8
White House, Washington D.C.
December 1, 1941
“Is this prudent, Bernard? In my experience, Secretary Hull has not listened to a word we have said, and I do not believe he will listen to either one of us now,” Ambassador Nomura said as he followed Bernard down the long hallway leading to the secretary’s office. The silent man who had greeted him upon his arrival at the embassy turned out to be Special Envoy Kurusu, who now walked behind them, his footsteps quiet, even though the terrazzo floors usually echoed with every sound made in the marble-lined hall.
“He must listen, my friend, or many people will needlessly die. We cannot let that happen.” Bernard’s thoughts turned to what he remembered regarding the events leading up to the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It had been miscommunications, deceptions, and disbeliefs by all sides. Not even the Secret Intelligence Service had managed to figure out in time that the codes they had targeted, using only the newest Japanese encryption and designating Purple or Magic, weren’t the only important messages being sent. Most Japanese outposts still used the previous J-19 encryption machines, so by not decrypting those as well, they had missed several key missives.
He had taken care of the September 24th missive, but now he needed to figure out how to get his hands on the fourteen-part message the SIS intercepted. He knew President Roosevelt hadn’t received the last part until 10:00 am the morning of the attack. Given that the time in Hawaii was six hours behind that in Washington D.C. meant it was 4:00 a.m. in Pearl Harbor.
The three men were ushered into a small waiting room by Secretary Hull’s aide. They sat as nervous tension filled the cramped space, which was too warm for Bernard’s liking. He stared outside, watching the wind blowing the skeletal branches of the trees that lined the street in front of the building. Snow was in the forecast, but right now, the pale winter sunlight gave everything it touched a silvery glint.
Steepling his fingers as the ambassador rustled the papers he pulled from his black leather satchel, Bernard pushed back the men’s mounting anxiety, which felt like bees buzzing around him, and considered how he was going to get a copy of the fourteen-part missive and deliver it into the hands of the American president. By his estimates, if he was going to succeed in stopping the attack and saving his family, the remaining fleet, minus those ships in dry dock for repair, would need to be sent out to sea or elsewhere...but where? He still somehow needed to get America into the war.
“Secretary Hull will see you now,” the aide announced, holding open the door separating the waiting room from the office. Bernard caught sight of a long row of metal filing cabinets under a wall of windows.
The men rose, and he followed the Japanese ambassador and the envoy into Hull’s office, which struck him as cold and lifeless. Not a single personal item lay on the secretary’s desk, nor were there any family portraits or any other pictures, for that matter, hanging on the wall. The building was still in the process of being built and those who had taken up residence had just moved in, but how long did it take to make a small room feel comfortable?
The white-haired man behind the desk glanced up and laid down his Parker fountain pen. Leaning back in the high-backed chair, he dropped his hands onto his lap, looking quite proper in his high-collared white shirt, silk tie tucked under his buttoned, dark-gray vest and matching suit jacket. Bernard could well imagine the pressed pants hidden by the desk, their sharp seam running down the front and back and ending in the cuffed hems. Of course, the distinguished man would wear nothing but the best patent leather shoes as well.
“So, gentlemen, what can I do for you today?” Secretary Hull asked in a droll tone.
With a quick glance at the man who’d traveled from Japan specifically to help him in the unraveling situation between the two countries, Ambassador Nomura then turned his dark gaze to the man who had the confidence of the president. “Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice, but we have received some troubling...very troubling...information regarding movement of the Japanese Navy. I have the utmost respect for this country and have no wish for war, but, I fear, that is where our two nations are headed.”
Secretary Hull’s silvery white brows drew together. “Why do you believe this, Ambassador Nomura?”
The ambassador pulled out a pristine white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and patted at the sweat beading on his forehead. “Because of what Special Envoy Kurusu, Mr. Marchand, and I learned over the last couple of weeks while doing a bit of spy work. This is not easy for me to admit. I love my home country and am an honorable man, Secretary Hull, but this action and the men pushing it are not honorable.”
Kurusu leaned over and whispered something to the ambassador in soft Japanese, then returned to his upright position when Nomura gave him a single nod. Thanks to his keen hearing and understanding of the language, Bernard had to bite back a smile at the man’s generous words of encouragement.
“In mid-November, we discovered the arrival of Suguru Suzuki, the youngest lieutenant commander in the Imperial Navy, on the Japanese liner, Taiyo Maru. His secret mission was to confirm information sent about Pearl Harbor defenses and gather more specific intelligence.”
“Who was passing this intel to Suzuki? A Hawaiian?” Secretary Hull asked.
The Ambassador shook his head. “No, a Japanese spy named Yoshikawa who works through Consul General Kita’s office.” He opened the satchel he had placed near the front foot of his chair, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper, and handed it to the man behind the desk. “That is rice paper from Japan and how Suzuki passed the list of questions he needed answered to Yoshikawa who, in turn, returned the answers twenty-four hours later.”
Secretary Hull pulled his clasped hands from under his desk, laid them on top, and leaned forward. “What sort of questions did he ask?”
Ambassador Nomura once again patted his forehead with his handkerchief, then cleared his throat. “He reported ten large seaplanes patrolled from the harbor at dawn and sunset and that the ships were not battle ready and held only normal supplies and provisions. He also provided structural details of the hangars at Hickam and Wheeler Air Fields, as well as maps, sketches, and photographs for an attack. The most damning question, though, was what day of the week would most ships be in Pearl Harbor. Yoshikawa answered Sunday.”
Secretary Hull sat back in his chair with a loud exhale and closed his eyes. Seconds later, however, they snapped open, his dark brown, almost-black eyes pinning Bernard. “Who are you and how are you mixed up in all of this?”
Choosing his words carefully, he returned the man’s stare. “My name is Bernard Marchand. Before the war began, I joined England’s MI6 and became very specialized in uncovering information. After helping in the recovery effort at Dunkirk, I was unfortunately left behind and ended up joining with the resistance. I now work for a very special group that gives me access to even the most private intel. On one of my latest missions, I uncovered the fact that the consul in Hawaii was recently ordered to begin diagramming the harbor, emphasizing which ships were docked and where. He was to pay close attention to vessels berthed side by side.” Bernard noticed the slight frown, but like the ambassador when he was told, Secretary Hull also remained silent.
“From everything I have learned, including this,”—he waved a hand toward the wrinkled rice paper—“I am certain the Japanese Navy is planning on attacking the American port at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.”
“Well, that is a problem because President Roosevelt wants part of our fleet there. In February of this year, James Richardson was relieved of his command as Commander in Chief of the United States Fleet for protesting one too many times to the President that moving a good portion of our ships from San Diego, California to Hawaii was a mistake. He insisted the forward defense was neither useful nor practical since the Pacific Fleet would be Japan’s first logical target. Commander Kimmel has suggested the same a few times, but seems to have a bit more sense than Richardson did regarding his own position and stopped bringing it to the President’s attention. With what you’ve brought to the table, maybe that was a mistake.”
He scooted away from his desk and stood, then moved in front of the windows. With his hands in his pants pockets, he stared out at the bleak winter landscape. “So, you all believe this means war is imminent? That Japan is targeting Pearl Harbor?”
“Yes, sir, we do,” Bernard answered.
“Why come to me with this and not go directly to the President? Only he can declare war.” Secretary Hull turned and leaned against the window ledge, the casual stance belying the tenseness Bernard felt pouring off him in waves.
“Because Ambassador Nomura considers you an honorable friend and, along with Secretary of War Stimson, you also have President Roosevelt’s trust. If you go to the president and tell him there is a war threat, he will believe what you tell him.”
“The President already believes the Japanese will attack. He just doesn’t know the when or where. If what you’ve discovered is true, then we know the where.”