The Jesus Germ

by Brett Williams

  ‘Two-fifty, Mr Peter, very hard, best price today, Mr Peter.’

  Anthea would love it.

  ‘Here’s three hundred, Jimmy, and keep the deposit.’

  Jimmy could not expand his grin any further. The corners of his mouth almost reached round to his ears.

  ‘Best quality, best price. You good friend, Mr Peter.’

  Peter couldn’t help but smile.

  ‘And Jimmy, that noodle house on Hakata Road is the best in the world.’

  He winked at the humble little man, pulling the velvet sheath over the ornament, tightening the drawstring. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Anthea approach. He wedged the ornament into his trouser pocket, raising a finger to his lips so Jimmy understood.

  Anthea breezed to the counter.

  Peter raised his wrist, rubbing his hand around the watch band.

  ‘Thanks again, Jimmy.’

  Peter and Anthea left the shop arm in arm. Jimmy saw the sag of Peter’s trousers from his newly acquired jewel and the subtle hitch he performed to pull them back onto his hip.

  The steaks arrived with two bottles of Sapporo Draft. Anthea took the old watch out of her pocket and laid it in on the white table cloth.

  ‘I showed it to the chemist and she read the inscription on the back. YUKI is a boy’s name.’

  ‘I have a surprise for you.’ Peter pulled the velvet sheath from his pocket, placing it next to the watch.

  ‘Open it, Anth.’

  Anthea felt its weight. She raised her eyebrows at him, testing his poker face. She loosened the drawstring and slipped the glass block onto the table.

  ‘Stand it up, Anth.’

  It balanced perfectly, catching the candlelight.

  ‘Oh, Peter, it’s beautiful. Where did you get it?’

  ‘It’s the encrusted lump from the beach.’

  ‘I can’t believe it. I wonder where it came from. The little frogs are so delicate and colourful. There must be a story behind them.’

  A photographer stopped at their table.

  ‘Souvenir, twenty dollar.’

  Peter dragged his chair next to Anthea. The photographer coaxed them closer, counting down from three. The flash engulfed them and he bowed politely.

  ‘Your names please?’

  ‘Peter and Anthea Trimble,’ Peter said.

  ‘Collect your print from the counter when you leave.’

  He handed Peter a numbered pink ticket, bowed again and moved on to the next table.

  ‘Peter, I want to know more about these frogs,’ Anthea said.

  Peter paid the bill and handed over the pink ticket. The cashier gave them a red greeting card bordered in gold with the restaurant logo on the front. The snapshot inside captured them smiling straight at the camera. The glass block stood in the bottom of the photo with Anthea’s slender fingers wrapped around it, one of the frogs clearly visible, staring out, frozen in time.

  50

  Mr Hokkaido followed a simple and unshakable routine. In his compact house, surrounded by an immaculately trimmed garden he made a pot of green tea at 9 a.m. each day. At 9:30 he smoked the first of ten cheap cigarettes he’d savour during the course of the day. He never ate breakfast. At 9:45 he opened his laptop at a table on a small square of decking outside his bedroom that faced the distant hills.

  Mr Hokkaido checked his e-mail, unfolded the Mainichi Shimbun newspaper and spread it out to read. He scanned the pages for interesting articles and good photographs that alone conveyed a story.

  He remembered faces and names, never forgot one, every person he ever met etched in his memory with a matching tag. He recognised some of the people in the social pages; an old colleague and his wife, and the mayor who he’d spoken to just once. A section of photographs dedicated to the local restaurant scene included a nice shot of a smiling European couple.

  Mr Hokkaido’s heart jumpstarted like it’d taken an electric shock. He pulled the laptop in front of him, retrieving the image he wanted. He tore the photo of the European couple from the newspaper, resting it under the computer screen. His eyes darted back and forth until he reconciled both photographs; one sepia, the other in colour. The ornament pictured on the restaurant table clearly matched the Cambridge photograph of 1831.

  Mr Hokkaido had a mild panic attack. He lit a cigarette and drew on it heavily. He’d taken his second smoking break two hours earlier than scheduled, besieged by a surge of worrying thoughts. Had any other operative spotted the link and rushed to retrieve the ornament and claim the reward? Could he trace the couple? Had they left the country? He tried to slow his thinking, stubbing his cigarette into a clean white ashtray.

  Mr Hokkaido knew the restaurant where the photograph was taken, had eaten there as recently as last month and felt confident of discovering the couple’s identity. He folded the photo into his wallet, pocketed his soft packet of cigarettes, exited and locked the house. In his small Toyota hybrid, he hurried down the valley roads into Nagasaki central.

  The restaurant wasn’t open for another hour. Mr Hokkaido sweated with duress as he waited. He lit a cigarette and smoked another immediately after. His daily ration would expire early. He blew a lungful of smoke out the car window and turned up the radio. The stock market was in free-fall, adding to his woes. He switched to a music channel, to take his mind off his finances.

  Before midday, a man walked off the street to the doors of the restaurant and fiddled the lock with a key. By the time Mr Hokkaido got out of the car the man had gone inside and locked the door behind him. Mr Hokkaido pressed his face to the glass and knocked gently. It was another few minutes before a sharp-suited man appeared and welcomed Mr Hokkaido inside.

  ‘A table, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you, but could you help me date a photograph that appeared in today’s Mainichi?’

  Mr Hokkaido showed him the photo.

  The man examined it.

  ‘Photographs in today’s edition were taken in the past week. The couple ate here two nights ago.’

  ‘Do you have a record of their names?’

  ‘Is it important? Are you a policeman?’

  ‘I’m not a policeman but it is important. They were in my shop yesterday and left some expensive gifts behind. When I saw their photograph in the paper it was a chance to find them.’

  ‘Just wait.’

  The man walked behind the counter and searched the bench, then wrote neatly on the back of a business card. When he looked up, Mr Hokkaido was hovering over him.

  ‘This might help.’ The man handed over the card, and Mr Hokkaido returned a bow.

  ‘Thank you for your assistance. It may make a happy ending and a lasting impression. Cultivating tourism in Nagasaki brings great honour on our country.’

  The man showed Mr Hokkaido to the door. Great honour on our country sounded like a Zero pilot heading to Pearl Harbour.

  Mr Hokkaido drove around the corner, parked kerbside, and did a quick internet search of Nagasaki hotel listings.

  There were twenty-seven hotels in the central Nagasaki precinct. Mr Hokkaido started with the main chains. He phoned the Holiday Inn.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Trimble’s room please.’

  ‘One moment.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, no one by that name is at the hotel.’

  ‘When did they leave?’ Mr Hokkaido fished for information.

  ‘Again, I apologise, sir. We cannot help you further.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He hung up.

  He got similar responses from the next six hotels before he hit pay-dirt.

  ‘Putting you through.’

  Mr Hokkaido could barely contain his nervousness. He pushed hard against the car floor to stretch his cramped legs.

  ‘Will you answer that, Peter?’ Andrea called from the shower.

  Peter dragged himself off the bed and out of the sports pages to pick up the phone.

  ‘Hello… hello…’

  There was silence at the other end.

  ‘Who was it, Peter?’


  ‘No answer, wrong number, I guess.’

  Mr Hokkaido was tempted to reply. Instead, he started his car and headed for the beach.

  From a shaded park bench, Mr Hokkaido had a perfect view of the hotel entrance. He waited for the Trimbles while smoking his last two cigarettes.

  Peter and Anthea emerged from the hotel and stood at the kerb with their luggage. A courtesy bus pulled in front and they got on and sat together on the back seat. As it moved off, easing into the traffic, Mr Hokkaido ran to his car. He did a neat U-turn amidst an objectionable blare of horns and fell in behind the bus, four vehicles adrift.

  The spur road off the highway was less congested, the bus maintaining an even speed into the airport, stopping outside the domestic terminal. Mr Hokkaido slotted his car into the first available parking bay, not bothering to buy a ticket.

  The Trimbles were leaving a queue, being directed to a newly-opened checkin counter. Mr Hokkaido slipped in behind them as they showed their tickets. With a measured corporate smile the service attendant pointed the couple to the right.

  ‘Your flight boards via gate three. Please make your way to the departure lounge twenty minutes before scheduled take-off.’

  Mr Hokkaido studied the flight schedules listed on a monitor suspended from the ceiling, noting just one flight leaving gate three inside the next two hours. He stepped to the counter as the Trimbles picked up their hand luggage and made for the cafe.

  ‘Next flight to Tokyo, please.’

  The attendant checked her computer screen.

  ‘You’re in luck, sir. We have one seat left.’

  She processed his credit card and generated a ticket.

  ‘Gate three; leaving in forty-five minutes. Enjoy your flight.’

  Mr Hokkaido stood at a book carousel in the mall across from the cafe, observing the Trimbles. As his departure time approached, his anxiety increased. The couple seemed relaxed and in no hurry. He prayed he’d gambled on the correct flight and he badly needed a cigarette.

  An announcement echoed through the terminal, a last call to passengers on Japan Airlines flight 306 departing for Tokyo. Mr Hokkaido nervously watched the Trimbles, willing them to get up. Finally, they drained their mugs and paid the cashier. Mrs Trimble carried a patent red-leather bag over her shoulder; Mr Trimble, a well-worn brown briefcase by his side. Together they walked to gate three. Mr Hokkaido manoeuvred in behind them in the x-ray queue.

  When the red bag appeared at the scanning conveyor exit, a woman in a security uniform lifted it off and peered inside. Mr Hokkaido stepped through a tall detection unit, right on the Trimble’s heels and collected his wallet. Mrs Trimble spoke to the security woman.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  The woman reached into the bag, extracting the ornament.

  ‘Very heavy.’

  ‘A souvenir from your wonderful country.’ Anthea was polite as possible.

  Mr Hokkaido gasped involuntarily at the sight of the ornament. The prize he’d seen only in photographs was just an arm’s length away. His heart fired off again, his temples throbbing to the rapid beat.

  The security woman weighed the ornament in her hand as Mr Trimble collected his briefcase. She stared into Mrs Trimble’s eyes and gently placed the ornament back into the bag.

  ‘Please come again.’ She nodded, pointing to the departure lounge.

  Mr Hokkaido sat on the end of a row of plastic chairs with the Trimbles across from him, unable to take his eyes off the red bag at Mrs Trimble’s feet. When the opportunity arose, he would dispossess her and claim his reward.

  Mr Hokkaido needed insurance and reassurance. With fifteen minutes until take-off he made a trip to the bathroom, locked himself in the last cubicle and made a phone call that went unanswered. He then sent an e-mail. Eight minutes to take-off.

  When Mr Hokkaido returned to the departure lounge the last three passengers were having final ticket checks. He joined them down the covered ramp onto the aircraft. Mrs Trimble pushed her red bag into an overhead locker. He eased passed her to his seat at the rear of the plane, got comfortable and began formulating a plan.

  Jonathon Brown read the e-mail twice, hardly believing his eyes. Cardinal Venti had proved correct after all.

  Japan Airlines flight 306 lifted off from Nagasaki in fine weather for an estimated flight of one-hour-forty minutes, enough time for an unhurried dinner.

  Peter gazed out his window over the wing. Above the clouds was the pink glow of the setting sun where he knew the horizon to be.

  The cabin crew dispensed meals. Mr Hokkaido declined to eat, craving nicotine, making it difficult to concentrate on his plan.

  An hour into the flight, the pilot began the descent into Tokyo. Cloud permitting, passengers might enjoy a glimpse of Mt Fuji’s famous snow-capped peak out the left-hand windows. The last of the meals were cleared away.

  When low visibility inside the fluffy white clouds shrunk the prospect of seeing the dusk lights of Tokyo, Anthea leant over and kissed Peter on the cheek.

  Mr Hokkaido returned from the toilet, tightened his seat belt and gripped both armrests. He’d made the mistake of consuming extra coffee. A new e-mail arrived on his phone. He read it and activated the GPS button below the screen.

  Without warning, the plane’s left wing exploded, an orange ball of fire rushing at Peter Trimble’s window. He saw the wing was gone but his mind was uncomprehending. The right wing’s engine roared in compensation, the fuselage flipping upside down. Half the passengers blacked out from the sudden spike in g-forces or from neck-breaking impacts against the cabin ceiling. Terrified screams filled the craft. The plane righted itself, commencing a flat spin, screeching engines a ghastly accompaniment to the thudding vibrations.

  Any lucid passengers panicked. A man refused to yield on any terms but his own. He unbuckled his seat belt and staggered through the litter of bodies and loose luggage, trampling everything in his path, running head first into a metal coat hook on the bulkhead of the steward’s compartment. It punctured his skull, fixing his head to the wall. He convulsed then hung limply, his fate unnoticed in the wildly spinning cabin.

  With a bang the deafening roar of the engine stopped, replaced by the eerie rush of wind. The right wing succumbed, ripping free of the fuselage, spiralling into the ocean, far below, and sinking to the sea floor. The plane became a wheel-less bus with stubs of metal where the wings had commenced their elegant curve. Only the vertical red tail remained a defiant banner.

  The sun threw up its last golden rays from beyond the horizon.

  The nose of the aircraft pointed straight down, the pilots’ dead. The cabin slowed its spin, looped upwards, stalled and dived again. With each deathly dance came false hope.

  Mr Hokkaido wished he’d never read the social columns that morning. He closed his eyes. His bladder emptied and his bowels loosened immediately after.

  Peter held Anthea’s head to his chest and cried out.

  Flight 306 speared into the camellia forest on the north side of Toshima Island, disintegrating into the mountain.

  Traffic-control radar in Tokyo showed the aircraft deviate during its descent and continue eastward over the Pacific before dropping off its screens.

  Fixed-wing spotters and helicopters searched for wreckage and oil slicks, and a fleet of coastguard vessels stormed out of Tokyo Bay.

  Jonathon Brown was watching television when news of Flight 306’s disappearance flashed across the screen. He checked his cell phone and saw Mr Hokkaido’s GPS signal transmitting from a cone in the Izu Volcanic Chain.

  Within minutes a huge motor yacht left Tokyo Bay, crashing through the swells into the night.

  The coast guard vessels fanned out, running grid lines, sweeping the ocean with powerful spotlights. Shortly after sunrise a helicopter pilot spotted the Sumo ploughing eastward through the search area.

  On Toshima Island two small boys played in a shallow coral pool near the beach, chasing tiny fish with handheld nets.
A majestic white yacht rounded the rocky point, anchoring in turquoise water close to shore. From a door in the hull, six jet skis hurtled toward the island. They skimmed over a shallow reef, running up the sand in a synchronised line.

  Six men in brown overalls jogged up the beach, entering the camellia forest at the base of the cone. The flowers were in full bloom, running a carpet of red all the way to the summit. The ascent proved difficult through thick undergrowth but a seat poking out of the ground confirmed the crash site was near. Further up the slope, inside a cavern of taller trees, a wide area of barren dirt was embedded with twisted metal and horrific sights.

  A dramatic pole of light shone through the circle in the canopy onto piles of indescribable flesh, crawling with insects. Undeterred, the men searched amongst the hellish scene.

  The shadow of a bird passed overhead. One of the men noticed a patch of red hooked high on a branch. Without a word to the others he swung up into the tree, climbing until he reached a bag. He brought it down, unzipped it, felt inside and pulled the ornament free, glistening and unharmed.

  As the men filed back down the steep cone, a helicopter swooped low above them then banked away. When the jet skis were safely inside the Sumo, it lifted anchor. A flotilla of coastguard boats passed it by, bearing down on Toshima Island.

  The two boys showed little interest. But something bobbed on the water, coming across the shallow reef on a gentle breeze. One boy waded in up to his waist as a little plastic bird with a red beak floated within his grasp. He showed it to his friend, who threw it seaward again, waiting for it to drift back toward them. They played the game for half an hour then headed along the beach toward the village on the other side of the island, chatting and passing the bird between them as they went. Written in black on its flat bottom was a single word.

  Fatso.

  51

  ‘Venti’s returned to the Vatican,’ Father Stephen said through a mouthful of food.

  ‘Which leads me to believe Jupiter’s search for the ornaments is well-underway. It’s hard to know where to start. With so little information to go on it’s like combing a desert for a particular grain of sand. The lost Pacific ornament is probably sitting deep on the ocean floor, and the ornament stolen from Cambridge University could be anywhere. But I’m curious about the disappearance of the third ornament. There is no mention of it after the fateful night Sir Timothy Sivewright was shot,’ Zachary said.