At the Sharpe End

by Ashton, Hugh

  He was sincere, Sharpe decided, but crazy. “Mr Kim, with the best will in the world, and even with lots of money, I don’t really see how the people of North Korea can start to overthrow a government armed with tanks and missiles, even if they wanted to, which I believe is nearly an impossibility to start with.”

  Kim laughed. “You’re thinking of pitched battles in the streets? No way. This would be pinpoint surgery to remove the disease from the country and inject some healthy elements. Some people might call it terrorism. I prefer to call it a fight for freedom.”

  Sharpe noticed that the teacups were empty, and poured more tea for his uninvited guests. Somehow, it seemed to be perfectly normal to be sitting around drinking tea with a gangster, calmly discussing ways to dispose of the present North Korean dictatorship through terrorist plots. It was still one of the more seriously weird situations in which he’d found himself since coming to Japan, though (and recently there seemed to have been many of them).

  “Mr Kim, how much money do you think it would take to make your plans work?”

  “In US dollars …” Kim closed his eyes and appeared to be doing some rapid mental calculations. “I think about twenty-five million dollars in the right hands would be enough to get rid of the Party and to put a responsible person in a leading position to negotiate with the South. I’ve got a good way to go before I have enough money. That’s why I am keen for my son-in-law to succeed with his ideas.”

  “Which ideas are those, Mr Kim?”

  “Oh, his ideas and his research about reading faces on a computer. I’m sure that’s worth a few million dollars to the right people.”

  Sharpe searched the man’s face, as far as he was able, trying to determine whether he was hiding any knowledge of the currency trading program. It was impossible to tell for sure, but Sharpe didn’t feel that it was the time to bring up the subject.

  “Twenty-five million dollars doesn’t seem like an awful lot of money, though, Mr Kim,” he said. “I mean, it’s more than I have available to me right now,” he laughed, “but on a government’s scale, it will hardly buy anything.”

  “Mr Sharpe, you come from a rich country, and you are living in a rich country,” Kim said sharply. “I guess that the amount you charge your clients for one hour of your work would be enough to feed a North Korean worker’s family for a month. In an economy like that, a little goes a very long way.”

  “I understand,” said Sharpe, a little abashed.

  “Forget the idea of the people taking to the streets,” repeated Kim. “But a few key officials could suddenly find themselves removed very quickly and relatively cheaply. Trains could stop running, with lines being blocked. Electricity to key government and Party offices could be cut off. Police might fail to investigate various accidents. None of this takes an incredible amount of money. But it adds up when all’s said and done.”

  “I think you have some very specific plans in your head, Mr Kim,” Sharpe said, not without some admiration in his voice.

  “Indeed I do. But I’ve done enough talking for today,” said Kim. “I will leave you now, but one of my men will still be keeping an eye open for you. With your permission, that is?”

  “Of course. Thank you,” said Sharpe. “I do feel a bit safer with your people around.”

  “Good. And the money here,” patting the case, “is yours whenever you want. Now, if you’ll excuse me,” and he went to the front door, preceded by his bodyguard, who carefully peered through the spy-hole in the door before cautiously opening it, revealing another bodyguard standing outside. Sharpe recognised him as the one who had rearranged Kermit Winslow’s dental work.

  And then, almost without Sharpe realising it, they were all gone, leaving Sharpe and Mieko somewhat confused and more than a little frightened.

  -o-

  “I think there’s a lot you haven’t told me,” said Mieko.

  “You’re right, there is quite a lot. I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “Who’s in Hanoi? And why on earth did you turn down a whole case full of money?”

  “The person in Hanoi is the man whom I met and who we were told had died at Shinjuku station by that policeman who came round and ate peaches that evening. We met him outside Ho Chi Minh’s tomb. He was the one who took our picture there.” Mieko’s mouth opened wide.

  “Why did they think he was dead, if he’s not?”

  “Because there was a body found at Shinjuku station wearing his clothes. It even had my card in the pocket, which was what brought that policeman round to us to start with, remember?”

  “And it’s all connected to our flat being burgled?”

  “Yes, it is. But I do know that the person who did that won’t be doing it again. Don’t ask me how I know, but I do know.”

  “And why did you turn down the money?”

  “I haven’t turned it down. I’m just asking him to look after it for a while for me. It’s not a question of whether I want the money or not. It’s a question of someone asking me where the money came from. And you know that money’s not clean – look at what he does for a living.”

  “Don’t you like him?”

  “That’s not very relevant, if the money’s dirty, is it? Actually, I suppose I do quite like him, except that—” Sharpe stopped. He had just remembered Katsuyama’s wife, and the bruises on her arm.

  “What?” asked Mieko.

  “Well, you remember the night he kidnapped you? And Katsuyama’s wife came round to see me before I rushed off to see you?”

  She nodded. “Yes, of course.”

  “Well, when she was here, I noticed that she had bruises on her arm.”

  “So did I.”

  Sharpe looked at Mieko curiously. “You weren’t here when she was here,” he pointed out.

  “No, but I met her when I was with Mr Kim. And I noticed the bruises then. I told you about it, remember?”

  “No.” Sharpe racked his memory, but he had absolutely no memory of her mentioning this. Either he was losing his memory, or Mieko was. He suspected the latter, if truth be told. “So how did she behave around her father? Scared?”

  “No, not at all. Are you really sure I didn’t tell you all about this before?” Sharpe shook his head. “No, she seemed very friendly. Looking after him, and making sure he was warm and comfortable enough and that his teacup was filled and so on. Not at all scared.”

  “Did you hear what happened between them when she came round here? Did you know she was coming round here?”

  “Yes, he told her to come round here and to pretend he was a monster, to frighten you about me, and make you hurry up.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She laughed, and kissed his cheek.”

  Sharpe had to admit that this didn’t seem like the actions of a woman who was frightened of her monster of a father. “What about the bruises?”

  “Well, I don’t think that he had anything to do with them. She wouldn’t have been so friendly otherwise. And from what I saw of them, they weren’t new. About two or three days old, I thought.”

  “How on earth would you know about a thing like that?” Mieko turned her head away. Sharpe could have bitten off his tongue, remembering her alcoholic ex-husband who had beaten her repeatedly, forcing her to flee the marriage. “Oh God, sorry I said that. Yes, I’m sure you know, and I’m sure you’re right,” putting his arms round her.

  “My guess is that it was her husband who did that,” added Mieko, sinking into his embrace, with her head nestling against his chest.

  Sharpe wasn’t so convinced by this idea, but he said nothing. The weird way that things were developing, Mieko might well be right about it.

  “So you think Mr Kim’s all right?” he asked Mieko.

  “Well, don’t you think so?”

  “I’m sure he is. Look at the way that he’s going to help those poor North Koreans.”

  Sharpe sighed inwardly to himself. The Japanese media had been demonising North Korea for some
time now. A number of Japanese nationals had been kidnapped some twenty-five years earlier, for reasons best known to North Korean spy-masters. A few had been returned, together with an American spouse (a deserter from the Vietnam war) and their children, but the parents of one so-called “abductee”, whom they still believed to be alive in North Korea, were an almost nightly fixture on Japanese television speaking about the need to “resolve the issue” (whatever that was meant to mean), seemingly unable to come to terms with the fact that the bones of their beloved missing daughter were in all probability at the bottom of an undocumented mass grave outside a prison camp somewhere near Pyongyang.

  “You think he’s serious about it, then?”

  “Oh yes. He had a lot of books about Korea in the place he took me, and a lot of maps. I think he’s being truthful. Why?”

  “Well, it’s complicated.”

  “Our whole life has been getting complicated, ever since you came back with that Hello Kitty box. And where is that box now?” she asked, pushing herself away from Sharpe.

  “In a very safe place where no-one can get at it, except the people who are meant to be able to,” he explained. “You don’t need to know where.”

  She relaxed a little. “Don’t you want to explain a bit more?”

  “No,” replied Sharpe. She stiffened again. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, of course. But I think the fewer people who know what’s going on, the better it is. I don’t want to put you in a position where you might be forced to tell someone about something.”

  “You make it sound very scary.”

  “Aren’t you scared? I am,” Sharpe said. “There are a lot of really nasty things going on. And I really don’t think it would be a good idea to have Kumi-chan round here for a little while. I’m not sure it’s safe.”

  “I agree. We have to get that window fixed first.” Sharpe sighed to himself. That wasn’t exactly what he’d meant, but it would do for now. “I’ll see if they’re open tomorrow morning when I’m on my way to the station.”

  “Oh yes, sorry. I’d forgotten that you were at the bank now. Shall I go instead of you, then?”

  “If you like. Let’s write it down so that we don’t forget it.”

  “So I don’t forget it,” she corrected him.

  -oOo-

  Chapter 8: Tokyo

  The next day at the bank showed Sharpe that the previous day’s currency predictions were no fluke. For over an hour, he watched fascinated as the line predicting the currency prices three minutes into the future was neatly overwritten by the line representing the actual currency rates. Though he had no specialised financial trading expertise or experience, Sharpe could see how even he could make money with this. In the right hands, it would be a deadly financial weapon, capable of controlling the markets and making millions. And, of course, millions of dollars was just what Kim was looking for. If Kim was serious, and honest about his wish to topple North Korea’s Stalinist regime, then it seemed to Sharpe that putting the currency exchange program in Kim’s hands would be a good idea.

  He’d just decided that he’d have to take Vishal at least partly into his confidence, when Vishal himself walked in the door. Sharpe tried to shut down the program, but he was too slow.

  “That isn’t looking anything like pornography,” said Vishal as he watched Sharpe’s fruitless frantic attempts to clear the screen and return it to something more like a working environment. “Even if you were able to get to one of those sites through our firewall. But—” He stopped and looked at the screen. “That’s not one of our programs, is it?”

  Sharpe shook his head. “Close the door, and sit down, Vishal. This is really big.” Mystified, Vishal did as Sharpe asked him. “Now, I really don’t want you to tell anyone else about this. Can I have your word on this?” Even more mystified, Vishal nodded. “OK, now watch.”

  Sharpe explained the meanings of the two lines and how the currency price was being predicted accurately three minutes into the future.

  Vishal refused to believe it at first, so Sharpe stopped the program and showed Vishal from the beginning what was happening.

  “My God!” exclaimed Vishal, watching exchange rate fluctuations. “This is amazing, man! I don’t bloody believe what’s happening. Do you know what I’m working on right now?” Sharpe shook his head. “It’s an ultra low-latency forex trading platform, designed to cut the time between the time that the price changes and the trades get placed. Now you’re showing me something where you can place the trade before the price changes. The things you could do on options … This could make someone very rich.”

  “Technically, it’s your bank that gets very rich,” Sharpe reminded him.

  “Bugger that, man,” snapped Vishal. “Shut that bloody thing down, and get the card the hell out of the computer. I am not wanting the bank to have anything at all to do with this. This is just you and me, man.”

  Sharpe looked at him. This was not the Vishal he knew, who usually acted as a good company employee, working all the hours he was asked to work without complaint or fuss and loyally defending the bank against any slurs or accusations. “All right,” he agreed, shutting down the program and turning off the computer. “Got a screwdriver handy?” Silly question. Vishal was all thumbs, and was no more likely to have a screwdriver on him than a full-sized oxyacetylene welding kit. Sharpe rummaged in his case, and came up with his own portable toolkit. “Anti-static bag?” he asked Vishal, as he loosened the screw holding the card in place.

  “I’ll go and look for one,” replied Vishal. Once he was out of the room, Sharpe asked himself about Vishal’s strong and uncharacteristic reaction. What was it that had set him off like that?

  Vishal appeared with a cardboard box with the name of a computer maker printed on it. Not, thank goodness, a Hello Kitty box, Sharpe thought.

  “Here you go. They’re putting new disk controllers in some of the servers, and these are now spare.”

  Sharpe swiftly removed the Katsuyama card, and placed it in the special bag, designed to protect the delicate components against stray static charges, and placed the bag in the box. He screwed the computer back together and looked at Vishal.

  “Better get the software off here, as well?” he suggested. “Your job, I think.”

  Vishal slid into the seat that Sharpe vacated and used the keyboard and mouse. “That’s it, I’m pretty sure. I’ve done a secure erase, so that no-one should be able to find out what was on the disk.”

  By now, Sharpe realised, he and Vishal had probably broken Japanese Financial Services Agency regulations several times over, not to mention internal bank rules, but it all seemed pretty minor compared to severed heads in station coin lockers. “Where’s the original CD that I got from Katsuyama?” he asked.

  “It is in the desk drawer here. I locked it,” said Vishal. He fished in his pocket, pulled out a bunch of keys and unlocked the drawer. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” taking the disc and placing it in the box with the card. The box went into his bag. “Now, why are you so excited about all this?”

  “Not here,” said Vishal. “Come out to the coffee shop with me. That is much safer.”

  Sharpe picked up his bag, and followed Vishal out of the office building to the coffee shop next door. He looked at his watch. “I’m calling this my lunch-time,” he said to Vishal. “Let’s go to the Italian restaurant where they do the good espresso.”

  Somewhat to his surprise, Vishal demurred. “No, let’s be somewhere where there’ll be no-one else from the bank.”

  -o-

  Vishal led the way through the Tokyo back streets to a small restaurant calling itself “Mumbai Cafe” with a garish red and yellow awning. Once inside, they found they were the only customers. “Deepak does most of his business in the evening,” explained Vishal, gesturing at the grinning cook behind the counter. The menu was written on the wall, but in a script that Sharpe couldn’t read, neither English nor Japanese. “Shall I place the order for u
s?” suggested Vishal, noticing Sharpe’s bemusement. He spoke rapidly to the owner. Sharpe could make out a few words that he recognised from Indian restaurant menus, but wasn’t sure whether he’d got them right.

  “You’ll like the food here. Not quite up to Meema’s high standards, but I am thinking it is being a pretty good second-best,” said Vishal confidently. “Now, there’s a very good reason why I don’t want the bank to get involved in this, you know.”

  “Go on,” said Sharpe. A plate of spiced poppadums had just magically appeared in front of him, and he broke off a piece of poppadum and nibbled at it.

  “My sister back in India is very sick indeed. She has a very rare disease of the kidneys and to enable her to live for another few years, she is needing treatment that can only be performed in the USA or Germany.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible news, Vishal,” said Sharpe. “When did you hear about this, and why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “We’d suspected for some time, but the last test results only came in a few days ago, and you seemed to be having your own set of problems. Of course, I am helping her by sending money to India, but my family still doesn’t have enough money to be sending her to America or Europe for treatment. If we use this currency trading program ourselves, we could be making that money very easily.”

  “We could,” admitted Sharpe cautiously.

  “But are you knowing any foreign exchange brokers who could be trusted absolutely? After all, if we keep winning at this thing, aren’t they going to become suspicious?”

  “All right, so you are starting to come round to my own way of thinking,” said Sharpe, “and that’s a good point that you make there. So we set up our own brokerage with just three or four of us. You run the IT side of things, and Meema should be the trader. She knows a lot about foreign exchange strategies.”