Revelation

'Captain Hansen,' said Findhorn.

The next photograph was marked 01.07. The elevator had disgorged a man and a woman. The man had a broad-brimmed hat, a long coat and sunglasses, none of which could disguise the small, bulky frame. The woman's face was likewise adorned with dark glasses but it was long, it had a turned-down mouth and the same grim demeanour. She too was wearing a long coat which reminded Findhorn of something he'd seen in a movie about Wyatt Earp.

The next few stills showed them moving along the corridor, stopping at Hansen's door, the door opening although Hansen was out of view, and then, again, a blank corridor. The last two pictures were marked 05.33 and showed the same pair in the corridor, and then standing at the elevator, and then gone.

Findhorn closed the folder and slid it back. 'These are the people who tried to get Petrosian's briefcase from me. They claimed they were Norsk officials.'

'And they were in Hansen's room for over four hours.' Doug passed over another envelope. 'Here are some police photographs.'

'How did you get hold of them?'

'Santa popped them down the chimney. And this is the preliminary autopsy report. It's a rough draft and very technical, but it gives you an idea of what they were doing during those hours.' Findhorn flicked through the photographs. He felt himself going pale. 'The wire you see is telephone cable. There's evidence that he was gagged, I suppose to stop him screaming. The burn marks around his genitals suggest that they were using the room's electricity supply in some way. There are also pinhole marks around his stomach suggesting the same — look at plates three and four. And they drove things under his fingernails before they took them off — plates seven to ten. You don't want to look at the rest of it. Professor Hillion did the actual autopsy. His preliminary conclusion is that Hansen's heart gave out.'

Doug took the pictures and folder back from Findhorn's shaking hand.

'Why?'

'They were trying to find you, Fred.'

Findhorn said, 'These people weren't employed by Norsk. They said they'd come from Arendal. Norsk doesn't have an office in Arendal. I should know, I lived there for a year.'

Doug nodded. 'Norsk's head office is in Leiden.'

'I didn't know that.' Findhorn was unsettled, the images of Hansen were filling his mind.

'It's fairly standard, Fred. Lots of European companies have head offices with Netherlands addresses except that they're not really in the Netherlands. They're in the Dutch Antilles, Aruba to be precise, which is an island north of Venezuela.'

'You mean…'

'Norsk is owned by an offshore company. Find the owner of that offshore company, and you find the real power behind Norsk. Places like Aruba and Nassau act as black boxes. Officials in these offshore havens often adopt a laager mentality when it comes to enquiries about fiscal, tax and even criminal matters. It's all but impossible to penetrate the flow of cash in, through and out of them. However, you'll be glad to learn that your little brother not only knows people who know people with corruptible contacts in these places, the aforesaid people owe your little brother one or two favours.'

'You're surely not talking about criminals?' Romella asked, mock-innocent.

Doug's expression was pained. 'Clients, Romella, please. Anyway, I now know who really owns Norsk.' He gave a lawyer's pause, as if to let the fact sink in with the jury. 'And this knowledge has allowed me to identify your friends in the Sheraton photographs.'

Doug sipped at a tonic water and asked, 'What do you know about the Japanese Friendship Societies?'

Findhorn shook his head, and Doug continued: 'They're gangsters, the sokaiya in Japanese. They're a specialist branch of the yakusa. Originally they made their money by threatening to disrupt the annual meetings of large corporations unless they received large payoffs. It seems this was a legal activity in Japan until 1983. Anyway, I imagine payoffs continue to this day, legal or not. But now enter Darwinian evolution. A very strange relationship has grown up between the corporations that they used to prey on and these parasites. Now the corporations hire them to make sure nobody asks awkward questions at shareholders' meetings.'

'I have a horrible feeling,' Findhorn said.

'Aye, Fred. The nasties you met in the Whisky Club belong to a clan known as the Genyosha, the Dark Ocean Society. They're connected with a group known as Matsumo Holdings. Now the Genyosha have a track record. Their methods of friendly persuasion include limb breaking, finger amputation and the like. Rumour has it that the more stubborn shareholders have had a joyous early reunion with their ancestors.'

Findhorn said flatly, 'Look, Norsk asked me to get the diaries from that iceberg. Why didn't they just send regular company officials to collect them and be done with it?'

'Fred, I can think of only one explanation. Matsumo Holdings wants to do you harm.'

Findhorn blew out his cheeks. 'As in a joyous reunion with my ancestors?'

Doug nodded. 'It seems to be enough that you've been in contact with the diaries. And now, with this vacuum energy business you're telling us about, it all begins to fit.' He pulled a thick, glossy brochure out of his briefcase. 'I've dug up a group profile for Matsumo Holdings.'

'A group profile?'

'Yes. Matsumo took over the Fuyo group last year.'

'Means nothing to me,' said Findhorn.

'Don't get alarmed, Fred, I know you have the commercial acumen of a Tibetan monk. I'll keep it simple. The Fuyo group is centered round the zaibatsu.'' He raised his eyebrows interrogatively, and Findhorn looked blank. Doug said, 'Right,' in the tone of a man about to climb a steep hill. 'The zaibatsu were a pre-war conglomerate of companies. The US occupation forces broke them up because of their support for the Japanese military during the war. But the Japanese ran rings round their US masters.'

'How?'

'The power centres in Japan have always been linked by secret societies. The industrialists carried on wheeling and dealing as before but without a formal legal identity. This post-war group — a keiretsu, or conglomerate of companies — had the Fuji Bank at their core. The group included Nissan, Yasuda Trust and Banking, the Marubei Corporation and Yamaichi. With the Matsumo takeover the group now includes the big four Japanese brokerage houses — Nomura, Nikko, Daiwa and Yamaichi Securities — as well as another major bank, the Dai-Ichi Kangyo.'

'So Matsumo are big. I'm impressed.'

Doug took another sip at his water. 'I'm glad you're impressed, Fred. Because these are the people who want you dead.'

Findhorn wondered whether, in that case, there was any place on earth where he would be safe.

Doug's expression was grim. 'And now we know why.'

Findhorn looked at his brother. 'As you say, I'm as streetwise as a Tibetan monk. Explain.'

Stefi said, 'It comes down to the people who asked you to get the diaries.'

'Norsk Advanced Technologies?'

She nodded. 'The child of Matsumo.' Stefi opened a thick, glossy booklet, the Annual Report and Accounts of Matsumo Holdings, English version. Its front cover showed a montage of famous Far Eastern constructions. Findhorn briefly recognized the four-kilometre Akashi Kaikyo suspension bridge, and the fifteen hundred foot tall Petronas twin towers of Kuala Lumpur: the world's longest and the world's highest.