‘It’s Germany, isn’t it? It has to be. You speak the language. Don’t deny it. Just nod.’
‘Speaking the language?’
‘Going off to Germany.’
Tam held her gaze, giving nothing away. Within minutes they were back in the chokehold of the long-ago relationship they’d never properly resolved. Older, stronger and always more devious, she’d made bits of his childhood a nightmare he never wanted to revisit.
‘We had the ill-fortune to meet the German ambassador last year,’ she said. ‘You’ve heard of Brickendrop?’
‘Brickendrop?’
‘Von Ribbentrop. He lived round the corner here while they were messing about with the embassy. Alec thinks it must have been that wife of his behind it all. They took three of those gorgeous old Nash houses in Carlton House Terrace and knocked them into one. They tore the places apart, absolutely ruined them. It must have cost millions, literally millions. They threw a huge party the day after the Coronation. Fourteen hundred of us. It was mediaeval. It was like one of those French levees. We were there to pay homage. What a truly ghastly night.’
‘But why Brickendrop?’
‘Because the man has no tact, no judgement and certainly no taste. He was here for less than a year. He speaks decent English but that only made things worse because he could never hide behind an interpreter. Count the number of people he offended and there’d be no one worth knowing left in London. Why on earth did they send him in the first place? What does a man like that tell you about his masters?’
Tam said he’d no idea. He badly wanted to bring the conversation back to his poor, mad father but Vanessa hadn’t finished. Alec, she said, was close to certain individuals in the Foreign Office. People in the know had concluded that Ambassador Brickendrop had the ear of Hitler, who regarded him as a wondrous discovery, a kind of secret weapon to inflict on the English.
‘First Brickendrop,’ she said. ‘Then the Luftwaffe. Gloomy, I know, but everyone’s saying it.’
Tam sensed she was softening. Her conviction that her brother might be up to no good in Germany seemed to have put him in a new light.
‘Are you some kind of spy?’ she said. ‘Only we’d rather like that.’
‘We?’
‘Alec and I. Alec thinks we’re all heading for the clifftop, especially now that fool Halifax is at the FO. God knows, Alec is probably right. Anything you might do in that regard, we’d be very grateful.’
‘You could look after Dad for a bit,’ Tam said. ‘That would help.’
She nodded, took another sip of tea, stirred one of the spaniels with her foot, said nothing. Then her head came up.
‘How long do you think he’s got?’
‘Dad?’
‘Yes.’
‘Couple of months? Maybe less?’ Tam had no idea.
‘Does he speak Italian at all? Might Maria look after him?’
‘He barely speaks English.’
‘Do you think he’d recognise me?’
‘He might. He might not. Would it be easier if he didn’t?’
For the first time, Tam had sparked a smile. He leaned forward, returning his cup to the tray.
‘You’re happy for this conversation to remain confidential?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’
‘You mean that?’
‘Absolutely.’
He studied her for a moment. Her eyes were gleaming. He put his hand on hers. She didn’t flinch.
‘As it happens, it’s not Germany,’ he said. ‘But unless Dad comes to you and I know he’s safe, it won’t happen. Your decision, Nessie. Yours and Alec’s.’
She nodded. She looked transformed.
‘The answer’s yes,’ she said. ‘Give me a couple of days to sort things out.’
‘And Alec?’
‘He’ll agree.’
5
TOKYO, 13 APRIL 1938
Dieter and Keiko never made it to the zoo in Nagasaki. The morning after the flight in the seaplane, Dieter lurked in the house overlooking the river, expecting Keiko or her brother to appear with the news that the car was once again awaiting them for the trip into the city. Neither showed up, not that day or the next. Instead, a senior manager from the steel mill took Dieter on an extended trip around the biggest of the shipyards across the river, eager to show off the industrial lead that Japan had established amongst her neighbours in the Eastern Pacific. The biggest oil tankers. The fastest construction times. The most ambitious five-year plan.
Coshed by superlatives, Dieter dined alone that night, raising his head at the long empty table to contemplate the view. By now he knew enough about this strange country never to trust the surface of things. What you saw, what you heard, was seldom the whole truth. The programme for his three-month assignment was littered with invitations – a Sakura ceremony up in the hills around Naga, an oyster festival on the island of Miyajima, an incomprehensible Noh play he’d sat through in a freezing venue in Kyoto. He’d emerged from each of these events impressed by the costumes and the ritual and the rapt attention of the audience but convinced more than ever that the Japanese had wilfully put themselves beyond reach. Maybe it was centuries of physical isolation from the rest of the world. Maybe they were just more comfortable keeping the rest of the planet at arm’s length. But either way, as the family maid appeared with yet more miso, it was hard not to feel a sense of being somehow short-changed. Maybe the invitation to the zoo had been a joke. Maybe the zoo didn’t even exist. And maybe, more to the point, he might never lay eyes on Keiko again. A pity, he thought, pushing aside his empty plate.
Within days he was back in Tokyo. He attended a courtesy briefing at the War Ministry that paid a great deal of attention to Japan’s growing fleet of aircraft carriers. Through a translator who looked not a day older than her charges, he did his best to address a huge class of schoolchildren in a Tokyo suburb about everyday life in Germany. On successive evenings, he gave his escorts the slip and did a modest tour of the bars in the Ginza area of the city. With the weather still cold, Lohmeyer’s restaurant offered a reliable goulash but Dieter preferred a seedy little bar called Fledermaus, favoured by drinkers from the more louche corners of the German business and diplomatic community. Then came the summons to his own embassy. With the end of his assignment in sight, there was to be an evening reception for some of the Japanese military who had looked after the young German flier.
The German Embassy lay in Tokyo’s diplomatic quarter, a handsome colonnaded building set in lavish gardens. That evening, the military attaché was in charge. To Dieter, Eugen Ott had always been a grim-faced presence amongst the rest of the staff but his career prospects had recently brightened with the departure of the Ambassador, Herbert von Dirksen, for a new position in London. Eugen Ott had been in post for four years in Tokyo and his fluent Japanese made him the favourite to replace the outgoing chief. Ott had never succumbed to Dieter Merz’s charm and relations between the two men remained icy.
Dieter’s appointment appeared to have the backing of Joachim von Ribbentrop, now Reichsminister for Foreign Affairs back home, and Ott knew better than to incur the wrath of so powerful a champion, yet in his view Merz had never cut the kind of figure the new regime deserved. Ott’s reservations had nothing to do with Merz’s combat record – the boy was obviously an accomplished killer – but in conversation he seemed to lack the assertiveness and the sense of innate entitlement required to impress the Japanese. The boy needs to grow up, he’d confided to his secretary. No wonder fellow pilots in the Condor Legion had called him Der Kleine.
Tonight’s embassy function took a while to catch fire but Ott himself was circulating with bottles of champagne specially imported from von Ribbentrop’s family business and by mid-evening the big first floor reception room was alive with conversation. To Ott’s visible surprise, Merz was popular with the Japanese. They seemed to regard him as a favourite son, someone they could share a joke with, throw an arm around, recount moments during some e
mbassy-planned tour or other when they’d both strayed from the official briefing and surrendered to the craziness of events. This degree of informality, from Ott’s point of view, was slightly unsettling and he was tight-lipped when he ordered Merz to stay behind after the departure of the last guest.
Ott worked from an office on the ground floor. The shelf behind his desk featured photographs of his wife and his dog, an enormous Alsatian called Werner who prowled the corridors of the embassy at weekends, terrorising the duty typists.
Dieter was eyeing a humidor that lay beside the telephone. He’d enjoyed the evening immensely. All he needed now was one of Ott’s big fat Cuban cigars.
Ott wanted Dieter’s thoughts on the success or otherwise of his assignment. Within a week, the young fighter pilot was due to ship back to Europe. What did he make of what he’d seen?
Dieter saw no point in disguising the truth. He’d seen what his hosts had wanted him to see. The air force were good in certain areas, less so in others. They were finding it heavy going against the Chinese but they were quick to learn and much of their equipment was first class. If they had a real problem, said Dieter, then it surely lay further down the supply chain. Warfare these days was a glutton for raw material – especially oil and rubber – and the Japanese were lacking in both.
‘So how do you think they’ll manage?’ enquired Ott.
‘Either they’ll keep buying overseas or they’ll go to war.’
‘You mean a wider war? Not just the Chinese?’
‘Of course.’
‘So what choice will they make? In your opinion?’
‘They’ll go to war,’ Dieter said. ‘They’ll ask nicely for whatever it is they want and when the answer is no they’ll help themselves. It’s cheaper that way and a lot more tidy. The Dutch have the oil and the British have the rubber. If I were living in Singapore or Jakarta just now I’d probably be booking a passage home.’
‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Because I’m German.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I understand their problem. It’s means and ends. These people draw the straightest lines. You can see it in their architecture. They think the way they build.’
‘And we do the same?’
‘Yes. Except our buildings are uglier.’
‘I see…’ Ott was toying with a paperknife. There was a tiny swastika on the handle. At length, he looked up. ‘And have you shared these thoughts with your new friends?’
‘On the contrary. They told me.’
‘About Singapore? Jakarta?’
‘About the oil and the rubber. It’s a shopping list. The rest you can work out. All you need is a map.’
Dieter let the exchange hang in the air. He’d had a great deal of time to think about these issues over the past three months. His conclusions had done nothing for his relationship with this man but he didn’t care. The worst that could happen was a scathing report to the Foreign Ministry in Berlin but if his days as a would-be diplomat were numbered then nothing could be sweeter. Representing the Reich in Japan had been a struggle from first to last and once his body and his nerves were truly healed he’d be glad to get back to a trade he understood.
Ott mentioned a senior Japanese commander, Vice Admiral Kiyoshi. He’d been on this evening’s invitation list but had sent his apologies at the last minute. Dieter shrugged. He’d never even met Vice Admiral Kiyoshi.
‘I’m afraid that’s not the point,’ Ott grunted.
‘It isn’t?’
‘No.’
There was a smile on Ott’s face. Dieter didn’t know why. At length Ott asked whether he’d heard of a ship called the Soryu.
‘Of course. It’s an aircraft carrier.’
‘Exactly. Kiyoshi wants to show it off.’
‘Who to?’
‘You. The ship’s on manoeuvres off Tokyo Bay. I’m afraid the weather isn’t all it might be but Kiyoshi wants to put you in one of their torpedo bombers tomorrow morning and pay a visit.’
‘You mean land on?’
‘Of course.’
‘Fine.’ A second shrug. ‘I’ve never been on a carrier. I’ll enjoy the trip.’
‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. They want you to pilot the aircraft.’
‘You mean fly it?’ Dieter was staring at him.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they’re impressed by what you’ve been up to in Spain. Because they heard about your little escapade in the seaplane in Nagasaki. Five beers? And a near-perfect landing? They think you’re pretty special in the air. And I’m sure they’re right.’
It took a second or two for Dieter to marshal his thoughts. The best part of a bottle of champagne didn’t help.
‘Impossible.’ Dieter shook his head. ‘You need to be trained for that kind of flying. Give me a month with the right people. Then I might say yes.’
‘I’m afraid that’s not an option. Not in this country. Think of it as an honour. Believe me, this is an invitation we cannot afford to turn down.’
‘I’m alone in this aircraft?’
‘To the best of my knowledge there are three of you.’
‘Dual controls?’
‘I’m afraid I have no idea.’
Dieter looked away. He could visualise the approach, a strange aircraft at his fingertips, the carrier rolling and heaving, a single chance to get down in one piece.
‘What if I get it wrong?’
‘You won’t. One of the other two is your friend from Nagasaki.’
‘Seiji Ayama?’
‘Indeed. I gather it might have been his idea in the first place. I’d take it as a compliment if I were you. What kind of pilot volunteers for a suicide mission?’
Ott pushed his chair back and stood up, sparing Dieter the Hitler salute. There was no warmth in his smile.
‘There’s a car outside.’ He nodded at the door. ‘Good luck for tomorrow.’
*
The car was waiting at the kerbside beyond the guard at the embassy gates. The Japanese driver watched Dieter making his way carefully down the steps to the street and then emerged to open the rear door. Dieter recognised the scent before he caught sight of the face.
‘Keiko,’ he said.
She was in the back of the car. She nodded down at the empty seat beside her. Her brother, she murmured, sent his apologies for not being able to make it to the embassy function. She was wearing the red scarf he’d borrowed the afternoon he went flying with Seiji in Nagasaki. She was smiling.
‘Where are we going?’
Keiko didn’t answer. The car began to move without a word to the driver. Dieter’s modest hotel was a five-minute walk from the embassy but the driver turned right instead of left, joining a major road still thick with traffic. Dieter sat back, gazing out at the swirl of pedestrians, too numbed to bother asking again where they were headed or what Keiko was doing in the car.
All he could think about was the torpedo bomber and that inexplicable tangle of circumstances that would – come tomorrow – put him in the pilot’s seat. He knew a great deal about surviving in the air, often against near-impossible odds, but that very same knowledge told him that tomorrow’s challenge was close to impossible. Landing Seiji’s seaplane, after months out of the cockpit, had shaken him badly. He’d misjudged the approach. Worse still, within touching distance of disaster he’d come close to folding his hand, pushing back his chair and leaving the game. He could still taste that feeling of helplessness, of resignation, and it terrified him. Putting down on a carrier, especially in bad weather, would be suicidal.
The car had left the main road and plunged into a maze of side streets. Dieter found himself looking at a narrow, single-storey house wedged between a garage and what looked like a furniture store. Keiko was already on the pavement, holding the door open.
‘Come,’ she said.
Dieter did her bidding. She closed the rear door behind him and murm
ured something to the driver. Dieter heard a clink of coins before the car drove away. A thin-looking cat had appeared from nowhere, winding itself around his ankles. Gusts of wind lifted a sheet of abandoned newsprint from the throat of a nearby alley, ghostly in the hot darkness. The air smelled of gasoline.
Keiko had opened the front door to the house. She gestured him in. Dieter found himself in a room bigger than he’d expected: tatami mats on the floor, a bamboo screen towards the back, the tang of citrus from a lemon tree beneath the window, shadows dancing in the candlelight. A low shelf ran along one wall, home to a line of tiny sculptures flanked by the candles, and a long tapestry hung on another wall. The room had a grace and simplicity Dieter had come to expect from the countless family visits he’d paid but it had something else as well, something that went hand in hand with this woman who seemed to have nested deep inside him. Mystery was too small a word but just now he was struggling to find another.
Beyond the screen was an open door. Keiko disappeared for a moment and then returned. She was holding a pair of pyjama trousers and a loose, sleeveless jacket.
‘Please… ’
She gave him the garments and nodded at the mattress on the floor. Then she was gone again.
Dieter was looking at the cat. It sat on a low table beside the biggest of the candles and seemed to be watching him. Was it the same cat he’d seen in the street? Or was it as spectral, as unreal, as everything else had suddenly become? Dieter lived on his instincts. But his instincts, those nerve ends he’d never had cause to mistrust, had abruptly let him down. In ways he found impossible to understand, he was totally lost. Reiki, he thought, studying the mattress on the floor. This must be where she works.
Keiko again. She was offering him a glass. He took it. Sipped it. Hoping for sake, he was disappointed. Water.
‘What do you want me to do with these?’ Dieter still had the pyjama trousers and the jacket.
Keiko didn’t answer. She began to undress him. He was wearing Luftwaffe dress uniform, the material stiff under her busy fingertips. Finally he stood naked before her. She turned him round in the candlelight, the way she might have inspected an object that had attracted her at an auction, something she might end up putting a bid on. Her touch was light, her eyes mapping the surgical scars on his lower back.
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