I was on company business, so a taxi was in order. I spent the first part of the ride to the gallery quizzing the driver about Spurious Developments and their plans. If the company was becoming as notorious as Kohei and the Resistance believed, then surely a taxi driver would have heard of them. Instead, he proved as ignorant of the issues as I had been just a month earlier. "That's an odd name for a company. Sounds like somebody's idea of a joke ... Demonstrations? Really? Between fares I often listen to the news on the Indian radio station. I'm sorry, Sir, but they made no mention of it."
"I suppose it wasn't a very large demonstration."
"A mind-reading machine, you say? If it helps convict the guilty then it sounds like progress to me. You want to see some of the troublemakers we get on the night shift. Of course, your problem there would be finding a mind to read ..."
Interesting points, but not a lot of help. When this conversation ran down, I got my phone out to see if Google had anything more to add. I found only two items of any relevance: one a company press statement disavowing evil-doing, the second an equally bland and brief media report, dated today, claiming that the company was part-owned by organised criminals. After first skimming over it, I read this latter article through a second time, searching for clues between the lines. Was this the source of Kohei's assertions? And why had Coriolis failed to pass on this piece of information in between casting aspersions on my friends? My primary conclusion was that there were things people weren't telling me. But then that much, at least, I already knew.
As tactics, these distractions served to keep my mind occupied. Then for a while, I thought of nothing at all. The traffic was heavy for the time of day, our progress through it slow. Or rather, not quite nothing: I believe I thought about Monica, prompted no doubt by her association with the gallery. Not coherent thoughts, just places we'd been, snatches of things she'd said. Ghost thoughts, by which I mean they were fleeting, not haunting. In principle, not the safest of topics; in practice these fragments of memory carried me across the intervening time without perceptible friction.
It wasn't until I was standing on the pavement outside the once-familiar façade of the Cuthbert Gallery that my sense of trepidation returned. I braced myself, then entered. What the hell, I told myself, I am here as Kohei's invited guest. Just brazen it out.
I entered the main hall of the gallery and looked around, inviting the ghosts to assail me. None came. I didn't feel anything really; memories certainly, but not emotion so much as its echo, an awareness of what I ought to be feeling, but wasn't. Was this a sign of age, I wondered? This detachment? The thought left me perplexed – now there was an emotion I could get to grips with – surely I was too young to be getting old. Partly, I decided, it was the work hanging on the wall; none of it in a style to which I could put a name. This season's new big thing, I assumed. As a one-time big thing myself, from a few seasons before last, I offered up a metaphorical doffing of the cap, wishing him or her enjoyment while it lasted, whoever they may be. Hoping they didn't mess things up the way I had. For a pursuit said to spring from man's desire for immortality, the visual arts can be a surprisingly ephemeral business.
An unfamiliar sales lady came across the room to greet me. She addressed me as "Sir", suggesting she had no idea who I was. I told her I was here to see Kohei; that, yes, he was expecting me; and that I knew where to find him.
After letting myself through to the back office, I flipped a one-word greeting to Jane at her desk then hurried on to Kohei's office before she could react. I walked in without knocking.
I found him reclining in his chair, his hands in his lap, and smiling his usual impish smile. His eyes were on me from the moment I came through the door.
"Kurt! I am very happy to see you back on familiar stomping ground."
I slumped down in the visitor's chair. Here in Kohei's inner sanctum my sense of dislocation at returning to the gallery had ceded place to concerns about Graeme's welfare. Gangsters? Kidnapped? The idea still seemed preposterous. Nonetheless, Kohei's glib expression felt inappropriate even by his standards.
One stereotype he was rarely guilty of was the inscrutable oriental; more often his emotions would be written across his face in bright primary colours.
"So Kohei, how about you tell me what the hell is going on."
"Many things are going on, Kurt. You have come to ask about Graeme? Am I right?"
"He's gone missing. When I told you that on the phone, you didn't sound surprized. I'd been unaware you even knew who Graeme was."
"I was the one who found you the job, remember." I waited, but no further explanation was offered. Instead he nodded an encouragement at me to continue, listened as I told him about my encounter with the thug at the restaurant; all the while his expression remaining unchanged, none of the fidgeting or moving about I would normally expect of Kohei. Whatever the circumstances, it was a relief to be telling someone at last.
When I stopped talking he sat there, still unmoving, apparently ruminating on my words.
"So what has happened to Graeme?" I asked, feeling too out of step with events to be exasperated by his apparent lack of concern. I knew Kohei too well to be angry – or at least I thought I did.
"Your friend Graeme, he must have been kidnapped by gangsters."
"Are you sure? And how did you even know he was missing?"
"I know. I have many contacts." Kohei was beaming like a child who had just outwitted his adult.
"Okay. So you know who has taken him?"
"It's like I said. Only possible explanation."
"Sorry Kohei. I still don't get it."
"Consider what might happen, okay? There are some people who want to stop Spurious Developments and there are some people who want to steal their machine. If it were the government, they could just arrest Graeme on some anti-terrorism law, right? Lots of laws they could use, if they wanted to. Then there are the protestors, but they don't do kidnapping because it is not helpful for them. They want to shut you down – not just take you out but turn public opinion against you. But gangsters, they are scared about what the mind-reading machines could do to their business. How can you run a secret criminal organisation when there are no secrets anymore? And all these new drugs they are making, very high-tech, very big money. Your machine could really help. See, they're the only ones with a good reason for taking Graeme."
"But what do you mean by gangsters. Which gangsters? Can we contact them? Should we?"
Kohei nodded. "Okay, this is confidential information. I heard it from people in the Resistance. They had some new recruits join up recently. Kind of suspicious. They just walked in and asked to join, not friends of friends or anything like that. And the thing about gangsters is, there are certain tell-tale signs. Anyway, some of the people in the Resistance are pretty smart. They have been around the business for a while; they can tell when something's not right. And they have their own ways of finding things out. So naturally they get suspicious, thinking perhaps these people are – I forget the word, info-somethings, you know, like from Internal Security ..."
"You mean infiltrators?"
"Yes, that's it. So they check up on them, but what they find is that they are second cousins, something like that, of a crime family boss. And the police database says, 'known gang connections'. Organized criminals, in other words, ... in the drug trade."
I listened to his words, grateful that for once something was meshing coherently with my prior knowledge.
"So it will have been one of these men who approached me last Friday?"
"Yes, one of them." Kohei nodded enthusiastically, then shrugged. "Or perhaps one of their colleagues."
"But have you got, like, any evidence that these people have taken Graeme?"
"Of course. It's like I said, there is no other explanation." He looked so sure of himself. The same expression he used to get when closing a big sale.
"But if it is gangsters, what do they want with Graeme? Might they kill him?" I must have watched too many movies to speak these words as casually as I did.
Kohei leaned over the desk toward me, conspiratorial, as if about to impart some fox-crazy plan that would free Graeme and capture the bad guys, all in one daring move. Instead, he steepled his fingers and paused for a moment before speaking.
"Tell me what you have found out so far."
I repeated what I'd told him on the phone, the bare facts that Coriolis had imparted. It didn't take me long.
"Okay, this is what you should do: go back to Coriolis. Tell him you have contacted the Resistance and that they gave you these two names." Kohei handed me a piece of paper, typewritten. "That's all, though. You leave it to Coriolis to decide what to do with the information, okay?"
He gave me an appraising look, as if sceptical of my ability to take all this in.
"And I have to ask you a special favour, Kurt. When you talk to people, whether it is Coriolis or the police, or anybody else, please don't mention my name. Very important. I want to help Graeme, but I can't be seen to get involved. It would interfere with my work, and it would make it harder to help in the future. You understand?"
I wasn't sure what I understood. On one level this was classic Kohei, playing up the drama for all he was worth. Beyond that ... it felt like I was part of a game being played on levels of which I was unaware. But I also knew that I trusted Kohei. And hadn't Coriolis told me that the winning of games was all about trust?
"Okay," I agreed, happy to have a plan of action. The intricacies of what it all meant I could leave to smarter minds than mine. "But what about their threats? Are they going to come after me? And what the hell is Graeme up to anyway? Don't I have a right to know?"
Kohei pondered this. "It is true there are things I am not allowed to tell you. Important things. But there are good reasons for this. Please, lots of time to forgive me afterwards. Sometimes it's better you know less, you know?"
I held his gaze, at a loss for any other answer. Having been reduced to living on scraps, I was grateful at least for the acknowledgement implicit in his words, however unsatisfactory.
Kohei continued: "But I do think it's best you keep a low profile for a while. If Graeme is out of the picture then it may be the gangsters won't be needing you anymore, right? So if you stay out of sight ..." He paused a moment, then nodded to himself. "Also, there is a way you can help. Something that needs you in particular and that will send you somewhere the gangsters would not think to look. For now, though, just leave it with me. Okay?" He looked me in the eye. "Shimpai shinai de ne." Don't worry.
I shrugged, with no choice but to accept this at face value.
"Good. Now I am sorry Kurt, but I also have one more favour to ask. Could you please come here tomorrow morning, at about eight o'clock, before you go to work?"
"Will you be here?" For Kohei to be in the office at that time of the morning was even rarer than his use of exaggerated facial expressions.
"Yes. And I might have some important news. But you have to wait until then, okay?"