The Little Tokyo Informant

by Andrew Rosenheim

  He was going to change out of his suit, hang up his holster and .38, but it was a warm day and he was thirsty, so he first went through into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. He stood by the rear window and drank slowly, thinking again of his meeting with Elizaveta Mukasei. He wasn’t sure which was worse: knowing she had been responsible for the deaths of so many people or knowing he was powerless to do anything about it. The same feeling he’d had in his cell at Pearl Harbor.

  He forgot about changing and opened the back door. He came down the two steps of the porch and crossed onto the lawn. He’d miss the best of the season’s flowers, but at least he wouldn’t have to cut the grass this year.

  ‘Hello stranger.’

  The voice was cheerful. He looked round and saw Mrs Delaware behind him by the back porch. She said, ‘I haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. Been keeping busy?’

  ‘I have.’ He wondered if he should tell her he was moving out, but decided against it. He hadn’t even told his landlady yet that he’d be breaking the lease.

  ‘Don’t tell me you missed your friend again.’

  ‘Which one’s that?’ he said vaguely, wondering how he could politely get her to go away.

  ‘The man who wasn’t from the utility company. He was wearing a suit again. Not as nice as yours.’

  He barely heard the compliment. ‘When was this?’

  ‘About an hour ago. I asked his name this time, but I didn’t really catch it.’ Suddenly her face seemed to change, and her eyes widened in surprise as she looked past Nessheim. ‘Why there he is—’

  He turned around just as he heard a sudden phit, like an arrow leaving a bow string. He glimpsed the tall figure emerging from behind the persimmon tree as he threw himself down, already rolling and reaching for his gun. Nessheim let his momentum carry him once, twice on the grass, ending on his belly with his elbows propped, the .38 held in both hands.

  Dirt kicked up two inches in front of his nose, spraying soil all over his face. The tall figure was aiming again when Nessheim fired. His gun roared with a massive boom and almost kicked out of his hands. He steadied it and fired again, then again, and finally the man – he could see now it was a man – lurched and fell flat on his back. Then he didn’t move. Nessheim scrambled to his feet and approached with his gun extended, ready to fire again.

  He looked down and saw an ugly, pockmarked face. Ivan the Bruiser. No wonder Elizaveta had seemed so unruffled. She knew Nessheim would go home, so full of impotent fury that he would be easy to kill. If it hadn’t been for Mrs Delaware, she would have been right.

  ‘It’s all right, Mrs Delaware!’ he called out, still staring down at the Russian assassin. His gun had a silencer attached.

  Confident at last that the man was dead, he turned around.

  Mrs Delaware was lying on the ground. He walked over to her, suddenly numbed. She wasn’t moving. There was a small dark hole perfectly centred in her forehead.

  38

  HE’D RECEIVED AN invitation to Devereux’s wedding the month before, but had written to say he couldn’t attend – one encounter with Mona had been enough. So he was surprised to get a phone call one evening at home from his old colleague – other than the invitation, Nessheim hadn’t heard from him since he’d collected Guttman’s instructions at his house.

  ‘Nessheim, old buddy, you gotta help me out,’ Devereux began. ‘You remember Tucker?’

  ‘Sure, what about him?’ said Nessheim. Tucker had been another agent in the San Francisco Field Office, a CPA who specialised in fraud.

  ‘Tucker was supposed to be my best man. But the son of a bitch went and joined up, and the army won’t give him leave to attend the wedding. So I’m in a bind. Please say you’ll stand in for him.’

  He was too startled to say no right away, and tried to buy time: ‘When is it again?’ It was Wednesday now.

  ‘Saturday. I know it’s short notice, but it’s an emergency. Please, Jim.’

  And he had agreed, not so much out of any enduring friendship with Devereux, but just to get out of town before he left for good.

  This time the Lark didn’t provide a view of the Pacific, even though Nessheim had a Pullman room on the left side again. The blackout blinds were pulled down and the conductor checked that they stayed that way.

  ‘Can’t take any chances,’ he said.

  He arrived in San Francisco in the morning again and grabbed a cab. When the front door opened at the house off Ocean Avenue it wasn’t Devereux or Mona standing there, but a balding man in a suit that didn’t fit.

  ‘Hello Harry,’ Nessheim said. ‘You’ve lost weight.’

  Guttman looked down at his shirt, which flopped where once it had bulged.

  ‘I’ll get it back,’ he said defiantly.

  Nessheim laughed and Guttman gave a grumpy smile.

  ‘Come on in.’

  They went to the living room and sat down. The view through the window was of cotton-wool fog. Nessheim asked, ‘Where’s Devereux? And what are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘He’s at the field office.’

  ‘That’s dutiful: he’s getting married tomorrow. I’m meant to be his best man.’

  Guttman hesitated, then said, ‘Mona called it off.’

  ‘Why’d she go and do that? Last-minute nerves?’ He wished Devereux had let him know.

  ‘Not quite,’ said Guttman, looking sheepish. ‘I think it happened a month ago.’

  Nessheim stared at him and suddenly he got it.

  Guttman said apologetically, ‘It seemed the best way to get you up here.’ He pretended to look at his watch. ‘Say, do you want some cola?’

  ‘Too early for me,’ Nessheim said sharply. ‘Why couldn’t you just come see me in LA?’

  ‘It’s kind of complicated.’

  ‘None of this has been simple.’

  ‘The Director doesn’t know I’m here. Though, frankly, he’s in no position to do anything about it.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Just before I was shot, the great man decided to transfer me to Mexico. There’s no way I could do that, with Isabel not well. I was being pushed out.’

  ‘So what’s changed that? Getting shot?’

  Guttman laughed. ‘No, it was Popov. He gave Hoover some German microfilm that contained questions Popov was supposed to answer when he went to Hawaii – about the harbour layouts, where ships berthed and the location of the airfields. You’d have to be stupid not to see the thrust of it.’ He paused. ‘Popov’s such a libertine that Hoover didn’t even look at the questions. But Stephenson did – and he passed the info on to me.’

  ‘Does Hoover know you know this?’ When Guttman nodded, Nessheim added, ‘He can’t like that.’

  ‘He hates it,’ Guttman said with relish. ‘But I’m not posing any kind of threat. He knows I don’t want his job. I just want to keep mine. The first Jewish Director of the FBI awaits a future generation.’

  ‘What is your job now, Harry? San Francisco isn’t exactly Latin America.’

  Guttman looked at him happily. ‘I’m back in charge of domestic counter-espionage.’

  Nessheim shook his head with admiration. Guttman was hopeless at politicking in the conventional sense – finding allies, neutralising foes, staying out of hot water. But when he had the goods he could play hardball.

  ‘I’m going to need your help.’

  Nessheim yawned ostentatiously. ‘I’ve heard that before.’

  ‘This is different,’ Guttman insisted.

  ‘You’ve said that before, too.’ He grew serious. ‘Something really went wrong this time.’

  ‘Are you feeling aggrieved, Nessheim?’

  He shrugged. ‘A little.’

  ‘Who do you blame most – me?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Nessheim easily, and he noticed that Guttman was smiling wryly. ‘Though I don’t think you were trying to get me killed.’

  ‘That’s big of you.’

  ‘But the Russians were. And
they kept trying – just like they tried to kill you.’ Guttman raised an eyebrow. Nessheim went on, ‘I was lucky, Harry.’ He found himself feeling emotional, and tried to fight it off. ‘I know I’m supposed to be highly resourceful and all that. But it was pure dumb luck I got out alive, and that was thanks to a Mother Superior and a guy with a horse and cart.’

  Guttman didn’t say anything. He scratched one side of his head, where his hair had been shaved. It must have been where the bullet had hit him, thought Nessheim. It wasn’t growing back very well, but then Guttman’s hair had never been exactly lush.

  Guttman said at last, ‘I got your report. I had a question or two.’

  ‘Yeah?’ Nessheim said warily.

  ‘Was Osaka a crook?’

  Nessheim thought about this for a moment.

  ‘Hard to say. I think he realised that once he told the Russians about the Japanese plans, he was disposable. So he went on the run and took half the money with him – he used the other half to pay his cousin for the information. Once he disappeared the Russians panicked and started killing anybody he might have told.’

  ‘Cheer up,’ said Guttman. ‘If they try to kill you again, at least the report’s on file.’

  ‘That’s consolation.’ But he said it without anger.

  They sat quietly for a minute.

  Then Guttman asked, ‘When you were banged up at the base in Pearl did you see much of the attack?’

  Nessheim hesitated. He had been doing his best lately not to think about what he’d witnessed, though his dreams wouldn’t let him forget. ‘Enough,’ he said.

  Guttman nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘I’m going to enlist.’ He paused a beat. ‘If you let me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I didn’t finish college, Harry, but I’m not a dope. The last time I tried to sign up, somebody called the selection board in Wisconsin and told them about my medical history.’

  Guttman looked uncomfortable.

  Nessheim said, ‘I don’t want you to do it again.’

  ‘All right already,’ Guttman said, then, as usual when he was embarrassed, he got tetchy. ‘I know you’ve still got that driver’s licence. But I can’t track down every service board from Pasadena to Poughkeepsie, asking if they’ve got a James Rossbach on their books.’ He thought about this. ‘Well, I suppose I could. But I’m not going to. If you’re that determined, be my guest. Come on, let’s go for a ride.’

  Outside they got into the big Chevy Guttman had rented and set off. It wasn’t clear where they were going and the way Guttman drove it wasn’t clear that they would get there, either. At first they didn’t talk, then Guttman broke the silence.

  ‘So what are you feeling so bad about?’

  Was it that obvious? Nessheim tried to shrug, but when Guttman didn’t say anything he felt obliged to speak.

  ‘I feel I failed. If I’d put two and two together on Molokai I could have warned the people at Pearl.’

  ‘You think they would have believed you? What are the odds they would have swallowed some story that the Japs were about to come flying in? The way I understand it, you’re lucky you weren’t put in front of a Navy firing squad. You’re blaming yourself for something nobody could have prevented.’ He snorted. ‘Except for Hoover, if he’d bothered to look at Popov’s microfilm. He’s the one who should be losing sleep.’

  He accelerated as the light turned green.

  ‘You’ve got to let all that stuff go, Nessheim. There’s too much else going on you can do something about. The world isn’t about you and your guilt, you know.’

  The words stung, and Nessheim was about to reply when Guttman gave a sigh and said, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about Thornton Palmer recently. He’s an interesting case. Here’s a guy who did a bad thing and then tried to make amends. Yet he only got punished for doing the right thing.’

  ‘I feel the same way about Billy Osaka. Only he didn’t manage to make amends – he was too scared.’

  ‘Understandably.’

  ‘They got him in the end anyway – he should have come clean.’

  They were driving again, heading towards Golden Gate Park. The fog was lifting.

  Nessheim said, ‘At least Billy had the excuse that he was recruited as a kid. How did they get to Palmer?’

  ‘I’ve got a new friend at Yale who did some digging for me into Palmer’s past – apparently he had a cousin out in Hollywood. A guy named Waverley.’

  ‘Christ. He’s a writer at AMP. And a Communist.’

  ‘Must be – he was a scout for Soviet Intelligence. But I can’t prove it. Just like I can’t prove the Russians tried to bump me off.’ He laughed, almost appreciatively. ‘They’re crafty bastards, you know. They even used a car they bought from your Bund friend Schultz’s widow to cover their tracks. Not that I can prove that either.’

  ‘That’s the problem,’ said Nessheim bitterly. ‘If I could prove half the things I know, I’d feel justice was being served. As it is, I can’t do a goddamned thing.’

  Guttman looked at him, bemused. ‘Hey, that’s how it is in our country. Would you want it any other way? Stalin’s boys don’t need proof. Hitler’s don’t either. Thank the Lord we do.’

  ‘Even if it means the Mukaseis and Waverleys of this world get away with it?’

  ‘Even if they do. Once you let yourself play judge, it’s only a matter of time until you become a bad guy too.’

  Guttman was in better spirits now, and driving better. He turned right and they moved along Geary. On this side of the peninsula the fog had cleared, replaced by a weak spring sun. They travelled in silence for a while. Then Guttman said, ‘So what about it?’

  ‘What about what?’

  ‘This project. I’m not telling you for my health, Nessheim. I’ve got to find somebody to be in Chicago.’

  ‘There must be plenty of qualified candidates.’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s a counter-espionage job.’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Nessheim. It was important not to show interest, he told himself.

  ‘I report on it directly to the White House.’

  Nessheim looked over at him, but Guttman stared resolutely ahead. He said, ‘The President knows we may have a problem.’

  ‘At the Bureau?’

  Guttman didn’t reply right away, then finally said, ‘The reason Kuhn wasn’t picked up in Hawaii was because a telex went to Shivers saying that on no account was Kuhn to be detained. It went out under Tolson’s name, but it couldn’t have come from Tolson – he and the Boss were in New York at the time.’

  ‘Maybe it was a mistake.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Nessheim’s thoughts were racing. ‘Do you mean the Bureau has been infiltrated?’ That would explain how the Navy had been tipped off about ‘Rossbach’.

  Guttman shrugged. ‘We need to tread carefully.’

  They stopped at a light, where three soldiers were flirting with a girl in a nurse’s uniform. The girl was laughing, enjoying the attention. All four looked as if they hadn’t a care in the world. Guttman pointed at the soldiers. ‘That’ll be you in a little while. Defender of the free world.’

  The light turned and halfway along the next block Guttman started to slow down the car. ‘I can let you out at the corner. There’s a recruiting station just down the block. You might as well get the process started.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Nessheim, slightly taken aback.

  ‘Over the bridge to Berkeley to see a physicist – isn’t that what they’re called?’

  ‘Jesus, Harry, you don’t know any science. Physics is hard. I took it in college and it was murder.’

  Guttman started to ease the car over. ‘You want to hop out here?’

  It was Nessheim’s turn to sigh. ‘No, Harry. Let’s keep going for now.’

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank Jocasta Hamilton, Susan Sandon and Emma Mitchell of Rand
om House UK for their encouragement and help as I wrote this book. At The Overlook Press in New York, I thank Peter Mayer, Dan Crissman and Michael Goldsmith for their belief in this series.

  At Aitken Alexander my agent Gillon Aitken was supportive as ever, as was Clare Alexander, and I would like to thank Andrew Kidd in particular for his detailed editorial suggestions.

  The writer Jacob Epstein corrected errors about Los Angeles (and is not responsible for any that may remain); Christopher Silvester pointed me to many useful sources about the Hollywood movie industry, as did Barry Isaacson; retired Special Agent Larry Wack provided information about the early FBI. Professor Brian Masaru Hayashi of Kyoto University, an authority on the Los Angeles Japanese-American community in the years before the War, patiently answered many questions.

  My uncle Willard Keeney shared his remarkable knowledge (and archive) of transport and terrain in pre-War California – and in many other places too; he also made several astute suggestions, and I thank him. Dan and James Rosenheim read chapters with sharp eyes, my daughters Laura and Sabrina both peeked, and their mother helped throughout.