'Two? Five thousand?'
'A hundred and sixty. And how many of these were 600 SL's?'
'Ten.'
'Eighteen. The cars were sold to a couple of lawyers, a rich widow, one over-the-hill actor, two restaurateurs etcetera. And one was a company car registered to a Konrad Albrecht, General Manager of a firm called Rexon Optica in Davos.'
'Davos? Isn't that —'
'It is, not far from the Temple of Celestial Truth. Rexon Optica specializes in making holographic guidance systems for a variety of NATO SAMs as well as for the Mark Three Eurofighter.'
Findhorn's silence was so long that Dougie had to ask, 'Are you there, Fred?' Then Findhorn said, 'This is desperately thin.'
'There's more. I've been using a PI firm —'
'Dougie, I'm catching a plane.'
'Okay, bottom line. Konrad Albrecht also has a ranch in Dakota where, surprise, surprise, the cult just happens to have its other main temple. He has a flat in Monaco and a holiday home in the Southern Uplands, which, surprise cubed, is where he's been staying over Christmas, complete with the company car.'
'Are you tying him in with the Temple?'
'He could even be their leader, Tati. Nobody outside the cult has seen him.'
'Doug, I have to fly. I need one more thing from you.'
'What's that?'
'A burglar. I'll call you tomorrow.'
Dougie was starting to splutter but Findhorn put the receiver down.
Findhorn's e-mail was brief and went to the Head Office, Matsumo Holdings, Chairman, for the attention of:
'I will be in London, Heathrow, in thirty minutes, and will then take the next available flight to Kyoto. I do not know which flight that is. Can I be met? Findhorn.'
They hardly exchanged a word during the taxi ride. Black and white images from the past kept flickering in and out of Findhorn's mind like old newsreels, interspersed with fantasies involving Japanese gangsters and the Sea of Japan.
Terminal Two was packed with Christmas travellers. Check-out queues straggled across the floor like big snakes. They scanned the flight departures. As if by some psychic force, the screen threw up an early afternoon flight for Osaka, courtesy of KLM. Findhorn said, 'Osaka's not too far from Kyoto. If there's a seat, that's my bus.'
Romella was looking worried. 'I just hope we meet again, Fred.'
Findhorn grinned nervously. 'That sounds like a line from a wartime romance.'
'Where will we rendezvous, in the event you survive your meeting with Matsumo?'
'Leave a message on my e-mail. But remember it will probably be read by others.'
'Be very careful, Fred.' Without warning she put her arms round his neck and kissed him voluptuously on the lips, pushing her pelvis hard up against his. Then she pushed him away and she was gone, melting into the crowds, and Findhorn stood flushed and disturbed, with his heart pounding in his chest.
At the KLM desk, a cheerful blonde Dutch woman said, 'Ah, Mr Findhorn, you were expected and there is a message for you,' and she handed over a ticket along with a typed message attached by a paper clip: 'A room has been reserved for you in the Siran Keikan, Kyoto.'
Siberia — black, vast and surreal, was overhung with mysterious curtains of red and green which had been shimmering for hour after hour in the sky above. The 747 had trundled along like a hedgehog crossing a car park, skirting the Arctic Circle on its route to Japan. Findhorn sipped his gin and tonic and looked in vain for lights thirty thousand feet below. He wondered what it was like on the ground; toyed playfully with fantasy images of a forced landing in the frozen tundra, starving passengers eyeing each other hungrily, timber wolves beyond the circle of light around dying embers; and he thought he would probably, in that situation, stand a better chance than he did now. He finished his drink, gave his legs a business-class stretch and yawned, while the big aircraft flew him at ten miles a minute towards Yoshi Matsumo and the Dark Ocean Society.
Stefi had performed a minor miracle…
There was a light drizzle as the aircraft touched down at Munich airport. Romella took a bus into the city centre. She watched schoolchildren horsing around, a young couple in brightly coloured clothes on bicycles, women with shopping bags pausing to chat. Between the sheer happy normality of it, and the lunatic world in which she had been immersed a few hours previously, she could make no connection whatsoever.
… she had picked up on an Armenian survivor called Victor…
Taking her cue from the twin-domed Frauenkirche, she walked north through the Ludwigstrasse before turning right onto the Maximilianstrasse. Light blazed from decorated department stores and the streets were busy with last-minute Christmas shoppers.
… who bad known not only Petrosian and Lisa…
She had expected high-rise flats British style, awash with graffiti and urine and, following the directions, was surprised to find herself inside a small shopping mall. She entered a lift with a young couple and a pink baby asleep in a pram, and emerged on a corridor with deep pile carpet on the floor and expensive fabric on the walls.
… but also another mutual friend from their Leipzig days…
Number five was directly opposite. There was a small peephole and a nameplate. It said Karl Sachs, and she hoped that her acting ability would be as good as her German.
… whose name was Karl Sachs, a retired Jewish doctor who now lived in Munich with his wife.
The man who opened the door was wrinkled, white haired, with a light blue cardigan and pince-nez spectacles. He gave a cautiously welcoming smile and said, 'Miss Dvorjak?'
Kansai Airport was like any other big airport except that it was also a big, rectangular island in the sea, connected to Osaka city by a long, narrow umbilical cord. There was no reception committee. With some difficulty, Findhorn found a train to Kyoto. It arrived when the timetable said it would. It was spotlessly clean, smooth and silent. The 'guards' were shapely young females who turned to smile and bow as they left each carriage. Findhorn thought about the UK railway system and returned their smiles.
The map showed the line passing through Osaka and Kyoto, but from the window there was no way to tell where one city ended and the other began: he was travelling through a megalopolis, a city made of cities. At Kyoto railway station he decided against heroism and hired a cab. He said, 'Siran Keikan,' and settled back.
In the hotel itself more shapely females bowed and shuffled and treated his cheap overnight bag like the Ark of the Covenant. He had a shower in a tiny bathroom, slipped into the hotel dressing gown and flaked out.
The representatives of the Friendship Society came for him at eight o'clock the next morning. There were two of them. They were polite, if economical with the friendship. They were young men in dark suits who either did not, or chose not to, speak English. Findhorn sat alone in the back of a big air-conditioned BMW which swept him quietly along the Shijo-Dori, past tall office blocks and expensive-looking department stores with names like Takashimaya and Fuji Daimaru, past swastika-covered shinto shrines and cyclists on pavements. Then they were out of town and onto a winding road, with trees on the right and a big expanse of water on the left.
The Friendship man turned and waved his hands at the lake. 'Biwa,' he barked.
Findhorn said okay and declined the offer of a Lucky. They passed a long, spectacular suspension bridge which looked familiar, and he remembered it as the one he had seen on the cover of Matsumo's Annual Report. Then they were into hilly, tree-covered territory, and the car was passing a middle-sized town, with wooden single-storeyed houses crowded together in narrow, cable-strung streets, and then there were flooded fields and tea bushes.