“I’m sorry if I’ve disrupted other plans,” he realised the Count was speaking to him, “but this must be attended to without delay.”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“You recall my saying you’d earn your income here?”
“Of course, Sir.”
“Then perhaps you should begin counting. We’ll send out for some supper later.”
It was plain to the staff the next morning that Kimiko was not her usual cheerful self. At the daily round of greetings she was abrupt, and seemed to be in what Andre Ribot later described as a state of acute indignation. Barely civil to anyone. It was most unlike her, he pronounced, but she was furious for some reason, and he was sure he knew why.
Why? asked Pierre Laroche, the chief accountant. They were gathered in Henri Sardaigne’s office, ostensibly to discuss the day’s work, but in reality occupied with this gossip.
Ribot gestured through the glass to where Alex sat at his desk, gazing blankly into space. He looked tired and perplexed, like a young man with a very bad hangover.
“Alex,” said the Sardine. “You mean Alex has been up to dirty tricks with Kimiko? If he has, we’ll have him fired.”
“Idiot,” Ribot replied. “Try to get rid of him and you’ll be the one who ends up looking for another job?”
“Me? Don’t be ridiculous,” Sardaigne declared. “I’m the assistant accountant. He’s just a mere clerk.”
“If you think that,” said Pierre Laroche, “then you’re an even bigger idiot than we thought. Because whatever occurred here last night when the bank shut, only Le Comte and Alex know about it. Which I suggest makes him hardly a mere clerk any longer.”
“Perhaps he just did some interpreting?”
“Perhaps,” Laroche said, but gave the impression he did not think it quite that rudimentary.
At his desk, Alex could feel the conjecture of the French staff. Far worse, he could sense Kimiko’s bewilderment and simmering resentment. No need to define her expectation of last night; he knew it had been the same as his. The new dress and the look she gave him had told him of her anticipation. First, to enjoy flirting over a meal, and then — his mind baulked at the image of them in the small hotel, euphoric beneath a quilt.
Eventually Kimiko rose from her desk. She walked past without sparing him a glance. He saw the note drop, but doubted if anyone else had spotted it. To be sure of that he waited a few moments before picking it up. It was brief and explicit.
“WHERE WERE YOU?” That was all it said.
Where indeed? How could he possibly tell her?
It was after 9.30pm before Alex had finished counting the money. During this time they had paused for supper, when the Japanese servant knocked and the Count de Champeaux, without allowing him inside the room, had taken a tray of sandwiches and coffee from him. It was a welcome break, for Alex’s fingers were tired after the repetitive tallying, and filthy from the used banknotes. He and the Count had shared the sandwiches. Their visitor had declined to eat or drink. Throughout, he had remained in the shadowed section of the room, restless and uneasy. When Alex at last finished, the clusters of notes were placed in large padded envelopes, then packed into a safe deposit box.
“The exact total?” the Count had asked.
“One million yen,” Alex had told him.
“Good. What a relief they equate, or we might have had to check all over again.” The Count had locked the deposit box, and shaken hands with the man who had brought the money. “One million is $200,000 dollars, placed to the credit of your principal’s account in Zurich.”
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Le Comte,” the visitor had said. “I think there is an error. The official rate is four American dollars to the yen. Which means we are due to receive $250,000.”
“In normal times, Koiwa-san. But these are not normal times, and this is the best rate we can offer.”
“I think I should discuss this with my superior.”
“I already have,” the Count had replied coldly. “Your job was to make this delivery, wait for us to verify the amount, and then return to the client with a duplicate copy of the letter. Which my assistant will now type in both French and English.”
Alex could see the man was discomforted by the Count’s peremptory dismissal of his protest.
“Would it not be better, Your Excellency, before the paperwork is done, if I telephone to confirm this rate is agreeable to my principal?”
“You must accept my word that it is.” De Champeaux’s tone was now arctic. “You’ll make no call from this office on a matter of such delicacy. I can think of nothing more ill-advised. Dangerous and stupid, Koiwa-san. We’d be fools, these days, to believe telephones are safe.” He sounded shocked at the visitor’s suggestion. “The only call you’ll make is to your driver, asking him to collect you. A simple message that you will shortly be ready and waiting.”
While the man called Koiwa-san made this phone call, the Count had dictated a letter to Alex. After taking it down in shorthand, he was told to use Mademoiselle Patou’s machine in the adjoining office. On Banque de l’Indochine notepaper he was to type the letter in French, then in English, and make one carbon copy of each. After that he was to destroy the carbon paper, and bring the originals and copies back to the office for signature.
Alex had done as directed, taking only a few minutes. The letter was brief and direct.
Herr Otto Guizot
Foreign Finance Department
Banque Commerciale de Zurich
This letter of credit authorises the transfer of one million yen being the sum of two hundred thousand American dollars ($200,000) to be converted into Swiss francs at the current exchange rate on receipt by you at the Foreign Finance Department, Banque Commerciale de Zurich. All sums, less any bank charges are to be deposited in Account Number 7305.
The Count had signed all copies, then sealed the duplicates in an envelope, and handed it to the courier. Already wrapped in his coat and camouflaged by his influenza mask, he had placed the letter in his attaché case and left without another word. Alex had waited while the Count conducted the visitor to his waiting automobile. Headlights of the car illuminated the office windows as it drove away.
“A stupid man,” de Champeaux had said as he returned, asking if Alex would bring the currency, while he turned off the alarm and opened the strong room. After the money was placed inside the vault crowded with steel boxes belonging to the bank’s clients, the Count had reset the alarm and said he felt they had both earned a drink.
“Whisky?” he’d suggested.
Alex knew it was far too late to go in search of Kimiko, but he also realised this meeting was not yet over. He’d been given access to information which he doubted if anyone else on the staff possessed. Not Mademoiselle, not Laroche. So why him, the youngest and newest member of the staff?
“Cheers,” the Count had said in English, and added with a smile, “well done.”
“Thank you, Monsieur.”
The whisky was served in heavy crystal glasses. It was a fine malt, too strong for his taste, but too good to spoil by adding water. The kind of drink his father would enjoy. Alex wished now he had asked for a beer. It was not until their drinks were almost finished that the Count spoke.
“I’ve chosen you as the person I intend to trust in matters of this kind. It’s therefore only fair I give you some details of what we’re doing. Not all the details, but some. Naturally, they’ll never be repeated to anyone else. You’ll be bound by a banking edict that forbids talk of these transactions, now or in the future. You understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What we did tonight is, of course, technically against the law. I’m sure you’re aware of that. I told you when we had our meeting that my task is to keep the bank viable. We’ll soon be losing money by remaining open here, yet our directors are looking to the future, and for this reason the Tokyo office must be retained. If Japan wins the war, there will be an opportunity for vast expansion.
Should that not happen, then perhaps we’ll do business with the Americans. Those are my instructions That’s at the core of tonight’s transaction The man who came here is the secretary of an important person. Even if you were to learn who it is, as far as we’re concerned he is simply a number.”
“7305,” Alex said, and the Count nodded.
“The number is all you need to know, and naturally it will never be mentioned outside this room. 7305, the Commercial Bank of Zurich. There’ll be other numbers in due course, and other transfers, perhaps to other Swiss banks, and your job will be to assist me as you did tonight, and to keep a secret record of them.”
“May I ask a question, sir?”
“I’d expect you to ask several. After all, I’m proposing you share the risk I take, although I emphasise it’s slight. At least I can share what information I’m able to with you.”
“How is the letter of credit sent?”
“By the diplomatic bag to Paris, via our embassy here in Tokyo. Then from Paris to Geneva or Zurich. As you may know, diplomatic bags are sacrosanct.”
“And the money transfer?”
“We have funds in Switzerland for the purpose of far eastern expansion. The client has his account credited, and Swiss francs will always remain a good currency, even after the war.” He sipped the last of his whisky with a relaxed enjoyment. “As far as we’re concerned, we make money on the exchange rate, in fact on both exchange rates, and also build up a very healthy balance in yen.”
“But suppose Japan loses the war..?” Alex had stopped, aware of an expression on the other’s face. It almost seemed like a frown, a moment of censure, but then the Count smiled, and Alex could not be sure he had seen anything at all.
“If Japan loses? That hardly seems likely, does it?”
He had travelled home by a late and almost empty train after retrieving his overnight case from the station locker. The Count had been surprisingly frank with him, but on the other hand it was obvious de Champeaux did not trust his subordinates at the bank. Technically illegal, he had said, but that was untrue. It was highly illegal and dangerous, Alex knew, because the transfer of foreign currency was prohibited unless there was government approval. Almost certainly approval would never be granted; equally certain, Alex now realised, the Count preferred to take a risk on a newcomer who had necessary and useful qualifications. But, more importantly, one who posed no risk of blackmail, nor harboured the ambition of a senior staff member who might envisage participation could be a step towards promotion.
He had time to think about this on the train journey home. Even more time, while he lay awake in bed for much of the night, to think about the disaster that had lost him all future chance with Kimiko. The goat was bleating softly in the yard. Perhaps pining for her kid, he thought, or hungry for newspapers.
Some things, the Count had admitted, he was unable to reveal. Which was honest enough. One thing, though, Alex had not divulged. The name Koiwa-san the Count had used, in speaking to the man who brought the attaché case, had struck a chord in his memory. His father had known Koiwa, a private secretary to Prince Konoe, who had been Prime Minister of Japan and was deposed just months before the war began.
Prince Fumimaro Konoe, a liberal and an Anglophile so it was rumoured. Might such a man want to guard against an uncertain future? Could the Prince, a distant relative of the Emperor himself, be the Banque de Zurich’s account number 7305?
“I waited where you told me,” Kimiko said. “I waited until I was almost frozen, thinking I had made a mistake. Then I went to the restaurant, and asked if you had left a message. They seemed to think I was a fool, or perhaps some kind of prostitute, a tart who had been let down by a gaijin. There had been no message, and they had cancelled your reservation. Another couple had been given the table. They were sitting there, happy and smiling at each other, and I felt so angry I wanted to smash the lamp on their table and ruin their evening.”
“Kimiko …” he said helplessly.
“Then I went home,” she said. “And I had to lie to my parents, because I’d told them I was going to stay with a friend here in Tokyo, and after that I couldn’t sleep and was awake all night.”
“So was I,” Alex said.
“I don’t care about you being awake. I care about the way you treated me. I want to know what happened, and if this was some sort of juvenile conspiracy to make me look a fool. Because that’s what it felt like.”
“Of course it wasn’t a conspiracy,” Alex said.
“Then why? I was there. Where in the name of God were you?”
“Kimiko …” he started to say.
“Someone said you were called to a special meeting with the Count. Is that true?”
Alex felt as if his whole life was in the balance. There was no way he could discuss the events of last night. Not to this girl, who already knew too much about what went on in the French bank. Even her source Frankenstein had not been allowed any knowledge of this. So what was he to tell her?
“It was not a special meeting. He just wanted to know if I’d had any news from my father in Saigon. They used to be good friends. And then he kept me talking about my family, and I couldn’t get away … by the time I did it was too late …”
He could feel how shamefully hollow it was, even as the words issued from his mouth. He saw Kimiko’s hostile disbelief. But he was sworn to secrecy, and there was no alternative.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and wished she had slapped his face. But she didn’t do that; all she did was shrug and walk away.
It was a bleak afternoon in keeping with his mood, as he walked through the sleet and gusty wind to the station. He had lingered hopefully at his desk, but Kimiko had returned from the cloakroom rugged up against the weather and left the bank without another glance at him. Mademoiselle Patou had smiled and wished him good night, but Laroche had gone with barely a nod. Alex was conscious of a glare from the Sardine, and a feeling of silent enmity from Ribot. While it was a relief to leave that hostile atmosphere, there was no jollity in the streets.
Apathy seemed to pervade the homeward-bound crowds. They trudged towards their destinations like robots. It was as if they were so trained to accept war’s hardships that austerity was now an integral part of their lives. They endured the many inconveniences with a stoic resignation, accepted that there must be fewer trains and trams, less coal to heat homes, shortages of food, petrol and clothing. Even the wretched weather when it should have been spring was met with a weary acceptance. Alex had heard Japanese friends declare these were sacrifices they must make for the greater good. Their Emperor had declared the war was just. The Americans had tricked and betrayed them with lies and trade sanctions. And Japan, after all, was winning. Amid these dour days of self-sacrifice, it was a comfort to know the battles were being fought on islands far from Honshu and Hokkaido.
ALEX’S DIARY: APRIL, 1943
How I miss Kimiko. Of course she is there in the bank each day, sitting close to me, but there is a barrier like a stone wall between us. I feel as if a part of my life is over — perhaps the best part — when you’re young and new to love, and it seems so exciting. Lately I spend half the nights awake thinking about this, which was how I came to hear the sudden sound of the intruders outside our house.
I got up. I thought it was at least two men. There was a murmur from outside, and I could hear them moving in the yard. I was about to telephone the police, when I bumped into an anxious figure in the dark living room. It was my mother.
“For God’s sake,” she whispered, “be quiet.”
“What’s happening?”
“We’re being robbed.”
“Ma, I was about to call the police!”
“No,” she hissed. “Stay still and be quiet.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re stealing the goat.”
We stood at the window and watched. When our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we could make out the silhouettes of two men. One of them
had a rope. He tried to throw it like a lasso, but he missed Gracie’s head. She bleated, then turned and charged him. He tried to dodge, then landed with a crash as she butted him.
“Jesus Christ,” he said.
Then a light went on from the room where Cook-san lived with her daughter, and I heard her voice demanding to know what the hell was happening? Who was there? What did they want?
“For God’s sake shut up, Cook-san,” I heard my mother say almost under her breath.
The second man had something in his hand, as he moved slowly towards the goat.
“What is it, Ma?” I whispered. “A dagger?”
“Dagger? It looks like a rolled up newspaper to me,” she said.
Which it was. Before the cook could appear, the man waved the newspaper in front of Gracie’s face. She lunged at it, and he weaved backwards, tempting her with the bait. Like a fish chasing a lure, she charged after him.
“Gracie!” Cook-san emerged from her quarters, and shouted a warning, but the goat was in eager pursuit.
“Good girl,” I heard the second burglar saying. At first he sounded Korean, but then to my astonishment he broke into a fractured kind of English. “Come on, baby. This is real good stuff. It’s the New York Times.”
Whether this made an impression or not, I cannot tell, but she went blundering after him. He disappeared out of our gate with Gracie in pursuit, and the first man climbed to his feet as the cook reached him. He tried to run away, but she gave a strange karate shout, then kicked him in the balls, and he collapsed instead.
“Oh God,” he moaned, “oh fuck.”
Cook-san kicked him again, harder this time, relishing it.
My mother opened the window of the house.
“Stop it, you stupid woman,” she shouted.
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