Kusanagi Page 7

From that moment on, the little boy who had fought the dog had taken his place on the bench: he was the manager who called the shots.

  Danny sat on the British equivalent of a Greyhound bus to London. He looked out at all the little fields. It was rather like Japan, small and neat. There was something kind of cute about the landscape – it was strangely model-like. The people in the country seemed to have reached an agreement to share in a friendly way, too small a space to live comfortably. Through it all, a skinny freeway wove towards the city.

  London was meant to be foggy and have soldiers in red there. They always teased the Brits about the London fog and the Brits laughed and teased them back about the dollar being three to the pound. That was good because three dollars to the pound for the gold brick would be great.

  It might not be foggy in the UK today but it sure as hell didn’t need fog for the weather to be as miserable as sin. No wonder the Brits were everywhere around the world: staying home would be seriously depressing.

  Right now the guys would be out to sea again, sailing to the bay to look for more gold. If he wasn’t so tired he’d be jigging in his bus seat like a child on his way to the fair. Instead, jetlagged, he was just awake. Tomorrow there was an auction at Christie’s of antiquities. He was going to sit in on it and see if anything made sense to him. Then he’d go to the valuation department and get an opinion. An over muscular grin spread across his face. Time was passing way too slowly for his liking.

  At the hotel he would stay in until the next day. He was not going out and risking anything. He would wait, eat and sleep until the new day came and his mission really kicked off.

  The next morning, getting out of bed was a hard stretch. He could have lain in the nice sheets at the Best Western Marble Arch for many more hours. The auction was in about an hour and that was enough time to shave, shower and shift to Christie’s.

  18

  Jim sat at the front with his numbered paddle. It said ‘9’. Nine was a good number, he thought. It was three squared, and three was the basic number of sides for a two dimensional object. Nine was solidity squared and anything solid, squared, had to be his friend. The room was filling and he looked at his watch. He was early as usual.

  He took out the catalogue of ancient objects. He had marked each lot with a note. There was a mummy, a Spartan helmet, a spectacular Roman gold necklace, a mysterious glass Anglo-Saxon drinking horn. It was all so insanely cheap. How could a Roman’s surgeon’s kit be worth less than a thousand pounds? How could a Roman gold signet ring with a fabulously engraved stone be worth little more than that? A Bronze Age axe head for a few hundred quid? Absurd. It seemed like a hoax.

  Even the most expensive item, a head of Emperor Hadrian, was only a hundred and twenty thousand – he could flip that out of a dollar-yen trade in a few minutes – yet the statue had been buried in the ground for two thousand years, a unique masterpiece, now apparently little appreciated. The catalogue was like a treasure chest. The prices reminded him of some obvious Internet fraud, yet this was one of the most prestigious auction houses in the world. The objects were real and so were those prices. He thumbed through the catalogue. It all looked so appealing.

  His side was throbbing under his arm and, when he pressed it, felt swollen, firm to his touch. He fiddled with his phone as if something on it might interest him. How sad was it that he had no one to call? He SMSed Jane. ‘Morning,’ he wrote. She would be fast asleep and he wondered whether a beep thousands of miles away would wake her. He felt guilty at the possibility but it would be nice to hear her. Would he tell her he’d had the tracker removed or hold his tongue until they met again and she took off his shirt? Would it make her angry, put her off sex? What would she say?

  The thoughts buzzed around his head.

  The room was almost full. Would he have to battle with some other rich antiquities addict? Had Stafford clued the auction house in sufficiently for him to buy what he liked without suddenly hitting some kind of credit limit? He fancied the Hercules statue at the beginning of the auction. The hero was bronze and leant against a big knobbly club. It was meant to cost around a hundred thousand pounds and would look good on a shelf in the lounge. In fact, he fancied it all. If he wasn’t careful, home would soon look like some dusty museum. He gazed around. The auction was going to start shortly. He was getting rather excited – he could buy the auction house, let alone the contents of the sale. There was something rather wonderful about that feeling of power.

  He took a deep breath. Whatever he bought, it wouldn’t beat how he felt when he found something on the foreshore. Money couldn’t buy that buzz.

  Danny watched the young man at the front. He was snapping up the whole freakin’ auction. Old guys in nice jackets were frowning and puffing as he bid them out of their league. Was he some kind of joker or some super-rich dude on a roll? A dealer tried to match him on a broken marble foot. The catalogue said it was worth two thousand pounds, but they were soon bidding close to fifty thousand. The dealer looked very serious but the young guy was taking him on. The price hit a hundred thousand, then two hundred thousand. The room had gone very quiet.

  Two hundred and ten, went the young guy.

  Two hundred and twenty, went the dealer.

  Two hundred and thirty.

  Two hundred and forty. The dealer was apparently intent on winning.

  The young guy didn’t bid back.

  The dealer smiled.

  The young guy nodded and motioned with his hand to admit defeat.

  The dealer looked suddenly horrified. The gavel went down. The dealer coughed, got up and walked out of the room.

  What was that about? wondered Danny.

  The young guy carried on his remorseless pursuit, the crowd now apparently accepting that he was going to buy pretty much every lot.

  Danny had no idea what he was watching, but he knew what he had to do.

  There was a break in the proceedings and the young guy got up and headed down the aisle in Danny’s direction.

  Danny got up. ‘Hey,’ he said, as Jim passed him.

  Jim knew immediately that he was looking at a GI. ‘Hey, soldier,’ he said.

  The American double-took, then grinned. ‘You got a second?’

  Jim had been thinking about getting a coffee and going back for the second session, but he said, ‘Sure, mate.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said the American. ‘Let me show you something.’ He moved back two seats and pulled up the duffel bag.

  Jim was on a high from all the bidding. ‘What have you got?’ he said. He saw a flash of gold. He bent down and saw a box inside a green cloth bag, a gold-decorated fabulous jewel flashing up at him like an old coin lying in the mud. ‘That’s amazing,’ he murmured.

  ‘It is,’ said the American.

  ‘Brilliant,’ said Jim, as if he’d met a lucky bridegroom with his newly-wed wife.

  ‘I’m selling,’ said the soldier.

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But it’s beautiful,’ Jim said, as if that meant anything in a saleroom to a seller.

  ‘Isn’t it just.’

  Jim knew he had to have it. ‘How much do you want for it?’

  ‘A million.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Or two.’

  ‘OK,’ said Jim.

  ‘Can we go somewhere private?’ said the American, glancing around.

  ‘OK,’ said Jim, standing up. ‘I’m Jim.’ He held out his hand.

  The soldier took it in his giant paw. ‘Danny.’

  ‘Good to meet you.’

  In the cab, Jim gawped at the article in his lap. It was a heavy lump of gold engraved in the most delicate and refined way he could imagine. ‘Where did you get this?’ he said.

  ‘Can’t say,’ said Danny.

  ‘It’s not stolen, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Danny.

  ‘I can Google stolen Japanese treasure, you know,’ he said, not taking his eyes of the tableau.

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p; ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘It’s amazing,’ Jim said again.

  Danny just grinned. ‘There’s at least half a million dollars of raw gold in it.’

  Jim didn’t reply. What was gold to him? It was just a metal that scared people bought. Gold was only good for Mexican teeth and jewellery. The slab was another matter. It was a masterpiece, carved by a genius. He wasn’t a connoisseur of the arts but he had handled enough bits and bobs to know when he was in the presence of majesty.

  The cab drew up outside Jim’s house and the two men got out. Jim paid off the driver, then went up to his front door. He knocked, and Stafford answered. The butler looked questioningly at Danny. ‘Please come in.’

  ‘Danny’s got an amazing thing he wants to sell,’ said Jim, ushering his guest through to the lounge.

  Danny went to the window. The panoramic view of the Thames was impressive and he turned to compliment his host. Before he could speak, he caught a glimpse of a computer on a desk by the far wall. That looked like General Jane… The screen flashed out.

  Jim led him to a table in the middle of the room, a rickety old wooden piece. ‘Lay it down here,’ he said. ‘Look at this, Stafford.’

  Danny put the GI duffel on the floor, unzipped it and heaved the slab out. He put it on the table.

  Stafford bent over it, adjusting his glasses. He looked at Jim silently, in the opaque way he did when he meant something important. Jim could never guess what he meant until it was too late for the answer to be useful. ‘OK, Danny, what do you want for it?’ he asked.

  Danny laughed. The little boy with his hand on the levers thought they looked friendly. ‘A million.’

  ‘Dollars?’ asked Jim.

  The little boy pulled the lever that operated his brain. ‘Euros…’ He hesitated. ‘Pounds.’

  ‘Which?’ asked Stafford.

  ‘Which is more?’ asked Danny, cheekily.

  ‘Dollars,’ said Jim.

  Danny shifted uncomfortably. He sure as hell knew that wasn’t true. ‘Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘The pound is the heaviest. A million pounds is three million dollars.’

  ‘OK,’ said Danny, nervously, ‘that will do just fine.’

  ‘Right,’ said Jim, ‘but I need to make a call.’

  ‘You know, I’m kind of scared of people getting to know about it.’

  ‘Is it stolen?’ Jim asked, for the second time.

  ‘No,’ interjected Stafford.

  Jim and Danny looked at him in mutual surprise.

  ‘I’m sure Danny is an honest man.’ Stafford coughed a little. ‘Aren’t you, Danny?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Just one call, no one sinister,’ said Jim.

  Max Davas not sinister? He certainly was, as far as many were concerned.

  Davas was quietly happy, his Rolex Milgauss ticking quietly away next to the giant superconductive magnets that drove the accelerator. ‘Are you sure you aren’t going to create a black hole?’ he enquired.

  ‘No,’ said Professor Eigen. ‘To the contrary. I hope we will create many. I’m sure you know they will simply evaporate.’

  Davas raised his eyebrows. ‘As long as your equation is not upside down.’

  Eigen gesticulated. ‘We are sure we are right.’

  Davas waved at the enclosure beside the magnets of the toroid at the terminal of the accelerator. ‘And this is where the field will be at its strongest?’

  ‘Right here, just before the detector.’

  ‘I want my server as close as possible. I don’t want a millimetre wasted,’ said Davas, pointing to a space that clearly blocked the alley that ran alongside the giant tube that was the particle accelerator.

  ‘For twenty million dollars a year in funding, we can dig out the wall a little more,’ said Eigen, smiling.

  ‘You don’t believe in my tachyons, do you?’ said Davas, with a grin.

  ‘And you don’t believe in my benign black holes.’

  ‘You’re right,’ said Davas, ‘and I seem to be in partnership with both Doomsday scenarios.’

  ‘We are only using the energy of a tiny flying insect. Even though we are expending a teravolt of energy, we aren’t at risk of creating an earth-gobbling-sized black hole.’

  Davas wagged a finger. ‘You forget, Hans, who you are talking to.’

  Eigen chuckled as Davas pulled his BlackBerry from his pocket. At the accelerator, everywhere was connected, even deep underground.

  Davas would only answer his phone for Jim.

  ‘Tell me if I should pay a million pounds for this,’ said Jim. An image popped up on the screen as he downloaded it.

  ‘Yes,’ said Davas.

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Jim.

  ‘No,’ said Davas.

  ‘Can’t you say any more?’ asked Jim, slightly irritated.

  ‘No,’ said Davas. ‘Go to five if you need to, and if that’s not enough call back.’

  ‘A tachyon field will not pull your server into the future,’ said Eigen, by way of attracting Davas’s attention from the image on his little screen.

  ‘What?’ said Davas, looking up. ‘Let’s forget the experiment, then.’

  Professor Eigen merely cocked his head questioningly.

  ‘All right, I was only joking. It’s worth an attempt, don’t you think?’

  ‘Why not?’ agreed Eigen.

  Davas smiled. ‘I already have a tachyon device. I just need a back-up.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Eigen, looking a little perturbed.

  ‘Really,’ said Davas, thinking of Jim reading the future of the markets in the blank space at the front of a stock chart.

  Jim hung up and walked back into the room. Stafford was riveted to the gold artefact. ‘OK, Danny, a million pounds it is.’

  ‘Three million dollars,’ said Danny.

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘In cash.’

  ‘Cash?’ said Jim.

  ‘Cash.’

  ‘That won’t work.’

  Danny looked at him with ‘Why?’ stamped all over his face.

  ‘In hundred-dollar bills?’

  ‘Twenties.’

  Jim’s trader maths kicked in. ‘That is a hundred and fifty kilos of banknotes,’ he said.

  ‘Oh,’ said Danny. ‘You sure?’

  ‘A dollar bill is a gram whatever denomination. Twenty into three million is one hundred and fifty thousand, that’s a hundred and fifty kilos.’

  ‘Right,’ said Danny, shifting from his left foot to the right.

  ‘Anyway, even if you could carry it, you can’t move more than ten thousand dollars in cash over borders. Three million is going to be tricky unless you live here, which you don’t.’

  Danny seemed a little crestfallen, ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘You don’t want a cheque, I suppose.’

  Danny shook his head.

  ‘I can do a transfer.’

  ‘You know the bank G D Marland?’ interjected Stafford.

  ‘Sure,’ said Danny. ‘Everyone’s heard of them.’

  ‘Show him the account,’ said Stafford, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. ‘We can do a wire to his account in the States.’

  Jim and Danny’s eyes met. ‘Cool,’ said Danny.

  They walked to the computer and Jim wiggled his mouse. Jane’s picture, his screen wallpaper, flashed onto the screen. She was smiling, crawling under barbed wire through mud. She was a few years younger but she hadn’t changed much. Jim always smiled when he saw the shot. He opened the browser and covered the picture. He glanced at Danny. For some reason, the man was clearly mortified. ‘You OK?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danny, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘Who…’ he said, before the ‘little guy’ pulled the lever and his mouth snapped shut.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Danny.

  Jim opened the account on the summary page. There was a serial number where the balance should have been.
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  Danny read it. ‘How many decimal places is that?’ he asked.

  ‘A lot,’ said Jim, trying to stifle a smile. ‘Let’s send you the money.’

  ‘Can we go to the bank and send it from there?’ asked Danny. ‘That way I can believe it and also ring up my pa and get his bank details. I haven’t got mine.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jim. ‘Let me call the bank.’

  Danny was reading the number but the spacing was too tight for him to reliably make out whether there were nine or ten digits left of the decimal. ‘Wow,’ he said finally. ‘You are some rich guy.’

  Jim was already on his mobile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but you know the legend of Croesus.’

  ‘No,’ said Danny. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Hi,’ said Jim. ‘Can you put me onto St John?’

  ‘Not a happy story,’ said Stafford, shaking his head.

  19

  Akira sat by his friend’s hospital bed and held his mottled, trembling hand. The old man was asleep, his mouth a little open, an oxygen line under his nose. Akira would sit there for another half an hour, then leave. He saw a flicker of eyelids and watched his friend slowly awaken. ‘Good afternoon,’ said Akira.

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said the old man very quietly, his voice hollow like the note of a small breathy flute.

  ‘I know,’ said Akira. ‘Your wife has told me all the details.’

  ‘It exists.’

  ‘I know,’ said Akira again. ‘Please do not force yourself to speak.’

  ‘It…’ the old man squeezed Akira’s hand ‘…is real.’

  ‘I know,’ said Akira, a third time, ‘and I will find it.’

  ‘It is… so beautiful.’

  Akira smiled at his old friend, who perhaps smiled back before falling, exhausted once more, asleep.

  Akira made a fist of his short hand, then let his fingers open one by one. Was it a miracle or a curse? he wondered.

  Brandon looked out onto the cove. The sky was a perfect blue. The black cliffs looked less sharp than they had on previous occasions and seabirds coasted along them above the surf, crying to their comrades. The water lapped against the fishing boat, a smooth, undulating surface without a ripple to break its salty skin.

  He let Casey roll off into the water first, then followed him. The sea below was empty. The hammerheads had gone and there seemed to be hardly any life in the waters, except the occasional fish that flittered past, almost invisible against the blue light. As he swam down, he heard Casey in his ear: ‘Wow.’