The Samurai Inheritance by James Douglas Page A

fortunate Greta decided to search several years either side of our potential dates. In November of the year eighteen eighty-five, the museum purchased from Herr Adolfus Ribbe, lately returned from German New Guinea, “one canoe god – to be placed on the prow or stem of said vessel – seven fish spears in a variety of patterns, a model canoe – five feet in length, with foliage sail – various frond bowls, two clubs, four skulls of varying antiquity and … one shrunken head of a warrior chieftain”. You appear surprised.’
    ‘Frankly, Herr Direktor, I’m bloody astonished.’ Jamie grinned as Muller blinked at the bluntness of his reply. ‘When I first heard the words “shrunken head” I thought I had as much chance of finding it as winning the lottery.’
    ‘Of course, this does not mean it is here now,’ the museum boss cautioned. ‘The head would have remained in the Neues for just two years until the new Ethnological Museum in Stresemannstrasse opened its doors. Our entire collection moved there. It is now housed in a rather depressing modern building out at Dahlem, but I must warn you that the Stresemannstrasse site suffered even more gravely than this museum in the latter years of the war. Much of their collection was lost.’
    But Jamie was barely listening.
    Every hunt began with a first step. Against all the odds, the Bougainville head was more than just a fuzzy photograph taken more than a century earlier. It was a reality.

VII
    The suburb of Dahlem is in the west of Berlin and one of the most affluent areas of the city. It lies near the Grunewald, the great playground of forests and lakes that draws Berliners in their tens of thousands each summer to swim and picnic. According to Herr Direktor Muller, the Ethnological Museum was in the centre of town close to the Free University of Berlin.
    It took Max half an hour to reach the museum and he dropped Jamie off outside the gates of a modernist cube of a building set back from the road. The first thing that struck the Englishman was the enormous banners draped across the upper storey above the entrance. In turn they represented Africa, America, Oceania, Asia and Europe, and each continent was identified by the staring eyes, prominent nose and grinning mouth of a stylized head. For a moment he stood transfixed. Was this an omen? Could it really be that easy?
    He carried the mood of optimism with him as he walked up the concrete stairs to the hallway where he’d arranged to meet the museum’s curator.
    ‘Herr Saintclair?’
    ‘Yes.’ He turned, pleasantly surprised to discover he was being addressed by a tall, slim figure wearing a powder-blue sweater and tight-fitting designer jeans that showed off her long legs to advantage. He guessed she was around his age – perhaps in her mid-thirties – and she had hair the colour and sheen of a raven’s plumage cut in a short bob. Chestnut eyes studied him appraisingly and there was an amused half-smile on her fine-boned features. The moment he set eyes on her he knew the first thing he said would make him sound like an idiot. Naturally, he obliged. ‘I’m here to see the curator, Herr Fischer.’
    ‘Perhaps you’ll put up with me instead?’ She offered her right hand and when he took it her grip was firm and dry. ‘I’m Herr Fischer’s deputy, Magda Ross. Dr Magda Ross.’ She spoke in a flat, precise English that in Jamie’s experience was peculiar to people who travelled widely, but with a slight accent that told him it was her native tongue. For some reason the perfume she wore took him back to a beach on the Norfolk coast and a night he’d long forgotten. The emphasis she placed on the word doctor made it a challenge, or possibly a warning, and he smiled.
    ‘You find something amusing?’ she asked.
    ‘Not at all,’ he lied. ‘I’m just surprised and pleased to find a fellow Brit here. My German is good, but it’s always easier to talk about a complex subject in one’s own language,