The Samurai Inheritance (2 page)

Tiny firefly sparks flickered on top of the enemy plane’s fuselage just in front of the tailplane. He allowed the big Lightning’s nose to drift slightly to the right so his cannon shells hammered into the wing roots and the starboard engine. A split second later the big bomber seemed to stop in mid-air and fell away to be lost in a pyre of smoke in the dense jungle below.

Without another thought Barber turned his attention to the second Betty.

I

New South Wales, Australia, 2010

The lunchtime view across the bay to Sydney Opera House justified all the ludicrous superlatives heaped on it during the flight over, but Jamie Saintclair seemed to be the only person at the table interested. Certainly Lizzie, the six-year-old daughter of his partner Fiona Carter, appeared entirely absorbed by the multicoloured mountain of ice cream in front of her. He felt a surge of what he disconcertingly realized might be paternal affection as she wiped a smear of melted pink across the front of her specially bought, pale yellow cotton dress. Fiona, being Australian, albeit of the exiled variety, had seen the view from the Rocks often enough not to be awed by its glory. In any case, she was absorbed in conversation with Nico, the young lawyer with swarthy, handsome features, who probably dined at the Rockpool at least three times a week.

Their host, Leopold Ungar, just the right side of eighty, but as sharp eyed as a teenager, noticed Jamie’s look and smiled. ‘This city is like every other, Mr Saintclair; sadly, no matter how iconic the building, when you’ve lived here for a while it begins to blend in with the background, don’t you agree?’

Jamie wondered how many times he’d have to ask Leopold to call him by his first name before the Jewish haulage company owner remembered. Ungar was short, broad in the chest, with a bald head scattered with the liver spots of age. His choice of clothes reflected his age and affluence: razor-creased tan slacks and a navy blazer with a yacht club badge on the breast pocket, over an open-necked shirt.

‘I’m just glad to have the chance to see it, sir.’ Jamie opted for equal formality. ‘We have to thank you again for bringing us out here and giving us the opportunity to spend some time in this wonderful country.’

The older man nodded gravely, acknowledging that the thanks were nothing but his due. Leopold Ungar was not the kind of person who splashed out on business-class return flights for just anyone. Born in Bratislava, he’d spent two of the first eight years of his life with his twin brother, Felix, in the Auschwitz death camp, a painfully memorable part of them under the tender ministrations of Dr Josef Mengele. In the diabolical lottery of Mengele’s clinic it had been Leopold’s fate to survive and subsequently emigrate to Australia.

For thirty years it had been enough that he lived, even if he couldn’t have children of his own, but with the success of his business, came a certain amount of wealth. Wealth brought both responsibility and guilt. Over the past decade he’d expended much energy and money trying to recover a painting that had hung above the mantel of the family home. It was a portrait of a young girl at a window, perhaps by Vermeer, but probably by an apprentice, and possibly even by the artist’s daughter Maria. It was not artistically important or even particularly valuable, but the Ungar brothers had formed a childhood attachment to the girl in the picture.

Leopold had convinced himself that Felix would never be at peace until it was back in the family’s hands. After several disappointments, his lawyer Nico had contacted Jamie Saintclair. It took a year of searching, but Jamie finally tracked down the painting to a private gallery close to the Ponte Fabricio in Rome, where it had arrived by some tortuous route. Eighteen months, and much legal wrangling, later Leopold was confirmed as the rightful owner. When the transaction was complete he invited Jamie and his partner to escort the painting to Australia as a bonus for the successful recovery.

‘It was the least I could do,’ Ungar said appreciatively. ‘You succeeded in a year to do what others – well-paid others, I should add – have failed to do in a decade. It gives me a sense of peace to have the portrait hanging where it belongs, in an Ungar household, and, to me at least, it is priceless.’ A diffident smile transformed his wrinkled features. ‘An old man’s foolish fantasy, you may say, but we must find happiness and contentment where we can. You would be surprised where it can be found,’ he shook his head at some painful memory, ‘even in the very heart of evil a child can find something to be cheerful about.’

Jamie Saintclair took genuine pleasure from the hard-won praise. He knew Leopold Ungar had been initially sceptical about his ability to do the job, believing he was too young at just past thirty, too inexperienced, and that his methods were, frankly, too unorthodox. All that changed when the Princess Czartoryski Foundation in Cracow announced that the Raphael Jamie had discovered in a secret bunker in the Harz Mountains two years earlier was, indeed, the real thing. The foundation’s decision also brought with it a substantial finder’s fee. It meant that for the first time since opening for business in the tiny shoebox of an office in London’s Old Bond Street, Saintclair Fine Arts was in funds. Jamie was still puzzling over the unlikely combination of good fortune when the old man excused himself and disappeared in the direction of the men’s room. He felt Fiona’s eyes on him, that curious way she had of making his skin feel as if it had been stroked by soft fingers, and turned to meet her gaze.

‘You look like the cat that got the cream, Saintclair.’

He grinned back. ‘What could be better than good food and good company in one of the most beautiful places on the planet?’

Fiona smiled at the compliment to her home city. Her pleasure was reflected in dark eyes that glittered in the kind of narrow face you sometimes see on a catwalk. She had shoulder-length blond hair styled in a tight plait and strong features that made her striking rather than conventionally pretty. Her swimmer’s build – wide shoulders, a narrow waist and long legs – allied to something indefinable, had attracted him at a gallery opening in London. Somehow, she’d worked her way under his skin before he’d even realized it.

‘Good wine, too.’ She raised her glass of what a surreptitious glance at the wine list proved to be a mind-blowingly expensive grand cru Burgundy. ‘But I notice that you’re being very sparing, which, dare I say it, is suspiciously out of character.’

‘That’s because I’m savouring it.’ He picked up his own glass and put it to his lips. ‘This is a wine to be sipped.’ That wasn’t quite true. He exchanged smiles with Nico, who’d also barely touched his wine. Jamie had noticed the Australian studying him in a shrewd and quite unashamedly calculating manner that he found intriguing.

Leopold returned, apologizing for having to leave them. ‘My afternoon nap,’ he claimed, but Jamie suspected that even at his age he still liked to keep an iron grip on his company. ‘The bill is dealt with; but feel free to stay and have another bottle of wine and they’ll charge it to my account.’ They all stood up to say goodbye. Jamie shook hands and Fiona presented her tanned cheek to kiss. Lizzie ran round the table and gave the portly figure an enormous hug that made everyone laugh. Nico stood a little apart making his own farewell with a polite, businesslike nod.

Jamie sensed he was waiting for something.

‘Why don’t I walk you folks back to your hotel?’ the lawyer said, confirming Jamie’s suspicion. ‘It’s on my way.’

They strolled back up George Street in the relentlessly bright, almost too perfect afternoon sunlight. Nico held back to allow Fiona and Lizzie to walk ahead, and Jamie kept pace with him. Jamie smiled as he watched the slight golden-haired figure dance around her mother, interested in everything. Fiona was forced to walk with a slight stoop while she explained the use of each building and the history of each statue.

‘You have a lovely family, Jamie,’ Nico complimented him.

Jamie tried to disguise the inner turmoil the word created.
Family?
The concept conjured up an odd and disturbing mix of feelings and emotions. A missed heartbeat. A sudden loss of breath. A moment of needless panic. It had taken him a year after Abbie Trelawney’s death in a London terrorist attack to find the faltering courage to enter into a serious relationship. Fiona was his friend and lover and that was enough for now. They saw each other most evenings, but were content to live separate lives. Lizzie came as part of the package. He took her to the park, enjoyed the innocence of her smile, the pleasure she took from simple play and the way everything was shiny and new. But family? He knew the reaction was partly a psychological flaw caused by his own past. Jamie Saintclair had never known his father. Before she passed away, his mother had given up any chance of a life of her own so that her son could go to university. It was two years now since his grandfather, his last living relative, had died. Maybe that was the problem. How could someone who’d never experienced being in a family know if he was part of one? He realized Nico was staring at him and that the lawyer must have continued the conversation without him.

‘Sorry,’ he apologized, ‘I was in a bit of a dream. Must have been the wine.’

‘Of course.’ The Australian gave a tight nod of understanding. He paused and Jamie realized he was mentally preparing himself for something. ‘I wondered if you’d care to meet a friend of mine – a former client. He has a problem he believes you might be able to help him solve. A commission, if things work out. Possibly a very lucrative one.’

Jamie’s eyes wandered to where Lizzie was trying to catch water droplets from the fountain in Herald Square. The only work he’d planned for this trip had been delivering the painting to Leopold Ungar. It was supposed to be a two-week holiday for the three of them, and a chance for Fiona to visit her extended family. Thanks to the money from the Raphael he found himself in the unusual position of being able to pick and choose his commissions, and was in no hurry for the next.

‘I’m not sure …’

Nico wasn’t to be put off so easily. ‘I’d consider it a favour,’ he said.

Jamie suppressed a surge of irritation at the man’s persistence. He’d as good as said no. Why would the lawyer keep pushing when his reluctance was so obvious? He was about to confirm his refusal when he recognized something in Nico’s eyes that might have been an appeal; desperation even. He sighed, cursing the gene that had made him so bloody accommodating. What harm could it do? ‘Sure, Nico,’ he conceded with a sigh, ‘why not? I can give him fifteen minutes. Let me talk to Fiona.’

The lawyer visibly relaxed and reached into his pocket for his mobile phone. ‘Thanks, mate. Take your time. I’ll set it up for three.’

II

The private elevator rose with the seamless ease of a flying carpet towards the upper floors of the enormous glass, steel and concrete tower that was such a surreal contrast with the vivid greenery just across the way. Fiona had met Jamie’s announcement that he had some business to attend to with raised eyebrows, but she’d seemed cheerful enough as she lured Lizzie towards the nearby botanical gardens with the promise of an encounter with a possum.

Outdoors had been balmy and breeze kissed, but the atmosphere was decidedly chillier in the brushed-aluminium confines of the elevator. Jamie’s normal easy-going demeanour had been knocked out of kilter by Nico’s insistence that he meet his mysterious
former client
. He’d have been much happier scratching around in the bushes for an elusive and likely nonexistent possum. Then again that would have raised the possibility of an encounter with one of the nasty eastern brown snakes he’d been warned about. In the past couple of years he’d been shot at, blown up and survived a plane crash, but he’d cheerfully go through it all again rather than come face to fangs with a venomous reptile.

Nico shuffled uncomfortably at his side and he sensed the lawyer was just as unhappy about the position he’d been placed in. Or at least as uncomfortable as a lawyer was likely to get about anything. Even when pushed, Nico had refused to divulge the identity of the man Jamie was about to meet. ‘He’ll tell you all about himself,’ he insisted. ‘All I can say is that it will be worth your while to talk to him.’

The lift doors opened as a detached female voice announced their arrival at the forty-fifth floor. Nico led the way out into a broad, carpeted hallway which had walls lined with golden silk and a receptionist’s desk at the far end. Framed paintings of brightly coloured exotic birds dotted the silk in clusters of four. They reminded Jamie of Audubon’s American works, but with a rougher, less realistic edge.

‘John William Lewin. They’re worth next to bugger all, but I like ’em.’

The throaty growl challenged anybody to disagree with the speaker – a tall, heavy-set figure who appeared without warning through the double oak doors behind the reception desk. Jamie took in a weathered face, a nose like a Roman galley’s ram and thick grey hair swept back from a broad forehead. He found himself the focus of shrewd, pale blue eyes that had you measured, suited and booted before you could say hello. Commanding was the word he’d use to describe a man who would dominate any room he entered. The Australian wore cream slacks and a striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows; the gold watch on his left wrist would have bought a Ferrari. Nico hesitated, uncharacteristically uncertain whether to usher Jamie forward or wait for some command. Their host’s features broke into a grin and he strode the length of the hall to greet them. Jamie stood six foot tall, but he was forced to look up as his hand was engulfed in a callused, meaty fist.

‘You must be Mr Jamie Saintclair.’ The stranger nodded approvingly. ‘Good to meet you at last. Thanks, Nico.’

The casual dismissal verged on the contemptuous, but if Nico took any offence he gave no sign of it. ‘I’ll call you later,’ he said to Jamie and walked back towards the lift.

In the seconds that followed, Jamie and his host studied each other like prizefighters limbering up for a bout. Finally the big Australian broke the silence. ‘Keith Devlin, but just call me Keith, and we’ll get along just fine.’ The big hand released Jamie’s fingers and moved to his shoulder, easing him in the direction of the doors in a gesture that was both casual and possessive, as if, now he was here, he wasn’t going to be allowed to escape.