Right You Are, Mr. Moto

John P. Marquand

To

TIM and LONNY

I

Jack Rhyce had not expected to see the Russians in San Francisco. The word in Washington had been that Mr. Molotov and his delegation would have left the city, several hours before Rhyce’s arrival; but no one could have notified Jack Rhyce of the change of plans without creating undue attention. It had also been a mistake to make a reservation at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, but they had said categorically in Washington that the celebration of the tenth anniversary of the United Nations would be over. Instead, the Russians were just leaving the Mark Hopkins when Jack Rhyce arrived by taxi from the airport. There was hardly time for him to get his bags out before the driver was shooed away by a police escort, and there was nothing left for him to do but stand in the small crowd that was gathering.

“What’s going on?” he asked the bellboy. The question was unnecessary because at the moment he asked he saw the limousines and the faces of the drivers.

“It’s the Russians,” the bellboy said.

“What?” Jack Rhyce asked. “The Russians aren’t staying here, are they?”

“No, sir,” the bellboy said, “but Mr. Molotov has been having a cocktail with Secretary Dulles.”

“Well,” Jack Rhyce said, “good for Mr. Molotov.”

It would have looked conspicuous if he had moved backwards. It was better, in his opinion, to stand quietly and watch. The guards were coming out and grouping themselves around the leading limousine. At first glance the men seemed interchangeable with any of the people who protected top-flight Russians—heavy, stocky men with potatolike faces, and not a beauty in the bunch; but then they were not selected for show. Russian features were hard to classify, and he had been out of touch with the problem for quite a while, but he was sure two of them were officers high up in the NKVD. He could only hope that the recognition was not mutual; not that there would have been any great harm in it. After all, nothing could have been more natural than that he should be in San Francisco at this particular time. Still, he would have felt easier if he had not encountered the Russians just when he was on the point of flying to Japan. He knew that one should never underrate them, not even when they were being jolly good fellows in front of the Mark Hopkins Hotel.

“The one with the glasses is Mr. Molotov,” the bellboy said.

Jack Rhyce had not seen Mr. Molotov for quite a while, but he was not likely to forget him, with or without glasses, since they had met twice on social occasions and had once exchanged amenities over caviar and vodka, at the end of the war, when Jack Rhyce had been traveling with one of the American missions. Mr. Molotov was in no hurry. He smiled happily as he walked toward the limousine. His expression was exactly the same as it had been in Moscow when he had slapped Jack Rhyce on the shoulder.

“Young man,” Mr. Molotov had said, “let us touch glasses in token of a lasting friendship between our two countries.”

“This is a great honor, sir,” Jack Rhyce had answered.

“No, no,” Mr. Molotov said. “You and I both are men.”

“Yes, Excellency,” Jack Rhyce said, “and all men are brothers.”

He was younger in those days, with a lot to learn. He had made his last speech in Russian, when the Foreign Minister had been speaking in English, and Russian had not been necessary.

“Young man,” Mr. Molotov had said, “you speak Russian not badly.”

Jack Rhyce instantly realized that by showing off his Russian, simply because he was proud of being top of a language class, he had called attention to himself. His chief had spoken to him very roughly about it afterward, and the Chief had been absolutely right.

“Just get it through your head,” the Chief had said, “that boys like you aren’t supposed to be heard at all, and that you don’t wear striped pants all the time. Never try to be conspicuous. Never.”

It was good advice, and Jack Rhyce seldom needed to be told things twice.

There was no way for him to discover whether any of the Russian party recognized him now or not. He could only tell himself again that, even if they did, it should make no particular difference. Mr. Molotov, still beaming, waved to the crowd. Then the car door closed. The Russian party was gone as completely as though it had never been there. They had his dossier, of course, but they had him connected with Washington and Berlin. There was no reason whatsoever for them to believe that he was going to the Orient. Still, he wished that he had not seen the Russians.

Jack Rhyce had been a guest in so many hotels that he could instantly catch the atmosphere of any place in which he stopped and could immediately fit into its background. For God’s sake, as the Chief had once told him, never chaffer too long at a hotel reception desk, and as rapidly as possible get up to your room, and never be seen hanging aimlessly around the lobby. Experience had taught Jack Rhyce that the Chief nearly always was absolutely right. Twice during the war he had been to the Mark Hopkins Hotel, but only to ascend in the elevator to that popular cocktail room known as the Top of the Mark. He had been with the paratroopers in those days, and he had never dreamed that anyone would select him for what he was now doing, but even then his memory had been excellent. Consequently, he had the general layout of the hotel straight, almost the instant he was inside the door.

“Would you please hand me my briefcase, son?” he asked the bellboy.

The way you handled a briefcase could make you look like a traveling salesman or a corporation lawyer. It was better at the moment, Jack Rhyce thought, to be placed as a corporation lawyer. He printed his name carefully in block letters on the registration card.

“The name is Rhyce,” he said. “John O. Rhyce, from Washington, D.C. I don’t suppose you have any letters waiting for me? Or telegrams or messages?” He spoke in a gentle, cultivated voice with an accent difficult to identify.

“No messages, Mr. Rhyce,” the clerk said, “but we do have your reservation. It’s lucky you didn’t come a day earlier, what with all the goings on. I hope you saw Mr. Molotov. He must have been leaving just when you came in.”

“Oh, yes,” Jack Rhyce said. “He was pointed out to me.”

“Front,” the clerk said—“Room 515.”

If Jack’s guess was right, he would be in the middle of the corridor, and he always slept more soundly there than at either end. It was a pleasant, airy room which looked toward the Bay.

“Well, thanks, son.” Jack Rhyce said. “That extra quarter is for showing me Mr. Molotov.”

Until the bellboy left, he stood gazing admiringly at the view, but as soon as the door was closed he started on a tour of inspection which was as routine as a plane checkup. No transom; the door lock sound, and in good order; no balconies or closely adjoining windows; no air shaft in the bathroom. It was five o’clock in the afternoon, ample time in which to make a final appraisal of all his personal effects before he went to dinner.

First he examined his passport. Unlike several others that he had carried, it told his true history except for his occupation—height five feet eleven, hair light brown, eyes blue, no distinguishing marks or features. His place of birth was Lincoln, Nebraska, where as a matter of fact his mother and his elder sister still lived. His date of birth was January 13th, 1920. His occupation was educator. A good deal of thought had been given to his photograph, and the general result was useful, in that it only vaguely resembled him. There was no disguising his high broad forehead, or the arch of his eyebrows, or the firmness of his jaw, but if he changed his expression he could repudiate the whole document, if necessary.

Next, he turned to his briefcase. He had been taught and he understood the great importance of cover. The proper odds and ends and letters in a briefcase could be of the utmost value, and one of the rules of the game was that one never could be too careful with cover details.

The latest advices were that Japan was getting hot again and with a tensing in the Pacific area, there was bound to be increased interest in any strange American in one of several quarters. Thus he expected and hoped that someone would go through his personal effects, either during his stopover in Hawaii or directly after his arrival in Tokyo, and the sooner this happened the better, as far as he was concerned. The main point was to demonstrate as early in the game as possible that he was harmless, with absolutely nothing to conceal.

He put his briefcase on the writing table and drew out its contents, placing the items in a neat row. He was satisfied with the way everything looked. The letters had obviously been well handled, and the odds and ends beside the letters were the sort of things that would get into a briefcase by accident, and each added its bit to the owner’s background. There was, for instance, a small box of deodorant powder which confirmed his new personality, since affable people who wished to please dreaded perspiration. The New Testament which was also in the briefcase he had felt was too obvious by itself, and he had compromised by adding a small volume of the sayings of Buddha, published by the Oxford University Press. Both these volumes were also well worn, with many cogent passages marked in his own writing. The letters indicating his family background gave him particular pleasure. He could not forget the work which had gone into the one from Omaha, Nebraska. Not only the words but the handwriting accurately revealed the writer’s character.

DEAR, DARLING BUNNY:

I am so pleased and so proud that this wonderful chance has come to you after so many years of working so hard for other people. I know you don’t know much about the Japanese, any more than I do. But we both know their hearts are in the right place. And your personality that inspires trust in everyone will get through to them, I know, in spite of all the barriers of race and creed. I would be worried about the Oriental women that you are going to meet over there if I did not have a mother’s knowledge of a devoted son. I know you will be thinking of me as much as I of you. Send me a postcard every day, and happy landings.

MUMSIE

Although Jack Rhyce admitted that the letter might seem exaggerated, at the same time people who skimmed through briefcases often required definite leads, and the Oedipus complex was universal. After all, there could be little sinister about a mother’s boy.

The second letter was written in a girlish hand on the stationery of the Department of Sociology of Goucher College.

DEAR JACKIE:

I’m going to miss you terribly. But seriously, sweetie, I think it’s a grand thing that you are going away to new countries for a while, to study how other people live—not that I want you to get interested in any girls there, or anything like that. But seriously, sweetie, although I don’t like to be a “bore,” I do think the time has come for you to make up your mind. In fact, the time has come for both of us. This doesn’t mean that I don’t love you dearly, sweetie, but a girl can’t stay waiting all the time for any man, can she? And this has been going on ever since we met at your Senior Prom—remember? I know your mother is a darling, but honestly, I don’t feel that she need interfere with a happy marriage. I’ve been reading a lot about these problems lately, and all the authorities say that they can resolve themselves, but we all have to do our part. I simply can’t do everything. And so as you wing your way over the ocean, I hope …

Jack Rhyce did not read the rest of it, because he was familiar with the contents. The letter had been composed, though not handwritten, by an elderly spinster who specialized in cover work, and who had no sense of humor. She was not even amused by the signature, “Loads of love, your HELENA.”

“Why do you think that’s funny?” she asked him. “That’s exactly the sort of girl who would want to marry you if you had a mother like that.”

Both letters showed signs of constant reading. For the past two weeks he had spent a half hour perusing them before going to sleep, and his fingerprints proved it.

Then there were the more formal letters of introduction to representatives of a completely genuine institution known as the Asia Friendship League in Japan, and all other countries where the League had branches. The beauty of it all was that there was nothing wrong with any of this part of the cover. The organization had been honestly conceived by public-spirited citizens, and, at least in its Washington headquarters, had no employees with subversive records.

Connecting him with the Asia Friendship League had been the Chief’s idea. It happened that the Chief had known the man who had given the money to form the Asia Friendship League. He was a Texas oil millionaire named Gus Tremaine who had established a charitable trust for tax purposes, and in fact had not known that the Asia Friendship League existed until the Chief had informed him of it personally. The trust money, Mr. Tremaine had explained, was handled by a board, the meetings of which he seldom attended; but he was most co-operative after the Chief had talked to him, and he had called and written the chairman of the Asia Friendship League personally.

Jack Rhyce now had the letter written to him, as a result, on the League’s letterhead:

ASIA FRIENDSHIP LEAGUE

NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS

WASHINGTON, D.C.

DEAR MR. RHYCE:

It is a real delight to hear from Mr. Gus Tremaine that he has commissioned you, on his behalf, to make a survey of our work in the Orient, and to write a general report for him. This is just the sort of thing we like, and we like it all the better when it shows Mr. Tremaine’s interest. You must not be prejudiced by any idle gossip regarding the Institute of Pacific Relations, or anything like that. You will find that in our show we have all the cards on the table and nothing up our sleeves. The main ideal behind our organization, endorsed by all the fine people whose names you see on the left margin of this letter, is in one word—good will. In fact, we have only one ax to grind, if you call it an ax, and that is that a lot of people out in the Pacific area need a lot of help, but not handouts that smack of colonialism. Our concept is simply to help folks to help themselves.

However, I am, as it were, talking out of school. You’ll understand our aims better after we have lunch and spend an afternoon together on any day you name next week. And on your travels, you’ll find out, too, what a swell, alert team of truly dedicated folks we have in Tokyo, Seoul, Hong Kong, Saigon and Thailand.

Well, anticipating a word from you, and looking forward to being of any help to you in any way I can, in what I honestly predict will be for you a real eye-opening adventure—

Cordially yours,

CHAS. K. HARRINGTON

This letter also showed signs of repeated reading. It had interested Jack Rhyce from the beginning.

II

As soon as he had received the Harrington letter, Jack Rhyce had asked to see the Chief, who listened carefully while Jack read the letter aloud.

“Well,” the Chief said, “what’s so funny about it?”

“I didn’t say it sounded funny,” Jack Rhyce said. “I said I thought it sounded phony.”

“I wish you wouldn’t bother me about these details, Buster,” the Chief said. “The whole department is working on this cover for you. We’re giving it everything we’ve got, and then when we come up with something you merely say it’s phony.”

“I only mean,” Jack Rhyce said, “I sort of get the idea that this whole Friendship league setup sounds a little too good to be true.”

There was an appreciable pause, and it seemed to Jack that perhaps the Chief was reviewing the bidding. It was the Chief’s open mind that had finally put him where he was, in spite of competition.

“Have you read their literature yet?” the Chief asked.

“No, sir,” Jack Rhyce said.

“Well, read it,” the Chief said, “before you make any snap judgments. Of course it sounds like a front organization, but as far as we can see, this one is harmless, although Bill Gibson has not reported on it yet. Anyway, Chas. K. Harrington is harmless, and everyone else in his executive suite. They ought to be. They are drawing higher salaries than you or me, and they have expense accounts besides. Frankly, I never thought of this outfit to cover you until I saw that the Tremaine Foundation had set it up. Gus and I were in the war together. He’s a Texan. Do you like Texans?”

“Not always,” Jack Rhyce said.

“Well, I think maybe you ought to meet him,” the Chief said, and looked hard at Jack again and smiled in a frigid way.

“You see, Gus is like you, Buster. He just doesn’t believe that the world is full of people who want to do good by spending other peoples’ money. But you’re going to understand it. You’d better start learning, because we’re going to turn you into one of those people.”

“Maybe I’m not the right type, sir,” Jack Rhyce said.

“You’re going to be,” the Chief said. “You’re going to be a mother’s boy, and have a sweetheart. I think we’ll have her in the sociology department at Goucher College. You’ll only have about two weeks before you start, so throw yourself into it, Buster.”

Naturally, he was most anxious to throw himself into it. He had only been told until then that Gibson, in Tokyo, had requested help, and that he had been selected, but he still did not know what his mission was, and he had been careful not to ask. Now, however, as he sat in the Chief’s office, listening to the humming of the air-conditioner, and the sounds of the Washington traffic, he understood that the plans had solidified, and that his briefing was about to start.

“Do you know what I found out the other day?” the Chief asked him. “I discovered that the boys and girls in the office call me Dick Tracy. Why do you suppose they do that?”

“Well,” Jack answered, “I’d say it was mainly out of affection, and not because they think you’re a figure of fun, or a comic, or anything like that.”

The Chief turned on another of his icy smiles.

“Right,” he said, “comics aren’t comics any more. When I was a kid I was supposed to laugh at the Hall-Room Boys and Mutt and Jeff and the Katzenjammer Kids, but that’s all over now. Nothing is really funny any more, not even a good pratfall, because it may have international significance. Right?”

“If you say so,” Jack Rhyce said, “but I don’t follow you.”

“Now don’t get fresh, Buster,” the Chief told him. “I admit that I am circuitous this morning. I’m sorry to harp on the remark you made about this Asia Friendship League letter. You said you thought it might be phony, but I’m afraid you think it’s funny too. Please don’t think it is, because I’d like to have you come back alive from Tokyo.”

He paused, and a silence fell between them.

“Let’s skip that last remark,” the Chief said. “All I’m trying to say is that these people like this Chas. K. Harrington aren’t funny. Often they’re not even stupid. Please don’t underrate them, Buster. Oh, sure, a lot of them are grotesque. Most of them are ignorant in many sectors, because they’re usually narrow and dogmatic—but don’t forget they can be dangerous. They do have a certain idealism, and a kind of selflessness. They have what Tennyson called ‘an all-increasing purpose’ even if it’s fuzzy-minded. Never underestimate the do-gooders, Buster. As a class, they’ve made us a hell of a lot of trouble in the last thirty years. Please never think of them as being funny.”

When the Chief got started, he had an orator’s ability to begin in a slow, haphazard manner, and then with no appreciable effort to pull everything together.

“Incidentally,” he said, “I wonder if you have ever read Heaven’s My Destination by Thornton Wilder. I don’t suppose so, because it was written when you were in short pants, except that of course they weren’t wearing them when you were a boy, were they? I wish you would read it before you go to sleep tonight, because his central character is a do-gooder. Some people thought he was funny, but he wasn’t. You’re giving me your full attention, aren’t you? You see, your cover is a do-gooder and you’ve got to understand the species.”

He stopped and gazed at Jack Rhyce, but of course Jack was giving him his full attention.

“The thing to keep clearly in mind is that this individual you’re going to represent, whom I call a do-gooder for want of a better word, is a distinctly modern type. There was nothing like him in the days of the Roman Empire, and he can only survive today in a country rich enough to afford him. There have been plenty of philanthropists before, and socialists and revolutionists—Tom Paines, and John Donnes, and Karl Marxes, and Arnold von Winkelrieds, and Wilhelm Tell, and Spartacus, and lots of other active characters whose hearts have bled for the common man, but not the same way our modern hearts bleed. Do-goodism in its purest form is new in the world. Maybe it’s our greatest hope, but it’s also our biggest danger—seriously.”

“You mean certain people and ideologies take advantage of it?” Jack asked.

“You’re smart today, Buster,” the Chief said. “The trouble is, we’re an incorrigibly romantic nation who believe, like Little Orphan Annie, that Daddy Warbucks will always be just around the corner. Do-gooders are unrealistic and their older models weren’t, basically. The older models thought things through, but we don’t think. We feel. The same used to be true of you, but I trust you’re getting over it.”

“How do you mean—it used to be true with me?” Jack asked.

“Do you remember,” the Chief asked, “that damn-fool remark you made to Molotov just before we yanked you out of the paratroopers, about all men being brothers? That’s what I mean—it was do-goodism. I damn near sent you back to the army after that.”

Jack Rhyce was startled. The truth was you never could tell what the Chief would remember.

“I agree with you, sir,” he answered. “I hope I’m better now.”

“But I don’t want you to be better now,” the Chief said. “I want you to be a do-gooder. I want you to throw yourself into it. Now you’ve shown me your letter. Here’s another for you, Buster, and after you read it maybe you won’t feel that Chas. K. Harrington’s Asia Friendship one is so phony. Don’t hurry with it. Take your time.”

He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a photostat of a letter dated a week before from Amarillo, Texas.

DEAR MR. HARRINGTON (he read):

Due to my business commitments here and there I’ve been kind of out of touch with your project, the Asia Friendship League, but I’ve heard a lot about the fine things you’re doing out there, and I feel right gratified, to use a Texas phrase.

Now just in order to keep myself up to date, I am commissioning a young friend of mine, for whom I can vouch in, every way, because we’ve rode the range together, and eaten brains at the same barbecue, to make a survey for me of everything you’re doing, so I can have the whole picture straight, right here at El Rancho Chico.

The name is Jack Rhyce—a good real American, by the way, though I’m not anti-foreign or anti-anything, partner. Take him right in and shoot the works to him, and send him around the world to all those places which I hope to see myself someday, where they ride in sampans and leave their shirttails out.

You’re going to like Jack, so just feel free to tell him anything, because, honestly, he’s a prince. And here are a few facts. Jack graduated from Oberlin College in 1941. He has a fine religious background, but is at the same time a real he-man. For example, he played right tackle for Oberlin on the team that almost, got to the Sugar Bowl or someplace, and also commenced interesting himself in civic and welfare projects. For instance, during summer vacations, he was counselor for the Y.M.C.A. boy’s camp at Lincoln, Nebraska; and helped out in various recreational projects, including the organization of the Tiny Tim Football League, which proved very popular.

He tells me he thinks he would have gone into settlement work if it had not been for the war, but he was just as quick as a Texan to heed his country’s call, serving in the paratroopers until wounded. After this he did desk work for various services in Washington, and since then has stayed in Government, not wearing striped pants, but traveling the world for projects like Point Four and things like that. Jack’s got a lot of swell ideas, and you two are going to have a lot in common. He’s at loose ends now, and I don’t know anyone who will understand and appreciate what you’re up to better than Jack.

Why is he at loose ends? Well, frankly, because I’ve been lucky enough to shanghai him out of Washington with the eventual plan of having him as a sort of leg-man for me out here at Amarillo. How was I able to shanghai him? Well, frankly, don’t kid Jack about it, but Cupid has entered into the picture in the shape of a very lovely little trick who is working in the department of sociology at Goucher College, whose name is Helena Jacoby. What with his lovely mother, whom he’s never let down since he was five, and this Cupid deal, Jack needs a little more dough. Well, that’s the story, Harrington. You’ll hear from him, and give him the red carpet treatment all the way to everywhere, and so, hasta mañana.

GUS TREMAINE

The strength of the letter was that its main facts were provable by investigation. He had been to Oberlin. He had played right tackle. He had been a Y.M.C.A. camp director, and his parents did entertain strong religious convictions. He had been a paratrooper until the Chief had run into him at Walter Reed hospital. Since the war he had served in Washington.

“How do you like it?” the Chief asked. “It ought to be good, because I spent two nights over it, personally.”

Jack Rhyce handed back the copy. It was amazing how intricately the Chief’s mind could work.

“It looks pretty good, sir,” he said, “but it might help if you were to tell me just why you’ve selected me for this spot, and what I’m supposed to do when I get there—in Japan.”

For a moment the Chief looked annoyed, but finally he nodded.

“Maybe you’ve got a point there, Buster,” he said. “You know I never play fun and games with anyone intentionally, don’t you? I think it’s early to give you the breakdown, but maybe you’ve got a point.”

He paused and tapped his desk with his pencil.

“All right,” he said. “Question Number One: You’re going out to the East because you’re not known there. Europeans, and especially Americans, stand out like sore thumbs in the East. Everybody knows your income and your girl friend in the Orient. Even the rickshaw pullers know whether you are a spy or not. Orientals are experts about people, as you’ll find out, and that’s why we are working so hard on your cover, but it won’t help indefinitely. They find out everything eventually.”

“What about Sorge?” Jack Rhyce asked. “He lasted quite a while.”

He was speaking of one of the greatest men in the profession—the German Sorge who, in the guise of a newspaper correspondent, ran the Russian spy ring, and for years had given Moscow accurate intelligence regarding all Japanese intentions. He had been a foreigner, alone in a highly suspicious country, who had been watched by a highly organized secret police, and yet it had been a long while before the Japanese caught up with him.

“Sorge,” the Chief said. “Exactly. Sorge had a good cover. But the Japs got him in the end, and made him sing. He must have forgotten his pillbox. I want you to keep yours handy, Buster.”

They were both silent for a few seconds. They were professionals, and there was no need to underline anything.

“All right,” the Chief said. “Question Number Two: You’re going out to assist Gibson. You’ll be under his orders.” And then he lowered his voice. “Gibson’s got the wind up, and he doesn’t scare easy. He thinks the Commies are planning a political assassination, and anti-American demonstrations in Tokyo. This is serious when you consider the total political picture.” The Chief pushed back his desk chair and stood up. You never realized how tall he was until he was on his feet. He selected another chair and drew it close to Jack.

“Gibson’s vague. But you know as well as I do that he’s damned intuitive. He says a new personality is running things.” The Chief’s voice dropped to a still lower note. “An American personality, Gibson thinks. He asked for you particularly.”

“Did he say what the personality is doing?” Jack Rhyce asked.

It was never a good idea to ask the Chief direct questions, and he was not surprised that the Chief was annoyed.

“Damn it,” the Chief said, “Gibson was necessarily vague. That’s the trouble with this cold war. It’s all vague. It isn’t a question of stealing the secret plans. It’s organization and propaganda and sudden ugly incidents; and our side hasn’t learned yet to organize or to understand what people want. All we know is what they ought to want, but maybe we’re learning slowly.”

The Chief described a circle in the air with his right hand.

“All we can do is to sketch this character,” he said. “He’s an organizer, a new mind in the apparatus. There’s been a sudden marked change in Japan, according to Gibson’s estimate. The neutralist intelligentsia are getting more neutralist. There’s more anti-Americanism, more pro-Communism. The Communist choral groups are getting better. There’s more and better Red literature in the bookshops. There are new ideas. For instance, there’s a new labor union that sells clothes at 40 per cent below the retail price. It’s the bread and circus idea, but somehow it’s done on subtler lines. It’s Gibson’s notion that all this is only the prelude to large-scale disturbances. You’ll have to see him to get it straight, or maybe you’ll even have to see the character.”

This piece of exposition impressed Jack Rhyce because it lacked the Chief’s usual balance.

“Maybe I haven’t quite followed you,” Jack Rhyce said. “It seems to me everything you say sounds like the usual Moscow technique.”

Certainly he and everyone else had seen enough of it. The undeviating quality of the Moscow manufactured procedure was its greatest strength, because there came a saturation point when simple-minded men accepted boredom. The Chief nodded slowly.

“I’m sorry if I gave you that impression.” he said. “Actually yours was my own initial reaction, until I examined the orders to organizers and all that sort of thing. It’s all gayer. It doesn’t taste so much like castor oil. You’ll find you almost enjoy it. When was the last time you were in Tokyo?”

“Eight years ago,” Jack said, “and only for two days. Tokyo looked pretty well bombed out then.”

“Well,” the Chief said, “I was there six months ago, and really you wouldn’t know the place now. The Japs have that resilience, or national will to live, or whatever you may call it. The whole town’s built up and it’s bigger, better, busier. And any fool can observe that its atmosphere is predominantly American. It used to be Germany before the war, but now in Japan the fashion is the U.S.A. Even the shop signs are in English in districts no American ever visits. Maybe they think America is good because we won the war. I wouldn’t know. I wouldn’t care. Of course Japanese culture never will be American, but oh, boy, they have the superficialities! You hardly see a kimono in Tokyo any more. You don’t hear the sound of a geta on the sidewalk. Go to a ball game—and you might think you were back at home from the sounds the crowd makes. The girls all wear American dresses and the men are in business suits. Do you think I’m getting away from my point?”

“I know you couldn’t do that, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, and he was quite right, because in the next few words the Chief pulled everything together.

“They like everything American. That’s the point,” the Chief said. “They don’t fall for anything Russian. And this new propaganda has an American touch. It has jazz and neon lights in it. It’s damn clever. And I think Gibson’s right—it’s dangerous. Communist-made Americanism always is, because it can form the background of serious disturbances. Frankly, I wouldn’t say that Japan is very firmly in the camp of the freedom-loving nations. Why should it be? Well, we lost China, and God help us if Japan goes Communist. We’ll be in the grinders then; and frankly, Gibson thinks there’s a hell of a better chance of its happening than there was six months ago. Something new has been added from America and things are accelerating.”

Jack Rhyce knew that the Chief had not given all the details yet. Certainly the Bureau’s organization in Japan was not so ineffective that it had not turned up a few concrete facts.

“I hope you’re going to tell me what’s been dug up,” Jack Rhyce said. “After all, I have personal reasons for being curious.”

“Oh, yes,” the Chief said, and he sat down behind the desk again. “I’ve made a few mental notes. Of course we have our contacts in the left-wing organizations, but as far as we can make out, none of our people has seen this individual. However, there is reason to believe that he has been to Japan several times. We think we know his cover name. It’s Ben Bushman. There’s a lot of talk about a Ben in all the recent intercepts. The man who is really masterminding things out there is a Russian named Skirov who comes over to Tokyo to meet Ben. Gibson thinks there’s a meeting due pretty soon. I don’t need to ask you if you know about this Skirov, do I?”

“I know who he is all right, sir,” Jack Rhyce answered.

The Chief smiled faintly, indicating that they both understood that the question had been a joke. Skirov had been on the Moscow first team for a long while, and the latest evaluations had placed him close to the first ten in Moscow.

“Yes,” the Chief said. “He’s been improving in the last few years like rare old wine, and he’s slippery as an eel, always behind the scenes. Am I right in remembering that you’ve seen Skirov once?”

Jack Rhyce shook his head.

“No,” he answered, “I’m sorry, sir, I missed him if he was at any of those parties in Moscow, but I have him clear in my mind, just as everyone else around here has. I examined his photographs only last week.”

“You mean in relation to the new Politburo setup?” the Chief asked.

“Yes, sir,” Jack Rhyce said, “in that connection, and I can give you his description verbatim.”

The Chief sighed and tapped his pencil on the desk.

“I suppose it’s too much to think you’ll run into Skirov over there,” the Chief said, “but if you should you know what the orders are regarding Skirov, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jack Rhyce answered.

The Chief had stopped tapping his desk. The pencil was motionless.

“No matter what it costs,” he said, “don’t forget the sky’s the limit if you contact Skirov. There’s just a hope that this new one—this Big Ben—may lead you to him, but I doubt it. Skirov never sticks his neck out. That’s why your main mission is this Big Ben. I want him located and taped.”

“There’s no personal description of him yet, is there?” Jack Rhyce asked.

“Nothing that is definite,” the Chief said. “He may be big, because he’s referred to occasionally as Big Ben. Once the phrase, ‘the Honorable Pale-eyed’ was found in words contiguous to Ben’s. I wish the Japanese were as clever at giving nicknames to foreigners as the Chinese.… But I’m getting off the point. All we have about our boy are theories. It looks as though he were energetic, and therefore young. If he’s young, he must have some sort of war record. I’d say he was college-educated. He must have been in the East for a while at one point, because our bet is that he has a smattering of Japanese and a little Chinese. This might put him in, the preacher class, but I doubt it. He must have a vigorous, engaging personality, be quite a ball of fire in fact; but he isn’t in our files. There’s one thing more that I’m pretty sure of. It looks to me like a safe bet that Big Ben has been in show business.”

“What makes you go for that one, sir?” Jack Rhyce asked.

“The Communist drama groups in Japan,” the Chief said. “You know how the Communists have always used folk drama to make their little points. I saw a lot of their plays before the war, in China. Now, according to Gibson, these productions, which used to be excruciatingly dull, have been jazzed up. Pretty girls are singing blues, there’s soft-shoe and tap dancing, and American-type strippers.”

“He sounds like someone in the Hollywood crowd,” Jack Rhyce said.

“It could be,” the Chief answered. “Naturally we’ve given some thought along that line, but Hollywood is more of a generic term than a place. For my money, Ben has been around the live stage, specifically musical comedy. I rather think, since we haven’t dug him up, that he was in some Little Theater group. Or maybe he was in one of those road companies that are always traveling around the country doing revivals of Sigmund Romberg or Victor Herbert. Well, there’s your picture. We want to know who Ben is, and you’re going to help Gibson find out.”

“What do we do if we find him?” Jack asked.

The Chief laughed, one of his rare laughs.

“You know my motto,” he said. “Always do it with velvet gloves—when possible. I wouldn’t want to hurt this Big Ben for the world, if it isn’t necessary, but we don’t want political assassination or anti-American demonstrations either. Anyway, Bill Gibson will give you the line to take. Of course, if you run into Skirov, that will change the picture, and Bill’s got his orders, too, about Skirov. Also, if you stir things up, it may be that the whole Skirov apparatus will get ugly. Don’t forget that one. Now, there’s one thing more.” The Chief looked at his watch again.

“What’s that, sir?” Jack Rhyce asked.

“Beginning tomorrow I want you to take two weeks off to study that material, and I want you to go up to the Farm to do it, and every afternoon you’re to have a workout with George and the boys. Right through the whole curriculum—everything.”

“It isn’t necessary,” Jack said. “I know those things.”

“It won’t hurt to have a refresher course,” the Chief said. “From now on you’re a do-gooder. And do-gooders don’t carry rods. I want you to be good if you have to rough it up with people. Really, Jack, I’m most anxious for you to come back to me alive.”

III

One of the troubles with working in the office was that you could have no real life of your own because you knew too much, and because the off moment might arise when you forgot what was classified or what was not. The only people with whom you could be at ease were those of a selected group from the office, and even with them you could not wholly relax. Nevertheless, you always had to appear to be normal, because in no respect could you seem peculiar or conspicuous. It was no wonder that Jack Rhyce sometimes laughed sourly when he read the advertisements in True Detective magazine; no wonder that most members of the group went on drunken sprees when they returned from various assignments. The Chief was always lenient about these lapses, as long as they were done at the Farm. The worst of it was, that sometimes you hardly knew who you were, after months in foreign parts, and yet you finally adjusted to anything.

The Chief had once told Jack Rhyce that he had only one handicap: he was too good-looking, too athletic and well-set-up to avoid attracting attention. But for once his athletic build, his guileless face, and his irrepressible interest in everything around him were all helpful to his cover. As he sat in his bedroom in the Mark Hopkins, Jack Rhyce had almost forgotten who he was. His mind, in the solitude of the Farm, had absorbed all the facts and details, both about himself and Big Ben. He had almost developed a genuine enthusiasm for the self-improving opportunity that this trip to the Far East would give him, and he had been able to communicate this enthusiasm to Mr. Chas K. Harrington, in several of his interviews.

Of course he had still harbored the suspicion, after that talk with the Chief, that there must be something wrong about the Friendship League, and the Chief was amused when he heard about it.

“I don’t think so, although we haven’t got a final check,” he said. “The thing that saves them is that they’re too damned obvious. After the Institute of Pacific Relations investigations, any sensible Comrade would think that this is a trap; but give them a good looking-over, Buster.”

He had not forgotten what the Chief had told him. As he sat in his locked hotel room there in San Francisco, checking over for the last time the contents of his briefcase, he had an unworldly feeling. None of his precautions seemed correct for anyone who was going to write a favorable report about a fine organization, and who was so fortunate as to have his expenses paid to a wonderful part of the world. He examined the last papers in the briefcase, down to the final odds and ends that had seemingly fallen there by mistake—those bits that gave more veracity than any letters could, and all revealed character: the paper of matches from an inexpensive hotel, and a very respectable one, in midtown New York; the theater-ticket stubs to the matinee of a play which had only one week left to run; the memorandum of telephone numbers—all of persons to whom Chas. K. Harrington had referred him, in case anyone should want to confirm. There was one thing that bothered him slightly in his final summing-up. The net result of that briefcase, he suddenly feared, was too neat, too virtuous, lacking any sign of human weakness, and most people did have frailties. Perhaps, although it had been carefully discussed in Washington, it had too many earmarks of obviousness and exaggeration. He sat for a moment thinking carefully of possible remedies, and suddenly he had it. He would go to a drugstore that very evening and get a paper-bound copy of the Kinsey Report of the sex life of the American Female, and put a plain paper cover over it. It would take several hours to get the book authentically dog-eared, but the trouble might be worth it. No one who searched that briefcase would ever doubt his character again—not with the New Testament, Buddha and Kinsey all together. He was still congratulating himself on the idea when his room telephone rang.

There was no reason, as he thought it over later, why the jangling of the bell should have run through his nerves like an electric shock. It must have been that sight of the Russians that made him start at the sound, and also, as far as he could tell, the fact that no one knew that he was in San Francisco. He watched the telephone for a considerable time without lifting it, but the bell continued ringing. Whoever was calling the room must have been very sure that he was there. He finally picked up the instrument.

“Hello,” he said, and he spoke in the mellifluous, accentless voice that he had spent such a long time cultivating.

He was startled when a girl’s voice answered.

“Hello”—the voice had a slightly husky quality, and sounded very young, and at the same time seductive. “Is this Mr. John Rhyce?”

“Yes,” he answered, and he timed the pause very carefully. “Yes, this is Mr. Rhyce.”

The voice changed immediately into confidential happiness. The words tumbled over each other in what seemed to him a Midwestern manner.

“Gosh, I’m glad I contacted you, Mr. Rhyce. I was afraid you might have left your room, or something. This is Ruth—Ruth Bogart.”

“Oh,” he said. “Oh, yes”—and he tried to cudgel his brains. Having been in the profession for a considerable period, he was naturally good with names and faces; but he could not place any Ruth Bogart.

“Don’t you know who I am?” she asked.

“Why, no,” he said, and he laughed. “I don’t, to be quite frank; but then perhaps I’m not the Mr. Rhyce you’re looking for either. Rhyce is a common name, but mine is spelled with a y.”

“Of course it’s spelled with a y,” she said. “Oh, dear, didn’t Mr. Harrington tell you? I’m one of the Asia League girls, and we’re going on the same plane tomorrow.”

“Why, no,” he said, “Mr. Harrington didn’t tell me.”

“Oh, dear,” she said. “He promised he was going to. Have you inquired for wires and everything?”

“There wasn’t any wire,” he answered.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Charlie gets so absent-minded sometimes. Well, just the same, I’m Ruth Bogart.”

There was a slight pause while his mind moved rapidly, since there were a number of possibilities in that call, and the most important one was that it might have originated with the Russians.

“Well, it’s very kind of you to give me a ring,” he said, “especially when you must have many acquaintances in the city, Miss Bogart.”

“No,” she said, “I haven’t, and it’s awfully lonely in a strange city, isn’t it?” If it weren’t for her American voice, and the implacable self-confidence of American women, he would have thought the approach was crude. “I’m stopping here at the Mark, too, and—maybe I’m butting in, but Charles—I mean Mr. Harrington—did suggest I call you. I was hoping if you weren’t too busy or something, we might have dinner. There’s a place here called Fisherman’s Wharf, I understand, where they have divine sea food. My room is 312.”

“Why, that sounds swell,” Jack Rhyce said. “I could certainly do with some sea food. I’ll be knocking on 312 in just a jiffy.”

It was much better to see what was going on than not, and he especially liked the word “jiffy,” for it had a suggestive Friendship League sound. He looked in the mirror above the bureau and straightened his coat. Then he bent down and tested the laces of his brown crepe-soled shoes. Finally he gave a parting glance at his briefcase. It was the oldest game in the world, to lure someone away so that his room could be searched, and a girl was conventionally the shill. He very much hoped he was correct in this suspicion, because the sooner he was placed the better. The only doubt he harbored was how dumb he ought to be. Should he put his briefcase in the upper drawer of the bureau, or should he simply leave it on the writing table? He compromised by tossing it carelessly on the bed, closed the room door noisily behind him, and walked down the corridor eagerly and merrily, just in case anyone should be watching. There was an old saying in the business that a lot of men had saved their lives by giving the impression that they were easily beguiled by women. There had been a girl in Istanbul once, and a very pretty one, too, but that was another story, and he had been sorry when he heard later that she had fallen from a hotel window and died of a broken neck.

One of the oldest tricks was also the ambush, the alluring call on the telephone, the welcoming inward opening of the door, and the blow on the base of the skull. He was still whistling when he stepped out of the elevator and walked down the corridor to Room 312. A great deal of thought had been given at the Farm to the right and wrong way of entering a strange room. He rose to the balls of his feet, rapped briskly on the door of Room 312 with his left hand, his right low at his side, shoulders forward, knees bent, but only slightly.

“Oh,” a voice said. “Just a moment, please.”

His memory of the Russians made him very careful. He moved closer to the door and touched the knob with his left hand in order to be fully prepared when it turned. As the door opened inward, Jack Rhyce moved with it, almost touching the panel with his left shoulder, knees still bent, right hand still slightly down. There was bound to come a moment when the situation would reveal itself, and when you had your opportunity to advance or retreat, as long as you were moving with the door. Jack Rhyce entered the room almost on tiptoe, knees still bent. It was a duplicate of his own, and the bathroom door was closed. A glance at the bed showed that someone must have been resting on it at almost the moment he had knocked. He also had a glimpse of two matched suitcases of canvas airplane luggage. Of course he saw all those things at the very same instant he saw the girl who stood by the door.

She was very pretty, which did not surprise him. He would have estimated her age at not over twenty-five, until a glance at her hands made him doubtful. Her height was five feet six, hair dark brown, eyes gray green. Her face was longish with a mouth that showed character, although you could not tell much about a woman’s mouth when touched with lipstick. She wore a green dress of heavy silk with a thin yellow stripe in it, and she held a red leather handbag.

“Why, Mr. Rhyce,” she smiled, “I didn’t know you’d come rushing down quite so rapidly.”