“How do you know?”
“When you were angry, at the hospital, you spoke perfect Parisian French.”
“Merci beaucoup. Je parle Français depuis toujours.”
“I have an idea,” Maggie said.
“What?”
“Tomorrow I’ll go and have a little chat with Mr. Burns.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t say. But if you’re serious about helping the war effort, and you speak perfect French, I think that perhaps they can find you a little something.”
In the darkness of night in the Pacific Ocean, 230 miles north of the Hawaiian Islands, all 183 Japanese planes were in their final positions on the aircraft carriers. The midget submarines had already been launched. And now the pilots were waiting, nerves strained, for their next order.
Admiral Yamamoto spoke to them by broadcast, played over the ships’ loudspeakers. “You have just heard the Imperial Proclamation from the Emperor. The success of this mission depends on the element of surprise. If and when we achieve it, the code words Tora! Tora! Tora! will be sent out.
“Now that the time of battle draws near, I will not burden you with the usual pep talk. Instead, I shall hoist the famous Z flag, beneath which Commander in Chief Togo led his fleet to victory in the historic battle against the Russians.”
Throughout the Japanese fleet, men cheered, all their training and courage leading up to this moment. Privately, Yamamoto still had questions. Once the microphone had been turned off, he said to his aide, “There’s still one issue to be resolved—when to declare war officially. Our Emperor demands that war be declared before commencement of hostilities, as mandated by Article One of the Third Hague Convention, which we promised to uphold.”
“Sir,” the young man said, handing over a sheaf of papers, “Section Chief Toshikazu Kasc has written a diplomatic note for Ambassador Nomura to hand to Secretary Hull, prior to the launching of military operations. It is a declaration of war—but without immediately alerting the United States and losing the surprise element of the attack.”
Yamamoto accepted the document, the saigo no tsukoku or “Final Notification,” and read it through. There was no mention of Pearl Harbor or any immediate outbreak of hostilities. Still, the meaning seemed clear.
“Please take a message,” Yamamoto said, “and send it to the Emperor and General Tōjō—that the Final Notification is adequate. And hostilities must not start until after it is delivered. It must be presented in Washington at precisely one P.M., exactly thirty minutes before the attack is to begin. This is crucial.”
“Yes, sir.”
The aide departed, and Yamamoto was left alone. His eyes went to the small kamidana altar on his credenza. “It’s a gamble,” he muttered. “I only hope it isn’t a terrible mistake.”
As Yamamoto prayed, the first wave of Zero planes launched from the Japanese task force’s aircraft carriers in the darkness, flying off through the fog and clouds, en route to Pearl Harbor.
Chapter Eighteen
The next morning, Sarah still felt weak. But after tea and porridge, she began to do barre exercises holding on to the windowsill—a few demi-pliés and tendus, slowly building back her strength.
Maggie watched from the armchair, shoes off, feet tucked under her, hot cup of tea in hand. The blackout curtains were open and it was a glorious day in Arisaig, the sky a warm blue velvet. The windows were cracked open, and the air smelled clean and fresh after the previous night’s rain. “Spring is coming,” she said, sniffing. “I know it’s winter, but you can smell it, can’t you? Or at least the promise of spring.”
Maggie sprang to her feet. “I must go to work now, but I’ll check in with you later. Be good.” She waggled a finger. “Naps. Lots of tea. And no clove cigarettes!”
The band at the Manoa Hotel was playing a cover of the Andrews Sisters’ “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” Admiral Kimmel, with his wife on his arm, walked into the “Ball for Britain.” The Manoa was known as the “First Lady of Waikiki”—a turn-of-the-century four-story Beaux-Arts building, right on the beach. The evening air smelled of jasmine.
They made their way through the hotel lobby, with high Corinthian columns painted cream, and with huge vases of red anthurium and lazily turning overhead fans. They cut through to the back beachfront garden, where the party had already started. The courtyard was filled with chattering couples, clustered around ancient parasitic banyan trees with trunks the size of small cars, strung with fairy lights that glittered against the darkness. Torches burned around the perimeter, while candles shone in hurricane glasses. The ball was being held to raise money to send to support the British war effort.