“What happened?” he said, taking the wicker hamper from Ed and putting it in the truck. “Jesus Christ, you were gone an hour and a half. It took him that long to say no?”
Ed said, “He didn’t say no.” He looked tired. He got into the truck and sat.
“What’d he say, then?” Opening the hamper, Frink saw that a good many of the pieces were gone. Many of their best. “He took a lot. What’s the matter, then?”
“Consignment,” Ed said.
“You let him?” He could not believe it. “We talked it over—”
“I don’t know how come.”
“Christ,” Frink said.
“I’m sorry. He acted like he was going to buy it. He picked a lot out. I thought he was buying.”
They sat together silently in the truck for a long time.
10
It had been a terrible two weeks for Mr. Baynes. From his hotel room he had called the Trade Mission every day at noon to ask if the old gentleman had put in an appearance. The answer had been an unvarying no. Mr. Tagomi’s voice had become colder and more formal each day. As Mr. Baynes prepared to make his sixteenth call, he thought, Sooner or later they’ll tell me that Mr. Tagomi is out. That he isn’t accepting any more calls from me. And that will be that.
What has happened? Where is Mr. Yatabe?
He had a fairly good idea. The death of Martin Bormann had caused immediate consternation in Tokyo. Mr. Yatabe no doubt had been en route to San Francisco, a day or so offshore, when new instructions had reached him. Return to the Home Islands for further consultation.
Bad luck, Mr. Baynes realized. Possibly even fatal.
But he had to remain where he was, in San Francisco. Still trying to arrange the meeting for which he had come. Forty-five minutes by Lufthansa rocket from Berlin, and now this. A weird time in which we are alive. We can travel anywhere we want, even to other planets. And for what? To sit day after day, declining in morale and hope. Falling into an interminable ennui. And meanwhile, the others are busy. They are not sitting helplessly waiting.
Mr. Baynes unfolded the midday edition of the Nippon Times and once more read the headlines.
Surprise solution to leadership problem by Partei Committee. Radio speech viewed decisive. Berlin crowds cheer. Statement expected. Göring may be named Police Chief over Heydrich.
He reread the entire article. And then he put the paper once more away, took the phone, and gave the Trade Mission number.
“This is Mr. Baynes. May I have Mr. Tagomi?”
“A moment, sir.”
A very long moment.
“Mr. Tagomi here.”
Mr. Baynes took a deep breath and said, “Forgive this situation depressing to us both, sir—”
“Ah. Mr. Baynes.”
“Your hospitality to me sir, could not be exceeded. Someday I know you will have understanding of the reasons which cause me to defer our conference until the old gentleman—”
“Regretfully, he has not arrived.”
Mr. Baynes shut his eyes. “I thought maybe since yesterday—”
“Afraid not, sir.” The barest politeness. “If you will excuse me, Mr. Baynes. Pressing business.”
“Good day, sir.”
The phone clicked. Today Mr. Tagomi had rung off without even saying good-bye. Mr. Baynes slowly hung the receiver.
I must take action. Can wait no longer.
It had been made very clear to him by his superiors that he was not to contact the Abwehr under any circumstances. He was simply to wait until he had managed to make connections with the Japanese military representative; he was to confer with the Japanese, and then he was to return to Berlin. But no one had forseen that Bormann would die at this particular moment. Therefore the orders had to be superseded. By more practical advice. His own, in this case, since there was no one else to consult.