The Prime Minister's Secret Agent (11 page)

Hull rose as well and nodded. “See you this afternoon, Mr. Ambassador.” He smiled and held out a gloved hand. Nomura bowed deeply, then extended his hand. The men shook.

A cold wind picked up, causing the bare tree branches to rustle. Both men pulled down on their hats as they walked away.

Hull turned, calling over his shoulder, “Next time
you
bring the doughnuts!”

Ambassador Nomura returned directly to his office after his outdoor meeting with Secretary Hull and was drinking tea in his office at the Japanese Embassy—Darjeeling, with both milk and sugar, from a porcelain cup and saucer. He’d eaten most of the still-warm cookies that had also been sent up—chocolate chip, his favorite American sweet.

Although the building was a lavish mansion, furnished with dark, sturdy Victorian furnishings, and the entire staff wore Western-style clothing, there were nods here and there to Japan: paintings, ceremonial swords, and ceramics. There was even a carved wooden turtle from the fifteenth century that Namura kept on his desk and had named Masayoshi—meaning “righteous government and shining goodness.”

Teatime was something he loved—one of the only things in his day he looked forward to anymore—but today he was displeased. The portly man usually had sparkling eyes and a quick grin. But today his eyes were weary; there was no life in his expression.

He took off his round black glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose as he leaned in to the wireless radio—according to the announcer, his countryman Saburō Kurusu had left San Francisco and would soon be arriving in Washington. The “Special Envoy” mission was seen as a last-ditch chance for peace between the two countries. Nomura turned the wireless off with a loud
click
.

He picked up the decrypted message that had been sent to him by General Tōjō. He’d read it so many times, the paper had become worn and creased, with a grease stain from a dropped chocolate chip cookie crumb.
Conditions both within and without Japan are so tense that no longer is procrastination possible. This is our final effort.
The success or failure of the pending discussions will have an immense effect on the destiny of our Empire
.

This missive had been followed immediately by two others:
Our internal situation makes it impossible for us to make any further compromise …
 And:
Because of various circumstances, it is imperative that all arrangements for the signing of this agreement be completed as soon as possible
.

Nomura looked at the calendar on his desk; it was already the end of November. He finished reading the communiqué.
I realize that this is a difficult order, but it is unavoidable under the circumstances. Please understand this fully and do your utmost to save Japanese-American relations from falling into a chaotic condition. Do so with great resolve and unstinted labor, I beg of you. This information is to be kept strictly to yourself
.

Nomura pushed the decrypts away and finished his tea and cookies, keeping an eye on the bronze mantel clock. It was almost time to meet with Kurusu. He sighed, resigned to his fate, and pressed a button on his telephone. “Please bring my hat and coat, Miss Ito,” he said in approximation of his usual jovial, gentle tones. “We must prepare to welcome Special Envoy Kurusu.”

At the press conference, held outside the Japanese Embassy in Washington, cold winds blew, making it difficult for the sound technicians to set up the microphones. Finally, the platform was arranged, with a lectern and the various radio stations’ microphones surrounding, like a wall of thorns. All they needed now was the “Special Envoy.”

Ambassador Nomura pulled out his pocket watch. Kurusu was late. The Japanese were never late. Everything was always timed perfectly, down to the second.

Finally, finally, the long black limousine pulled up and Kurusu
emerged to applause from various Japanese diplomats and their staff, who had been allowed to attend.

He was a short man, even shorter than Ambassador Nomura, and slighter, with an almost delicate appearance. He wore an impeccable gray suit, a black wool overcoat, black hat, and black round glasses. Over the frames, his eyebrows turned up almost comically, like upended commas, and he had a faint mustache.

He walked to the podium, took a breath, and began to speak. “I am indeed glad to be here, in your nation’s capital,” he said in a clear but thin voice, his English accented but still understandable. “I extend greetings to all from the bottom of my heart.

“You all know how difficult my mission is,” he continued, the wind dispersing his words. “But I will do all I can to make it a successful one, for the sake of two countries, Japan and the United States of America.”

With that he lifted his hat to the audience and made his way down the reception line to Ambassador Nomura. Both men bowed, then reached out their hands for a Western-style handshake. “Welcome to Washington, Special Envoy Kurusu.”

“Thank you,” the shorter man replied. “We have much work to do.”

“Indeed,” Ambassador Nomura responded, noticing Hull’s tall shadow. “And now,” he said, with his most charming smile, “I would like to introduce you to the United States’ Secretary of State Hull.”

Kurusu bowed deeply, then extended his hand to Hull. Hull did not return the bow, but shook the envoy’s hand. “Welcome to America, Special Envoy Kurusu,” he said, cigarette clenched between his teeth. “You certainly have your work cut out for you.”

Then he clapped the Japanese man on the back. Kurusu tried not to flinch at being touched in such a familiar way during formal introductions.

But Hull didn’t notice. “Come on, let’s shake a leg!” he said to the two Japanese ambassadors, looking at his wristwatch, then turning to stride down Massachusetts Avenue toward the White House, still chewing on his cigarette. “The President’s waiting for you boys.”

Still walking, Hull looked back toward the Japanese diplomats, his voice rising against the icy wind: “I know you must be hungry, so we’ll have some nice chop suey waiting for you when you’re done.”

Kurusu and Nomura met with Hull and President Roosevelt. Kurusu presented Japan’s proposal: that the United States should stop sending aid to China and resume trade relations with Japan.

Hull countered with President Roosevelt’s demands for Japan to withdraw its troops from China, and, just as important if not more so, to sever its Axis ties with Germany and Italy.

The meeting was polite, but when it was over, Kurusu turned to Nomura as they waited for their car to be brought around to the front door of the White House. “If this is the attitude of the American government, I don’t see how an agreement is possible.”

“The Americans won’t budge, and Tokyo will throw up its hands at their demands. And that,” Nomura said, his voice breaking with barely contained frustration, “is what I’ve been dealing with.”

“It’s all right—it’s not as if any great change can be effected now. Even an extension won’t affect the ultimate outcome.”

Nomura’s eyes widened behind his round spectacles. “What do you mean?”

“We’re only here for show. We are just part of the three-ring circus.”

Nomura shook his head. “There is still a chance for peace,” he insisted. “I believe that to be true.”

Kurusu tapped his foot, clad in black leather Rohde shoes he’d picked up in Berlin, as their limousine approached. “If that’s what helps you sleep at night, my friend.”

Leaving the relative comfort and safety of Arisaig House for the Beasdale train station felt a bit like picking her way barefoot over glass shards, but Maggie was determined not to let Sarah down. The Black Dog was napping, but for how long?

It was an uphill walk over dirt roads and under pewter skies to the tiny station, where she waited for the one and only train of the morning. It pulled in with a shrieking whistle and a billow of steam. The cold and drafty train took her to nearby Fort William, where it stood and waited for more passengers to board, then wended east through the mountains.

Maggie had brought her knitting, but she couldn’t help staring at the vistas outside the train’s dirty window. It was as if Scotland’s history were flashing before her eyes. Snowcapped mountains cut by the ancient glaciers. Giant oaks, with the dark tangle of birds’ nests in the bare branches. Sheep and horses grazing in frozen fields, dotted with white farmhouses.

She transferred trains at Glasgow’s Queen Street, waiting under the curved-glass Victorian glass ceiling, and continued east. There were graveyards on the curve of hills, older men on brown and patchy golf courses, small towns with lonely church spires beside blue lochs. Unconsciously, as the sun began to set, she began to hum the tune of “Scots Wha Hæ,” which she’d heard many times at the pub in the town of Arisaig. She loved the sound of the bagpipes and the cadences of Robert Burns’s lyrics:

Maggie’s feet and hands were aching with cold by the time she finally arrived at Princes Street Station in Edinburgh. She wrestled her valise from an overhead bin, and then made her way toward a great red sandstone building with Victorian carved figures and Corinthian columns, illuminated by moonlight.

Maggie snorted, remembering how David had once called the Langham Hotel “a Victorian train station.” Well, now she knew exactly what he meant. The Caledonian was one of Britain’s great railroad hotels. Made of red brick, it was as Victorian as the Queen herself—heavy, stately, and not quite fashionable. Angels and a sphinx overlooked doormen in livery who held large black umbrellas to shelter the hotel’s guests.

On the street corner a Salvation Army worker in her navy-blue uniform rang a brass bell. “Advent is coming!” she called in a Scots accent. “Advent is coming! Give to the poor!”

Maggie dropped a few coins into the woman’s basket and made her way up the steps to the lobby. There were marble floors and a great chandelier, pillars and a grand staircase. Upstairs, a dignified sign announced, was The Pompadour restaurant, but Maggie didn’t have the time or money for that. She checked in and then took the creaky elevator upstairs.

Her room might have been small, but it afforded an excellent view of Edinburgh Castle. The furniture was handsome, the duvet rose silk, and on the wall was a reproduction of George Henry’s
oil painting
Geisha Girl
, her smile as mysterious as the Mona Lisa’s.

Maggie looked at the small silver bedside clock. It was time to get ready. She washed up and rolled her hair, dabbing on a touch of red lipstick.
Wish I could find my pearl earrings
, she thought absently, as she put on her hat and gloves, making sure to drop the wrought-iron key in her handbag.

She just had time for a quick cup of tea and roll with margarine at a restaurant across the street. As she sat, watching the other patrons talk and smile, she felt out of place.
I shouldn’t have come
, she thought, imagining her Black Dog flick his tail and bare his fangs in his sleep.
What am I doing here?

Edinburgh boasted the same signs from the Ministry of War as London—
BRITISHERS: ENLIST TODAY!
and
IT CAN HAPPEN HERE!
Someone had used a finger to write in the dust on the back window of a vehicle:
IF YOU THINK THE VAN
’
S DIRTY, YOU SHOULD SEE THE DRIVER
.

Well, I suppose it could “happen here,” but it really hasn’t
, Maggie thought. Yes, Edinburgh had the same sandbags and barbed wire as London, its metal fences and railings taken to be melted down for planes and tanks. It had the same black taxis and red telephone booths. But unlike London, Edinburgh had sustained no serious bomb damage. Maggie knew that some of the outlying areas had been hit and lay in rubble. But the city itself looked unscathed.

The people walked a different way, too, she noted—they were still confident and untouched, certain their families and homes would still be there when they returned. Edinburgh might have been a city at war, but it was not, like London, a warrior city.
And there’s a big difference
, Maggie realized, looking at the people:
mothers pushing infants in prams, old men with tweed hats and goose-headed walking sticks, a pair of teenagers ducking into a door frame to get out of the wind long enough to light their cigarettes. They were able to sleep through the night in their beds, unmolested, not required to crawl off to Anderson shelters. She both resented their innocence of the brute reality of war, and also desperately wanted to protect it.

Her feet, usually in thick wool socks and boots, hurt. They weren’t used to stockings and pumps anymore. And her head, accustomed to a knit cap, was cold in her feather-festooned pinwheel.
Why don’t ladies’ hats cover ears?
Maggie thought as she sidestepped several puddles. Around her, she could hear the clang of a trolley and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves.