The Samurai Inheritance

XXXII

A painted devil’s face with dark, glaring eyes pinned him in position, the narrow slit of a mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer. It took him a heart-stopping moment to realize it was some kind of ceremonial mask pinned to the trunk of a cherry tree. A joke or a warning, but enough to paralyse him for a few moments after the close call with the buggy. He lay back and fought to recover his composure, the rucksack digging into his body and his hand clutching the pepper spray. At least it hadn’t been a bloody Rottweiler.

He used the time to visualize the lay-out of the massive concrete house. If he had it right most of the protection and security would be to the front and rear, so his best bet would be to come at it from the flank. He only had one plan, and its success depended on certain factors that were now beyond his control and the rudimentary equipment he’d managed to put together. On instinct he stowed the pepper spray where it was least likely to be found.

A few minutes later he was within sight of the house and he made an arcing run that brought him, hopefully unseen, to the low concrete cliff that was the east wall of the Dragon Lady’s bunker.

It was only when he stood with his back against the wall that he fully understood the challenge facing him. It rose sheer for something like thirty feet and ended in a flat roof. The only consolation was there appeared to be no cameras covering it. If this was the movies the hero would have been equipped with Spider-Man suction cups to help him climb the wall, sonic gizmos to disable the listening devices and, for all he knew, holograms to fool the cameras. All he had was a rope, a pair of pliers and a hammer, and he had a feeling the hammer had done its job.

Pleasantly surprised no one had yet come to welcome him with a 9mm Glock or a Heckler MP7, he stepped away from the wall and looked upwards. A concrete cliff all right, but against the night sky he could just identify the rim of the object he’d spotted when they’d driven up to the house. From what he’d seen there was no way of gaining entry to the place from the exterior without the use of a small army and/or half a ton of high-explosives, neither of which was available. But the internal courtyard and that beautiful Japanese garden were different. Jamie had the distinct feeling this was where the Dragon Lady escaped the day-to-day cares, murder and mayhem of your average Yakuza crime baron. It meant it was a place where she valued her privacy, so no intrusive cameras. Her cats had leave to come and go, which, he hoped, meant there’d also be no invisible security beams to hamper the potential interloper. Of course, he could be wrong and the cameras were hidden and the cats locked up for the night. Sometimes you just had to wing it and accept the painful consequences later. He’d worry about it when he got there. The question was how to get there?

The simple answer was a grapnel. With a grapnel hooked over the sill of the roof he could’ve shimmied up the wall in about five seconds flat. But the hardware shop and the outdoor store appeared to have run out of grapnels. So, no grapnel, and the hammer and the pliers wouldn’t answer on the flat roof. That meant falling back on a skill he’d learned a long time ago and which he prayed he hadn’t lost.

He uncoiled the rope from the rucksack, remembering winter nights curled up on the sofa beside his grandfather watching old black-and-white cowboy films. Jamie had vowed to learn how to use a lasso and had practised incessantly without much success. Then his grandfather, a former Anglican missionary who’d amassed an odd array of skills during his time in the Church, had taught him how to rope a kitchen chair with an old clothes line. He’d improved upon the skill until rope spinning became an unlikely, but much-admired party trick at Cambridge. He just hoped to God it hadn’t deserted him now that he needed it in earnest.

He curled the rope to create a loop bound by a simple slip knot. It had to be a substantial loop to encircle the object he’d noticed earlier. He was pinning his hopes on a medium-sized satellite dish just within range and strong enough — he hoped — to provide an anchor point. The only problem was that he’d never roped anything quite this high and it was difficult to get the technique right. He spun the loop around his head, using the wrist action to keep the circle open. He tried a practice throw that was well short, but shrugged off his disappointment because he knew he could do better. His first serious throw was off to the right and the second hit the wall just below the roof edge and crumpled back at his feet. Magda’s diversion had ended at least fifteen minutes earlier and it was only a matter of time before the investigating party returned and then the game was up.

A couple of steps back flattened the angle and this time the loop fell perfectly over the dish. He felt a surge of relief as he tightened it over the holding arm, using his full weight to test it before beginning the climb. He was nearing the top when he felt the holding arm begin to give, accompanied by an awful, terminal creaking groan. Desperately, he increased his pace, knowing that if the arm snapped it would send him plunging twenty-odd feet to the concrete. Inch by treacherous inch the curved silhouette of the dish moved out over the edge of the wall as the holding arm gave way. By the time he reached the top it could only have been held by a single screw, but somehow he managed to throw an arm over the lip and drag himself to lie wheezing on the roof.

No time to rest. He pulled the rope after him and snaked on his stomach to the far side. The courtyard below was steeped in darkness and the only light from the landing at the top of the stairs where he’d stood earlier. Fortunately, the stanchion for some sort of radio aerial gave him the solid anchor he needed and he threw the rope over the edge and let himself gently down on to a gravel path. This was the point of greatest danger. All it would take was for someone to walk into one of those rooms and turn on the light and he’d be spotlighted like a bug under a magnifying glass.

He moved towards the room with the gruesome collection of heads, wincing at every crunch of gravel beneath his feet. Would the window open? The catch was a simple hook that dropped into place when the floor-to-ceiling panel slid shut. He’d used the paper clip to hold the catch in a position he hoped would prevent it engaging completely while still providing a satisfactory click when the window closed. There’d also been two locks at the top and bottom that made it a much more serious proposition, but he hoped someone with a cat constantly running in and out wouldn’t bother with them too much. He said a little prayer as his fingers closed on the handle and pulled.

The window slid back with the slightest hiss and he almost died of fright as something small and black brushed against his legs. Bloody cat, he whispered to himself, if I get hold of you you’ll need every one of those nine lives. He unslung his backpack and slipped inside, closing the window behind him.

He switched on the head-torch. Something about the room was different, but he couldn’t place it. The beam ran over twin rows of shadowed niches taking in the tortured faces until he reached the one with the Bougainville head. Dark pits in the wizened face marked where the eyes had once been and he shivered as he imagined them blinking open to trap him in their stare. He reached up, and paused, not quite able to bring himself to touch the leathery human flesh. Who had he been, this shell of a creature that had once breathed and thought and hoped? Get a bloody grip, Saintclair. You don’t have time for this. He grasped the curly dark hair, surprised at how soft it felt despite its wiry appearance.

It was only then that his subconscious mind fixed on what was different about the room.

The samurai sword was missing from its cushion on the desk.

When the lights clicked on it hardly came as a surprise at all.

‘You will replace the head in its position, Mr Saintclair, drop your backpack, put your hands on your head and turn around.’ The voice was the soft rustle of silk running over the edge of a blade, but the words contained a menace that told him not to argue or protest. Very carefully he put the head back into the niche, placed his hands on the back of his neck and turned.

His focus should have been on Madam Nishimura and the sword she held, or on the thin guard from their morning visit and the pistol pointed at his heart. Instead, he felt a stab of almost physical pain at the sight of Magda Ross in the grasp of two more guards. Her hands were tied and a piece of duct tape had been placed over her mouth. Despite the hopelessness of the situation she struggled against her bonds, snarling behind the gag, and he felt a surge of pride beneath the panic.

‘I think—’

‘You will speak only when you are spoken to or your companion will be the one who suffers.’ Madam Nishimura nodded to one of the guards to emphasize the point and Magda let out a muffled squeal as he twisted her arm. Jamie clamped his mouth shut.

‘Search him.’

The thin guard who’d conducted the same search earlier in the day patted him down; torso first then arms and finally legs. When he was happy, he kicked the rucksack across the room to nestle beside Magda’s shoulder bag, which lay at her feet. Jamie obediently put his hands back behind his neck.

‘It was most amusing to watch you test my security,’ Madam Nishimura continued. ‘The door to the courtyard is, of course, alarmed so we knew you were coming, but I wondered how you would reach the garden. Your use of the rope was most ingenious, but I caution you against trying any further tricks. Did you really believe you could break into this house undetected? My people followed you every step of the way and when your foolish companion hopped over the wall it was the work of a moment to scoop her up.’

Jamie wondered what he’d see now if he met Magda’s eyes. She’d had strict instructions to stay outside the complex, why would she risk her neck? Nishimura misread his puzzlement for defiance and stepped forward to place the blade of the sword under his chin so he could feel the chill of the metal against his flesh. ‘Your naivety is touching. But, as you will discover, it comes at a cost.’

The question why she’d allowed them to get this far was on Jamie’s lips, but the threat against Magda was all too real. He had a feeling he’d find out soon enough. He was right.

‘Your presence here is an insult to my grandfather’s memory.’ The words were spoken without rancour, but he understood they had a meaning beyond the mere statement. Just to ensure he got the point the blade stayed tight against his skin, held there by a rock-steady hand. A single flick of the wrist was all it would take to tear his throat out.

But Madam Nishimura was in no hurry. For the moment she seemed content to bore him to death with her family history. ‘When it was over. After the …’ she hesitated, hardly able to bring herself to utter the word ‘… surrender, he vowed that no white man would ever set foot on this estate, the land of my ancestors. My grandfather was samurai. He followed the code of bushido and would have fought to the end. Instead, he was forced by duty to accept the collective humiliation of defeat. Afterwards, he considered seppuku, but with Japan led by weaklings he decided he must sacrifice his honour to maintain the flame of the warrior among his people; the flame he had nurtured throughout his lifetime.’ A cold smile flitted across the alabaster features, but Jamie felt a wave of relief as the sword dropped away. Nishimura picked up a framed photograph of two Japanese soldiers from the desk. The men, one older and presumably Major Yoshitaki, stared at the camera with a look of disdainful superiority as they stood with their hands resting on their scabbarded swords. ‘My grandfather and his comrade Lieutenant Kajimoto in Nanking during the Chinese disturbance of nineteen thirty-seven. You have heard of Nanking?’ Jamie nodded. ‘You may speak.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of Nanking. If I remember rightly it was referred to as the Rape of Nanking and several hundred thousand innocent Chinese were slaughtered there.’

‘A fabrication of the western media,’ she said dismissively. ‘My grandfather and his comrades were in China purely to exercise and protect Japan’s ancient and inalienable right to passage through the region. They were opposed by bandits and those bandits had the support of certain members of the population. Of course, the authorities must take action against them and naturally my grandfather was ready to step forward and do his duty.’ She flicked the switch on her desk to illuminate the thirty recesses. Jamie was overwhelmed by a sense of impending horror. ‘He and Lieutenant Kajimoto became famous for their competition to eliminate the greatest number of bandits using only a sword. They set a target of one hundred.’ She met Jamie’s eyes and he followed her gaze to the first of the heads.

‘No.’

‘Yes, Mr Saintclair. Unfortunately, he found it difficult to perfect the preservation technique and these are — How should we describe them? — the survivors of his haul. Each of them his own creation. Each of them beheaded by this sword, all but one.’

‘The Bougainville head.’

‘Of course. You would like to reveal your client’s name now?’

‘I don’t think so.’

She shrugged. ‘It does not matter. I’m sure we could elicit an answer by causing your companion more pain. There are certain refinements my grandfather perfected … But we are not barbarians. All that is required is to remove the stain on his memory.’ She rapped out an order in Japanese and Magda Ross squealed behind the tape. He turned to find her eyes wide and her head shaking. He only understood why when the thin guard left the room and returned a few moments later.

When Jamie saw what he was carrying the blood in his veins turned to ice water and his legs threatened to give way beneath him.

‘No, I—’

The sword point at his throat silenced him. ‘You must think of it as an honour, Mr Saintclair, a form of immortality. I am sure we will do you justice. We are much more practised now.’ The edge of the blade switched to his neck so he could feel the blood in his carotid artery pulsing against it. ‘And of course, it is virtually painless. Much preferable to dying by inches of cancer in your hospital bed.’

The thin guard spread the roll of plastic sheet he’d brought across the carpet at Jamie’s feet.

‘Kneel.’

‘I’d prefer to die on my feet, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Kneel or I will have them cause your friend pain.’

‘You’re going to kill her anyway.’

‘Yes, indeed. But I promise you she will not suffer. Kneel.’

Jamie shot a last desperate glance at Magda. Christ, he should be fighting for his life; putting his fist through the bloody woman’s face and tearing at the guards with his teeth. But for all his mind screamed at him to act, his body wouldn’t obey. He felt completely numb as he complied. This must have been what it was like for the men and women who queued obediently at the gates of Auschwitz waiting to die: a feeling of utter helplessness and inevitability. Nishimura issued another order. One of Magda’s captors left her to take Jamie’s arm while the thin guard took the other. The touch of their hands at last prompted some resistance, but it was too late. The more he struggled, the tighter they gripped.

‘Bow your head.’ Her voice had turned almost seductive. ‘It will be over in a moment.’

He froze as he felt the edge of the blade on the nape of his neck. His mind turned to his own grandfather, Matthew, the Anglican missionary who’d turned out to have fought in the SAS during the Second World War. The image of the old man gave him new strength. Matthew wouldn’t give in and allow himself to be butchered like this. Matthew would have fought to his last breath. ‘By the way,’ he turned his head to look up into his executioner’s face, ‘I don’t think your grandfather was a hero. I think he was a coward and a murderer who slaughtered innocent civilians for his own pleasure. Even your own government has disowned criminals like him, who encouraged the type of bestiality the Japanese Army perpetrated at Nanking. If there’s a Buddhist hell that’s where he is now, and that’s where you’re going.’

‘It is a testament to your own fear,’ Nishimura smiled, ‘that you think to provoke me into prolonging your life, even if it costs you a great deal of pain. I’m afraid that will not work, Mr Saintclair.’

The guard on Jamie’s left forced his chin round so he was staring at the plastic sheet, the one designed to protect the expensive carpet from his spurting blood. In the same moment he felt them angle their bodies away from him, loosening their grip just a fraction. The movement gave him the chance to rotate the object clutched convulsively in his left hand.