The Samurai Inheritance (25 page)

‘The human battering ram there with his missing finger?’

‘Exactly. If a lower ranking member of a clan offends his boss in some way he has to cut off the top of his finger and send him it as a sign of apology. And if our friend there was to take off his shirt I can just about guarantee you’d find his torso covered in tattoos that signify his status in the organization. It’s a matter of honour among the Yakuza to have it done the traditional way – what they call “hand poked” – by an expert using a sharp stick rather than a machine.’

Magda looked over her shoulder at the human battering ram, who stared back with a half-smile that made her wonder if he was as dumb as he made out. ‘Tough guys, huh?’

‘Tough guys indeed.’

‘Did I ever tell you about my tattoo?’

Jamie was still laughing as they climbed a set of wide white stairs that led to the second level of the building. When they reached the top he understood why the outside of the building had no windows. It had been designed as an open square, with a central area as large as half a football pitch. The second and third storeys had inner walls of glass looking out on to an immaculate Japanese garden, complete with streams and waterfalls and fishponds, miniature temples and ornate bridges. Somehow the temperature and humidity in the garden must have been regulated because, despite the season, all sorts of flowers and trees were still in bloom, creating a blaze of colour from azure-petalled irises, pastel-painted orchids, delicate pink cherry blossom and flame-tipped azaleas. They barely had time for a glimpse before their silent escort led them to a room furnished with chairs and couches that looked as if they’d been carved from concrete, but which they discovered were actually fabric.

After a few minutes an electronic door in the far wall slid open and the thin guard ushered them through to a large office. Jamie gradually became aware of another presence. A woman stood partially hidden in the shadows staring out of the window at the garden. Slim and straight backed, her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a white blouse and tight riding breeches. Her hands were clasped behind her back in a pose that was more European than Oriental and her whole bearing had an air of strength and authority.

They waited for her to turn and acknowledge them, but she seemed in no hurry and Jamie allowed his eyes to drift over the room. The first thing that drew his attention was a large oak desk on which a long Samurai sword lay horizontally on a cushion of blue velvet. For all the formality of its display it was a functional weapon: a soldier’s sword. It had a well-worn leather grip and the naked blade was long and slightly curved, the edge glinted blue from regular sharpening. Something told him its purpose wasn’t purely ornamental.

‘My grandfather’s sword.’ The words were addressed at Jamie and in English without a trace of accent, but they emerged from features that could not have been more Japanese. Her face was made up of planes and shadows with barely a curve to mar the symmetry. Deep-set dark eyes stared from beneath long lashes above cheekbones sharp enough to rival the sword blade on the desk. The eyes radiated an intensity and a ruthlessness – you might even call them pitiless – that made Jamie wish he’d stayed in Australia. Feminine lips, but a hard mouth; a thin, humourless line that might have been etched by a knifepoint. She must have been close to fifty but her body had the angular athleticism of someone twenty years younger. Everything about her said this was a woman not to be underestimated.

‘You must be very proud of him to display it so prominently.’ Magda’s voice demanded acknowledgement and there was a moment of almost electric tension between the two women, as if two alley cats had met unexpectedly at a street corner.

The Japanese looked the anthropologist up and down and a dismissive smile flickered on the thin lips. ‘Of course.’

‘And your grandfather must be Major Kojima Yoshitaki?’ Jamie took over the conversation with a warning glance at his companion.

A slight nod. ‘He ended the war as major general in charge of homeland defence.’

‘Then it was fortunate he never had to command his forces in battle.’

‘Believe me, my grandfather did not think himself fortunate.’ The words were almost contemptuous. ‘He would have fought on even after the nuclear bombs the Americans dropped on our cities. A million casualties was his estimate of the cost of an invasion of Nippon.’

‘On which side?’

‘You have a sense of humour, Mr …?’

‘Saintclair. Jamie Saintclair.’

‘It can be an admirable trait, but in Japan we have a saying:
Silence surpasses speech
. Sometimes it is better to say nothing than to say the wrong thing. My associates also think you are very rude. You do not bow, nor hand over your business card to effect an introduction.’

‘I apologize if we have offended you,’ Jamie said. ‘We are unfamiliar with Japanese culture. Dr Ross and I have only just arrived in Tokyo, Miss …?’

‘You may call me Madam Nishimura.’ She walked to the desk with an elegant flowing stride and slipped into a leather executive chair. The moment she was in position a black cat squeezed its way through a narrow gap in the window and crossed the room to jump into her lap. Nishimura scratched its head and it began to purr gently as she stroked the gleaming fur. Jamie was reminded of a scene from a Bond film and something told him that was the effect she had intended. ‘Please,’ she said, indicating a pair of chairs by the door, ‘perhaps we can get down to the purpose of your visit.’

Jamie took his seat with Magda beside him. ‘Prior to the Second World War,’ he explained, ‘your grandfather was a diplomat as well as a soldier. We are here to talk about an artefact he may have brought back from a visit to Berlin in the nineteen thirties.’

‘No, Mr Saintclair, you are mistaken.’ The dark eyes glittered with malice and the cat lifted its head to add its own glare of annoyance. ‘You are here because I do not like loose ends. You mentioned a shrunken head, which I presume is the artefact to which you refer. For reasons of my own, I found the importance of such an unlikely item to you of interest. Under certain circumstances the fact that you brought this subject to my attention might be considered a threat. Someone in my position cannot afford to ignore a threat. Do you understand?’

Jamie smiled politely at the unspoken implication the threat might have to be neutralized, or perhaps even eliminated altogether, but the room had suddenly grown a little cooler. He hesitated before replying, noticing for the first time that the regular shadows lining the walls were in reality small niches. ‘You have been very frank and I hope you’ll forgive me for being equally so.’ Nishimura’s eyes narrowed but he was committed now. ‘Firstly, let me assure you that Dr Ross and I pose no threat to you. I have been commissioned to track down a relic of a primitive culture which my client intends, for reasons of natural justice, to return to its original owners. It is possible, given your relationship to Major Yoshitaki, that you are in possession of this relic. If that’s the case my client is prepared to pay substantial compensation for your loss. We are talking about a straightforward business transaction.’

‘Straightforward, Mr Saintclair?’ Madame Nishimura smiled coldly. ‘Do you really believe there is anything straightforward about your current predicament?’ She leaned forward and pressed a button on the desk. Lights flicked on to illuminate the contents of the mysterious recesses.

‘Oh, my God.’ Jamie heard Magda’s hiss as his heart seemed to stop.

Thirty. His mind must have counted them of its own accord. Thirty hairy shrivelled orbs each the size of a small coconut.

XXIX

The mind took time to come to terms with the fact that they had once been living breathing human beings. A photograph of the Bougainville head did nothing to convey the obscene reality of the blind, half-shut eyes, leathery brown skin and protruding, oversized fleshy lips and noses. If Jamie hadn’t known what they were he might have convinced himself he was looking at the last remnant of some long-lost bastard union of men and monkey. Their hair was lush and thick, as if they’d died only yesterday, and ranged in colour from black to brown to a startling straw-blond.

He turned to Magda to see if she’d identified the Bougainville head among the twisted anonymous faces. Her eyes were fixed on a single part of the wall, but the expression on her face surprised him. Magda Ross was a scientist, an experienced anthropologist endowed with all the best traits of her kind: objectivity, professionalism and an ability to see the evidence for what it was, unclouded by her personal feelings. In their short acquaintance he’d come to admire not only her style, which was confident and self-assured without a hint of arrogance, but also the fearless objectivity with which she faced potential hazards. The sight of the heads was undoubtedly a shock, but what would make a woman who’d probably handled hundreds like them react this way? Suppressed fury touched every part of that beautiful face, and though she was trying to hide it there was murder in her eyes. Jamie only hoped Madam Nishimura didn’t notice it, or the high colour that rouged her cheekbones.

‘Are you all right?’

The dark head nodded briefly, as if she couldn’t allow herself to speak.

To his relief Nishimura acted as if Magda wasn’t even in the room. ‘So you see, Mr Saintclair, your shrunken head, even if it is among the exhibits you see here, is not just something to be bought and sold on a whim. It is part of a carefully assembled collection that took many years to bring together.’

‘How …?’

‘In his youth my grandfather spent some time in the South Seas. He became fascinated by the native practice of removing an enemy’s head and creating an ornament of it. He studied their methods of war and the different ways they achieved this end. The Maoris of New Zealand retained the skulls of their dead enemy chiefs and preserved them by removing the brain, eating the eyes then boiling the skull slowly so the skin tightened around it.’ Jamie felt his stomach lurch at the thought of that awful feast; soft white globes and God knows what else disappearing down someone’s throat. Nishimura noted his distaste with a cold smile. ‘He found these grinning headpieces to be unsubtle. In his view, the true genius of the art was to be found further north in the Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea. Here they removed the skulls and used the skin to create the essence of its former wearer. It was a remarkably delicate procedure that required great skill. The heads needed to be repeatedly heated and cooled with stones and sand to achieve the proper lasting effect you see here. When he travelled to Berlin in nineteen thirty-six the last thing he thought to discover there was a shrunken head of the utmost perfection. His hosts recognized his admiration for the relic and immediately offered it as a gift. He believed it was his destiny and, as you see, it created a lifelong interest, which resulted in this collection.’

Jamie had to half-admire as proud a tale of ancestral acquisitiveness as he’d been privileged to hear. He could just imagine one of the red-faced old colonial scions of the Hertfordshire manor houses he occasionally visited recounting something similar.
And this is the fuzzy-wuzzy my great, great grandpater bagged at Omdurman. Put up a splendid fight. Been in the family since eighteen ninety-eight, you know
. ‘My client is prepared to offer half a million dollars.’

‘Really, Mr Saintclair, do I look as if half a million dollars will make a difference to my life?’

‘A million.’

Nishimura laughed. ‘Is he really such a philanthropist that he would pay so much to repatriate a piece of dried-out flesh to a group of savages? I think not. Perhaps if I knew the identity of your client we could come to some sort of arrangement?’

Jamie understood she was playing with him the way her cat would play with a mouse. For now the claws were sheathed; for now … Nishimura would never willingly part with the Bougainville head, but if she had Keith Devlin’s name she would find a way to extract money or favours from him. The time might come when Jamie could use that as a bargaining chip one way or the other, but it wasn’t now.

‘I’d have to consult with my client on that,’ he said firmly.

‘Please.’ She rose from her seat without warning and the cat leaped acrobatically from her lap to land on all four feet. ‘I will happily leave you in private for a few moments while you discuss it with him.’

Jamie hesitated. The opportunity had appeal, because it would allow them to inspect the heads and certain other things about the room that interested him, but did the risk outweigh any potential gain? He turned to Magda. Her face was still set in that angry mask, but she nodded. ‘It can’t do any harm.’

Jamie turned back to the Japanese. ‘As long as I have your assurance that my conversations will not be monitored in any way?’

‘Come, Mr Saintclair, what benefit would it provide for me to bug my own office?’

‘In that case, thank you.’

Nishimura touched a hidden button on the desk that opened a second door in the wall to her left. ‘I will give you ten minutes.’

When she was gone Magda rose to her feet and walked to the wall, staring at one particular niche.

‘Which one is the Bougainville head?’

‘Shouldn’t you be phoning Mr Devlin?’

‘There’ll be plenty of time for that later.’

The compartments were ranged in two lines one above the other, at around head height. Three feet separated the individual alcoves, each of which was lit by a single recessed bulb that showed the doleful features of its unfortunate occupant to best effect.

‘This is it.’ She pointed to the upper niche in the centre of the line. He went to stand beside her and looked into the leathery features. The first thing he noticed was that the skin was much darker than the other examples and the hair was a ball of tight curls of pure black. Long, almost feminine lashes curled up from the empty eyes and the face had a soulful, resigned expression.

‘I don’t think he likes me. You’re sure it’s authentic?’

‘You can never be sure without a DNA test,’ she said tersely. ‘But this is the only Melanesian head in the collection. If the Dragon Lady’s grandfather brought a shrunken head back from Berlin this is the only one it could be. Now, are you going to phone Devlin?’