by Ashton, Hugh
The next morning, as they were eating breakfast together, Sharpe and Mieko discussed the morning’s campaign.
The previous night, Sharpe had explained the evening’s happenings to Mieko, who had sat there incredulous as he unfolded his account of the incidents in the bar. Although he had tried to avoid giving the lurid details, she had forced him to spill every last one of the beans. Both of them had felt uncomfortable going to bed that evening and had been scrupulously careful to avoid touching each other unnecessarily. Any kind of sex had been completely out of the question, by unspoken mutual agreement.
“I think you should avoid going into the office this morning,” suggested Mieko. “I think your presence there would only embarrass her. And if you can find a good reason to get Vishal out of the office, too, she and I can have a nice little all-girls-together chat, and I can find out what’s eating her.”
“Seems sensible. How on earth I get Vishal’s nose out of that computer screen is beyond me, though.”
“Call him and tell him you want advice on a new computer system or something.”
“Not sure that would work. We’re doing quite well with the one we have right now.”
“Oh, come on. You can think of something. Just stay here so he’s got to go out of the office and meet you.”
She drank the last of her coffee and started to get ready to go out. “Wait about an hour before you call Vishal. And don’t brood,” she added.
Sharpe started. He wasn’t aware that he had been brooding. “Was I?”
“Yes, you look incredibly worried and guilty. And there’s no need to be. It sounded as though you behaved much better than anyone could have expected. You haven’t hurt me, or Vishal or Meema.”
“Only me who got hurt, right?”
“Stop it!” She kissed the top of his head as she passed him. “You have nothing to worry about or to blame yourself for.”
He remembered what he had heard of Mieko’s ex-husband, which made him feel somewhat virtuous by comparison, and kissed Mieko goodbye as she left. He settled down to doing some maintenance work on his computer, updating the operating system, putting in what seemed like endless patches to counteract hackers and viruses, until he felt it would be a good time to call Vishal.
“Hi there. Look, I’m stuck on one of these updates and I need your help. Can you come round and give me a hand?” Actually, this was basically true. He’d reached a point where he didn’t feel safe going on with the update. There was an error message that he almost but didn’t quite understand.
“Can you be giving me a bit more time, man? I think I’ve nearly got this working again.” Vishal had “nearly got this working again” several times a day for a week since the Lehman’s crash. Sharpe wasn’t feeling bitchy enough to remind him of this.
“Oh, come on. You’ll come to it with a fresh mind after doing something different. I really do need you here, and even when you do get it working, we’re not going to start trading today.”
At length, Vishal reluctantly agreed. “As long as you make sure I get lunch,” he stipulated. “Meema didn’t pack me up a tiffin this morning like she usually is doing. I am not being sure why that is.”
Sharpe agreed to the bargain, and settled down to await Vishal, happy that he’d done his part to smooth over Meema’s troubled waters. Unlike Vishal, however, he had a fairly good idea of why Meema hadn’t made Vishal’s lunch this morning.
When Vishal arrived, he immediately made a beeline for Sharpe’s computer. “Oh, come on, Kenneth, this shouldn’t be causing you any problems. This is pretty straightforward.”
“Not to me, it’s not. Maybe to a genius like you it’s all plain and simple, but not to me.”
Vishal sat down at the computer wordlessly. The mouse clicked, the keyboard clacked, the router lights flashed as the updates were downloaded from the Internet, and Vishal leaned back.
“A few minutes to load and then you’re being done,” he grinned. “How do you think Meema’s looking these days? Pretty damn fine, eh?” still grinning.
Sharpe was taken aback, but tried not to show it. “I … I hadn’t really noticed,” he said.
Vishal had his eyes closed, with a smile on his face. “I’m looking forward to being a father, I must say,” he burbled to the ceiling.
-o-
While he was wondering what answer he was going to make to this, Sharpe was saved by his mobile phone going off.
“Yes?”
“Surprise, surprise. Jon here,” came the unwelcome voice from the other end.
“I thought I’d changed my phone number,” complained Sharpe.
“You did. And then you registered it with the embassy, you daft prat.”
Damn! Yes, he had registered his details with the embassy in case of an earthquake or any other disaster.
“I thought those details were meant to be confidential?”
“Confidential, schmonfidential,” scoffed Jon.
“So what do you want?”
“A few million dollars,” came the answer.
Sharpe put the call on speakerphone and laid the phone down on the table, signalling to Vishal to keep quiet. “It’s Jon from the British Embassy,” he typed on the computer screen. Vishal’s eyes went wide.
“And what makes you think I have that sort of money? A few million dollars?” he said to the phone.
“Come on, you had it. Have you lost it all?” came the reply. Vishal’s bushy eyebrows went nearly to the back of his head, but Sharpe held up a finger, warning him to be quiet.
“And just how many million dollars are we talking about?”
“Whatever old man Kim was asking for. About fifty, sixty. Whatever it was.” It sounded as though Jon was enjoying himself.
“Didn’t I tell you we don’t have that sort of money? Didn’t Tomiko tell you that I told her? What’s up with you people? Don’t you understand what’s going on?”
“She did. She also mentioned that you could make it in a day or so with the aid of her husband’s magic box.”
“Did she also mention that I told her that was a load of crap? The markets have turned to shit since Katsuyama had his flash of genius. Or hasn’t that little thing sunk in yet?”
“I thought you had an Indian genius working with you who can fix anything.” Vishal grinned, and then frowned.
“Well, he may be a genius, but since you know so much about these things, you probably know that your friend Tomiko’s husband was a super-genius.”
“Why are you using the past tense there?”
“Let me answer that question with a question about a question,” retorted Sharpe. “Why do you feel that the past tense is not appropriate here?”
“Too deep for me to answer right now,” said Jon. “So your answer to me, and to her, is that you don’t have the money, right?”
“That’s correct. We don’t have that sort of money available to us. Nor will we have it available to us in the near future, it appears. Nor will we be in any position to change the situation. Clear enough for you?”
“I suggest you get your arse over to Vietnam pretty quickly,” Jon answered. “I think you and your Indian friend are out of your depth here. And I don’t just mean in technical matters. If you don’t realise the full implications, you have a newly established, rather temperamental and somewhat edgy gang boss looking for money from you and your lot. And if she doesn’t get it, I can imagine that she’s going to be somewhat less than amused by the situation.”
“I think you’re putting it a bit strongly.”
“I think I’m exercising a remarkable degree of understatement, quite frankly,” replied Jon.
Sharpe thought for a bit. “Why should I go over to Vietnam?” he asked, hoping he sounded innocent.
“For the same reason that you went before. Don’t try and come all ignorant and baby-faced about this. I know a damn sight more about things than you realise. Probably more than you do, come to that. I have special, intimate knowledge.” Sharpe could
almost hear Jon leering as he emphasised the second adjective in the last sentence.
“There seem to be wheels within wheels,” Sharpe agreed.
“You’ll never know, boy,” Jon told him.
“What’s your share in all this?” asked Sharpe.
“I think that’s my business, don’t you?”
“And Tim Barclay? Is he in on this?”
There was a bitter laugh from the mobile phone’s speaker. “Oh, he’s history. There’s no way he’s going to be around here for much longer. Has he been bugging you, then?”
“Actually, I thought his future wasn’t as black as you painted it. This might just be one of those rare occasions where my guess is a little more accurate than yours.”
“Seems like we’ve both got ideas on this, doesn’t it? We’ll see who’s right, won’t we? I strongly advise you to get yourself to Hanoi as soon as possible, though. Having secrets isn’t going to repair the Katsuyama gadget, is it? And time’s a-wasting.” The line abruptly went dead. Sharpe waited for Jon to call back, but the phone remained obstinately silent.
“I think you’ve got some things to explain,” said Vishal. “Why the hell are you having to go to Hanoi?”
“That’s where Katsuyama is hiding out.”
“And what is this man from the embassy doing?”
Sharpe brought him up to speed on the relationships between Jon and Barclay, and Jon and the Kims, as he understood the situation.
“Kenneth, I have always been trusting you, even when you brought us in on the plot to take over North Korea. But this is being too much. I cannot be working with a hole-and-corner operation like the one you are running with us. This is not being fair to me, and not being fair to Meema and not being fair to our baby.” He stood up and it looked as though he was going to walk out, but Sharpe held up a hand.
“Vishal, please don’t go until you’ve heard me out,” he pleaded.
“Look, I am not wanting to work with all these secret spy chaps. Next you will be telling me that the CIA is involved in all this business.”
“Closer than you think, Vishal.” Sharpe told Vishal about Al Kowalski, and the raid that had been made on his flat.
“So that’s what all that was about?” said Vishal. “So how are you knowing you are safe now? I feel that this is being a highly dangerous situation for us all, not just for you. And what about Mieko? Is she safe?”
Sharpe told him the story of his grisly find in the coin locker at Tokyo station. Vishal made a face. “If I didn’t know you better, Kenneth, I would say you are an out-and-out lying bastard,” he said. “Things like that just aren’t happening in Tokyo. Maybe back home in India such terrible things might happen to the wrong sort of person, but to someone like you? You’re not just making stories?” examining Sharpe’s face. “No, I see you are not. And I know you too well to imagine that you might ever be that sort of person who makes stories like that.”
“Want more?” asked Sharpe, and proceeded to recount his encounter with Kermit from the American Embassy.
“This is getting to be really serious,” said Vishal. “I am not liking any of this at all. Why are you not telling this to Meema and me before? And have you been telling Mieko about all these things?”
“Because I felt all of this really was something you two and Mieko shouldn’t be bothered with,” replied Sharpe. It was at least half the truth. “Look, you’re not happy about this at all, and I don’t blame you at all for that. I really thought I could sort it out by myself without involving you.”
“For now, I think you should be talking to Mieko, but I don’t want Meema to be knowing any of this, do you understand? She seems to have been acting a little strange recently, and I am not wanting her to be upset any more.”
So you have noticed something? Sharpe thought to himself. I wonder just how much she’s said to Vishal? He forced himself to try to look Vishal in the eye, but Vishal was looking the other way.
“All right,” he said.
“Now I must be going back,” said Vishal.
“I thought you were going to be staying for lunch?”
“I was, but I’ve just been thinking of something else that I could be trying to make the system work again.” Sharpe wasn’t going to call him on the lie.
“Sure?”
“I am being perfectly sure, thank you. No offence to your cooking, you understand? But I would really like to be fixing this problem before you have to go off to Hanoi and ask for help.”
Sharpe let him go. Damn! He wasn’t sure how closely Vishal would stick by him in the future if push came to shove. It was obvious that the revelations of severed heads and Korean gangsters beating up American embassy officials had shaken him badly.
-o-
A few minutes after Vishal had left, Mieko called from her mobile phone.
“Well,” she reported, letting out a long breath as she did so. “I think I did it. Is Vishal still with you?”
“No, he’s gone.”
“OK, come and meet me at the Italian place by the station.”
Sharpe switched on the answering machine, got his coat, and made his way to the station. Mieko was waiting, a half-eaten plate of Caesar salad in front of her.
“Sorry to have started. All that talking has made me hungry.”
Sharpe didn’t really see how a few lettuce leaves and breadcrumbs could stave off the pangs of hunger, but he let it ride.
“So what have you discovered?”
“Meema’s cracking up.” Mieko put down her fork and looked at Sharpe, waiting for him to respond.
“I knew that, and so did you. Why?”
“Ah, that’s the question.” She picked up her fork and guided another mouthful of salad to her mouth. When this had been disposed of, she continued. “How long did you say the forex traders lasted at the banks?”
“A couple of years, I suppose. Then they burn out.”
“And how old are they?”
“Early twenties, most of them. The pressure’s too much for the older guys a lot of the time. Oh,” as the thought hit him. “I see. She’s a bit older than that, isn’t she, and doing the same job?”
Mieko nodded. A waiter appeared, and Sharpe put in his order. The waiter took away the menu.
“It gets worse,” she said. “What happens if a trader has a bad week? Makes a loss on the trading?”
“Well, the bank carries them, usually. It doesn’t affect them too badly. They might not get so big a bonus at the end of the year, but that’s about it.”
“And what would happen if Meema didn’t make money?”
“She did make money, though. She’s surely not worried that this current chaos is making it impossible for her to trade?”
“It’s a comedown after the success of the first few weeks.”
Sharpe didn’t see what she was driving at.
“Look, let me explain to you. We have a highly intelligent young lady, whose life has been spent making sure that half of the world – men, that is – know that she is at least as bright and capable as they are.”
“And …?”
“She did it. But it was a tremendous strain for her while she was doing it, and then she realises that she’s pregnant and … Oh, you’re just a man. How can you be expected to understand?”
Sharpe looked sheepish.
“Oh, I didn’t mean it. Well, perhaps I did. Basically, Meema is exhausted. Mentally, emotionally, physically. And now she feels completely useless. Except for being a baby machine.”
“Look, you know me, Mieko. And you know Vishal. Neither of us would ever think of her that way.”
“I know that, and so does Meema. But she’s not rational right now.”
“Tell me.” The waiter brought Sharpe’s pasta, and he took a fork and started eating without noticing what he was putting into his mouth. “Well, do you have some sort of solution?” He stopped suddenly. “What is this?” looking suspiciously at his plate. “Did I really order this?” pointing to t
he cold spaghetti garnished with dried seaweed and cod roe and drenched in vinaigrette dressing.
Mieko examined the bill on their table. “They think you did. Better eat it or let me have it.” Sharpe pushed the plate over to her and repeated his first question while signalling to the waiter to bring the menu again. This time he got the waiter to repeat his order for carbonara back to him.
“So what is your solution?”
“Pack up and stop the operation. At least take Meema away from what she sees as the firing line.”
“There are problems.” Sharpe explained them, for the second time in a very short period.
Mieko started to bite her lower lip, always a sign that she was deep in thought. Sharpe started to speak, but she held up her hand. “Just let me think.” He knew better than to interrupt. Typically Mieko just got on and did things, but sometimes she went into thought mode. The wait was usually worth it, even if it was irritating at times. He fiddled with a toothpick and drank half his water, crunching the ice cubes with his teeth.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “It irritates me.”
In the middle of the enforced silence, his spaghetti arrived. He showered it with Parmesan cheese and started to eat.
“There isn’t an easy answer, is there?” said Mieko, breaking the silence. “The first thing is that Meema and her baby must go away. Send them to India along with the money for Vishal’s sister’s operation and she can help arrange things at that end. That’s the obvious easy part dealt with.”
“Obvious? Easy?” Sharpe asked through a mouthful of pasta. He thought for a few seconds. “Yes, you’re right. No argument from me, and I’m sure that Meema and Vishal will agree.”
“The difficult part is how to avoid you being beaten up by Tomiko’s gang.”
“Or worse.” Sharpe forked more pasta.
“Or worse,” she agreed. “Then there’s Vishal and me, of course. Maybe we’ll get off a little easier.”
“I don’t like this at all,” said Sharpe. “Don’t you think we’d be better off somewhere else?”
“Like?”
Sharpe considered the problem. “All right, it’s going to be nearly impossible for me to find the same sort of work anywhere else except possibly Hong Kong or Singapore.”
