The Ends of the Earth (19 page)

The motor-boat was waiting at the small landing-stage, obscured by surrounding trees that had clinched using the wood for Hanckel’s removal from the Swiss side of the lake. Marmier senior, roll-up cigarette adhering as usual to his lower lip, greeted Appleby wordlessly. The boy was already below in the tiny cabin when Appleby clambered aboard. They moved smartly away from the shore.

‘Don’t go too fast,’ said Appleby, fearing a speedy crossing might attract attention.

There was no response from Michel at the wheel. But André, who was already casually lighting a cigarette, said, ‘Leave it to Papa,
monsieur
. ’E knows ’ow to do this.’

Appleby was forced to acknowledge that he probably did. ‘How’s the boy?’ he asked.

André shrugged. ‘
Il dort.
’

The assessment hardly seemed adequate. Appleby descended the few steps into the cabin and looked at Hanckel, who was lying unconscious on a low bunk, with his head clear of the blanket. The chloroform had caused blisters around his lips and nostrils. They would be painful, but it could not be helped.

‘Will ’e wake before we reach the villa?’ André asked from the hatchway.

‘How long before we get there?’

‘Maybe … ’alf an hour.’

‘Then yes. He may. You’d better tie him up.’

‘And a gag? In case ’e tries to call out.’

‘Yes. A gag too.’

André’s estimate of half an hour was about right, but Hanckel was still unconscious when they reached the French side of the lake. Veronica emerged on to the lawn behind Les Saules as they approached and walked down to the landing-stage to meet them.

The willows that gave the villa its name supplied a handy amount of privacy at this time of the year, other than from out in the lake. And the only craft in sight were a couple of distant yachts.

The villa itself stood halfway up a slope leading from the shore to the lakeside road. It was taller than it was wide, terracotta-tiled and cream-washed, with balconies at most of the windows. Some of the tiles had slipped and paint was peeling from the shutters and balcony railings. It looked neglected, hemmed in by overgrown shrubs and spreading trees. But neglect was halfway to secrecy in Appleby’s book. And secrecy would be paramount in the days ahead.

André carried Hanckel down the external steps into the cellar, which Veronica had laboured hard to render suitable for short-term habitation. It still smelt damp, but was a good deal cleaner than when she had first seen it.

They had set up a truckle-bed in one corner, on which the boy was laid. André untied him and removed the gag, then used the manacles Appleby supplied to chain his left wrist to one of several pipes running up into the house from the adjacent boiler.

As far as the Marmiers were aware, the abduction was for ransom money pure and simple. Appleby, whom they knew as Brown, had told them Hanckel’s father was a wealthy Zürich businessman, which was easy to believe of a pupil at Le Rosey. They had been paid part of their share in advance, but enough had been held back to ensure their continuing compliance – and assistance, if needed.

‘’Ow long before ’is father pays?’ André asked bluntly as they walked back up the cellar steps at the side of the house.

‘I’ll give him forty-eight hours,’ Appleby replied. ‘But there may be delays. He’s a businessman. They like to negotiate.’

‘You want me to cut off one of the boy’s ears and send ’is
papa
that to negotiate with, you tell me, OK?’

‘I’ll be sure to.’

‘
Les riches.
’ André spat into the bushes as he reached the top of the steps. ‘That for them.’

‘You can go now.’

‘
Oui?
’ André gave Appleby a glare. ‘We ’ear from you soon, yes?’

‘Yes.’ Appleby said. ‘Soon.’

A few minutes later, the motor-boat pulled away from the landing-stage and headed off, bound for the Marmiers’ yard. Veronica did not hide her relief at seeing them go.

‘They’re a poisonous pair,’ she said, almost under her breath.

‘They’re a necessary pair,’ Appleby corrected her. ‘With any luck, you won’t have to see them again.’

‘Keeping the boy chained up down in that cellar doesn’t sit well with my conscience, Horace.’

‘Nor with mine. But remember who his father is. And what’s been done on his orders to people we’ve worked with and respected. Not to mention what might still be done.’

She nodded grimly. ‘I will remember.’

‘Now, I must get to the station. The telegraph office will still be open. And the sooner Max hears from us, the sooner young Hanckel will be off that conscience of yours.’

SAM AND MALORY’S
first night in the house in Shinjuku was far from a restful one. A narrow, two-storey building set within a small, enclosed yard, it existed close to the heart of nocturnal entertainment in the district, with a dingy cinema, a Chinese grill-restaurant, a probable brothel and a gambling den as its near neighbours. The hours of darkness in such an area were not hours of quietude.

Malory ventured out early in the morning to buy food. She returned with the ingredients for a breakfast Sam pronounced ‘cracking’. It was not long afterwards, however, that he resumed trying to dissuade her from confronting Lemmer, at which he had taken an initial stab the night before.

‘We only have one go at this, Sam,’ she rejoined. ‘I guess you have to ask yourself: do I stand a better chance of intimidating Lemmer than you do?’

It was a question he was reluctant to answer. And he was still havering on the point when the telephone rang. Malory answered it.

‘
Moshi-moshi.
’

‘It’s me.’

Malory mouthed ‘
Max
’ to Sam. ‘There’s news?’

‘A cable. They have him.’

‘Good. I’ll proceed.’

‘Give him twenty-four hours to confirm our claim, but no longer.’

‘I understand.’

‘And … good luck.’

Malory had decided to risk Lemmer being out when she reached the Imperial Hotel rather than forewarn him of her arrival.

Leaving Sam to fret, she walked to Shinjuku station and took a taxi directly to the Imperial. She noted the hotel’s size and French-style grandeur. A replacement was under construction on an adjacent site that would be grander still, according to her driver. A
kane-bako
, he called it: a gold mine. And Lemmer, it was true, had come to Japan hoping to mine a rich seam. It was her task to tell him he would see no gold from it.

She was aware, as she crossed the gleaming foyer, that in her worn clothes she did not look like one of the Imperial’s natural patrons. Chiyoko had given her a light raincoat to wear over the dress she had left Yokohama in. The coat helped her blend with the crowd on the streets. But here it looked shabby and cheap. Nor had she been able to make herself up as she would have wished.

‘Damn appearances, Malory,’ she murmured to herself as she approached the desk. ‘Manner is all that matters.’

And her manner bore her well. The clerk was rapidly persuaded that ‘Boel-san’ would want to see her. The name of his visitor? ‘Miss Ireton.’ The reference to her late employer in Paris would put Lemmer on his mettle without quite knowing who – or what – to expect. The call to Boel-san’s suite was not a short one. Malory had the impression the clerk was talking to a woman: Anna Schmidt, presumably. The formulation ‘Miss Ireton on urgent business’ eventually sufficed. She was asked to go up.

The door was opened by a tall, angular woman with ash-blonde hair and a narrow, sharp-featured face. She was dressed soberly, in shades of brown, and it was hard to imagine a smile coming readily to her thin, pursed lips.

‘Frau Schmidt?’ Malory asked.

‘My name is Staun,’ came the reply, in an accent clearly more German than Danish.

‘Well, may I come in?’

Anna Schmidt stepped back and Malory entered a large, opulently furnished room. There was no one else in it, though a door in the far corner, leading to another room, stood open.

‘Your name is Ireton?’ Anna Schmidt asked.

‘You know who I am, I think. I’m here to see Herr Lemmer.’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t have time to play games. Neither, though he does not know it, does Herr Lemmer. I must speak to him.’

‘Herr Boel is a busy man. He sees no one without an appointment.’

‘Why ask me to come up, then?’

‘So that you may state your business.’

‘Very well. It concerns his son.’

Anna Schmidt looked startled. A crack spread across her composure. ‘His son?’

‘I have no son.’

The voice came from the adjoining room. Turning, Malory saw Lemmer walk through the doorway. He was as he had been described to her: grey-bearded and bespectacled, dignified and deliberate, scholarly in appearance, but with a hint of latent power in his posture and movement.

‘Herr Lemmer,’ said Malory simply.

‘You are Malory Hollander,’ he responded. ‘A fugitive wanted by the Japanese police. I am about to call down and have the police summoned here to arrest you.’

‘You shouldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have already given you the reason. Your son.’

‘And I have already said I have no son.’

‘Eugen Hanckel.’

There was no change in Lemmer’s expression, though something like a gasp escaped from Anna Schmidt. Lemmer moved closer, studying Malory’s face intently. She caught the scent of the cologne he was wearing. It carried the aroma of apples.

‘He is a pupil at Institut Le Rosey in Switzerland. But he is no longer at the school. We have him.’

‘
We?
’

‘I’m here to deliver our terms for his release.’

‘You admit you have been involved in the kidnapping of this boy who is not my son. That would be another crime you could be arrested for.’

‘If you have me arrested, now or later; if I do not leave here when I want; if I am followed when I choose to leave …’

‘Yes, Miss Hollander? What then?’

‘The boy will die.’

Anna Schmidt drew in her breath sharply. Lemmer took another step closer to Malory and stared at her. His self-control was total. She could not but admire that in him. And she had to steel herself not to be cowed by the levelness of his gaze. He was, she knew now, if she had ever doubted it, a formidable force.

‘Then you would murder a stranger’s child,’ he said.

‘Eugen Hanckel. Born Berlin, 1904. Not a stranger, Herr Lemmer. Your son. Our prisoner.’

He took a long slow breath. Then: ‘What are your terms for the release of this boy who is not my son?’

‘The key to the Grey File, authenticated by London; the Terauchi–Zimmermann letter; and Count Tomura’s secret.’

‘So little? No money? No pot of gold?’

‘You heard what I said. We will give you twenty-four hours to consider your answer. That’ll allow you to cable the school and confirm the boy’s disappearance. Perhaps you’ll consult the lawyer Dulière as well. Consult who you wish. But have your answer ready for us.’

‘You still have not said who you are working with.’

‘I’ve said what I needed to say.’

‘Come, come, Miss Hollander. What are you? A former secretary to a man regarded by your own country as a traitor. Ireton is dead. Max is dead. You and Twentyman are fugitives. And Morahan is in prison. There is only one man whose bidding you can be doing with this charade. Appleby. He is not here, of course. He is not in the line of fire. You are.’

‘The terms are as they are.’

‘
If
Appleby has the boy, he would not dare to kill him.’

‘You’ll have to be the judge of that. He’s your son. Your only son.’

‘Why do you not ask for your friends who are in prison to be set free?’

‘Because we believe what you can tell us about Tomura will destroy him. And the Grey File won’t buy you any favours with the Japanese government once your spies have been identified. So, my friends will be set free as a matter of course.’

‘You seem unwarrantably confident, Miss Hollander. Perhaps working for Ireton is to thank for that. You must always have been telling his clients what you knew to be untrue.’

‘I know what I’m telling you to be true, Herr Lemmer. We have your son. And he’ll be released unharmed only if you accept and honour the terms I’ve stated.’

‘Which I have twenty-four hours to consider?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ll return for my answer?’

‘No. I’ll telephone you. Then we’ll arrange where and when you’re to deliver what we’ve asked for.’

A long moment of silence elapsed while Lemmer continued to stare at her. She felt her face burning, but she held her nerve and her gaze. Then he said, ‘I will expect your call.’

And he said no more.

She took a taxi from the hotel to Tokyo Central station and threaded through the crowds to a small café beneath one of the platforms, where Max was waiting.

‘It went well?’ he asked, signalling for the waitress to bring her a cup of coffee.

‘As well as I could have hoped,’ Malory replied, drawing gratefully on a cigarette.

‘He has a menacing air about him.’

‘I noticed.’

‘How did he react?’

‘He didn’t. Unless you count a cold stare as a reaction.’

‘He probably didn’t believe you. But he will.’

‘I went there to get his attention.’ She shuddered. ‘And I got it.’

‘No one’s as invulnerable as he pretends to be, Malory. We’ve given him a lot to think about. It’s really very simple. Is he human or not? If he is, he has to give in.’

Malory’s coffee arrived. She took a sip, then looked straight at Max. ‘Well, we’ll soon know.’

LATER THAT MORNING
in Tokyo, three men stepped from a limousine before the entrance to Yasukuni-jinja, the Shinto shrine dedicated to Japan’s war dead, set in parkland north of the Imperial Palace.

Two were arrayed in military uniform: Count Tomura Iwazu and his son, Noburo. The Count’s uniform, that of a colonel, was noticeably the grander of the two, with gold buttons and braiding and a colourful red and gold sash. He carried it well, with the bullish air of a man who had earnt his decorations. Noburo wore a plainer lieutenant’s uniform and looked somehow diminished in the company of his father.