Kolymsky Heights (9 page)

On 28 August Porter arrived at Narita airport, picked up his bags, negotiated Immigration and Customs, and descended to the train. A car was waiting for him outside, as he knew. He had no intention of taking it. The airport express could get him where he wanted, which was Tokyo central station.

He made it by five o’clock, to find the rush hour in progress. This was the second
rushawa
of the day, the homeward-streaming one, and the familiar riot was in progress. He spent some minutes getting his bearings, and located the Lucky Strike. It looked no different from the other Business Efficiencies round the station but it stood on a corner and had two entrances. This was its attraction, and he remembered it. They wouldn’t remember him.

‘How many nights?’ the Lucky Strike clerk asked him.

‘I’m not sure, say four.’

‘Say four you pay up front four.’

‘Okay,’ Porter said, and gave him a credit card.

The man looked at it and turned it over.

‘You American, Australian, what?’ he said. He had been shouting in slow Japanese himself.

‘Canadian.’

‘Ah. Sorry. Thought Korean,’ the clerk apologised.

Porter was pleased about that. ‘Give me some telephone tokens,’ he said. ‘Give me ten. I’ll pay now.’

‘Sure. Canadian is all right,’ the man said. He gave the tokens and Porter waited while his card was checked out. It was very hot and steamy and he was sweating under the wig. His pigtail was fixed tight inside. ‘Isn’t the air conditioning working here?’ he said.

‘Sure, everything working. Only it gives me a cold so I turn it off. And if you want service,’ the clerk said, ‘service is extra.’

‘I don’t want service.’

‘Okay. Room 303. The elevator’s round the corner.’

‘Where are the stairs?’ Porter said.

‘Past the elevator. Next to the coffee bar. Go round the corner, you’ll see.’

Porter went round the corner and found the stairs, also the coffee bar. Also the other entrance. It was as he remembered. It wasn’t necessary to go through the lobby to get in or out of the place.

He skipped the stairs and rode up to 303. It was a neat small Efficiency. Compact kitchen and shower room. European bed, not a futon for the floor. Normal furniture. Phone. He switched the air conditioning on, and used the phone. Then he unpacked and had a shower. He took the wig off in the shower.

He was resting in a towel, with his wig back on, when the doorbell went.

‘Excuse me,’ murmured the Jap outside. He was a neat individual with tortoise-shell glasses and a briefcase. ‘I don’t know if it’s right. I am looking for a Mr Peterson.’

‘Okay, come in,’ Porter said. They were both speaking Japanese.

The Jap came cautiously in.

‘You drink rye?’ Porter asked. He was drinking some himself already.

The man did not disclose what he drank. He carefully looked the Efficiency over, and then he looked Porter over. ‘Maybe you have something to show me?’ he said.

Porter reached for his jacket, and took the headed letter out. It introduced James B. Peterson of New Age Technology, Vancouver to Makosha Microchip KK of Tokyo.

The man carefully examined the letter. ‘Some other details? Some details you have to say yourself to Makosha?’

‘Oh, well, shit … ’ Porter said, but he gave the details.

‘Hey,’ the man said. He seemed nonplussed. ‘We were waiting with a car at the airport. What are you doing here?’

‘I thought I’d come here,’ Porter said.

‘This isn’t good. We don’t make changes.’

‘I’ll remember,’ Porter said, and gave him his drink. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Just Yoshi. On the phone also you just say Yoshi. You don’t say all the things you said.’

‘Okay,’ Porter said. ‘What have you brought me?’

Yoshi was looking round the room. ‘You can’t stay here,’ he said. ‘There’s a place waiting for you. You have to wait in that place. I’ve brought the material but I can’t leave it.’

‘Just show me what you’ve got,’ Porter said.

Yoshi opened his briefcase and took out a passport and a seaman’s pay book. Both were South Korean and in the name of a Sung Won Choo. Porter had a look at them. They were well-thumbed and greasy. His photograph was slightly different in each but the same bug-eyed seaman stared out, bushy-moustached. His pigtail was over his shoulder in one and up in a bun on the other.

‘And the ship blueprints,’ he said.

Yoshi took a transistor radio out of his case and turned it on. ‘You don’t need them,’ he said, over the row. ‘There’s better material. It’s waiting for you. In the place where you have to be.’

‘Where’s the ship?’

‘At Nagasaki. It’s still in dry dock.’

‘What’s the sailing date?’

‘The thirty-first. You’ll learn all this.’

‘That gives me only two days in between.’

‘It’s a week before you’re needed. You’ll be briefed on it. We have to keep to plans.’

‘Okay,’ Porter said. He took a cigarette, and offered Yoshi his pack.

‘I shouldn’t, it’s not healthy,’ Yoshi said. But he accepted a cigarette, and blew out a stream of smoke.

‘What’s the stop-off schedule?’ Porter asked.

‘
You do not need this
,’ Yoshi said, mouthing above the din. ‘Not here. It’s not finalised, anyway.’

‘What have you got?’

Yoshi put down his cigarette and took out a map. A sheet of scrawled Japanese was attached to it. He opened the map out on his knee.

‘The west coast – you know it?’

‘No.’

‘No, it isn’t used much by international lines. This is a cheap line. It does cheap business. Here, Nagasaki.’ Yoshi put a finger on it. ‘And here, Niigata – the first stop, about seven hundred miles up. In Niigata it discharges and loads.’

‘It loads what?’

Yoshi ground his teeth a little, but he checked the paper. ‘Fork lifts, agricultural machinery, skates,’ he said. ‘The skates for Gothenburg and Rotterdam, the rest Murmansk.’

‘Containerised?’

‘Containerised.’

‘As deck cargo or what?’

Yoshi blinked. ‘The loading isn’t finalised,’ he said.

Porter looked at him. Yoshi was the man he had to deal with, and he had been told he was a good man. But Yoshi didn’t know this. There would be other things he didn’t know. That was why he was at the Lucky Strike. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘What’s the discharge cargo?’

‘Wool. The ship is coming now. It runs there and back from Australia. It drops the wool at Nagasaki and feeder vessels move it on. This one will. First of all to Niigata.’

‘Wool is a baled cargo.’

‘Yes, baled,’ Yoshi said, checking.

‘The ship handles break-bulk
and
container?’

‘It handles everything, it’s a tramp. It goes to places the others don’t,’ Yoshi said.

Porter thought about this. ‘Okay, Niigata. What then?’

‘Then Otaru. Up here on the island of Hokkaido. The same thing, load and discharge. And final bunkering. It’s the last stop in Japan. It drops the remainder of the wool, then off – up to the Bering Strait and the Arctic’

‘What’s the date for up there?’

‘Nagasaki-Murmansk is twenty-eight days, their speed. They go a slow speed, it’s cheaper. But they allow more for turnaround and delays. The one sure date, they’ll be at Murmansk the first week of October. After that there’s a good chance they’d be iced in.’

‘How about Green Cape?’

‘I don’t know about Green Cape. There’s no consignment yet. There still could be. The Russians always leave it to the end. It wouldn’t be the last word, anyway.’

He explained. On rounding the strait the ship would radio its arrival in Russian waters, and the Russians would radio back if they wanted them to stop.

‘Stop for what?’

‘Fish. They have a small fish business with Murmansk.’ Murmansk was not on the map but Yoshi pointed out where it would be, somewhere near the door. ‘Way out there. That time of year nothing much goes that way. the traffic is all the other way, to the Pacific. Maybe this is the last ship of the season, so they’ll want it.’

‘What if they don’t?’

Two flutes of smoke came out of Yoshi’s flat nose. ‘If they don’t, there’s a plan,’ he said. ‘And if they do, there’s also a plan. You’ll learn all this.’

‘Where do I join the ship?’

‘At Otaru. It happens fast, before they have time to let anyone know. Actually, they
won’t
want to let anyone know.’

‘Why?’

‘No. Enough,’ Yoshi said. The minimal nose and the shell glasses gave him the appearance of a tough cat. ‘There’s a lot
for you to learn, but not here. In the place set up for you to learn. You stay out of sight there till it’s time for you to move.’

Porter nodded. ‘Yoshi,’ he said, ‘do you know what I have to do at Green Cape?’

‘No. I don’t have to know that,’ Yoshi said.

‘It’s not as healthy as smoking cigarettes.’

‘So?’

‘I am the one that’s going, not you.’

‘If you don’t keep to the plan maybe you can’t go.’

‘If I don’t like the plan,’ Porter said, ‘I won’t go.’

Yoshi looked at him, blinking slowly.

‘What’s wrong with the plan?’ he said.

‘I don’t know,’ Porter said. ‘I’ll find out at Nagasaki.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Yoshi said. His mouth had fallen open and his blinking had accelerated. ‘I told you – you join the ship at Otaru. You can’t go to Nagasaki. You can’t go anywhere. You have to stay out of sight. If there’s anything you want to know, we’ll find it out. What is it you want to know?’

‘What equipment have they got on the ship?’

‘What equipment? I’ve got a man who
knows
the equipment. He knows the ship. He’ll explain it all to you. Everything is taken care of. I promise you!’

‘Has the man been on the ship during refitting?’

‘He doesn’t have to go on the ship. He’s a – a professional man. He knows these things. I can’t tell you here – it’s confidential!’ Yoshi mouthed over the radio row.

‘Yoshi, I’ve learned these ships have the worst accident record in the world, and a new man gets the shittiest ’jobs. Unless I arrive in one piece at the other end there’s no point in going at all. I have to know about it. Do you
understand
?’

‘Understand,’ Yoshi said. He was looking troubled. ‘But you can’t get in the yard anyway. We also tried to get in, for information. We got it from the freight forwarders in the end. It’s a private yard, very secure, they don’t let anyone in.’

‘But they have to let them out. Which yard is it?’

Yoshi checked with his paper. ‘Takeshuma. Round the bay, near Mitsubishi.’

‘I know Mitsubishi. You can look into it from the hill. How near there is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Yoshi said. He took his glasses off, and put them on again. ‘Listen, come back with me,’ he said, ‘and you’ll understand. Leave the cases here, if you want. They can be sent for. Just agree that for now.’

But Porter wouldn’t agree it. He said he planned to rest, and look over the blueprints and his documentation. Yoshi wouldn’t leave the documentation but he reluctantly agreed to leave the blueprints. He unfolded the sheets and carefully scissored off a strip along the bottom, which gave the date and the draughting details. Then he cut off another along the top.

This gave the name of the ship, which was the
Suzaku Maru
.

Rain was smashing down when he woke.

It was very dark, and the room was chill from the air conditioner. He took a warm shower and went down to the coffee bar. This place he found shut so he crossed the street to the station. Plenty of small cafés were open there.

The rain had stopped but the night was damp and hot, alive now with neon. It glistened in the puddles, and cast a red glow over the enormous city. The station was still crowded, the streets clogged with hooting traffic. He found a sushi bar and picked at his plate, musing.

His Japanese would do. Over the years he had been running there and back; on the last occasion as it happened, to Hokkaido, where he now had to pick up the ship. On that occasion he had been picking up Ainu, from the remaining aboriginals there.

Japanese yes, but his Korean no. On the ship he was going to need Korean. He had brushed up a bit at the camp and more had been arranged for him here. It was the ship that worried
him more. As Yoshi had snipped off the details he had noticed the date. The blueprints were thirty-five years old.

He went back and studied them anyway.

He saw there was no provision for containerisation. The ship hadn’t carried containers thirty-five years ago; although evidently it did now. And what of the deck equipment: the derricks, cranes, capstans? Stinking old machinery, for certain, and by now dangerous. A ship that went to ‘places the others don’t’ made heavy use of its own lifting gear, soon worn out. A line like this would either get a cheap repair job or replace it with scrapyard junk. In any case it wouldn’t be where it was on the blueprints – not if container shafts had been put in.

He pored over the sheets, all the same, memorising the equipment and its positioning. He did it until two in the morning when his eyes were closing, and then he phoned Yoshi’s number again. It rang for a long time and then was abruptly answered by a female – very angry, almost in shock. He left a message for Yoshi, and went to bed.

The Theosophical Society of East Asia had a beautiful small courtyard, totally secluded, and approached by a long alley ending in a tunnel and solid wooden doors. The doors opened silently after Yoshi had beeped his remote control and received an answering beep.

A little old man with a rake was watching as the car entered and came to a halt. Yoshi nodded to him as they got out and the old man nodded back. He was wearing a conical straw hat and scraping lines in a sand garden, and in addition to the rake
he was holding the electronic gadget that had opened the doors.

The morning was very heavy and grey and they had driven for over an hour through back streets to get here. Away from the centre the prosperous city was suddenly in the third world: few pavements, puddled lanes. This area seemed more salubrious but was still a jumble of sheds, factories, small apartment blocks.

The Theosophical Society itself was wedged between a book depository and a tin-roofed works; but inside the gates was another world. A fountain played. Carp swam in a pool.

‘You like this place?’ Yoshi asked.

Porter looked around it, nodding.

A heavily eaved house, evidently ancient and covered with an elegant creeper, it enclosed all four sides of the courtyard, the tunnel and the gates merely set into it.

‘You’ll work well here, you’ll concentrate,’ Yoshi told him. ‘You can rest in the garden. And this is Machiko,’ he said, as a young lady in glasses appeared in the doorway. She was wearing a track suit and an unsmiling countenance.

‘We spoke,’ she said. ‘On the phone. At two o’clock this morning.’

‘Sure. Sorry about that,’ Porter said.

‘It’s okay. It’s just that I like to get out and jog first thing. I didn’t jog too much today.’ The appearance was little-girl Japanese, with black pudding-bowl haircut. But she was not a little girl. And the language was not Japanese but pure Canadian.

‘She does all kinds of voices. She will do regional Korean,’ Yoshi told him. ‘Also your legend. You’ll work with Machiko. on the legend.’

‘What have you got for me here?’ Porter said.

‘You’ll see it after breakfast.’

‘Maybe I’d better see it now,’ Porter said.

‘Okay. We’ll meet up later,’ Yoshi told the girl, and took Porter inside.

The house was a warren of corridors, with a faint smell of incense hanging about. ‘It’s from the walls,’ Yoshi told him. ‘Religious people lived here a long time.’ The walls were of rough plaster and brass oil lamps hung from them. Electric bulbs were in the oil lamps now. They turned a corner, and then another, and went up a flight of stairs, to a room evidently over the entrance tunnel. Yoshi unlocked the door and switched the light on and re-locked behind them.

The room was cell-like, with a single shuttered window. It had tatami matting on the floor and two chairs and a table. On the table was a model of the ship, a metre long, and brightly painted.

‘The man will come and explain it to you,’ Yoshi said. ‘He’s a ship architect with the government.’ He took a side off the ship and exposed the interior. ‘You see what a good job it is? It’s better than any blueprint.’

‘Yes,’ Porter said. The model was very good, immaculately finished, and in much better shape than the original was now likely to be.

He looked at the interior. Two shafts had been installed, he saw. For vertical container stacking. Little containers were stacked in them. He moved the containers up and down. ‘When was this put in?’ he said.

‘They did a big job ten, twelve years ago. The man will explain it all to you.’

Ten, twelve years ago made sense. Then it was worth the expense. They wouldn’t have spent much since. In particular they wouldn’t have spent much on the deck gear. The deck gear was where it was on the blueprints – impossible in view of the shafts. Whoever had made the model was not interested in the deck but in the ship’s interior. The interior was very precise and showed many changes; to holds, lockers, shuttering.

‘Who built this?’ he said.

‘The man did it himself. He’s an expert. He’ll take you through it blindfold. He works for the narcotics bureau.’

‘What has the narcotics bureau to do with it?’

‘We brought them into it. You’re a narcotics agent, with the US government. We supplied good papers. We’ve done a lot of work. And they keep excellent relations with the police, the transport ministries, all kinds of authorities. We’re getting maximum help, and they know we’ll be discreet. So you see why you can’t go poking around and screwing things up. I’ll tell you all about it. You can take your wig off now and we’ll have breakfast.’

The girl didn’t appear at breakfast.

‘She doesn’t have to hear what I’m going to tell you,’ Yoshi said.

He began telling him as soon as the remains were cleared away. He produced two folders from a safe, and emptied one of them on the table. A number of photographs and papers spilled out, including the passport and the pay book.

‘This is his wife. Parents. Children. The house they all live in, street plan. His service record – every ship he’s been on, and where. Police record – some violence, as you’ll see. Medical record. Letters from his wife. Examples of his own writing. You’ll work through all this with Machiko.’

‘This is a real person?’ Porter said.

‘Of course. It’s always the best.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In Kobe. His throat was slit in a prison fight there three weeks ago. We’re holding the ashes a while. They’ll have to go back, of course, he was a Buddhist. The family has not been informed yet – bureaucratic delay. We’ll hold everything until you’re on that ship, and off it.’

‘Had he served with this line?’

‘Some time ago. You’ll see it there.’

‘Won’t any of the crew know him?’

‘No. They’re all signed, and we’ve checked every one out. Not one of them was ever in the same port with him, or even
on home leave, at least not in the last six years. It’s a very slight risk.’

‘Who else knows he’s dead?’

‘Outside the prison, a few officials. Inside it, maybe the hospital staff. Not even them, for certain. He was shifted out in an ambulance. A police surgeon was the only one with him when he died. The police know, of course. That is, it will be on a computer somewhere, if they have any reason to check you out. They won’t have a reason. You’ll be staying out of sight. I’ll have one of your cigarettes now,’ Yoshi said.

Porter gave him one and lit it.

‘Wasn’t there an inquest?’ he said.

‘No. The narcotics department helped.
They
have asked that you stay out of sight. It’s the only thing they’ve asked. They can’t compromise the police.’

‘So how long am I supposed to stay here?’

‘From now, six days. Perhaps seven. Your kit is all here. You pick it up at Otaru.’

Porter thought about this.

‘All right. What’s the timing, from Nagasaki?’

‘From Nagasaki,’ Yoshi said, ‘the ship undocks on the thirty-first, and loads. This is a fast operation, wool the only cargo. I’ll have more information later, but provisionally she arrives at Niigata on the third September.’

He opened the second folder and took some sheets out.

‘Niigata. A fully equipped port. It handles all loading and discharge – ship’s own crew only partially required, so one watch goes ashore. Normal turnaround there is twelve to eighteen hours – again, I’ll know more later. But trouble develops on shore among the crew, and it continues on the ship. A hundred miles or so out the captain suddenly has a casualty on his hands, quite serious.’

He explained this, and Porter drew on his cigarette.

‘This is already fixed?’ he said.

‘Oh yes.’ Yoshi looked through his papers and turned one face round on the table. ‘Here’s the crew.’

Porter counted twelve names; four of them highlighted with red outliner.

‘What are the red ones?’ he said.

‘One of them is the casualty.’

‘How do you know who’ll be the casualty?’

‘I don’t,’ Yoshi said, ‘but the list is alphabetical, and they

work the watches the same way. One of these men
has
to be the casualty. And three of them served together on a previous voyage, which will be useful. Anyway, I want to know what happens in Niigata before starting you off in Otaru.’

Porter considered this.

‘
How long from there to Otaru
?’

‘Two days,’ Yoshi said.

‘With this man in bad shape.’

‘Very bad shape.’

‘So what happens?’

Yoshi told him what he thought would happen.

‘Won’t there be questions about the casualty?’

‘It will happen
fast
,’ Yoshi said. ‘And the captain will leave Otaru fast. After shipping another hand.’

‘Are we certain he absolutely
needs
another hand?’

‘Yes. For a voyage through the Arctic, late in the season,’ Yoshi said, ‘he needs another hand. These ships already operate with minimum crews.’

Porter smoked silently for a while.

‘Okay. Green Cape,’ he said.

‘There isn’t anything for Green Cape. I told you, the Russian trade mission here is always late. They could still give instructions – even at sea. But whether they do or they don’t,’ Yoshi said, ‘you get off there.’ And he explained this, too. ‘After which,’ he ended, ‘you know what to do. And I don’t have to know. I’ve got you on the ship, and I’ve got you off it.’

‘Well. Okay.’ Porter said. ‘Maybe. If it works at
Green
Cape
.’

‘I have no doubts about Green Cape. If you get
on
the ship, you’ll get off it at Green Cape. And you
will
get on it, if you
keep to the plan. You look good. You look how you’re supposed to look, ‘Yoshi said. Porter was now gnawing the end of his pigtail.’ In seaman’s rig you’ll look even better.’

Porter studied his image in the passport and the pay book.

‘So here’s the next thing,’ Yoshi said. ‘Why you stay out of sight. Koreans aren’t liked here. Working people don’t like them, the police. They regularly get stopped by the police. On no account are you meeting any police.’

‘I never had trouble before.’

‘It wasn’t so bad before. And if it had been bad, you were a Canadian with good papers. Now you’re a Canadian with funny papers. And a wig.’

‘Without the wig, with Sung’s papers?’

‘They run you in right away. One call from a police box, and they find you’re not Sung.’

‘Why would they call?’

‘They
do
call. I tell you, it’s routine, Koreans have a bad time. They don’t like them. Maybe there’s been trouble recently, violence, theft, whatever. Then what? At Tokyo central, a man on the switchboard, he knows the arrangement with the narcotics bureau? Don’t even think of it. This plan is nice because the timing is nice. Interfere with it in some way – get yourself locked up, an investigation – and there is no plan. This is why you don’t go out,’ Yoshi said.

Porter continued gnawing his pigtail.

‘Yoshi,’ he said, ‘I have to see the ship. They’re probably patching it up for one last voyage, like the other ship, and using cannibalised parts. The man who made that model was interested in compartments where narcotics could be hidden – not deck gear where it wouldn’t be.
I
am interested in it. I’ll be using it. I have to see it before the ship leaves dock. It’s the only place I
can
see it before boarding. And if I don’t see it I
won’t
be boarding.’

Yoshi slowly blinked at him.

‘If the ship can be seen,’ he worked out, ‘then it can be photographed. Why don’t we photograph it for you?’

‘All right. I’m still going to see it. I can’t take a chance on this.’

Yoshi continued blinking.

‘Today is too late anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s a long trip. And you can’t go on your own. If you go out at all, it’s as a businessman in a suit, and we go together.’

‘Okay,’ Porter said. ‘Keep me company.’

Nagasaki airport was at Omura, thirty miles from the port. They landed there before noon, into almost sub-tropical heat, and Yoshi hired a car.

The waterfront came in sight presently, sparkling far below, and they followed it round. Houses clung to the hillsides and narrow winding streets tottered down to the bay: the place was built on a series of terraces.

Yoshi had better information on the yard now and also a Port Authority map. On the map the dockyards were shown as a line of numbered blocks, and a key on the edge of the map gave the names. Porter kept his finger on Takeshuma’s. As Yoshi had said, it wasn’t far from Mitsubishi, and they slowed as they neared the area.

Just on two o’clock, they saw it.

The yard passed below, barely distinguishable, and they drove on to the next pull-in, and walked back. A steady stream of traffic was passing on the road but on the hillside, above and below the road, people were picnicking and taking photographs. There was plenty to photograph. Far below, winking in the sun, was the Park Lane of the marine world – a glittering array of success, supertankers, giant container ships, prosperous monsters of all kinds, lined up row on row.

Mitsubishi was the most prominent of the yards, its activities not only visible but audible, even palpable. The thump of its heavy forges echoed between the hills of the bay, rhythmically shifting the air. Just about here Madame Butterfly had taken the air, while awaiting the one fine day when a plume of smoke would herald Lieutenant Pinkerton.
Yet it was not Pinkerton but another American who had occasioned the most momentous plume of all.

The B29 with its atom bomb had flown directly overhead, with Mitsubishi as its target – the yard, the steelworks and the munitions plant that had lain alongside. The bomb had landed almost half a mile away, demolishing the lot, and ultimately 73,000 citizens.

They climbed the hill, above the picnickers, and peered down through binoculars. Right away Porter saw why not much of Takeshuma had been distinguishable from the road. High shuttering screened it off from the road. From this height not all of it was screened off. Two ships were in the yard. They were lodged side by side, on chocks, in separate dry docks. All the after parts were visible; maybe even three quarters of the ships’ length.