“There are these marvelous new inventions called telephones. Has he heard of them?”
Penrose smiled. “What can I say, Nina? Maybe he’s just a fan of yours. But we definitely think you should go. Securing the statues will ease the minds of a number of concerned people, and you might even learn something new about them.”
He was right, Nina decided reluctantly. “He’s definitely willing to give the other statues back to Egypt and Peru? No conditions?”
“Apparently that’s so. His main concern was reclaiming his own property, but he said he bought the others as well to get them back into the right hands.”
“How much did he pay for them?”
“I don’t know, but … a large sum, I imagine.”
“Which is probably now in Stikes’s pocket. Great,” she said glumly. “When does he want to see me?”
“He said that’s up to you,” said Penrose, “but from the IHA’s point of view, the sooner the better. If the statues are off the market, that’s one security issue we no longer need to worry about.”
She considered it. “Okay, I’ll go see him. Once this is wrapped up, I can focus on the Atlantis excavations.”
Penrose nodded. “A sound choice. I’ll let Mr. Takashi know.”
He left the office, and Nina picked up her phone. “Lola. I need you to book a flight for me.”
Half a world away, Eddie had completed a flight of his own, and was making a taxi journey through the bustling streets of Hong Kong. He had visited the former British colony several times before, and was always amazed by the island’s energy and vibrancy, a hothouse for deal making and fast action. It was a vanguard for the new China, raw entrepreneurial capitalism working at a merciless pace that shocked even Americans. Anyone who wasn’t constantly clawing their way up like the ever-climbing skyscrapers very quickly got trampled.
But this time, the city’s rush was nothing more than a background hum. There was only one thing on his mind. The taxi deposited him at a corner near the address he had been given, and he carved his way like an icebreaker through the crowds filling the narrow, advertising-banner-filled street to reach one particular door. He found the buzzer for the apartment and pushed it. After a pause, a female voice spoke in Cantonese.
“It’s Eddie Chase,” he said.
The voice switched to English. “You made it. Come on in. Sixth floor, on the left.” The door latch clacked, and he entered the building.
There was no elevator, so he pounded up the cramped stairwell to the sixth floor. A woman opened the door as he reached it. “Come inside.”
There was no mistaking Madeline Scarber’s sandpaper-throated voice, but its owner was very different from Eddie’s preconceptions. For a start, her name had led him to assume that she was Caucasian, but the short, skeletal woman with the helmet-like black bob was of Chinese descent. She was also younger than he had imagined, around fifty rather than the pensioner her gravelly growl suggested. “Not what you expected, huh?” she said as she ushered him inside. “My mother was Chinese German, and she married a Dutch American. I’m a one-woman melting pot.”
More like a one-woman ashtray, Eddie thought as the all-pervading reek of stale cigarette smoke hit him, but he kept it to himself. Scarber closed the door and followed him into a lounge. The room was expensively furnished in stark black and white, a glimpse of the harbor visible through the window between two much taller apartment blocks. She waved for him to sit on a stylish but, as it turned out, not especially comfortable leather couch. “So you’re here, kiddo. I guess you want to know what I want from you in return for telling you how to find Alexander Stikes.”
“It’d crossed my mind.”
Scarber lit a cigarette, then almost as an afterthought offered him one. “We’d like you to do something for us.”
“We?” Eddie asked as she held out her expensive lighter.
“The people I represent. We have a mutual enemy.”
“Stikes?”
She shook her head. “Stikes is part of it, but no big deal to us.”
“He is to me.”
“I know. Which is why my proposal will benefit us both.”
He leaned back and blew out smoke. “So get to the point, then. What’s the job?”
Scarber slowly paced across the lounge, a line of smoke trailing behind her. “Stikes stole something from your wife—three stone figures.”
Eddie stiffened. “Those statues?” he snapped. “For fuck’s sake! You know how many people have died because of those fucking things—and now you want me to get them for you?”
“No. We don’t want you to get them. We want you to destroy them.”
It took him a second to get over his surprise. “Now, that’s more like it.”
“We both know that the statues have unusual properties—properties that could be very dangerous if they fall into the hands of the wrong people. That can’t be allowed to happen.”
“And how do you know that?”
“I’ve got access to certain classified information. Including the IHA’s files on earth energy.”
He shot her a mistrustful look. “You’re a spook, aren’t you? CIA?”
“Former spook,” Scarber replied. “Now I’m what you might call a freelancer.”
“Not a big fan of spooks. Been fucked over by them a few times. They tend to lie about what they’re really doing.”
The accusation didn’t bother her. “Nature of the business, kiddo.”
“So what is your business? Why’re you so keen to destroy the statues? Who are you working for?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it bloody does.”
She abruptly crossed back to him, face hardening. “Do you want to know where Stikes is or not? This is the situation: We want the statues destroyed. Stikes has the statues. You want to kill Stikes. It’s a simple enough proposition—we tell you where he is, you find him, destroy the statues … and then you can do whatever you want with him. We’ll even pay you. How does half a million dollars sound?”
“I’d kill Stikes for free … but yeah, half a mil sounds pretty good,” said Eddie. He had spent the last three months hunting for Stikes, and this was by far the closest he had come to tracking down his nemesis. However, there were too many aspects of the deal he didn’t like, not least Scarber’s secrecy about her employer. “But …”
“There’s something else we can offer,” she said, seeing his hesitancy. “We can make the charges against you go away. Completely. You’ll be able to go home. To your wife.”
Eddie was silent for a long moment. “How can you manage that?”
“Let’s just say my employers have a lot of influence.”
His suspicion returned. “Then why do they need me to do this job?”
“Because you’re very highly motivated. I’ve read your IHA file too; you’re extremely good at what you do. If anyone can get to Stikes, you can.”
“So I take it he’s not just hanging out by a pool somewhere. Where is he?”
“Do we have a deal?”
He considered it … then nodded. “Where’s Stikes?”
“Japan. Tokyo, specifically. But he’ll be hard to reach. We can get you into the building, but you’ll have to make your own way to him from there.”
“What building?”
Scarber finished her cigarette. “The headquarters of Takashi Industries.”
SIX
Tokyo
It was Nina’s first visit to Japan, and she looked out at the sprawling city from the limo that had collected her from Narita Airport with great interest. As a New Yorker, she was no stranger to tall buildings, but the differences between those of her home and Tokyo intrigued her, not least the way that some rooftops were home to so many garish billboards and advertising banners that they resembled clipper ships, about to set sail across the urban sea.
One building stood out—not because it was festooned with signs, but instead because several wind turbines rose gracefully ab
ove its roof. She guessed it to be around fifty stories tall, nothing remarkable by New York standards, but enough to put it in the upper ranks of this earthquake-prone country’s structures. An illuminated logo stood out near its summit. A stylized T, the letter drawn with the flowing strokes of Japanese calligraphy.
The same logo appeared on the letter the bowing limo driver had presented to her at the airport. A greeting from Takashi Seiji, apologizing for not meeting her in person. Instead, the industrialist had written to humbly request—the exact words of the letter—that she meet him at his penthouse.
To her surprise, it turned out that the penthouse was above the corporate headquarters. Takashi was apparently so dedicated to his work, he literally lived at the office.
The skyscraper was set back from the streets, surrounded by an expanse of perfectly manicured lawn. Knowing that Tokyo real estate was among the most expensive in the world, Nina recognized something so simple as a patch of grass as making a subtle yet powerful statement: Yes, we can afford this. Having done a little research during the flight, she knew that Penrose was right about the company’s being a major force in Japan. Takashi himself was the third-generation leader of the business, and in the forty years he had been in charge he had taken it to heights that even his successful father and grandfather could not have dreamed of.
The limo pulled up at one of the building’s entrances, the driver opening the door for Nina and bowing again as she got out. A young Japanese man in a crisp Italian suit came to meet her, bowing even lower before extending his hand. “Good afternoon, Dr. Wilde,” he said. There was a faint West Coast accent to his English. “I’m Kojima Kenichi, Takashi-san’s secretary. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
“A little short notice, but yes, thank you.” She’d had an extremely nice surprise at JFK when she discovered she had been upgraded to first class, courtesy of Takashi.
“I’m glad to hear it. Please, follow me—don’t worry about your bags, you’ll be taken to your hotel after the meeting.” Another bow, then he started for the entrance. Nina followed.
Kojima led her to a marble reception desk in the lobby—where she was startled to discover that the figure behind it was not human. The receptionist was actually a robot, designed to look like a young and pretty Japanese woman. The illusion was convincing enough for Nina to have reached the desk before noticing something was amiss, but now that she knew, she found the replicant’s slightly stiff movements and glassy eyes unsettling. The robot turned toward her and spoke Japanese in a high, girlie voice.
“Uh … what do I do?” she asked Kojima, who appeared amused by her discomfiture.
The robot bowed its head and spoke again, this time in a distinctly lower register. “My apologies, madam. I did not know you spoke English. May I take your name, please?”
“Nina Wilde?” Nina offered hesitantly.
The robot’s mouth pulled into a smile. “Thank you, you are expected. Mr. Takashi is waiting for you. If you will please take your visitor’s pass and wear it at all times while you are in the building?” Its hand gestured toward a slot set into the marble desktop, from which emerged a laminated card bearing Nina’s name and photograph—which, she realized with unease, must have been taken just moments before by a camera in one of the robot’s eyes. She picked up the card, finding it still warm from whatever gadget had produced it, and clipped it to her jacket. “Please go to elevator number one,” the simulacrum told her. “Have a nice day.”
Nina stepped away from the desk with haste. “Well, that was … creepy,” she said. “Aren’t there any, y’know, real people who could do that?”
Kojima smiled as they crossed the lobby. “Takashi is a world leader in robotics. One of the best ways to test our new technology is to put it on the front line, so to speak. Also, Takashi-san only employs the best and brightest people, and believes that hiring such people for menial work would be a waste of their potential.”
“Uh-huh,” said Nina noncommittally, wondering how Lola would react to having her job described as “menial.” To her mind it seemed better to provide a person with work and a wage than to spend God knew how much money building a freaky robot to do the same thing, but then, she reflected, that was probably why she wasn’t the head of a multibillion-dollar company. “So, before I meet Mr. Takashi, is there anything I should know? I haven’t had much time to brush up on Japanese etiquette.”
They approached a bank of elevators, one of which was separated from the rest and guarded by two uniformed men—who were, to Nina’s relief, genuine human beings and not robots. “Don’t worry about it, Dr. Wilde,” said Kojima. “You are Takashi-san’s honored guest. You would have to work very hard to offend him.”
“I’ll try not to anyway,” she said as they reached the guards. She expected them to check her identity, but instead a line of laser light from a sensor above the door danced briefly over a barcode on her pass. The absence of alarms and sirens satisfied the two men that she was approved to enter, and they bowed to her before moving aside.
“This is Takashi-san’s private elevator,” said Kojima as the doors opened and they entered. Despite the building’s height, there were only three buttons on the control panel. He pushed the topmost. “It only serves the parking garage, the lobby, and the penthouse. But,” he continued as the car started to rise, accelerating quickly enough for Nina to feel it in the pit of her stomach, “he rarely uses it these days.”
“So it’s true he hardly ever leaves the penthouse? Why?”
“I wouldn’t presume to speak for Takashi-san. But I’m sure he will tell you if you ask.”
Nina was indeed curious, but she had more important questions for the reclusive industrialist. Before long, the elevator stopped. “Follow me, please,” said Kojima.
The hallway of Takashi’s penthouse was decorated with pale wall panels intercut with beams of contrasting dark hardwood, the floor varnished and polished to a lacquered shine. It was austere and minimalist, yet clearly extremely expensive. Windows to one side looked out across the sunset sprawl of Tokyo, the white peak of Mount Fuji visible in the distance. “That’s a hell of a view,” she said, feeling a twinge of vertigo.
They passed several doors before arriving at the end of the hall. Kojima knocked on the double oak doors there, waiting for several seconds until hearing a reply from within and opening them. With another bow, he gestured for Nina to enter.
The room beyond ran the entire width of the skyscraper, windows on three sides providing a panoramic view of the city. Despite its size, it was sparsely appointed, with more potted plants than items of furniture. A large desk was the focal point, a single elegant chair placed before it.
Behind the desk was Takashi Seiji.
The official photograph Nina had seen on the company website was considerably out of date. She guessed him to be in his seventies, at least twenty years older than his public face. He was bald but for thin gray wisps above his ears, wrinkles and bags narrowing his eyes to sleepy slits. However, there was nothing remotely tired about his gaze, which locked on to Nina as she entered the room. He stood, revealing a hunched, but still strong, figure.
Kojima guided Nina to the desk, then spoke to Takashi in Japanese. She recognized her name among the words. The old man said nothing, but bowed deeply, so far that she thought his head would touch the desk. When he straightened again, he spoke, his secretary translating. “Welcome to Japan, Dr. Wilde. I am most honored by your presence.”
“Thank you, Mr. Takashi,” she replied. “It’s my pleasure to be here.”
Kojima relayed this to his boss, who sat back down and nodded at the solitary chair. “Please take a seat,” Kojima told her.
Nina did so. The plain wooden chair looked as ascetic as the rest of the room, but turned out to be surprisingly comfortable. “Would you care for any refreshment before we begin?” Kojima asked. “Tea, coffee?”
“No, thank you, I’m fine,” she said. “I’d like to get down to business.”
br /> Takashi made a small sound of amusement before Kojima could translate for him. He understood English? “Takashi-san appreciates your attitude,” the younger man told her after his boss spoke. “The Japanese obsession with protocol slows down business and wastes too much time.”
“And at my age, time is a more precious resource than money,” Takashi added. Though he had a strong accent, his English was precise. He smiled slightly. “My apologies, Dr. Wilde. Speaking through a translator is another protocol that is expected. But now that I see you have as little patience as I for such things, we can continue in a more efficient manner.”
“What would you have done if I’d asked for coffee?” Nina asked mischievously.
“Since a leisurely pace would have made you more comfortable, I would have continued speaking through my secretary. But no matter. You are here on business, so now we can discuss it.” He nodded to Kojima, who bowed and retreated to the outskirts of the room. “I imagine you have many questions.”
“I do,” she replied. “First, you said that you own one of the statues. Where did it come from?”
“Kojima-kun can provide you with a full written account of its known history, but to summarize, it came from Tibet into China during the reign of the Chenghua Emperor, in the Ming dynasty.”
Tibet: where one of the farthest—and last—outposts of the Atlantean empire had been established. That tied in with her theory that the Atlanteans had, for whatever reason, dispersed the statues as widely as they could. “Fifteenth century, I believe?”
“Yes. It remained in the possession of successive emperors until the Japanese occupation of China before the Second World War. It was brought to Japan along with other treasures, where it passed through the hands of several private collectors before I obtained it in 2002.”