Fishing for Stars

by Bryce Courtenay

  He woke up with a start, emitting a loud grunt. ‘What? What is it, Staff Sergeant?’ he asked. Then his eyes focused on me and grew wide with surprise. He closed them again, thinking perhaps that he was dreaming, blinked several times then opened them once more. This time he appeared to be truly afraid. ‘Who . . . who are you?’ he asked, trembling.

  ‘I have come to fetch Anna,’ I said evenly.

  ‘Anna?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘Second Vase! Where is she?’

  Konoe Akira began to shake. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  ‘Come, get up, Konoe-san.’ I reached for the walking stick and handed it to him. ‘We have to leave. My twenty minutes is almost up.’

  ‘Please, let me get dressed,’ he said, an old man frightened and shaken, but still conscious of who he was. You had to respect that.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘You must understand that it is the public prosecutor alone who has absolute discretion to decide if you will be charged with any crime. If he finds there is a case to answer, then it is extremely unlikely that a judge will overrule this finding.’

  Kinzo-san, criminal lawyer, Tokyo

  I SOON REALISED IT was going to be far from easy getting Konoe Akira dressed. Firstly there was the matter of his gammy leg and then, even though he was in his early sixties, there was every possibility that he was dangerous. Anna had finally told me the true story of the Nest of the Swallows and her murder of Colonel Takahashi, and I remembered that it had been Konoe Akira who had told her how she might kill a man using a chopstick.

  ‘You’re going to have to help me,’ Konoe said. His initial fright had passed, and although he was still trembling from the unexpected shock of waking with a gun at his head, his voice was reasonably steady and his breathing even. ‘My name is Konoe . . . Konoe Akira. I regret I cannot bow unless you help me to my feet.’

  Jesus! Either he was a very cool customer and wanted me to put down my weapon so we’d be on equal terms or he was simply a very civilised man who wanted to make light of the indignity of being caught in a red flannel nightshirt by a stranger and then having to be helped to get into his clobber.

  Allowing him to dress would be a foolish decision. I could clearly hear Sergeant Major Wainwright’s words in my head: ‘Nudity is maximum humiliation, boyo. The frog march with bollocks bouncing is the next best weapon to a gun held to the back of the fooking head.’ But then there were also my father’s words. During the hot tropical nights in New Britain, he had slept in the nude, and when the Japanese had come to the mission station in the dead of night to take him prisoner they had marched him naked with his hands on his head through the mission compound and the adjacent native village, forcing the inhabitants to witness his humiliation. ‘It was a bright moonlit night of the kind that allows one to read the small print in a newspaper and my parishioners were made to line the road and then assemble in the centre of the village to witness my humiliation. I shall always be grateful to the chief for his probity, for while nudity is not shameful among the heathen, he made all the women turn their backs in defiance of the Japanese.’ While my father was considered a hero among the native people for remaining with his parishioners when the other Europeans escaped the Japanese invasion, there was one aspect of this heroism that stamped him unique among the natives. The small size of his penis had so impressed them that forever afterwards and until this day, if a native male appears to be less endowed than average the people say, ‘Hem goddem wan Jesus prick.’ It was Wainwright or the Bishop of New Guinea and very foolishly God won. ‘How do you usually get dressed?’ I asked suspiciously.

  He pointed towards the door, ‘Staff Sergeant Goto, my driver and batman.’

  ‘Staff Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, my driver during the war,’ he explained. ‘He simply stayed on,’ Konoe added with a shrug. ‘He is also supposed to be my bodyguard.’ He gave me a wry grin.

  I wasn’t having any of his old soldier shit or charm or whatever it was he was trying to pull. ‘You don’t need to know my name just yet, and I’ve known yours for twenty years,’ I said, stern-faced, then asked, ‘Where are your clothes?’

  He pointed to a small open-faced cupboard with three shelves. A blue serge suit jacket and trousers on a coathanger were suspended from a brass hook on the side of the cupboard, while the bottom shelf contained a pair of highly polished black shoes, the second held underpants, vests and socks, the top a neatly folded shirt, belt and plain navy-blue tie. ‘I don’t think I can get up,’ he said, apologising again. ‘Perhaps if you allow me to use my stick?’

  Time was running out and I didn’t much care for the idea of Fuchida-san and Saito-san and his men storming through the house supposedly on a mission to rescue me. In fact I was rather pleased with myself and wanted to bring out Konoe Akira, making light of the task at the same time. I also told myself that while he was tall, I was at least twice his weight and twenty or so years younger than him, and as well, I was supposed to know how to take care of myself. Still it would be embarrassing if the yakuza entered to find me unconscious or dead, unable to subdue an old man.

  Leaving him seated on the futon I moved the stick out of his reach, then crossed the room and removed the trousers from the hanger, grabbed the shoes, underpants and shirt from the shelves and dumped them beside him on the futon. He reached over and picked up the shirt and started to unbutton it, working slowly. ‘Here, give it to me,’ I instructed, taking the shirt from his grasp. Placing the Browning into my belt I quickly unbuttoned the shirt and handed it back to him. ‘Put it on first, you can do that seated. I’ll help you with the rest,’ I said.

  He pointed to his underpants and then indicated his stiff leg. ‘Please?’ I went down on my haunches and pushed the underpants over his ankles and up to his knees where he pulled them further, but was then unable to lift his buttocks, so I stood and lifted him from behind. With his underpants on he seemed much relieved and pulled the red flannel nightshirt over his tall, skinny frame. I noted that the broad purple and white scar on his leg ran in a jagged line from the base of his right quadriceps down through the smashed kneecap. He put his shirt on and I repeated the process with his trousers, and while he laboriously tucked in his shirt I slipped his shoes on minus socks and tied the laces. Finally I rose and, standing behind him, put my hands under his armpits and pulled him to his feet where he immediately grabbed the waistband of his trousers. ‘Belt. I need my belt, please.’

  Still standing behind him I handed him the cane. ‘No belt,’ I snapped.

  ‘My trousers, they will fall down,’ he said, appealing to me.

  ‘Then use one hand to hold them up.’ It was standard procedure when taking a prisoner into custody when handcuffs were unavailable. With one hand using the walking stick and the other holding up his daks he was rendered more or less harmless. At least some of my Special Services training was being observed.

  ‘You pay me too much respect. You have nothing to fear, my leg prevents me from using the ability I once possessed,’ Konoe Akira said, attempting to salvage some of his pride.

  I glanced at my watch; my twenty minutes were up. ‘Start walking,’ I commanded. ‘We go out via the kitchen.’

  ‘I am not sure where it is. I have never been into the servants’ section. Let me take you through the front of the house,’ he suggested.

  ‘The kitchen!’ I insisted, not believing him. ‘I’ll direct you.’ Paranoia, once it’s taken possession, is hard to control and I couldn’t bring myself to believe he had never entered his own kitchen, deciding he must have some devious reason for taking a different route, perhaps a weapon concealed somewhere or a burglar alarm to be tripped? ‘Switch on the lights as we go,’ I commanded.

  We paused at the prostrate Staff Sergeant Goto, who had managed to roll onto his back. Moments later Konoe Akira switched on the light to illuminate the passageway. The trussed and gagged batman stared at us wide-eyed, emitting small grunts, drawing up his knees and kicking out in a gesture of defiance.
‘Will he be all right?’ Konoe Akira asked, examining him without a smile as one might a trussed chook.

  ‘Sure. What time do the servants arrive?’

  ‘Six o’clock.’

  ‘They can release him then.’

  ‘I have an aged mother who will be alone in the house,’ Konoe now said, moving down the passageway.

  ‘Ah, I am sure she is all right. When the servants arrive they will care for her,’ I said, deciding to play dumb about her abduction. It was a card we would need to play at a later time.

  ‘Where are you taking me?’ he asked, seemingly less afraid or at least resigned to his immediate fate.

  ‘The real question is where are you going to take me, Konoe-san. Now would you please remain silent and turn on the lights as we go?’ We reached the centre of the house where I could now clearly see the elegant furnishings that were obviously a part of a traditional and very wealthy family home. It denoted a different world to the Japanese Cosmopolitan style of Fuchida-san’s penthouse pride and joy and once again supported his remarks about the two Japans existing side by side.

  Konoe Akira gestured towards a beautiful melon-shaped vase with a clear light-green glaze over black and white inlaid decorations. It stood about eighteen inches high and rested on a cherry-wood base. ‘It is twelfth-century Korean, made during the Goryeo Dynasty. It has “Best Under Heaven” classification and is beyond price. If you free me I will give it to you together with the provenance. Without me to care for her, my esteemed and aged mother will not continue to live.’

  ‘I am only interested in Second Vase, Konoe-san!’ I snapped. ‘Take me to her and you will save your mother’s life as well as your own.’ His deliberate delaying tactics were beginning to annoy me; I should never have allowed him to dress. Any minute now Fuchida-san and his cohorts would burst in thinking they needed to rescue me. They’d catch me with a gun pointed at the back of a scrawny, ageing Japanese cripple, hardly a courageous or impressive capture.

  Konoe Akira appeared to be showing less and less fear for his personal safety, completely disregarding my order not to talk. How bloody imperious can the Japanese elite classes be? Or did he guess that there was no way I was going to harm him until I knew where Anna was being held?

  Konoe Akira sighed. ‘I do not know her whereabouts,’ he replied.

  ‘We’ll soon see about that!’ I snapped impatiently. ‘Let’s go!’

  But he didn’t move. ‘You may shoot me now but spare my esteemed mother. I cannot take you to Second Vase. I don’t know where she is, I really don’t.’

  ‘This is bullshit!’ I cried in English, suddenly feeling furious. ‘Move!’ I shouted in Japanese, conscious that he was making a fool of me. I struggled to regain my poise. ‘No more talk,’ I snapped. Then suddenly I heard Fuchida-san and the others running down the passageway from the kitchen.

  Konoe Akira shook his head. ‘No!’ he shouted. His cane fell to the floor and he lost his balance as his trousers dropped to his ankles. He staggered towards me, threatening to crash into me, but I swung my left arm around his neck, my forearm across his throat, and held him, preventing his fall while still holding the Browning. Moments later four police officers burst into the room carrying submachine-guns. Had I not held Konoe Akira against my body I feel certain they would have gunned me down. He had obviously also heard the arrival of what he correctly surmised was a rescue team.

  ‘Drop your gun!’ one of the police officers, a sergeant, shouted. ‘Put both hands on your head.’

  They were dressed in black, wearing bullet-proof jackets and hard helmets and were obviously the Japanese equivalent of a SWAT team. If I took Konoe Akira hostage I was stuffed. The yakuza had either been arrested or had escaped in time. I had nowhere to take him and in the open I could easily be gunned down from the rear.

  I very slowly lowered Konoe Akira to the floor, still holding the Browning. If the police sergeant intended shooting me he was taking the chance I would get a bullet away in time. All I could think was Fuck, what now?

  One of the policemen retrieved Konoe Akira’s cane and held it, while two others lifted him to his feet and pulled his trousers up. He accepted the cane, steadied himself, and without even glancing at me, he set off down a passageway, his free hand holding up his trousers and the tap of his cane on the wooden floor increasing in tempo as he began to hurry. I dropped the Browning at my feet and the sergeant took a step forward and kicked it out of my reach. I then placed my hands on my head, indicating that I wasn’t going to resist. The two policemen advanced, one on either side of me, and each grabbed a wrist and pulled my arms behind my back. The third handcuffed me while the senior police officer held his submachine-gun pointed at my chest. I was suddenly very frightened.

  ‘What is your name?’ the cop with the submachine-gun asked me.

  ‘Nick Duncan.’

  ‘Hai! From the Imperial Hotel. You are yakuza!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes!’ he declared, contradicting me. ‘What is your association with Oyabun Fuchida?’

  ‘We both collect butterflies,’ I replied.

  ‘You are under arrest, Nick Duncan. I am taking you into custody and charging you with attempting to kidnap a Japanese citizen.’ He pointed to the Browning. ‘As a foreigner do you have a permit to carry a weapon?’

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘I neglected to bring the licence with me to Japan and did not declare it to your customs,’ I lied, avoiding a reference to the yakuza.

  ‘Smuggling a weapon into Japan – that is yet another charge in addition to possessing an unauthorised weapon, Nick Duncan,’ he said, staring at me steadily. I could see why he was in charge of a SWAT team. He was a consummate professional who, with the exception of shouting at me to drop my gun as they’d burst into the room, hadn’t raised his voice once. At another time in another place he was just the sort of bloke you’d want beside you in a fire fight. A few more like him at Guadalcanal and things might have turned out differently for the Japs in the Pacific.

  He stooped and picked up the Browning, holding it by the tip of the barrel to protect my prints, then he dropped it into a plastic bag one of the police officers held open.

  I could hear the tapping of the cane growing louder as Konoe Akira returned. He appeared at the entrance to the passageway, then crossed the room to stand directly in front of me, forcing the bemused police sergeant to step aside. He’d found a means of holding up his trousers – the waistband was now bunched and turned over, lifting his trouser legs and exposing his bare ankles. Akira was tall for a Japanese, six foot, perhaps a little less, though he was still obliged to look up at me. Grim-faced, shaking, his lips spume-flecked with rage, he yelled, ‘Where is my esteemed mother?’

  I shook my head and then shrugged, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘What? I don’t understand. But you said . . .’ I replied, hoping the feigned innocence was convincing.

  I had decided that if Fuchida-san had escaped arrest or even if he hadn’t, I wasn’t going to betray him or the yakuza. While this may at first seem chivalrous, it was no more than commonsense on my part. If, as the oyabun of Tokyo, Fuchida possessed the influence with the authorities he claimed, then he was going to be my only possible chance of avoiding a very long stay in a Japanese prison. If he thought I had betrayed him after he had set out to help me reach Anna, he would obviously make no attempt to intervene on my behalf.

  Konoe Akira turned to the senior cop. ‘He has abducted my mother!’ he cried. ‘She will not live! It is murder!’

  ‘Your mother is missing? You’re saying she has been kidnapped by this man?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘Who else?’ Konoe spat, still furious.

  He turned back to me. ‘Where is she?’

  Obviously Fuchida, Saito and the three others had not been arrested. Somehow they must have been warned and left before the police arrived on the scene. I shook my head. ‘As you can see, I am on my own, sergeant.’

  ‘Hai! We will soon find out, Nick D
uncan.’ He turned back to Konoe Akira. ‘It is only you and your mother who live in the house?’

  ‘She has a nurse, but I cannot wake her up.’

  ‘She sleeps in the same room?’

  ‘Yes, but she has been drugged.’

  ‘You know this for sure?’

  ‘I cannot wake her!’ Konoe Akira repeated.

  The sergeant nodded to one of his men, indicating he should take a look. ‘No servants, just the nurse?’

  ‘Oh, also my staff sergeant.’ He pointed at me. ‘He has tied him up. He is lying outside my bedchamber.’

  ‘This woke you up?’ the sergeant asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The noise – tying your . . . er . . . staff sergeant up?’

  ‘No, this man is well trained, a professional. I heard nothing. I pressed the alarm when he crossed the room to fetch my clothes.’

  ‘Professional?’ the sergeant sniffed, glancing at me. ‘And he allowed you to get dressed?’ Then he added, ‘How very considerate.’

  I don’t suppose you can blush when you’re shitting yourself, but I’m sure I did; I certainly felt my face burning. The old bloke had outsmarted me and pressed the alarm virtually under my nose.

  I would later learn that because most of the foreign embassies and the Imperial Palace were in the same vicinity, they had all been wired up, alarmed directly to the Keishicho, the Metropolitan Police Headquarters in Central Tokyo. Konoe Akira had been permitted to avail himself of the system, a buzzer or some such at his bedside, which he had pressed to alert them. The cunning old bastard knew if he delayed me sufficiently they’d arrive in time to arrest me. It said something for Saito and his men that they’d moved the old crone without waking anyone, and Nick Duncan on his own had made a bloody great hash of things. I should have marched him out barefoot in his red flannel nightshirt; chivalry has no place in today’s world.