by Thomas Locke
“I was called last night by Frederick. You remember him. The butler. Frederick left us a message. Agnes passed away just after eleven.” Perhaps the weepy spell Lena had endured out in the hallway now played a vital function, granting her the ability to meet Bishop’s gaze when he finally looked directly at her. And to continue with the message she knew was intended for him all along. “Frederick called to thank you. He wants you to know that Agnes died at peace. Without any pain. And without drugs. All because of you.”
Bishop’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
“Everything we’ve been through, none of it is your fault,” Lena said. “The only thing of any importance today is Agnes. The freedom you gave her. And the hope your invention holds for tomorrow.” She gave that a beat, then offered him the phone. “I think you should be the one to call him back.”
65
The island of Yakushima was located about forty miles south of the southern tip of the Ōsumi peninsula, which extended like a finger pointing straight down from Kyushu province. Once she and Ridley had identified this as their destination, Reese had researched the island as thoroughly as time had allowed. The island had a population of thirty thousand, and all its citizens lived either in Yakushima town or five adjacent villages.
Since their arrival, Reese had heard multiple legends about mainlanders who ventured into the mountainous interior, determined to live a basic existence, cut off from all elements of civilization and people. There were supposed to be several hundred of these neo-primitives scattered through the island’s two hundred square miles. The rain forest was a nationally protected preserve, mostly without trails, much less roads. Yakushima had any number of traditional inns, but only one five-star resort. Then again, one was all they needed.
The meeting took place on the veranda of Kevin’s villa, the plushest that the spa hotel had on offer. The veranda faced south over a pearl-sand beach. The sea was dotted with over a dozen smaller islands, all jade green in the afternoon light. The villa was separated from the hotel’s sculpted gardens by a stand of Japanese cedars, which grew wild all over the island.
The hotel manager personally supervised as three female attendants laid out a formal Japanese tea service. The hotel manager and Reese’s seven guests—all male—wore dark suits. Reese and Kevin were intentionally dressed in pressed but casual shirts and slacks. Their main guest, as far as Reese was concerned, sat in the second row facing them. Everybody else was window dressing.
The front row was dominated by a prune-faced deputy minister of Japan’s Department of the Interior. He was flanked by a male secretary and an official interpreter. The trio was here only because the man seated behind them had forced the government to act.
The focal point for Reese’s attention had steel-grey hair and a hard onyx gaze. His official position was CEO of a family-owned company making machine parts. But the title on his business card held all the reality of a Kabuki mask. His real position was as head of Japan’s third-largest keiretsu. The keiretsu was a collection of tightly linked companies whose intertwined ownership resulted in a collective force that could even bring a deputy minister to this veranda, a world removed from Tokyo and the halls of power. It was no wonder the government officials looked so irate.
This particular keiretsu was aggressive and ruthlessly ambitious. Reese had obtained this intel by hiring the attorney seated next to the CEO. The lawyer was one of the most powerful in Japan. Arranging this meeting had cost Reese one hundred and seven thousand dollars. She already considered the money well spent.
After the tea was served and the attendants were dismissed, the hotel manager bowed low and spoke solemnly to the deputy minister. Whatever the manager said did not improve the government official’s disposition. Then the manager departed.
There followed over an hour of polite conversation. Kevin shifted impatiently from time to time, but he held to their agreed-upon strategy and did not speak. This lengthy discussion, required by Japanese protocol, was why Reese had ordered her team to stay away. She had no problem with the empty chatter. Arriving at this point was a triumph of global proportions. She was ready to sit here for days.
Reese also knew these formalities were intended as a means of testing. Foreigners were expected to demand swiftness, and thus cede the advantage in the negotiations that followed. But Reese had spent several pleasant years learning the gentle art of Oriental aggression. What was more, sitting here on the teak veranda of a world-class villa, facing these movers and shakers within Japanese business and government, filled Reese with a sense of well-earned triumph.
The shift, when it came, arrived from the bullish man in the second row. His voice matched his demeanor, an aggressive growl that deepened the deputy minister’s frown.
The minister’s official translator said, “Our associate representing Japanese industry says the information you supplied was possibly of some minor interest.”
The veranda behind Kevin and Reese was empty, save for one lone chair situated far back from the group. It was the subservient position of a lowly attendant. The woman seated there had not been introduced. Her instructions were precise: remain invisible unless one thing happened.
The woman spoke now. “So sorry, Ms. Clawson. That was not an exact translation.” Despite several practice attempts, Reese’s interpreter found it difficult to pronounce her name. “The honored gentleman said, ‘The information you supplied has proven to be of enormous importance.’”
The deputy minister lashed out at his interpreter, revealing his working knowledge of the English language. Reese was certain the condemnation was a futile attempt at saving face. The bullish man’s tight smile was all the confirmation Reese needed that the deputy minister had been caught out.
Reese said, “Perhaps your translator is tired from the journey and the hour-long conversation. If you wish, my interpreter can—”
“That is not necessary,” the deputy minister said, then barked a second time at his translator, who responded by bowing while still seated.
Reese focused upon the man in the second row. “You may come to us once each year. You can ask anything you like. If our information proves to be correct, we will receive one million dollars.”
“Impossible.” The deputy minister did not bother to wait for his translator. “Out of the question, so sorry.”
“We will also require a well-protected villa with twenty-five bedrooms, or a luxury apartment block, whichever you prefer.”
“These demands of yours are without merit.”
“We will also be granted full immunity from prosecution, permanent residence visas, and full protection,” Reese finished.
The bullish man interrupted the deputy minister. Reese’s translator said, “The honored gentleman asks, ‘Why is protection important?’”
“You’ve seen what we’re offering,” Reese said. “No secrets are beyond our reach. Ask the question, we will deliver. So long as you meet our terms and keep us safe.”
The deputy minister’s protest was halted this time by a short bark from the businessman, so swift Reese could not actually call it words. Even so, it was enough to freeze the official up solid. Then the industrialist addressed Reese directly. Her translator said, “The honored gentleman says, ‘So sorry, Ms. Clawson, but one such request each year is not sufficient.’ He says, ‘One question each month would be much more acceptable. And payment should respectfully be limited to one hundred thousand dollars.’”
“One request every six months, seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars per question.”
“Two requests every three months, one from government, one from industry. One hundred thousand dollars payment for each.”
“Two requests are okay, but a quarter million per question.”
The man barked, stood, and bowed. The translator said, “The honored gentleman agrees to your terms.”
Reese felt flooded with a sense of victory so intense she could have wept. Instead, she rose and returned the bow, holding
her position until she had brought her emotions under control. When she straightened, she saw the man was smiling.
She said, “Always a pleasure, doing business with a pro.”
Thomas Locke is a pseudonym for Davis Bunn, an award-winning novelist whose work has been published in twenty languages. He has sales in excess of seven million copies and has appeared on numerous national bestseller lists. His titles have been main or featured selections for every major US book club.
Davis serves as Writer-in-Residence at Regent’s Park College, Oxford University, and has served as lecturer in Oxford’s new creative writing program. In 2011 his novel Lion of Babylon was named a Best Book of the Year by Library Journal. The sequel, Rare Earth, won Davis his fourth Christy Award for excellence in fiction in 2013. In 2014 he was granted the Lifetime Achievement Award by the Christy board of judges.
A film based upon Emissary, the first novel in the Legends of the Realm series, is now in development.
Books by Thomas Locke
LEGENDS OF THE REALM
Emissary
Merchant of Alyss
FAULT LINES
Double Edge (ebook)
Trial Run
Flash Point
tlocke.com
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