The Ends of the Earth (2 page)

Malory was no happier than Sam about kicking their heels in Yokohama. The pier where Sam had spent so much time that afternoon was the scene of her final parting from Junzaburo. She remembered with terrible clarity seeing him running helplessly along the pier after her ship – a ship that had already sailed, bound for San Francisco. He had learnt of her departure just too late, although there had been a moment when she had thought he might jump into the bay and swim after her.

But he had not. One small figure at the end of the pier, vanishing slowly from sight, was the last she had seen of him – and of Japan. Now, twenty-three years later, for good or ill, she was back.

She had decided to occupy herself that afternoon by walking up to the Foreign General Cemetery on the Bluff and seeking out the grave, which she felt sure must be there, of the parents of Jack Farngold and his sister, Matilda. Dredging a few appropriate phrases of Japanese from the depths, she had solicited the help of a solemn caretaker, who had consulted a dusty ledger before leading her to the spot.

The Farngolds’ last resting place was in the middle of the cemetery, one among many kerb-bound graves, decorated in their case with a weeping angel and inscribed in the stately prose of the era.

GERTRUDE MARY FARNGOLD, NÉE HOLTON
BORN PENSHURST, KENT 16
TH
JANUARY 1842
DIED YOKOHAMA, 14
TH
JUNE 1886
MOURNED BY A LOVING HUSBAND

CLAUDE ASHLING FARNGOLD
BORN CHATHAM, KENT 4
TH
JUNE 1828
DIED YOKOHAMA, 26
TH
OCTOBER 1889

THE LORD WAS NOT IN THE FIRE

1 KINGS 19:12

Lapsed Lutheran though she might be, Malory could have recited the whole of the passage from the First Book of Kings there and then.
And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice.

Claude Farngold had died in a warehouse fire, in the same year, Malory now knew, as his daughter had married Count Tomura. It was likely Matilda Farngold had chosen the words from the Bible to memorialize her father. But what did she mean by them? What did she intend to convey?

The Lord was not in the fire.

Suddenly, Malory became aware she was not alone, though the caretaker had left some minutes before. Turning, she saw a woman standing a few yards away from her, on the path between the graves. She was wearing a pale pink dress, a loose pale blue coat and a generously brimmed straw hat. Her face was heavy-featured, Slavic, Malory sensed. She had intensely black hair and her skin, even in the shade of her hat, was milkily pale. There was something about her men would find irresistibly attractive. This Malory knew because, whatever it was, she did not possess it herself.

‘You are Malory Hollander?’ The woman spoke English with a subdued but definite Russian accent.

‘Have we met?’ Malory asked, defensively.

‘No. But I think you know who I am.’

‘Pardon me, but I don’t.’

Although Malory did not yet know for certain who the woman was, she strongly suspected she was Nadia Bukayeva, close confidante of Fritz Lemmer, who had killed one of Lemmer’s spies in Paris to ensure he could not be arrested and interrogated. She had tried to kill Sam Twentyman as well, as Sam had several times recounted.

‘Since you evidently know who I am,’ Malory said coolly, ‘perhaps you’d like to introduce yourself.’

‘I am Nadia Bukayeva. I know a great deal about you and you probably know a little about me. I am here with a message for you and your friends: Schools Morahan and his American associates – and dear Sam, of course. We have been watching you since you arrived.’

A chill ran through Malory. How could they have been detected so easily? ‘Who is
we
?’

‘You know who I represent. And we know who asked you to come here. Everything is known. Everything is foreseen.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

‘I would not expect you to admit it. But, after all, your choice of grave to visit gives away the game. Farngold. Dead names from thirty years ago.’

‘You know something about them, Miss Bukayeva?’

‘This is what I know. The man who asked you to come here is like the Farngolds. Dead.’

Malory exerted her considerable will not to react. Nadia Bukayeva was capable of telling many lies. There was no good reason to believe a single thing she said.

‘Yes. Max is dead. He was killed in Marseilles on the sixth of May by Pierre Dombreux, who is not dead but with us here, in Japan. Before he died, Max revealed what he had asked Morahan to do and where you were to meet him. I was not there, but I suppose he did not give the information easily. Probably Dombreux had to torture him before he killed him. That death would not have been good. I am sorry for him. But it was his own fault.’

Still Malory said nothing. She held Nadia’s gaze and tensed every muscle in her face to suppress the least sign of a reaction.

‘This is the message I have for you. With Max dead, your mission here is over. There is nothing for you to do. And if you try to do anything you will be stopped. There is an NYK steamer leaving for Seattle Tuesday. You will be on it. All of you.’

‘Why would I leave so soon after arriving?’ Malory asked, slowing her words so that none of her alarm inflected them.

‘For your health. You will be on that ship. Or we will come for you.’

‘I’m not going to Seattle, Miss Bukayeva.’

‘Because you do not believe me?’

‘Why would I?’

‘Proof, then. Here.’ Nadia took an envelope from an outer pocket of her coat, stepped forward and offered it to Malory.

‘What is this?’

‘A photograph taken by Dombreux of Max dead. You will not believe me without, will you? So, you must have it. Take it, please.’

Reluctantly, Malory took the envelope. The flap was not sealed. She saw the border of the photograph inside. She slid it out. And gasped.

‘There. That is your reason to go to Seattle. That is how it ended for Max. And that is how it will end for you. If you stay.’

THE PHOTOGRAPH SHOWED
Max lying on his back, his arms spread, his head angled to one side. There was a bullet hole in his right temple and his head was resting in a pool of blood. In the open palm of his right hand was a revolver, his fingers curled around the butt and trigger.

Malory and Sam each had a copy. Dumbstruck by the photographic evidence of Max’s death, they had hardly noticed the departure of their informants – Nadia slipping away between the gravestones, Dombreux hailing a passing taxi. The proof had been supplied and the message had been delivered: abandon their mission and leave Japan as soon as practicably possible. That was Lemmer’s generous offer.

Malory had hurried back to the Eastbourne Hotel, struggling to compose herself as she went. The caretaker, who had come upon her at the grave, had invited her to his hut to recover from what he had assumed was grief for the long-deceased Farngolds. She had declined, assuring him she would soon be herself again.

But there was little prospect of that. And she saw her reaction mirrored in Sam, red-eyed from his own tears. Shock, disbelief and disabling sorrow had assailed them both.

They told Morahan what had happened and adjourned to his room, where he poured stiff whiskies for all of them and heard their stories in solemn silence, staring at the photograph as they spoke.

‘My God,’ he said at last, ‘I never imagined it would turn out like this. Max always seemed to have enough resourcefulness to see him through any challenge.’

‘Dombreux said he arranged it to look like suicide,’ murmured Sam. ‘But he also said it was an empty house. You don’t think … Max is still there, do you, waiting to be found?’

‘We must pray not,’ said Malory, her head drooping.

‘They said this happened May sixth?’ Morahan asked.

‘Yes.’

‘That was the day Lemmer and Tomura sailed from Marseilles. Their ship arrived here June twentieth. So, chances are they know what the French police have done about this. We should find out too.’

‘How?’

‘We’ll cable Yamanaka in Paris. With Tomura out of his hair, he’ll be free to get the information for us.’

Sam groaned. ‘All those times I saw his plane flying back to base in one piece. It often seemed like a miracle he’d survived when so many others didn’t. Some miracle, hey? He didn’t survive the war by so much as a year.’

Malory grasped his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Sam,’ she said softly. ‘Your loss is much heavier than ours.’

‘What will I tell his family?’

‘That he died taking risks he believed worth taking.’

‘But it wasn’t a clean death, was it? He wouldn’t have given us away without a struggle. I don’t like to think about how hard that was for him.’

‘We only have their word for it Max gave us away,’ said Morahan. ‘It’s possible they guessed what was going on after hearing we’d left Paris.’

‘You reckon?’

‘I reckon it’s possible. Nadia and Dombreux do as they’re told. It’s clear now Dombreux must have been Lemmer’s man all along and Nadia’s as close to Lemmer as anyone. They do his bidding. Which, remember, doesn’t necessarily involve telling us the truth.’ Morahan glanced at his watch. ‘Everett should be here soon.’ He slipped the photographs into the drawer of the desk. ‘Say nothing about this to him – or the others.’

‘You’re not going to tell them?’ asked Malory in surprise.

‘Not yet. We have until Tuesday at least.’

‘But what can we do without Max?’

‘That’s what we have to decide, Malory – you, me and Sam. We’re here because we chose to be. The others are here because they’re paid to be. It’s for us to say whether we pull out or go on.’

‘I’d like to go on,’ said Sam. ‘Otherwise Max died for nothing.’

‘With Lemmer and Tomura on our tail,’ said Morahan, ‘we could easily finish up dying for nothing ourselves.’

‘
How
would we go on?’ Malory pressed.

‘There’s a lead I haven’t mentioned to you. Everett’s been following it up for me.’

‘What kind of lead?’

‘Jack Farngold’s been a sailor most of his life. He’s skippered vessels for Jardine Matheson all over the Far East. A lot of people in the shipping world would know him – crew and owners. So, while we were in San Francisco, I reckoned it was worth asking a few questions round the docks. Everett had been given the names of some people to talk to by his contacts in New York, a few of them Japanese. Anyhow, the sum of it was that Farngold never made many friends, but one of them is the woman who runs a notorious
chabuya
here in Yokohama.’

‘What’s a
chabuya
when it’s at home?’ asked Sam.

‘Restaurant, teahouse, bar, dance-hall, gambling den, brothel. Any and all of those. There are dozens of them in the city. They cater mostly for foreigners. Tarazumi Yoshiko runs one of the older established
chabuya
s: the Honey Bee. She met Jack Farngold when he went there to bail out members of his crew who couldn’t pay their debts. Over the years, they struck up some kind of friendship. The word is that if anyone knows how to find Jack Farngold it’s Tarazumi Yoshiko. I sent Everett to see her because he fixed an introduction for himself with an acquaintance of hers in San Francisco, who told him she speaks serviceable English.’

‘What will he have told her?’ asked Malory.

‘That James Maxted, son of Sir Henry, wants to speak to Jack Farngold.’

‘But Max—’ Sam cut short his objection. It hardly needed spelling out.

‘I’ll decide what to do when we hear how far Everett got with her. Their little tea-time tête-à-tête had to be agreed in advance with her assistant. These things have to be handled delicately here. I’d hoped to have some progress to report to Max’ – Morahan’s voice dropped – ‘when he arrived.’

It was Sam who broke the silence that followed. ‘Isn’t Jack Farngold locked up in a lunatic asylum?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. But, in Kuroda’s report to Marquess Saionji, Kuroda said he couldn’t confirm Farngold’s current whereabouts. So, he may be on the loose. And Tarazumi Yoshiko may know where he is. It’s a long shot, I admit, but—’

The knock at the door was only just loud enough to be heard. Sam and Malory both looked at Morahan, who signalled for them to be calm.

‘Remember,’ he whispered, ‘not a word about Max. Unless and until I deem it necessary.’

They nodded and Morahan stepped across to open the door.

Lewis Everett entered smiling, as usual. He looked his normal relaxed and confident self. It appeared his visit to the Honey Bee had been a success, though he might well have carried himself in much the same way even if it had not been.

‘Someone died?’ he remarked casually, noting their subdued expressions.

Sam flinched, but fortunately Everett was looking at Malory, whose face gave nothing away. Sam admired her more in that moment than ever.

‘If it’s Wilson, we should break out the champagne.’

Everett had recorded his loathing of President Wilson – ‘puritanical sonofabitch’ – on more than one occasion. Morahan sighed in a way that implied impatience and said, ‘How’d you get on at the Honey Bee?’

‘Well, I sure wasn’t stung like most of their customers. It’s a high-class clap-house, if you’ll pardon my French, Malory. As for Tarazumi-san, she ain’t exactly what you’d call garrulous. I wouldn’t have got a word out of her but for the intro from friend Higashida in Little Osaka, San Fran. And you’d never have heard of Higashida, Schools, but for my New York connections.’

‘I’m impressed, Lew, OK? But there’s no bonus clause in your contract.’

‘Maybe there should be.’

‘Maybe you should just get on and tell us what you found out.’