threatened him with a possible war on two fronts – the first thing Stalin would have done was send some kind of mission to Hitler to protest and assure him that the Comintern was no threat to Germany.’
Magda frowned before returning to her volume. ‘Is it possible Mushakoji was presented with the head?’
‘I’d been wondering that,’ Jamie admitted. ‘My instinct says not. It would be a poor offering for someone who’d just signed such a momentous document. Besides, he’d been in Germany for years, so he’d had plenty of time to visit the local museums.’
Twenty minutes later Uli reappeared at the door. Magda glanced at Jamie and shook her head. Nothing .
‘Have you been successful?’ the blond girl asked.
‘We have one or two leads.’ Jamie pulled on his jacket and put the notebook in the pocket. ‘But apart from that it’s been very helpful in adding some context to my research.’
They thanked her and left the building, walking unhurriedly in the direction of Friedrichstrasse. Jamie pondered what they’d learned and hadn’t learned and where the next move would take him.
‘Where does that leave us?’ Magda’s question cut across his thoughts.
‘Trying to track down your Americans and my Japanese.’
‘You can do that?’
‘I think my client can.’
‘And then?’
He shrugged. ‘Find the head … or not.’
She stopped and faced him. ‘How will you know it’s the right head and not some clever fake?’
It seemed a silly question and Jamie smiled. ‘There can’t be that many shrunken heads on people’s mantelpieces.’
But she was deadly serious. ‘You’d be surprised,’ she said coolly. ‘Melanesia is my territory, Jamie. I’ve seen more shrunken heads than you’ve seen Rembrandts. To a layman, the picture you showed me looks like a dozen others. I’ve been offered an exact replica carved from a coconut with hair woven from a dog’s tail.’
‘All right,’ he capitulated. ‘So I’m not an expert. What are you saying?’
‘That I can help you. That it doesn’t have to end here. One of the places my father served in was Tokyo. I speak a little Japanese, which might be helpful. In any case, I’ve been to Bougainville. It’s my territory.’
Jamie shook his head and laughed. ‘Even if I find the head, I’m not going anywhere near Bougainville. They have snakes there.’ He turned to walk away, but she persisted and the tilt of her head said she wouldn’t move until she had a decision. ‘All right,’ he raised his hands in surrender, ‘I’ll think about it, but the final decision will be up to my client.’
‘Good.’ She reached into her handbag, pulled out a business card and placed it in his hand. ‘Call me.’ As he watched her walk away, the confusion he felt was compounded by an odd feeling of loss.
XII
London, November 1942
The tall, distinguished-looking man in the naval commander’s uniform marched through the parquet-floor corridors as if he owned them. His habit of working late into the night had long endeared him to his peers, particularly the man who was now his ultimate superior and who exhibited the same trait. Of course, it helped that they were old chums of the same class and with the same connections. It made people wary of challenging him, but things had changed recently, and even in his uniquely privileged position he understood his situation was quite precarious.
After three years of war, the resilience of his countrymen astonished him. He’d hoped for an early accommodation with the Nazis and a swift return to peace once the folly of incurring the wrath of Adolf Hitler became clear. Instead, Britons shrugged off defeat at Dunkirk and the horrors of the Blitz with the same equanimity they’d accept a setback for their local football team. They’d dug in, drawn breath and now they were fighting back. In North Africa, Rommel had just suffered a decisive defeat at some dusty railway halt called El Alamein and an Allied
Magda frowned before returning to her volume. ‘Is it possible Mushakoji was presented with the head?’
‘I’d been wondering that,’ Jamie admitted. ‘My instinct says not. It would be a poor offering for someone who’d just signed such a momentous document. Besides, he’d been in Germany for years, so he’d had plenty of time to visit the local museums.’
Twenty minutes later Uli reappeared at the door. Magda glanced at Jamie and shook her head. Nothing .
‘Have you been successful?’ the blond girl asked.
‘We have one or two leads.’ Jamie pulled on his jacket and put the notebook in the pocket. ‘But apart from that it’s been very helpful in adding some context to my research.’
They thanked her and left the building, walking unhurriedly in the direction of Friedrichstrasse. Jamie pondered what they’d learned and hadn’t learned and where the next move would take him.
‘Where does that leave us?’ Magda’s question cut across his thoughts.
‘Trying to track down your Americans and my Japanese.’
‘You can do that?’
‘I think my client can.’
‘And then?’
He shrugged. ‘Find the head … or not.’
She stopped and faced him. ‘How will you know it’s the right head and not some clever fake?’
It seemed a silly question and Jamie smiled. ‘There can’t be that many shrunken heads on people’s mantelpieces.’
But she was deadly serious. ‘You’d be surprised,’ she said coolly. ‘Melanesia is my territory, Jamie. I’ve seen more shrunken heads than you’ve seen Rembrandts. To a layman, the picture you showed me looks like a dozen others. I’ve been offered an exact replica carved from a coconut with hair woven from a dog’s tail.’
‘All right,’ he capitulated. ‘So I’m not an expert. What are you saying?’
‘That I can help you. That it doesn’t have to end here. One of the places my father served in was Tokyo. I speak a little Japanese, which might be helpful. In any case, I’ve been to Bougainville. It’s my territory.’
Jamie shook his head and laughed. ‘Even if I find the head, I’m not going anywhere near Bougainville. They have snakes there.’ He turned to walk away, but she persisted and the tilt of her head said she wouldn’t move until she had a decision. ‘All right,’ he raised his hands in surrender, ‘I’ll think about it, but the final decision will be up to my client.’
‘Good.’ She reached into her handbag, pulled out a business card and placed it in his hand. ‘Call me.’ As he watched her walk away, the confusion he felt was compounded by an odd feeling of loss.
XII
London, November 1942
The tall, distinguished-looking man in the naval commander’s uniform marched through the parquet-floor corridors as if he owned them. His habit of working late into the night had long endeared him to his peers, particularly the man who was now his ultimate superior and who exhibited the same trait. Of course, it helped that they were old chums of the same class and with the same connections. It made people wary of challenging him, but things had changed recently, and even in his uniquely privileged position he understood his situation was quite precarious.
After three years of war, the resilience of his countrymen astonished him. He’d hoped for an early accommodation with the Nazis and a swift return to peace once the folly of incurring the wrath of Adolf Hitler became clear. Instead, Britons shrugged off defeat at Dunkirk and the horrors of the Blitz with the same equanimity they’d accept a setback for their local football team. They’d dug in, drawn breath and now they were fighting back. In North Africa, Rommel had just suffered a decisive defeat at some dusty railway halt called El Alamein and an Allied
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