Andy Mcdermott - Temple of the Gods

‘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.’

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 hoardings, but instead because several wind turbines rose gracefully above its roof. She guessed it to be around fifty storeys 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 stylised 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, apologising 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 Tokyo real estate was among the most expensive in the world, Nina recognised that something as simple as a patch of grass was 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 of which even his successful father and grandfather could not have dreamed.

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 towards her and spoke Japanese in a high, girly 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 towards a slot set into the marble desktop, from which emerged a laminated card bearing Nina’s name and photograph — which, she realised 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.’