Revelation

29 Matsumo

'Look down there, young lady.' The doctor's hands waved over the city. 'And tell me what you see.'

Sachs and Romella were standing on a verandah, wine glasses in hand. They were high above a long main road, with car headlights drifting along in both directions; it was now almost dark. The Alps, low in the distance, formed a background to the church-scattered skyline. The sound of clattering dishes came from the kitchen.

Romella looked over the skyline of the mediaeval city. 'A stunning view. A lot of busy traffic. Big department stores. Hordes of people doing last-minute Christmas shopping.'

Sachs said, 'I look down and I see ghosts. It was along the Ludwigstrasse that the Brownshirts used to march, behind row after row of swastikas. There were children in Bavarian costumes, there were brass bands pounding out old Bavarian marching tunes. I feel a sense of dissociation.' His English was excellent, if accented. 'Somehow I'm just not part of what you see, the ghosts are my reality. But you can't understand what I mean.'

Maybe not.

He continued, 'Anyway, your interest is not in my life's journey, but in that of this Lisa woman. She survived.'

She survived! A thrill ran through Romella. 'How do you know?'

The old doctor smiled. 'I met her. It was through the grapevine, as I think you call it nowadays. She had been a good communist at the University, like me, as well as being Jewish. An acquaintance in medical school had heard of a survivors' group based in Leipzig — a handful of people, you understand. I made contact, and there she was, the only one of the group I knew. We swore to keep in touch, and have done so ever since.'

'She's still alive?'

'And happily married. We write to each other every year.'

Romella tried to keep the urgency out of her voice. 'I'd be extremely grateful if you could arrange a meeting.'

The doctor frowned; Romella held her breath. Then he was saying, 'Forgive me, I'm neglecting my wife. Misha, you should have called me. Why don't you sit down, fraulein, while I do my duty in the kitchen?'

The Friendship reps stood one on either side of the bathing-room door, presumably to intervene should Findhorn attempt to drown Yoshi Matsumo.

Findhorn sat chest-deep in the wooden tub, his clothes ostensibly removed for ironing but in reality, he suspected, to search for electronic devices. He was sweating in the painfully hot water, and any movement was painful. Steam billowed around the little room.

Matsumo, his expression openly hostile, contemplated Findhorn. 'I ask myself, did this man cross Asia to apologize in person for his theft of the Petrosian papers? He did not. Well then, has he come full of contrition, ready to give them to me? He has not. There are no papers in your luggage, nor did you deposit any between Kansai and Hikone.' He sipped at a small glass of saki and continued: 'There remain two possibilities. He has come to negotiate a sale with me, or he has come to blackmail me with the documents. On either count, I admire your courage if not your intelligence.'

'You're wrong on both counts. I'm here to propose an alliance.'

Matsumo's eyes peered into Findhorn's, looking for a trick. 'For what purpose? Why do you imagine I would possibly make an alliance with you?'

'Our interests coincide, at least momentarily. The secret has been taken from me.'

'What?' Ripples of hot water spread out from Matsumo. 'Who has taken the papers?'

'They were stolen from me by a man from Sirius.'

Matsumo's expression didn't change. Findhorn continued, 'The same man who intended to steal the process from you.'

'And have you identified this man from Sirius?'

'I have. He's an industrialist. And I have reason to believe he's assembling a team of engineers to announce the process and discuss the construction of a prototype machine. As soon as his engineers know about the basic process, the secret is out and can't be put back.'

'You see what you have done with your stupid theft?'

Findhorn ignored the angry comment. 'I intend to indulge in a little industrial espionage, in the hope of finding the where and when. I suspect that the meeting will take place somewhere in Switzerland, and that it will be held very shortly.'

Matsumo barked something. One of the Friendship men slid open a panel door, and they left. Shortly the woman, who Findhorn presumed to be Matsumo's wife, came in with towels. She was followed by a girl of about eighteen, dressed in the traditional kimono, carrying Findhorn's clothes, neatly ironed and folded. Matsumo's wife crossed to a circular paper panel door and slid the two halves open. Cool air drifted into the room and Findhorn found himself looking out over the garden, where a low table had been set next to a gingko tree. Matsumo climbed the steps out of the tub onto the tatami floor. He was pink up to his chest and had a wrinkled, drooping stomach and white pubic hair. His wife began to pat him dry with a big white towel. Findhorn, feeling acutely embarrassed, climbed out and wrapped a towel around himself, declining the girl's offer of help. The girl tried to keep a straight face.

Lunch comprised mixed sashimi, raw squid and salmon cut into rose shapes, with thick slices of tuna, served on heavily lacquered square plates. A sea bass, garnished with daikon radishes and lemon, stared mournfully up at Findhorn. The ladies had vanished and the Friendship bodyguards were standing motionless a discreet twenty yards away. Lake Biwa sparkled below them, and Findhorn followed the wake of a powerful hydrofoil out to a central island, on which he could just make out a clutter of shrines.

'As you are a Westerner, I assume that you are driven by greed,' Matsumo said. 'You must suppose that by telling me where I can retrieve the secret, you will be given a share of future profits from it.'

The air, cool after the scalding tub, was refreshing. Findhorn said, 'The process may be dangerously unstable. It might cause disaster on a planetary scale. It has to be strangled at birth.'

Matsumo's face registered no surprise. Findhorn continued: 'Maybe the risk is at the one per cent level, maybe it's one shot in a million. But the potential profits are vast and the man from Sirius is willing to take the slight chance.'

'And you object to this?'

'If the risk was his alone, fine. But he's taking a chance with the future of life on Earth in return for personal gain. Four billion years of evolution being gambled on the turn of a card. And if we're alone in the Galaxy..'

'Now I understand. You seek the Petrosian document in order to destroy it for altruistic reasons.'

Findhorn was finding the sea bass a bit awkward. 'As do you, for reasons of commercial greed.'

Matsumo's hostile expression was gradually giving way to something approaching respect. 'So. You have been investigating my company's affairs.'

'Uhuh. Especially Norsk Advanced Technologies.'

Matsumo studied Findhorn's face closely. He grunted. 'Either you are, as you would have me believe, an idealist intent on saving the planet, or you are a very clever buccaneer.'

'Let me guess the sequence of events. When the aircraft wreckage was exposed, you found yourself in a race with the Americans to get to it. You didn't want an open conflict with them and so you asked the religious fanatics to do the job for you. You got them onto that expedition, intending the diaries to end up on your icebreaker. What was the inducement, Matsumo-sensei? A substantial sum of money?'

Matsumo remained silent.

'So far it's been all take and no give. Tell me what happened. What's your connection with the man from Sirius?'

Matsumo resumed his surgery with chopsticks. 'In the course of my long career one or two people have addressed me in that tone. Sadly, misfortune came their way.' He neatly pulled skin away from flesh. 'I knew the rumours about the slight risk of instability of the Petrosian secret but gave them no credence. How could any machine be so destructive? But I also knew that the Temple of Celestial Truth fanatics, with their distorted vision of reality, would believe it because they wanted it to be true. They would see the diaries as the route to a doomsday machine. That was the real inducement for them. The agreement was that they would acquire the diaries and give them to me, and I would then build them the machine.'

'Except that you had no intention of honouring the agreement. You intended to destroy the diaries,' Findhorn suggested.

'And the fanatics.'

'Let me guess some more. The leader of the cult double-crossed you. He no more believes it's unstable than do you. And he no more intends to hand over a fortune-making machine than he really believes he's from Sirius.'

'That would seem to be the case. I admit to a miscalculation. The man would seem to be a total fraud. I do not pretend to understand the psychology of religious leaders. However, you say that you have learned the identity of this wretch?'

'Is it possible to eat a fried egg with chopsticks?'

'Of course.' Matsumo snapped his fingers. The girl appeared with steaming white rice in delicate porcelain bowls. She set the plates out, brushing her arm lightly against Findhorn. She was wearing jade green eyeshadow and her eyes were accentuated by heavy black eye liner, and she gave Findhorn a slow, almost insolent, sultry glance. Matsumo caught the look and said something sharply. She scurried off, giggling behind her hand.

'If you are a clever buccaneer, you too will try to double-cross me at the first opportunity,' Matsumo said. 'Strangling the process at birth: you understand the implications?'

Findhorn nodded, the old familiar feeling creeping into his stomach. 'The industrialist in question has read the document. To kill the knowledge, you have to kill the man.'

'Not I, Findhorn-san. We. Only if you share the guilt can your future silence, and hence my security, be assured.' Matsumo was skilfully separating the spinal cord of the raw bass from its flesh. 'You must join my ninjas in the enterprise.'

'Oh God.'

'Are you prepared to do this?'

'To become a murderer? What choice do I have?' Findhorn heard the words from his own mouth, could hardly believe he was speaking them.

'And then there are the engineers.'

'They should be left alone. My man won't have dared to spread the process around. Security is everything. He'll announce the process at his meeting with them, probably cut them in on the profits to ensure their secrecy.'

Matsumo paused, flesh from the dead fish hovering at his mouth. 'That is what I would do. Then we had better get to your man before he meets them. If we wait until the meeting, everyone at it must be killed.'

'I'm having to grow up fast here,' said Findhorn, putting his chopsticks down.

'The morality of killing worries you, especially as we are not even in a war. But think, Findhorn-san. If you do not kill this wretched man, he will build a machine and risk the planet for personal gain. What morality is there in doing nothing to stop him taking that reckless chance? Your choice is this. Kill a man, or do not kill him. If you do, you become a murderer. If you do not, you connive in risking the termination of life on Earth.'

'I suspect you've been through this sort of consideration before.'

Matsumo shrugged. 'Most men never pass beyond the moral simplicities to be found in a western. Their minds are shaped by ignorant clerics and Hollywood producers. But the world belongs to men who understand the limitations of the morality tales.'

'I love it. Your powers of self-delusion. The way you put a cosy gloss on murder.'

Matsumo changed the subject. 'The girl who has been with you. She is not just a companion for cold nights.'

'She's been helping me with the diaries.'

'Come, Findhorn-san, she is more than a translator.'

Findhorn shrugged. 'I don't know who she represents. For a while I thought she had sold out to the Celestial Truth.'

'She is dangerous. She will try to steal the secret from both of us. Therefore she too must be disposed of. It is equally demanded by the logic'

'The lady's not disposable.'

Matsumo didn't reply. But then, Findhorn thought, he doesn't have to.

'Of course as a Party member I had privileges, but it wasn't too long before I became completely disillusioned with the system. It was corrupt from top to bottom. The Party finally gave me permission to emigrate to Canada and I took it. I practised there for thirty years, in a little town called Kapuskasing.'

'That explains your excellent English.'

Sachs shook his head sceptically. 'You're too kind. I have a thick German accent. Anyhow, with children grown up and dispersed over three continents, we decided to return here. Misha's surviving family are Bavarian.'

'More potatoes?' They were practically the first words Misha had spoken. A small, rotund, domestic woman, she seemed content to let her husband do all the talking.

Romella smiled and patted her stomach. 'No, thank you.'

'You are too skinny,' Misha scolded.

'I will telephone Lisa now,' said Sachs. 'Forgive me, but you understand that we all preserve each other's privacy. I will explain that you are writing a thesis about German universities in the 1930s and would like to speak with her. I am almost certain she will say no. Please wait here.'

Sachs disappeared into a corridor. Romella waited some minutes. When he came back, the man's face was negative. 'I am sorry. She is very old, like all of us now, and although she still has a sharp mind, she does not want to relive that part of her life. She sends her apologies and wishes you luck with your thesis.'

Romella nodded. Sachs showed surprise at her apparent lack of disappointment and she cursed herself as a lousy actress.

The point of the visit had been achieved. The rest of the meal was spent in inconsequential conversation. She left an hour later, sincerely wishing them every good fortune and leaving an unopened bottle of wine on the table.

The compartment in the train back to the airport was quiet. She took the little van Eck monitor out of her handbag and switched it on. It worked! The number Sachs had dialled came up on the little screen. Romella quickly noted it down, for fear that the unfamiliar device, hastily purchased in the spy shop near Burlington Arcade, would suddenly crash. It was a UK number but she didn't recognize the city.

At Munich airport, she phoned through to International Enquiries. The address was in Lincoln but it wasn't in the name of Lisa Rosen.

Neither was it in the name of Lev Petrosian.

It was, however, in the name of one Len Peterson.

There were no available flights between Kansai and Europe before six-thirty the following morning. Findhorn refused the offer of a lift to Kyoto and instead took the hydro out to the sacred island in Lake Biwa. At the top of a few hundred steps he took in the Buddhist shrine, the burning joss sticks and the breathtaking view. He thought he could see Matsumo's home, sunlight glinting off the windows. Then, with darkness falling, he took the Keihan to Kyoto and wandered the crowded, brilliantly lit streets. More than once, without any visual evidence, he thought he was being followed; but he put the sensation down to his overstressed nervous system.

Away from the centre of town Findhorn followed a crowd and found himself on a path lined with paper lanterns. Yet another shrine, this one small. A mysterious ceremony was taking place, involving chanting priests, flutes, tinkling bells and sonorous drums. Feeling like an alien from another planet, he bought a coke at a stall and made his way back to the hotel.

He sat in a small office while the manager obligingly typed in a password on a computer. There were two new messages on his e-mail:

Findhorn's brief burst of elation was abruptly cut short by the second message: