The boys came tearing back. “Six!” one of them yelled. “I counted six.”
“I counted five,” the other boy gasped.
Mr. Tagomi said, “You’re sure they were pedecabs? You distinctly saw the drivers peddling?”
“Yes sir,” the boys said together.
He gave each boy a dime. They thanked him and ran off.
Back to office and job, Mr. Tagomi thought. He rose to his feet, gripping the handle of his briefcase. Duty calls. Customary day once again.
Once more he walked down the path, to the sidewalk.
“Cab!” he called.
From the traffic a pedecab appeared; the driver came to a halt at the curb, his dark face glistening, chest heaving. “Yes sir.”
“Take me to the Nippon Times Building,” Mr. Tagomi ordered. He ascended to the seat and made himself comfortable.
Peddling furiously, the pedecab driver moved out among the other cabs and cars.
It was slightly before noon when Mr. Tagomi reached the Nippon Times Building. From the main lobby he instructed a switchboard operator to connect him with Mr. Ramsey upstairs.
“Tagomi, here,” he said, when the connection was complete.
“Good morning, sir. I am relieved. Not seeing you, I apprehensively telephoned your home at ten o’clock, but your wife said you had left for unknown parts.”
Mr. Tagomi said, “Has the mess been cleared?”
“No sign remains.”
“Beyond dispute?”
“My word, sir.”
Satisfied, Mr. Tagomi hung up and went to take the elevator.
Upstairs, as he entered his office, he permitted himself a momentary search. Rim of his vision. No sign, as was promised. He felt relief. No one would know who hadn’t seen. Historicity bonded into nylon tile of floor.
Mr. Ramsey met him inside. “Your courage is topic for panegyric down below at the Times,” he began. “An article depicting—” Making out Mr. Tagomi’s expression he broke off.
“Answer regarding pressing matters,” Mr. Tagomi said. “General Tedeki? That is, quondam Mr. Yatabe?”
“On carefully obscure flight back to Tokyo. Red herrings strewn hither and yon.” Mr. Ramsey crossed his fingers, symbolizing their hope.
“Please recount regarding Mr. Baynes.”
“I don’t know. During your absence he appeared briefly, even furtively, but did not talk.” Mr. Ramsey hesitated. “Possibly he returned to Germany.”
“Far better for him to go to the Home Islands,” Mr. Tagomi said, mostly to himself. In any case, it was with the old general that their concern, of important nature, lay. And it is beyond my scope, Mr. Tagomi thought. My self, my office; they made use of me here, which naturally was proper and good. I was their—what is it deemed? Their cover.
I am a mask, concealing the real. Behind me, hidden, actuality goes on, safe from prying eyes.
Odd, he thought. Vital sometimes to be merely cardboard front, like carton. Bit of satori there, if I could lay hold of it. Purpose in overall scheme of illusion, could we but fathom. Law of economy: nothing is waste. Even the unreal. What a sublimity in the process.
Miss Ephreikian appeared, her manner agitated. “Mr. Tagomi. The switchboard sent me.”
“Be cool, miss,” Mr. Tagomi said. The current of time urges us along, he thought.
“Sir, the German consul is here. He wants to speak to you.” She glanced from him to Mr. Ramsey and back, her face unnaturally pale. “They say he was here in the building earlier, too, but they knew you—”
Mr. Tagomi waved her silent. “Mr. Ramsey. Please recollect for me the consul’s name.”
“Freiherr Hugo Reiss, sir.”
“Now I recall.” Well, he thought, evidently Mr. Childan did me a favor after all. By declining to reaccept the gun.