Heart of Lies (25 page)

“I suppose you have some references?”

“Aye. I worked for some of the finest families in Manhattan before I married. I’ll give ya a list of names and numbers, and you’re welcome to talk to the sisters at St. Agnes as well.”

“That won’t be necessary,” decided Amelia aloud. “I’ll ring up the convent and give my permission for you to pick up Maddy’s belongings. But I want one thing clear: she’s to come back here if and when her father shows up. And all mail goes through me. Am I understood?”

“As you wish.” Margaret stood up, took Maddy’s hand, and headed toward the door. “Well, we’ll be goin’ then. Good evening, Mrs. Hoffman. We’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t make it too often.” Amelia slammed the door behind them. Maddy did not say a word until they were back in the elevator. Then she looked up at Mrs. O’Connor. “Is it true? Am I going to live with you and Katherine?”

“Aye, little lass. It’s true,” said Mrs. Margaret O’Connor, reaching out a calloused hand to stroke Maddy’s silken black curls. “You’ll have a home with us.”

The happiness on Maddy’s face was all the thanks she needed.

SHANGHAI, 1939

“The Chinese are an inherently dishonorable race, Mr. Hoffman,” said the general, just before lifting another piece of delicately fried tempura from its lacquer box. He dropped the shrimp from the tips of his chop-sticks into his wide mouth. When he chewed, his eyes closed slightly, displaying the sensual pleasure he received from each morsel of food.

Leo watched in silence. He’d seen the general slice off a man’s head with ruthless fury, yet the man ate his meals with the elegance of a royal courtier. The officers of the Imperial Army presented a study in contradiction.

“It’s certainly true,” he finally responded, after sampling the sweet, hot sake set before him, “that the Chinese live by a different moral code. But one likes to think that there is the potential for greatness in at least some members of the Chinese nation.”

“You sound like a Catholic priest, Mr. Hoffman. I had not yet seen the optimistic side of your nature. But I disagree. The Chinese lack the physical, intellectual, and moral qualities necessary to succeed.”

“Their weakness before the Japanese has certainly been demonstrated.”

The general took a swallow of his sake. His hand dwarfed the fragile porcelain cup, yet he held it as delicately as a flower. “If the Japanese had suffered such a defeat—which would, of course, have been impossible—but had their efforts to protect their homeland failed, as did those of the pathetic Chinese army in their defense of the Shanghai territory, then all of the officers would have killed themselves. Such dishonor would never have been tolerated.”

“Now that’s an interesting point,” Leo commented, his brow darkening. “In my culture, suicide is considered an act of cowardice. It’s seen as a way of escape. A selfish act, if you will, rather than one of atonement.”

“Ridiculous. If one has failed to live up to one’s duties, there is no honorable alternative.”

“Perhaps. I suppose it depends on whether one considers it more difficult to die, or more difficult to go on living. Perhaps one who has betrayed one’s honor must continue to live. He does not deserve to die, for only by living can he be assured of the punishment he deserves. Death may be a release.”

“Not a very Christian perspective, Mr. Hoffman. For surely your Christian God would ensure the suffering necessary for atonement after one’s death? Continued existence in this world offers the possibility for personal redemption. So is it more selfish to live, and get a second chance, or to die, and take the punishment that God avails? I find the Christian perspective on suicide distressingly contradictory.”

“I suppose it is.” Leo said no more. His private struggles would remain private.

His dinner companion was not ready to cease his criticism of the Chinese, and he returned to the original subject.

“Take, for example, the stupidity of the Great Wall. It stretches for thousands of miles, unassailable. And do the Mongols breach it? Yes. Not by force, but by exploiting flaws in the Chinese character. They merely bribe the guards to open the gates. This would never have happened in Japan.”

“Surely not.”

“And then there is this business of Chiang Kai-shek’s relationship with this gangster, Liu Tue-Sheng. No Japanese officer would stoop so low. Our loyalty is to the Emperor, not some rich maggot. He strips the wealth of the peasants by selling them opium, prostitutes their daughters, then shares the proceeds with the incompetent General Chiang. Disgusting.”

Leo was startled to hear the general discuss Liu with such candor, although he was careful not to show it. “A most unfortunate situation,” he agreed diplomatically. “I’m sure there are many who would be pleased to see Liu eliminated. He’s been a thorn in the side of the Japanese for too long.”

“And now he hides behind the British throne in Hong Kong, sitting in the Peninsula Hotel like a pet dog,” the other man hissed. “We will soon eliminate that problem.”

Although Leo would’ve loved to know what plans, if any, the Japanese had to assassinate the man, he changed the subject, lest he seem too interested in the fate of Liu Tue-Sheng.

“I’m sure the British will be busy with other things, now that they’ve declared war on Germany.”

“Hitler is a genius. He understands the value of the lightning at
tack. And his armies are loyal; he realizes that this type of loyalty is achieved only through racial purity and rigid indoctrination. Honor comes through breeding and heritage. That is why mongrel races like the Chinese are doomed.”

“And the Americans?”

“The Americans will also fail. But they are not at war.”

“No, not yet. But once this war in Europe gets going, they’ll jump in again. The Americans won’t let Hitler take France and England.”

“You are German, are you not, Mr. Hoffman? Why do you not return and assist the Führer in his conquest? Surely a man of your talents would be useful.”

“You’re too kind, sir. My business interests have long rested in Shanghai. Given that the Japanese Emperor has generously allowed the international community here to continue its normal activities, there’s no place I would rather be.”

There was no where else Leo could be. He was alive but dead inside, living in a dying city that pretended to be alive. For there was no question that Shanghai was dying; the people of Shanghai woke in the morning and saw death in their mirrors. Yet they got dressed, and went to work, and drank and danced and played cards until the wee hours of the morning, just as if they had not seen the evil apparition. Silt began to fill the harbor, and trade with the interior of China gradually dried up, but the trickle of commerce that remained allowed those Shanghailanders who were unwilling or unable to leave to continue to hope that death would come tomorrow, not today.

And in this dying city Leo had an even bigger role to play. Liu’s flight to Hong Kong gave Leo more leeway. He paid off a gambling debt there, arranged a mortgage here, and then tore up the note, later, after he and
his debtor reached a convenient arrangement. By putting his debtors comfortably at ease and getting them out of embarrassing situations, he made many new friends.

The arrival of the sing-song girls steered the evening toward more sensual pursuits. Leo was not sure yet whether the general trusted him, but he knew that the cultured man enjoyed his company, and that was a good start.

Wading through the frigid silence of the early November morning, Leo pondered the general’s comments regarding Liu Tue-Sheng. Would the Japanese try to eliminate his nemesis? What would that mean for him? Would he actually be able to join Maddy in America? Would he have the courage to do so?

He sent money, and wrote, and received reports back from the nuns, and from Amelia, telling him that Maddy was doing well. He understood that her refusal to answer his letters was the sign of a deep, unrelenting anger, and he could not blame her. His only comfort was the fact that she was alive. Maddy was alive, and he would be better off dead. Yet death always seemed to escape him.

When he’d promised to stay and work for Liu he had no clear notion of how long that would be, for he had no idea how much longer he would be alive. After no bombs blew him apart and he refused himself the luxury of suicide, he focused on retrieving evermore sensitive information, sure that he would be shot in the back by someone who’d realized that Leo had betrayed him. But no one seemed to catch on. Martha was gone, and it was his fault. Yet punishment continued to elude him.

What if Liu was assassinated? Would he dare go to New York? How could he face his daughter? He had killed her mother, then sent her away with a stranger. What if Maddy looked even more like Martha,
now that she was older? How could he stand the pain of looking at that familiar face?

How could he bear to stay away?

Several blocks away, in the plush home of the American consul, three men were finishing up a totally different sort of evening. Charts and papers, magnifying glasses, and black-and-white pictures covered two tables in the library. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke, and the unemptied ashtrays testified to the lateness of the hour.

“There’s just no getting around it,” said the first man, a naval officer with leathery skin and a tobacco-and-whiskey voice. “Hitler won’t be satisfied with Poland, and unless France and the Brits find some way to stop him, the Nazis will have the whole of Europe. The Japanese will rule the Pacific, and Hitler will rule the Continent. I don’t like the looks of that picture.”

“But the president’s hands are tied. How can we go to war when we’ve got nothing at stake?” asked the youngest of the group, a blond gentleman in his late twenties.

“Nothing at stake?” barked the naval officer who’d made the first remark. “What kind of rot do they feed you at the State Department, Paul? What about freedom? What about the freedom of all of our trading partners?”

The consul intervened. “We know how you military men view the issue, Gerry. The problem is that no one’s proven that Nazis are bad businessmen. With the antiwar sentiment as strong as it is back home, we’re not at liberty to step in. For the time being, we have to find other ways to assist our European allies.”

“And I suppose you’re ready with a suggestion?” remarked Commo
dore Gerald Ballard as he reached for another whiskey, not bothering to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

“Just look at what Paul has brought us tonight,” the consul said, gesturing to the document-laden tables. “Look at how the Nazis attacked in Poland. Their strategy involves a tremendous amount of preparation, on-the-field communications, and, by some reports, a fifth-column network of great magnitude. We may not be able to get weapons to the British in the near future, but we can start giving them something vital. Information.”

The commodore snorted. “I see,” he said. “We’re to find and loan them another Mata Hari. Only this time, instead of working for the Germans, she’ll fight to save the free world, is that it?”

The consul took no offense. He’d not been in Shanghai long, but he knew that behind Ballard’s bluster lay a sharp mind. He would catch on quickly, and his help could prove very valuable. “Paul has dispatched his responsibility quite well. He’s carried the details of the Nazi invasion to every major diplomatic post in Asia. But the reports upon which his facts are based come from a myriad of sources, mostly foreign. And the State Department does not necessarily know what the Office of Naval Intelligence knows, or what the Army’s Military Intelligence Division knows. The United States has no systematic way of gathering and disseminating strategic information. Gerry, you were asked to this briefing because you are the highest-ranking military officer posted to Shanghai at the moment. But I asked you here for more than just the opportunity to enlighten you. I need your help.”

A raised eyebrow was the only response he received, but it was all he needed. The consul knew the commodore well enough to know that if the man stopped talking, he was intrigued.

Now the consul reached for the whiskey. He poured himself two fingers, looked at the glass for a moment, then set it down without tasting it.

“You’ve both heard of Colonel William Donovan, of course.”

“Of course, sir. Wild Bill Donovan, the most decorated soldier of the Great War. Except for MacArthur, that is,” replied the attaché. Ballard merely shot the consul a look of annoyance.

“Yes. Bill and I have known each other since we were boys. He’s already putting a bug in Roosevelt’s ear about creating a centralized agency for the coordination and use of secret intelligence. An organization that could assist us in the kind of covert operations and propaganda that will enable us to help Britain and the rest of Europe beat back the Nazis.

“It’s precisely because we are
not
at war that Americans have more mobility, not only in Europe, but around the globe. That’s helpful, especially for recruitment purposes. For if the president does give a green light to Donovan’s idea of a coordinated central intelligence agency, the start-up time will be crucial.”

“You mean, you’re asking us to recruit spies?” asked Paul, delighted at the prospect of getting involved in some cloak-and-dagger intrigue.

“Not recruitment, really. More just the identification of possible recruits. And we aren’t necessarily looking for Americans. We want to take advantage of our current neutrality to get into enemy territory and lay the groundwork. We need German nationals who understand the evil that Hitler stands for; we need French nationals willing to risk their lives to preserve their freedom. And, if the Japanese keep cozying up to the Nazis the way they seem to be doing, we’ll need Asians as well. We need to identify people who can be our eyes and ears now, who can engage in more concrete activities later, should America actually enter the war.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious, Paul. You and Commodore Ballard here both have a good deal of freedom of movement around the Far East. You’re to identify potential candidates and advise me. I’ll do the rest. You’ll never get any confirmation of the outcome of any interviews, for obvious reasons. We’re still at the blueprint stage, gentlemen, but the need for secrecy is absolute.”

The commodore no longer wore a sarcastic expression. He spoke thoughtfully, as if he’d already sorted through a thousand different possibilities in his mind and discarded all but one.

“I think I know someone you might like to meet.”

Leo stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the bar on top of the Cathay Hotel, staring out at what had once been the Chinese district of Hongkew. Now the whole area was called “Little Vienna,” having been rebuilt by the 20,000 Jewish refugees who’d settled there since 1938. Most had traveled first to Japan, admitted to the country for reasons that remained a mystery to all but the Japanese. Then they were shipped out of Japan
en masse
and dumped into the burned-out rubble of Hongkew.

Worried that Shanghai would soon be inundated with poor Jews fleeing the Nazi regime, the Municipal Council, for the first time in Shanghai’s history, instituted entry requirements. One must have $500 cash or proof of employment before the magic portals of Shanghai would open. The change marked the end of an era.