She was obviously not saying it in a complimentary way, and for a second her words gave him an accurate and devastating picture of himself, but one he could excuse.
“Yes,” he said, “I’m a pro. We all have to be, don’t we? Now go and lie down.”
“Yes,” she said, and she smiled at him although a smile was not necessary. “I’m a pro, too, a poor, tired pro.”
She kicked off her shoes, and it seemed to him that their heels were too high for efficiency. Then she tossed herself inelegantly on the bed, indicating there was not much reason for reticences when you were in the business.
“I’ll draw your curtains,” he said.
“Thanks,” she said, “and move my handbag near me, will you? Thanks, Jack.”
He believed that she was already asleep when he closed the door to the adjoining room, and he envied her because instinct told him that one of them must stay awake until there was some assurance that things were moving in a settled groove; the Chevrolet outside was curious and disturbing. He stood by the window looking at it—an inconspicuous American car, one of thousands of its vintage, and one which must have had several owners. It was exactly the sort of car he would have picked if he had wanted to tail someone. He was still gazing out of the window, and wondering whether it would be wiser to stray down and take a closer look when someone knocked loudly on the door.
His reaction of annoyance was a measure of his fatigue. The necessity for being alert again was difficult to face, but it was an absolute necessity because he could not imagine who would disturb him, and the knock had been too loud for hotel servants. It was no time to be careless, and also no time to be furtive. He walked to the door promptly and opened it, seemingly carelessly, but with a few technical precautions. He was too tired for further shocks, but he had to face another. Standing outside in the rather narrow corridor was the man whom Ruth Bogart had described—in the Aloha shirt with the goldfish on it.
He had taken off his sun glasses, but there was no mistaking the shirt, or the trousers of heavy Shantung silk, or the white buckskin shoes trimmed with tan, or the closely clipped brown hair, receding at the temples. Ruth Bogart had said he had a professional look, and she had been correct. He had the look which Jack Rhyce had begun to associate with hundreds of individuals sent out by the government to work on helpful commissions and projects—the eager and at the same time self-satisfied expression of someone who knew he knew the answers.
“Hello,” the man in the Aloha shirt said, and he had a warm hail-fellow voice that fitted his professional expression. “You’re Mr. Rhyce, aren’t you? They said downstairs that you were still in your room.”
Jack knew that the face of the man in the Aloha shirt was important and he catalogued it immediately—darkish, intellectual, brown eyes, high cheekboness, longish nose, pointed jaw, thin-lipped mouth, good teeth. These observations took only an instant as Jack Rhyce returned the other’s smile.
“Well,” he said, “the name is Rhyce, and I’m here all right, just off the plane.”
“Well, it’s a real pleasure to welcome you to Tokyo, Jack Rhyce,” the man in the Aloha shirt said. “My name’s Harry Pender, running the shop here for Asia Friendship, replacing Jules Blake, who was called home last week. Chas. Harrington wired you were coming in today. Seriously, it’s fine to have you aboard.”
Seriously, it was difficult to lapse into the cover again, and to give the proper illusion of delight when all sorts of thoughts and questions were moving in the background.
“Well, Harry Pender,” Jack Rhyce said, “this is mighty kind of you to look me up so promptly. I was on the point of lying down and taking a little snooze. That plane trip has, frankly, left me a bit woozy, but come on in. You’ve woken me up already.”
It was true that Harry Pender had woken him up. There were certain thoughts that demanded strict attention. Pender was undoubtedly the man in the Chevrolet, and why was it he had not called on the house telephone? How long had he been outside in the hall? Then, on top of those questions Jack Rhyce had another thought. The Chief had made a mistake for once. If the Chevrolet with the battered fender had been following Bill Gibson, how about the Asia Friendship League? For a fraction of a second Jack Rhyce wished that the Chief were there to know that it was not harmless.
“I won’t take a minute of your time,” Mr. Harry Pender said. “Of course you’re not oriented to Japan yet. No one ever is. I should have met you at the airport, but frankly, we’re going to have a conference of Japanese writers tomorrow, and I’ve been unusually busy as a consequence, and also, all the office cars were in use. All that was left was our old Chevvy, and I’ve had to use it all morning, buzzing around.”
“Meeting planes is always a problem,” Jack Rhyce said. “You mustn’t have me on your mind at all. I’m just here to look things over and do this report, you know. I can hardly wait to see the office tomorrow, and I’d like to sit in on that writers’ conference.”
Mr. Pender nodded enthusiastically. “Chas. Harrington indicated that you’d be right in here pitching,” he said, “and the whole place is open to you, Jack Rhyce. Nothing up our sleeves or anything like that.” He laughed heartily. “And I don’t know any way in which you can get the spirit of what we’re up to here more than by sitting in at the table with some of our Japanese writers. They’re lovable people, the Japanese—I mean, when you get to know them.”
“How do you mean—lovable?” Jack Rhyce asked.
“You’ll see,” Mr. Pender said. “You’ll see. You’ll get their spirit, given time. They’re basically only a bunch of mixed-tip kids, but lovable at heart. You’ll see.”
Jack Rhyce nodded in a respectful, sympathetic manner,
“I suppose I’m somewhat prejudiced in my point of view about the Japanese,” he said. “You see, I was in the Pacific during the war.”
For one mad moment he could not recollect whether or not his war service had been mentioned in that first letter to Mr. Harrington of the Asia Friendship League, but he was sure that it had been when Mr. Pender made a grave gesture of agreement.
“I know,” Mr. Pender said. “I know the superb record that you made with the paratroopers in Burma. I wish I might have been with you, but I had to serve in a more sheltered branch myself, due to being in the Four F category—the U.S.O.”
“Oh,” Jack Rhyce said, “so you were in the U.S.O.?”
It was only because he was very tired. He could have kicked himself the moment he had said it. The U.S.O. and Big Ben might come together somewhere and he never should have betrayed interest. He almost thought there was a sharpening in Mr. Pender’s brown eyes, but it might very well have been his imagination.
“It used to hurt at times,” Mr. Pender said, “not to be able to be up forward with you boys, but then we did our best in our small way. I was in a singing troupe.”
“That must have been fun,” Jack Rhyce said, “and believe me, I’d like to have been able to change places with you at some points. I always did like singing. What sort of songs did you do?”
“Oh,” Mr. Pender said, “we had a name. We called our group the Song Caravan, and they were a fine dedicated bunch in it—you know, boys and gals with a smattering of semiprofessional experience from the summer theaters and whatnot, lots of whom finally joined more active branches of the service. We sang all the popular numbers. We would just ask the crowd to holler for a number and we’d sing it. You might have seen us out in the Pacific if you hadn’t been in Burma. We did get to Chungking once. Were you ever in Chungking?”
“Oh, yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “once or twice, but only very briefly. Quite a place—Chungking.”
“It was,” Mr. Pender said. “It always seemed to me a very fascinating page of social history—Chungking; we must have a good long talk about it sometime, but it’s all water over the dam now. We mustn’t forget that we are entering into a new era of reconstruction and not destruction. I know you are going to agree with me—the Japanese basically are n
othing but a bunch of mixed-up kids—but lovable.” His glance traveled about the room with a casualness which could have been overelaborate. “Oh, by the way, the young lady who was coming over to assist you—is there anything I can do for her? What is her name? It’s gone out of my head.”
“Bogart,” Jack Rhyce said, “Ruth Bogart. She’s asleep, I think.”
“I certainly don’t blame her,” Mr. Pender said. “But bring her over to the office tomorrow morning. The more the merrier. We’ll only have the one day—until Monday—because we close things over the week ends, but we’ll think up some program for you over Saturday and Sunday.”
“Why, thanks,” Jack Rhyce said, and to his surprise he felt genuinely self-conscious. “As a matter of fact,” he paused and cleared his throat, “I’d sort of promised to take Miss Bogart to that hotel up in the hills where they have the hot springs at—where is it—Miyanoshita. You see, this is her first glimpse of Japan.”
“Oh,” Mr. Pender said, “I forgot to ask—were you here during the Occupation?”
“Only passing through for a day or two,” Jack Rhyce said, and far from appearing watchful, Mr. Pender looked relaxed and tolerantly genial.
“We’re going to have a lot of things to talk about, you and me,” he said, “and I know you’re going to like our bunch out here, and everything we’re doing. And now, before I go, is there anything you want?”
“Well, no,” Jack Rhyce said, “except maybe a little sleep, but thanks a lot for asking.”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Pender said. “You and I are going to have a lot of fun together. I can feel it in my bones.” He held out his hand again. His muscle tone was excellent. “Well, so long. How about up at the office at half past nine sharp tomorrow? You have the address, haven’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” Jack Rhyce said, “and thanks again a whole lot for dropping in.”
After Mr. Pender had left, Jack Rhyce stood unobtrusively by his window watching the parked Chevrolet. In two and a half minutes Mr. Pender had reached it—approximately the time it should have taken him to walk down the staircases of the Imperial, across the lobby and out of its front door. Jack turned from the window and very gently opened the door of Ruth’s room. She was wide awake, her head propped up on the pillow.
“I’m sorry if we’ve kept you awake,” he said. “It was the man in the Aloha shirt.”
She smiled at him, and again she looked very much as she might have on the outside.
“You didn’t keep me awake,” she said. “I went down and took a look at the car.”
“That was a very good girl,” he said, “provided you got away with it.”
“I think I did,” she said. “I’m pretty good with cars. There was nothing except a rod in the glove compartment.”
“Oh,” Jack Rhyce said. “What kind?”
“Beretta,” she said, “all loaded.”
“Oh,” he said, “Beretta.”
It was interesting that anyone in Mr. Pender’s position should have been carrying an Italian officer’s pistol. Pender had brown eyes but he did not look like an Italian.
“And now,” she said, “go away and let me sleep, and you’d better, too. I think things are going to be quiet for a while.”
They did not mention Mr. Pender again, but there was no need at the moment. They both had their own ideas about him—the same idea.
It was exasperating to discover the desire for sleep had left him, much as he needed it. He draped his coat over one of the small chairs, stretched out on his bed and tried to relax. The street sounds of Tokyo were nearly indistinguishable, now, from those of a European city, but he could not rid himself from watchful tension or from the intuitions which no one could help developing in the business. He was full of the old malaise that told him that a net was closing. The elderly man in San Francisco and the Nisei Japanese boy were parts of it, and so was the middle-aged Japanese named Moto who had picked him up at the airport. You developed a seventh sense for spotting opposite numbers; he would have bet his last dollar that Mr. Moto was in the business, except for the clumsy use of a name that, as Bill Gibson had pointed out, was not a name at all. It was so obvious that it might have been a signal, but there was no way of being sure. And then Pender was another strand of the net. If he had not said that he was a former U.S.O. entertainer, the Beretta in the car was indicative, and besides, there was the fact that Bill Gibson was on the run. The net was closing on Bill Gibson, and Bill knew it, but it might be, Jack Rhyce thought, that he and Ruth Bogart were still out of it. He was almost positive that Mr. Pender had accepted them.
Mr. Moto was due to call at six. There would be a chance then to evaluate and handle him, and until six there was nothing to do but rest. Then suddenly he realized he had forgotten something, and immediately he pushed open the adjoining door. Ruth Bogart was asleep. The hardness which he had occasionally noticed on her face was gone. The tenseness about her mouth had relaxed. Although her eyes were closed, she had a half-cheerful, half-expectant look. She was a very pretty girl now that she was asleep, the way she would have looked on the outside, and he was sure that her dreams had taken her there. He was sorry to bring her back into the business.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just one thing, Ruth.”
You could tell that she had been at the girl’s branch of the Farm from the way she awakened. A second before she had been on the outside; now her right hand had moved toward her handbag, but it was only a half-conscious gesture.
“Okay,” she said softly. “What?”
“This Moto character who’s calling at six,” he said. “I think he’ll ring the house telephone and not barge up like Pender. I’ll leave our door open. The bell will wake you. Get up and close the door but listen, and keep that fountain pen handy. It might just be we’ll have to use it. Do you follow me, Ruth?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’d have covered you anyway, Buster. Now go and relax or you’ll be fidgety when he comes, and leave the door wide open. Don’t be so delicate. I need company.”
He could not tell whether she was being friendly or not, when she called him Buster; but he felt a twinge of annoyance because he had never liked the name, and also the mere fact that he was annoyed worried him. He would not have given the matter any thought if he had not been tired.
VII
He still could not sleep when he lay down again. The truth had begun to dawn on him that he was not physically the man he had been, that his old resilience and iron were wearing thin, and that he would have been better even three years earlier. Everyone in the business burned out eventually. Either their physical reflexes slowed up first, or their ability to keep concentrated on a single line. He knew it was the worst possible time to put his thoughts on a personal basis. It had been the girl’s face that looked so young and happy in its sleep that had disturbed him. He began thinking, just when he should not have, of the outside. If he had stayed on the outside he would undoubtedly be married by now. He would have been in the law. He would have had a home and children, and he would have been a decent man—warm-hearted and genuine—not a suspicious, machine-tooled robot who had been through too much, a man who had played under so many covers that it was becoming impossible to guess what he could have been.
Of course there had always been people like himself who could not easily adjust to civil life after having faced the violences of war. There had been wonderful moments and triumphs. There was always the satisfaction of knowing that in ten years he had made a place for himself in a highly exacting profession, but in the end, what was there of real value? Very little, except what might lie in a set of disconnected memories, very little of which to be proud. And what was he in the end? He was a spy, or a secret agent, if you cared for a politer word, trained to live a life of lying and of subterfuge; trained to submerge his individuality into something he was not—to be a sneak, and if necessary a betrayer; trained to run from danger and let his best friend get it, if it helped the business; to kill or be killed inconspicuousl
y; to die with his mouth shut, in the dark. There was only one loyalty—loyalty to the business. It was, by outside standards, a contemptible profession, and in the end, everybody in the business paid, because deceit was the same as erosion of character.
Why had he not gotten out of it, before it was too late? He raised himself on his elbow. The whisky flask was in his bag and the glasses were on the table. He could even see the traces of Ruth Bogart’s lipstick on her glass. She should have been more careful. He sat up, with his eyes still on the bag, but then he leaned back again. Drinking was always dangerous in the business—it was far safer to indulge in bitter thoughts. It was too late for him to leave the business now. He remembered what she had called him a while ago—a pro; and you could not get from the inside to the outside once you were a pro. He wished to heaven he could sleep as she did. It meant that she still could get out of the business; he hoped she would. He resolved to tell her so, if they came out of this safe. He must have been thinking of what he would say to her just as he fell asleep.
He was convinced that he was not the man he had been once, when the telephone awakened him. He heard Ruth Bogart close the adjoining door before he was on his feet. First he had not been able to sleep. Then he had slept too heavily, and like Ruth Bogart, he must have been on the outside, too, in his dreams. It was something that should never happen in the field.
“Hello,” he said. “Jack Rhyce speaking.”
At any rate, he was back under his cover again, hearty voice and everything. The time on his wrist watch was six to the dot. He was feeling very hungry, and also rested. He was on the beam again.
“Please.” It was undoubtedly Mr. Moto speaking. There was the slow, gentle modulation he remembered, and also the monotony of speech that even excellent Japanese linguists sometimes found hard to escape. “I hope I did not awaken you, Mr. Rhyce.”
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” Jack Rhyce said. “Do I sound sleepy?”
There was a nervous laugh that went with conventional politeness.
Right You Are, Mr. Moto Page 9
