To his horror, the side of the American vessel was blasted open; the cruiser quavered. A storm of broken sails, wood, and ammunition shells seesawed in the air, and a few crew onboard, screaming, jumped into the river. A group of Japanese infantry raced to the aft deck, pointing their rifles at several figures crouched in the corner. On the British HMS Peterel, a deck-mounted machine gun fired rapidly at a fighter dropping bombs. Boom. The vessel was engulfed in flames.
Ernest raced toward the hotel, the street enveloped by a coat of smoke. Then suddenly, just as he came to the hotel’s entrance facing the river, he was swallowed by a swarm of screaming people: people in white bathrobes, people carrying suitcases, people trying to get in their Packards.
“Let me through; let me through.” He elbowed his way among the throng toward the entrance just as a missile hit the building nearby. A storm of shards, bricks, and flying limbs surged toward him. Ernest covered his head, stumbled past a screaming man rolling on the ground, and, his heart pounding, rushed inside the hotel.
A Japanese soldier was shouting at guests and hotel staff in the main lobby; the emergency alarm blared. Ernest turned to the café and ran toward the elevator—it was crammed with people. He pivoted toward the staircase near the mezzanine, barging through the hotel guests rushing down.
He made it to the eleventh floor. No guards. Sassoon’s penthouse was open. He passed the piano and cabinets and found the studio at the left corner. It was locked. He dug out the key from his pocket and jammed it in the keyhole. The door swung open; he turned on the light.
His head swam. Walls of women, walls of photos, all nudes. He cursed Sassoon again for his perverse hobby and searched. No Aiyi.
Footsteps came from the reception room. Heavy footfalls with silver loops clinking on their boots.
His heart pounding, he locked the door. Time was running out. He pulled all the photos off the wall and stuffed them in an empty box for cartridges in a corner. On a desk near the couch, he found rolls of undeveloped film; behind the tripod, inside rosewood cabinets were more film rolls, photos, diaries, and albums.
Voices speaking Japanese came from outside the studio. The door shook. Someone was trying to break in.
If they found him, they would put a bullet in his head. Ernest swept all the undeveloped film, the albums, and the photos into his arms and dumped them into a pile on the floor. Among the pile of chemical bottles, magnifiers, and print papers, he found a matchbox with the hotel’s logo.
Not a single photo must be damaged. Sassoon’s voice rang in his mind.
Ernest struck a match and threw it in the pile. The flames sputtered, came alive, and grazed the pile. He added in more albums and photos. The fire hissed, licking the carpet and the desk and the couch. It was time for him to get out of there, but there was now laughter and the clinking of glass outside.
Smoke surged. His throat burned. His face felt as if it were on fire; his hair was singed. If he stayed for one more minute, he’d be burned alive. He pressed his back to the wall, holding his nose, staggered past the fire, and reached for the door handle. His arm swept the top of a file cabinet near the door, and something heavy fell to his feet. Sassoon’s camera. He scooped it up, stuffed it inside a leather messenger bag nearby, and swung it across his shoulders. He had destroyed the man’s photos; this was the least he could do. Then he opened the door and stumbled out.
The sweet, cold air, scented with cigarette smoke, gin, and whiskey, greeted him. He gasped, sucking it in and raising his arms. But no one yelled at him—the Japanese had left.
Ernest gave one more glance at the flaming studio and ran out into the hallway. He pounded on the button of the elevator. Nothing happened. So he flew down the stairs crowded with panicky guests in velvet gowns and white robes. Reaching the seventh floor, he pressed the elevator button again, and out came two Japanese soldiers, who aimed their rifles at him.
Fear raced through Ernest; he raised his arms. The soldier near him stabbed the messenger bag with the bayonet.
Ernest pointed up. “Fire! Fire!”
They looked up, and he darted toward the stairs and raced down. When he almost reached the landing, he stopped.
Under the brilliant Lalique chandelier, a Japanese soldier directed the crowd on the stairs, and a loudspeaker blasted in English, “All guests gather in the lobby; all guests gather in the lobby. Anyone who refuses to cooperate will be shot; anyone who refuses to cooperate will be shot.”
If he proceeded with the crowd to the lobby, he would be trapped. But he couldn’t go up to the soldiers with rifles. Frantic, Ernest looked around, tucking the messenger bag behind his back. He had reached the first floor, and on his right, near the staircase, were the windows shattered by the bomb. Elated, he ran across a pile of ammunition shells and debris, leaped on a cushioned couch beneath the windowsill, and dove through the window.