and talking directly to him. “Thank you,” he replied in gruff Japanese. “I will tell Mr Kim.”

  So Katsuyama’s father-in-law was called Kim? Well, not exactly a useful fact to know. Over 20% of Korean people shared that name, Sharpe had read somewhere.