December 6 by Martin Cruz Smith Page A

intense the warmer he grew. Harry had never seen the man with so much spit and personality before. “You think your friends look so good against coolies. Just watch when the little yellow Johnnies go up against the guns in Singapore.”
    “‘Yellow Johnnies’? That doesn’t sound like diplomatic language to me.”
    Beechum said, “I for one hope they do give it a go. This entire circus will be over in a week, and then where will you be?”
    “The next circus, I suppose.”
    “Not when we’re done with you. Because there will come a day,” Beechum promised. “There will come a day.”
    Willie motioned that he would wait outside, but Meisinger, the Gestapo chief, shook Harry’s hand and went right to the point. “You didn’t mention Jews.”
    “Didn’t I?”
    “So-called refugees. You haven’t noticed them?”
    “You know the truth? The truth is that in Japan, all Westerners look pretty much alike.”
    “Impossible,” Meisinger said.
    “Stick around.”
    Well, that was probably not appreciated, Harry thought, but if you even pretended to be friendly to someone like Meisinger, you ended up with the Butcher of Warsaw singing the Horst Wessel song in the Happy Paris. Harry didn’t think he was willing to suffer that, and he knew Michiko wouldn’t.
    “They’ve got a little list, Harry,” Hooper said as Meisinger marched away. The American attaché was a gangly, brush-cut man with a bow tie and an empathetic smile. “A speech for the Japanese? Are you totally nuts?”
    “Who’s got a list?”
    “Everyone’s got a list, Russians, British, Germans. We have a list. Not to mention the Japanese. You’ve made enemies everywhere.”
    “Just throwing light on the international scene.”
    “Fuel on the fire. Harry, what’s going to happen is going to happen. You and I can’t affect anything at this point, and unless you have some way of disappearing magically from the scene, I suggest you pull your head in. You’re still doing asset searches for the Japanese?”
    “I might look through a dusty ledger or two.”
    “It’s called colluding with the enemy.”
    “Hoop, we’re not at war yet.”
    “I hate that nickname. Anyway, if things do blow up in your face and you find yourself running for your life, I’m supposed to tell you not to come to the American embassy.”
    “Have I ever gone to the embassy?”
    “So you know. They don’t consider you American.”
    “Hoop, I always knew that.”
    Harry was feeling good, feeling great. Once again, his luck had come through. Who would have thought a beetle was the way to Yoshitaki’s heart? But had he transgressed in his speech? Had he crossed a certain unforgivable line? Didn’t matter, Harry was walking on air. By the time he made it to the street, Willie was waiting with DeGeorge, whose taxi wasn’t going anywhere soon. The driver poured fresh charcoal into the top of the furnace and cranked a fan.
    “Like riding a fucking hibachi,” DeGeorge said.
    “I wish the readers of The Christian Science Monitor could hear the language of their illustrious reporter,” Harry said.
    “Last-minute plea for peace, my ass.”
    “’Japan’s Business Leaders Friendly to America,’ I think that’s your headline right there.”
    “A goddamn apology for war. It’s happening, isn’t it? I saw you talking to the head of Nippon Air. Any word about the plane to Hong Kong?”
    “Why would he tell me?”
    “I don’t know.” DeGeorge turned to Willie. “All I know is that Harry is Mr. Connected and Protected. One day we’re going to look around and Harry will be down the rabbit hole, and that’ll be one day too fucking late for the rest of us.”
    “I never know if you use ‘fucking’ as an adverb or an adjective,” Harry said. “I guess that’s why you’re the Pulitzer Prize winner and I’m not.”
    “Fuck you. I’m going to meet Beechum. Get the British embassy’s reaction to this defeatist bullshit.” DeGeorge gave his taxi a final glance