December 6 (28 page)

“Yeah, I agree.”

Harry could see half of the temple and the park, the world where he and Gen had once run wild. And Taro, Jiro, Tetsu, even Hajime. The stalls and souvenir stands were designed for boys with deft hands and quick feet. Escape routes had led around the pond, behind the Buddhas, in back of the shrine and out to the movie crowds on the Rokku.

“Once a con man, always a con man,” Gen said.

“I guess so.”

“So I’ll just ask you to be honest about one thing. One thing, and we’ll let the rest slide.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you fix the Long Beach books? The changes in the oil ledger, did Long Beach make them or did you?”

“Me? I only looked at those books because the navy asked me to.”

“Maybe you did more than that. Maybe you altered the numbers for Long Beach Oil, Manzanita and Petromar. Did you, Harry?”

“I’m looking over there.” Harry started down the steps toward the torii gate at the other end of the temple grounds. “I’m searching for a killer and you’re talking about oil?”

“Because oil is more important. Tell me about the oil tanks in Hawaii. Are they real or not?”

“I don’t know. I told you about the loudmouth in Shanghai—”

“I know the story. The bar, the whores, the drunk who boasted about the tanks. I know the story back and forth. So I’m going to ask you if you made it up. It will be between the two of us, just tell me the truth.”

“It’s like I told you. Do secret tanks actually exist? I doubt it.”

“You know that once the possibility is planted, doubts don’t matter.”

“I only passed on what I heard. What you make of it is up to you.”

“What we make of it can be very big, Harry.”

Harry understood Gen’s predicament. He was the poor Asakusa boy made good, the C in C’s protégé, the hero of the Magic Show. He had brought the rumor of the Hawaiian tanks to the attention of Naval Operations. If there were a strike on Pearl, Operations would want to know exactly what to hit. Gen’s career was on the line. All the same, Harry said, “That’s up to you. I’m looking for Michiko.”

Gen stayed at his shoulder. “Did you make up everything? Are the tanks a con?”

“I have no idea. What does it matter? What’s so urgent about Hawaii?”

Gen said nothing, but the two men came to a stop. This was the point in a game where you turned up the cards, Harry thought. He said, “Is it too late to tell your friends in Naval Operations to turn the ships around?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s happening, isn’t it? I saw Tojo taking an innocent ride in the park today, and I knew then it was a matter of hours. You know why I’ve done so well at cards over the years? The Japanese are lousy bluffers. They have too much honor, too much face. I don’t have either, so I’ve always had the odds on my side. You understand odds?”

Gen looked like a fighter rattled by a combination. “I’ve heard this before.”

“But you haven’t understood. Odds are the long run. In the short run, you may sink the American fleet, burn all the oil, send Hawaii under the sea. But you won’t win, because the other side will just produce more fleets, more oil and more islands if it needs to.” Harry started down the steps again. “I can’t believe someone as smart as Yamamoto went along with this.”

“The C in C does as he is ordered.”

“Doesn’t matter. You may win the battle, but in the long run, you can’t win the war. The odds are too high.”

“That’s what you want.”

“No, that’s not at all what I want.”

“Japan defeated is what you want.”

“No.” Harry stayed one step ahead.

“You have always been against a greater Japan.”

“I’ll show you what I’m against. I’ll demonstrate.” At the bottom of the steps, Harry bought out a vendor’s stack of dream papers, the cheap prints of seven clownish gods meant to be placed under one’s pillow on New Year’s to inspire good luck. Harry carried them to the smoking urn, crumpled the papers and tossed them in among the joss sticks. People stepped back, horrified. Harry went on balling up the sheets and throwing them in until the urn was full. “These are paper houses, this is what Japanese people live in. Have you ever seen the effect of incendiary bullets on paper houses? This is what it looks like.”

Harry’s lighter was good for one more flame. He touched it to a paper, which opened as it burned and touched off all the surrounding papers. They bloomed until the entire urn filled with a floating plasma of orange flames and the blue smoke of joss sticks. For a few seconds, the paper burned brilliantly and cast a light that Harry saw reflected in the eyes of the crowd; then it turned black and twisted on the sand amid the bare glowing wires of the sticks.

Harry said, “That’s what I’m against. A Tokyo like that.”

The space around him grew. Not all the people were strangers; some vendors had known Harry for years. No matter, all were shamed and offended. Everyone stared at the gaijin and made room only because courtesy prevented them from beating him.

Gen said, “Harry, I know about the plane tomorrow. If you want to be on it, tell me about the tanks. If you want to get out, tell me.”

“I don’t know.”

Harry turned and made his way through the crowd. The pariah’s privilege, he thought, was that people let you pass.

T
HE
H
APPY
P
ARIS
was only a few blocks away. The club felt cocked like a mousetrap. Harry expected Ishigami to step behind him at any moment. He took a deep breath before turning on the lights.

Michiko wasn’t in the club or upstairs in the apartment. There was no note or indication of where she had gone or how she expected to connect with him. Maybe she didn’t intend to at all, Harry thought. Why stand next to a target on a firing range? If she took a powder, good for her. If she was smart, she’d go the far end of the island, and if he was smart, he’d be on the plane, so everything evened out. Harry realized that from the moment he stepped into the ballroom, he hadn’t even thought about the plane until Gen mentioned it. He hadn’t thought about Alice at all.

He dug out a potato stored under the galley floorboards, cut it in two and left a cross-section wrapped in a towel to dry while he typed on the stationery that Goro had delivered. A Japanese typewriter was a special misery, a scroll that rotated over a tray of hundreds of characters that had to be picked up and linked one by one, but over the years Harry had become adept at the creation of documents. While he wrote an official approval of Iris’s politics from the War Ministry —that clean bill of health under the ministry letterhead that would allow her to accompany Willie on the
Orinoco
— he played some Ellington, getting up to punch in the numbers for “ Mood Indigo. ”

What kept coming to mind were Haruko’s head and vacant eyes. Most awful, however, was his relief when he saw she wasn’t Michiko. Harry hadn’t thought she was, not once he’d glimpsed her wrists, but he hadn’t dared hope. To hope for anything that much was unlike Harry.
You ain’t been blue, no, no, no / You ain’t been blue / Till you’ve had that mood indigo
. Haruko had blue beat. Michiko was smart to lay low. Anyone who could be both the Record Girl and a geisha had a gift for survival.

A
PLAIN LETTER
wasn’t enough. Just as important was a chop, an officer’s stamp. Harry applied the stamp impression Goro had given him to the round heel of the potato, and the extra-fine paper almost melted, leaving a clear impression in red. With his smallest, sharpest knife, Harry cut away the surface in between, just as Kato had taught him to carve a woodblock. He wet a red inkstone and made a practice impression. Trimmed the excess and stamped the letter. In China he’d done fifty illegal documents a day. There were artists and there were artists.

23

B
EECHUM HAD ORGANIZED
a party for British expats and embassy couples in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel, the men in black tie and the women in gowns that looked like window drapes. As Harry walked in, Beechum was saying, “We all know what Sundays are like on the ramparts of the British Empire. I am happy to report to you that our fighting men in Singapore are undismayed by certain wild rumors. And not just the men.” He watched Alice as she saw Harry arrive, and his baldness took on a purple hue. Harry had shaved and changed clothes to look like a proper friend of Imperial Hotel guests, not someone who juggled heads. “Not only the men,” Beechum continued. “Although the Foreign Office has advised them to evacuate and head for home, every British and Commonwealth wife has loyally decided to stick it out. I propose a toast to their calm and fortitude, if you would all raise a glass.”

Of gin, with gin courage to follow, Harry thought. After a stop at the reception desk, he rang Willie Staub on the house phone.

“Sorry, Willie, it’s no go. I couldn’t reach the right people.”

“Harry, the
Orinoco
leaves tonight. I must be on it, the embassy says I cannot stay. What will become of Iris? Did you forget about us?”

“I tried, Willie. Things just didn’t work out.”

“Did Mr. DeGeorge find you?”

“No. Hey, come on down and we’ll have a drink before you go.”

“I can’t leave Iris.”

“I feel I let you down. I’d just like to say good luck.”

A muffled, emotional conversation on the other end, and then “Just for a second.”

Harry took a seat on the opposite end of the lobby, but there was no escaping Beechum’s voice as it boomed around the atrium. Alice had described it as the sort of voice that unwittingly set off avalanches in the Alps. The hotel staff had taken a half-step back into invisibility, making Harry the sole audience for the Brits even at a distance. Harry asked for a Scotch, and when he raised it, the ice chattered from the shaking of his hand. Every time he thought of Haruko, he wiped his palm on his pant leg. When he thought of Michiko, he half stood to go. Alice misinterpreted and gave him a warning glance that said to stay clear.

Beechum said, “For those concerned about the safety of our troops in Singapore, I would like to relay the message I received just today from the British commander in chief. He is nearly done perfecting the defenses of the colony, and despite privations, his men confidently soldier on.” What privations? Harry wondered. Singapore was paradise. Cheap gin, beautiful women, decent cigarettes. The tent pole of the British Empire was that a corporal from a Manchester brickyard could live like a king in Singapore, Hong Kong, Delhi. “It’s important that we stand shoulder-to-shoulder with our officers and men everywhere and most of all in Singapore. Today is Sunday, and as many of you know, there are Sunday traditions in British Singapore. One is Sunday curry and the other is Sunday sing-along. We may not have the curry, but it would send a message in many ways if we sang along with those wonderful men and women.”

A woman with a parrot hat sat at the piano and played an enthusiastic “Ta-Da.” Alice was sipping a martini so slowly that Harry could feel her lips. What he saw on other faces was a special emotion, an empire in fear of eviction.

“Harry?”

Willie had come down to the lobby with Iris, who was damp around the eyes and apologetic for even asking Harry to help them. She was in a rumpled cheongsam embroidered with flowers and looked like a crushed bouquet. Willie, too, no longer resembled the confident managing director of China Deutsche-Fon, or even the tourist who had arrived in Tokyo days before. He was desperate, wrung out.

“It’s tough,” said Harry. “Didn’t you have some other people working on this?”

“A clerk at the embassy. You were the only person I knew here.”

“It was a pass of some sort?”

“A letter to the German embassy about Iris’s political background. You don’t remember?”

“I remember now. Willie, that other Scotch is for you.”

“You drank yours already?”

“I’ll have another. Iris, I want you to know that whatever I can do to make Tokyo more endurable, just ask. Someplace to stay, a bank, a maid? Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

Willie sat back in wonder. “Now I know what DeGeorge meant. I don’t even recognize you, Harry.”

“Speaking of DeGeorge, have you seen him around?” Harry signaled for more Scotch. Beechum’s party launched into “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary.” It sounded long to Harry.

The waiter’s tray carried not only the Scotch but also a manila envelope with Willie’s name on it. Willie drew out an envelope with a string closure, and from that a letter.

“It’s all in Japanese. What does it say?” Willie seemed to trust the waiter more.

The waiter held the letter by the corners. “If I may, this letter is not to you.”

“Oh.”

“No, it is to your embassy. It reads, ‘This office is pleased to state that Mrs. Iris Staub, a Chinese national, has been found to be a person of good character. She is free to travel with her husband, Wilhelm Staub, a German national.’ It’s signed by a general of the military police.”

“Is it official?”

“It bears the letterhead of the Ministry of War and has the general’s stamp.”

Willie took the letter back and showed Iris. “It came.”

Harry said, “Congratulations. Now you have something to drink to.”

“The embassy said it was hopeless. You did nothing?”

“Nothing at all. Kampai!”

As they drank, Harry felt a visual sweep. He didn’t recall Beechum’s eyes being quite so red, and he had to wonder how much the man knew about the next day’s flight. Had Alice mentioned that she wasn’t coming back? Harry assumed that, as a rule, women didn’t tell husbands much.

Willie studied the letter again. “It’s so short.”

“The shorter, the better.”

“What is ‘shorter, the better’? That would be rare.” Colonel Meisinger had come out of one of the gloomy hallways the Imperial had so many of. He was strapped into Gestapo black, and when he bowed to Iris, it was like watching a toad pirouette. “Don’t you agree?”

Willie said, “Colonel, I have good news, permission for Iris to leave with me. It’s wonderful.”

Meisinger snatched the letter from Willie. He opened his mouth with amusement. “I will say this in English so your wife understands. This paper, whatever it says, is hardly enough. It has to be in German. We’re Germans. Also police and educational records and an examination of her family, all in German.”

“Not enough?” Willie asked.

“I just said. I’m sure your wife will find suitable arrangements here.” Meisinger cocked his head toward the sing-along. “Wonderful spirit. I’ll contact whoever sent this letter and explain things to him.”

“Harry?” Iris asked.

Meisinger said, “Yes, Mr. Niles, are you acquainted with the immigration policies of the Third Reich?”

“No, sorry.”

“He can’t help you,” Meisinger explained to Iris.

“Join us, Colonel?” Harry said, ignoring Willie’s discouragement.

“One drink,” Meisinger settled into the chair next to Iris. “I regret the situation, but it will be resolved, I’m sure. I will take a personal interest.”

“You’re enjoying Japan?” Harry asked.

“I would enjoy it more if the Japanese would do more than chase Chinese bandits. And do more about the Jews.”

“You want the Jews to leave?” Willie asked.

“No, I want them sent back where we can get our hands on them. Harry, you seem to understand the Japanese, why are they so blind to the Jewish problem?”

“They’ve hardly ever seen Jews. Even the anti-Semites haven’t seen any Jews.”

“It’s a matter of education?”

“And talking to the right people.”

“Ah, yes, always the case.” Meisinger’s drink arrived. He tipped his bulk to raise his glass. “Heil Hitler.”

“Cheers,” said Harry.

“And who would the right people be?” Meisinger asked.

“Anyone but General Tanaka.”

“Who is he?”

Harry tapped Willie’s letter. He laughed, and Meisinger joined in.

“I’m sure we can smooth his feathers,” Meisinger said. “It’s hardly more than a note.”

“That’s a sign.” Harry took his time offering cigarettes. He hummed along with the song. The singing was terrible, but for camaraderie it was hard to beat the Brits. If the piano were a sinking ship, they’d probably still be singing:
What’s the use of worrying? It never was worthwhile
. It occurred to Harry that if the Japanese were attacking Hawaii, they would attack Singapore at the same time. Alice Beechum was the only person he knew with the intelligence and means to warn Singapore and Pearl.

“A sign of what?” Meisinger finally bit.

“Rank. The higher you are, the less you have to say. Tanaka is at the very top. A letter this brief is polite, but it’s an order. You asked for a check on Iris, and this is your answer.”

“But it’s inadequate. We need much more and in German.”

“You’re in Japan.”

“I will call this Tanaka and explain.”

“A call might settle it, but not from you. It would have to be from someone of equal rank to Tanaka, a German general.”

“The only general at the embassy is Ambassador Ott.”

“Then the ambassador. It looks like Tanaka sent this letter today, Sunday, which is unusual and suggests someone important got to him. That would involve losing face all around. General Tanaka would certainly be very insulted. The army would be offended, too. So, I think you’re right, you should have the ambassador call as soon as possible.”

“Because of this note? Over Oriental rank and face?”

Harry produced a helpless shrug. “It’s Japan.”

“This is preposterous.” Meisinger sank into his chair.

“Is the ambassador busy?”

“On a Sunday evening, Ambassador Ott has recitals of classical music for a few friends. He does not like to be disturbed. I myself have other things to do besides sit and eat cookies with a group of professional dilettantes.”

“You may want to talk to him before the general does. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll come up with a solution.”

Meisinger picked up the letter again, as if he’d suddenly learned Japanese. “This stamp is Tanaka’s?”

“Yes, it’s considered an extension of the general himself. Very important.”

The colonel let the letter drop to the table. “Well, Staub, it seems that you have influential friends.”

“It does,” Willie said.

“So, perhaps this is a matter of ‘when in Rome’… We certainly don’t want to offend our hosts, especially the army, when we are trying to encourage them to cooperate with us. I have no personal objections to Frau Staub joining you. We will even skip the usual procedures. So, everybody’s happy.”

Meisinger pasted on a magnanimous expression; what had just been a vital sticking point was now casually swept away. When the colonel took his leave, Willie and Iris reacted as if a shark had swum around them and moved on.

Harry said, “You’d better go. What you can’t pack in five minutes, leave. Just get to the ship.”

“You knew he was going to let us go?” Willie asked.

“He had to. The man was such an embarrassment in Warsaw that the Gestapo sent him here. If he fouled up in Tokyo, his next stop was the South Pole.”

“When the waiter read the letter, he never mentioned General Tanaka by name, yet you knew it.”

“It’s not a talent I advertise, but I can read upside down. Willie, the
Orinoco
leaves from Yokohama, and it’s just going to slip into the dark. Go.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Iris said.

“Don’t thank me. You know why else the colonel let you go? He thinks that while he may not be able to stop Iris from boarding the ship, she won’t get past the Gestapo on the other end because of German race laws. That’s after you’ve run fifteen hundred miles of blockade, so don’t thank me, please. If you put in at any neutral ports, say, Lisbon, you might want to let the ship go on without you.”

“We can’t avoid the war. We have to take part.”

“You’re an ant on a dance floor, that’s how you’ll take part.” Harry laid on the letter what looked like two golden calling cards. Tael bars. “Lisbon is a beautiful city.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s something everybody needs.”

“I couldn’t.” Willie pushed the bars toward Harry.

“Willie, we lied and bribed to save people in China. Do you think you’re any better than they were? What do you think, Iris?”

She said, “Maybe it’s a loan.”

“Definitely a loan,” said Harry, who thanked God for women, or else the world would be full of proud men sitting on their thumbs. “I know you’d do the same for me.”

“I am sorry for what I said before.” Willie squeezed Harry’s hand. “Do you have your way out?”

“A smart man always knows where the exit is.”

“You have an exit here?”

“All over.” Harry pulled free. “Don’t play cards with anyone, ever. If you meet anyone who reminds you of me in the least, run the other way. Go.”

As Willie and Iris moved toward the elevator, Harry thought they were just another version of lovers giddily leaping into flames. Sometimes he felt he was the only realist he knew. At the other end of the lobby, Beechum’s party was reaching its own climax of indomitable good cheer, “
There’ll always be an England / And England shall be free / If England means as much to you / As England means to me
.” No doubt the same words could be heard, Harry thought, in Singapore, Hong Kong and Sydney, wherever Britons shouldered the white man’s burden of ungrateful wogs. The chorus repeated until sentimental tears ran down warm cheeks. Harry wondered how to find Michiko and where to hide from Ishigami. Now that he thought about it, he had needed the gold for himself. And, besides the plane, what exit?

E
SPECIALLY AT NIGHT
, the hotel looked like an Aztec temple with potted shrubs. As host, Beechum lingered in the driveway by the reflecting pool, making his good-byes of the evening while Alice waited in a car. Harry slid into the dark of the seat behind her.

“Willie and Iris seemed happy when they left,” Alice said.