‘With friends?’ asked Charlie, immediately attentive.
‘Not quite,’ said the American.
So there was something at least, Charlie thought. He said: ‘I’d like that.’
‘You enjoy Japanese food?’
‘Very much.’ Harry Lu had been the teacher, Charlie remembered. Challenging at first, so they went beyond the raw fish of sashimi and because it was winter progressed to the fugu, Harry trying to put him off with stories of how many people died from eating the poisonous bits of the blowfish. He’d have to introduce Harry to meat pies.
‘The Japanese eat early, you know? I thought we might.’
Another hint, decided Charlie. He said: ‘Eating early suits me fine.’
‘I know a good shabu-shabu place near your hotel. That all right with you?’
‘Shall I meet you there?’
‘I’ll pick you up,’ said Fredericks. ‘How about five minutes?’
‘I’ll be waiting,’ said Charlie. Fredericks had obviously been doing the same, maybe in the hotel itself; there was definitely some movement. Charlie felt a stir of anticipation. Reluctantly he encased his feet again, leaving the shoes unlaced until the last moment, looking towards the inviting refrigerator. Not time, he decided.
The American’s summons from the lobby came precisely on time and the man was waiting when Charlie emerged from the elevators, smiling a greeting. Charlie nodded back, aware of the changed attitude.
‘We’ll take a cab,’ announced Fredericks, leading off towards the second set of lifts.
‘Sure,’ said Charlie. Was that important?
Fredericks gave the address in Japanese and the taxi took a route away from the Ginza and Charlie was glad they weren’t going somewhere overly touristy. He glanced through the back window, wondering how much protection Fredericks had around himself. By now, reflected Charlie, his own military squad would already be airborne.
In the tightly enclosed but still open cab, Fredericks played the guide and Charlie adopted the required role, nodding appreciatively at the identified landmarks, noting in passing that from the American’s description Niban-Cho was the fun place he remembered from earlier trips and deciding, sadly, that it would have to remain one of fond memories.
The restaurant was formal. Charlie removed his shoes at the entrance and placed them traditionally correct, with the heels against the step, toes turned outwards.
Fredericks watched and said: ‘You didn’t tell me you knew Japan.’
‘There’s a lot we haven’t talked about,’ said Charlie, pointedly. He looked down at the discarded footwear and said: ‘Just imagine if they were stolen.’
The American looked down in disbelief. ‘I shouldn’t worry.’
‘It’s taken a long time to get them like that,’ said Charlie.
‘I believe you,’ said Fredericks.
They were shown to a discreet, two-only table with a recessed dip beneath, so they did not have to sit crossed-legged, Japanese fashion. A smiling, bowing waitress placed the copper-protected charcoal cone on the table between them and then poured in the moat of water, to heat. Another smiling waitress brought the see-through Kobe beef and the sauces.
Indicating, Fredericks said: ‘This is ponzu …’
‘Which is vinegar-based,’ took up Charlie. ‘I prefer the sesame taste of gomadare.’
‘I didn’t mean to patronize,’ apologized the American.
Charlie deftly used the chopsticks to hold a strip of beef in the water to boil, dipped it into the sauce and said, as he ate: ‘Good restaurant. I like it.’ Patronize as much as you like; that’s what you’re supposed to do, thought Charlie. When people were mocking and convincing themselves what a mess he was and imagining how superior they were, the mistakes — their mistakes, to his benefit — were usually being made left, right, centre and backwards. And the silly buggers never realized it. He said: ‘There’s been some response?’
Instead of replying directly, Fredericks said: ‘What about the stuff I let you have?’
‘Sent it all to London,’ said Charlie, appearing intent upon his meal. It would be wrong for him to stop being careful.
‘And?’ prompted Fredericks.
The American wasn’t eating much, Charlie saw. He said: ‘Nothing, not yet. You couldn’t expect anything this quickly, surely?’
‘Kozlov talked of London: I hoped you guys might have had some record to which we didn’t have access.’
Sure you did, thought Charlie. ‘I’d hoped the same thing,’ he lied, easily. ‘So far, no luck.’
The vegetables arrived. After the dish was deposited on the table Charlie said, gesturing with his chopsticks: ‘Hakusia, shiitake, negi, yakidofu and shungiku.’
‘You’ve made your point and I said I was sorry, OK!’
I made it but you missed it, thought Charlie. The nonsense of picking out the food was to irritate the man, deflecting his concentration. These were the times Charlie enjoyed, producing words like conjurors pulled coloured scarves out of hats, so quickly it was hard to see the trick.
‘What about Germany?’ tried Fredericks, in persistence of his own.
Charlie dipped some cabbage into the water, deciding from the quality of the meat and vegetables that the soup it was making for the end would be excellent: Harry would have approved. He said: ‘Make some allowance, Art, for Christ’s sake! If we can’t turn up anything from our own records, what chance have we had so far to get anything out of Germany? We need time: you’ve had time: what have you come up with!’
‘All right, all right!’ said Fredericks. ‘I just wanted to know …’ He stopped, smiling. ‘And I would know, wouldn’t I, Charlie? We’ve got a deal, haven’t we?’
Consciously trying to continue the other man’s distraction, Charlie cooked and then wrapped some spring onions in chrysanthemum leaves and said: ‘I hope so …’ He allowed the pause. ‘I was thinking earlier that if we’re not careful, you and I — and those we represent and who invariably over-react and fuck everything up — we’re going to end up with nothing … try the combination, it’s terrific.’
Competing in the game they were playing, Fredericks identified the hakusai and employed his chopsticks as expertly as Charlie and said: ‘This is very good.’ Then, just as expertly, he wrapped the onions in the leaves and said: ‘The meeting’s tonight.’
Charlie gave a head-bowed nod to the waitress who came to skim the detritus off what would later become the soup, welcoming the interruption. He continued the ritual, cooking some fungus, and said: ‘How?’
‘Street designations.’
‘Car pick-up, then?’
‘Could be something else, but I can’t think of it … I forgot to ask if you’d like something to drink?’
Fredericks was employing his own distraction ploy, decided Charlie. ‘Maybe a little sake,’ he accepted. ‘You gave a reason?’
‘I said someone from Britain had arrived.’ Fredericks summoned the waitress and ordered the wine.
‘You haven’t ever met the wife?’ asked Charlie, directly.
‘No.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘No,’ said Fredericks again.
‘Why not?’
Both men waited while the wine and the tiny choko cups were delivered to their table. Then Fredericks said: it hasn’t got that far: I’ve let him make the running.’
Charlie raised his cup to the other man, thinking how differently he would have conducted the negotiations. ‘Haven’t you thought that Kozlov might be fronting for the woman?’ It was a maverick question, thrown out to make ripples.
‘Why should he be?’ demanded the American.
‘No reason,’ said Charlie. ‘Just seeking your thoughts.’ Shit, he thought: the idea had been to get Fredericks reminiscing from that first moment of contact, at the unimportant embassy meeting. Charlie had hoped he could have picked up something. Smoothly — reasonably smoothly at least — as everything was going, Charlie couldn’t lose the nagging feeling that there was a yawning gap that he’d failed to recognize, and that if he did not realize where or what it was he was going to fall ass over apex into a great big hole.