Atonement for Iwo Page 14

  “May have to send a daughter of mine to school to learn how to speak respectfully to her father,” he said, chuckling.

  “No kidding, Keith. We know you didn’t come after mother for her money. She’s got enough for both of you. Why worry about it?”

  “Just a strange American custom. Anyhow, I’d like to work again. It doesn’t have to be much, just work that is interesting.”

  “What can you do?”

  “Not a helluva lot. I opened an appliance shop right after the war, World War Two, that is. Went broke so fast that I think it was a record in the city. Then I peddled vacuum cleaners, door to door. Got the surprise of my life when I made more than I spent. Then Uncle Sam tapped my shoulder and told me to straighten up the Korean mess. Afterwards, I sold life insurance. Know anybody who needs a guy with all these high -class talents?”

  “There’s a lot of things you could do here.”

  “Name one.”

  “I don’t know offhand, but I bet I could find a few as soon as I put my mind to it.” Masters grinned, he was absolutely sure she could. Hiroko could do anything she wanted to, and do it well. “Want me to put my mind to it?” she asked, seriously.

  “Yes, you do that, Hiroko, you do that. Come on, let’s get going.”

  They continued driving, stopping only for gas, and at mid-afternoon Masters took over the lead. He could smell the sea as he entered Takada, a few miles from a small fishing village on the coast called Naoetsu. He slowed down at a central parking area, signaled for her to stop there, then drove on a block and waited. She parked Kimiko’s car, locked it, and joined him quickly.

  Masters made a U-turn and started back. “Put on your gloves right away,” he said.

  She flushed. “Sorry,” and reached into her purse to take out soft driving gloves.

  He handed her a handkerchief. “Here, wipe the door handle, inside and outside. I’ve told you a dozen times to listen to orders.”

  “Sorry, Keith. I’ll pay more attention.”

  “You’d better, or you’ll foul everything up.”

  It was evening by the time they returned to Tokyo. Masters stopped the small Nissan and turned to her. “Where are you staying?”

  “I have a room in a motel about ten miles from Yokohama.”

  “You’ll have to take a taxi there. I don’t want to be seen with you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Where are the duplicate keys to the Toyo?”

  “Here.” She opened her handbag and dangled them before his eyes.

  “Now don’t forget, you must not touch those keys or the car without wearing gloves. Not with one little pinky, understand?”

  She nodded, still smarting from the incident at Takada.

  He held out his hand and a tight smile crossed his face. “You’ll do well, Hiroko, I know you will. I couldn’t have gotten to first base without you.”

  She took his hand but wasn’t able to smile back at him. Instead, she leaned forward and kissed him full on the lips. “Can I see you again, tomorrow morning?”

  He shook his head. “No. If anything goes wrong, you just follow my instructions and sit tight.”

  “It won’t go wrong, Keith,” she said, with a quaver in her voice. Then she pushed open the door and jumped out. He could see she was close to tears.

  He drove the Nissan to the spot he had selected a few days before, parked it on the street and left it unlocked. “Be good, you little bastard,” he murmured, with affection.

  Nearby was the four-door Toyo. He got in, drove to Kimiko’s house, and again parked around the corner. It was almost 10 pm.; he had returned later than planned.

  Kimiko was obviously worried, but her relief at his appearance was even more evident. “Have you eaten, my dear?” she asked.

  “No. Would it be too much trouble to scrape something up?”

  Immediately she was in the kitchen rattling pots and pans. He followed her inside and leaned against the doorway. “You’ve got a good looking backside,” he remarked, studying it with satisfaction.

  She tried to hide the smile, but finally gave up. “I think yours is pretty good looking, too,” she replied, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her cooking.

  “Men don’t have good looking tails. Only girls do. You especially.”

  “That’s what you men think. I say that yours is beautiful.”

  “Why don’t we introduce them to each other?”

  “Before or after you eat?”

  “The hell with food.”

  She turned, and he was struck once more by the amount of love he could see in her eyes. She groped behind her and turned off the stove. The weariness of the long drive fell from his shoulders as he stepped closer to her. “I’ve got something special to tell you tonight, Kimiko.”

  “Yes?” she whispered, never taking her eyes from his.

  “I love you more than I have ever loved before, and more than I ever thought I could love. And starting tonight, I promise that we’ll never be apart, never, so long as we live.”

  She flung her arms around his neck and he picked her up, marveling again at how light she was in his arms and yet so strong and full underneath. He carried her to their bedroom and laid her gently on the mat, kneeling beside her to look long and searchingly at her, as if to etch her loveliness into every fiber of his being and to give every cell of awareness one more opportunity to record how very dear she was.

  Then he stood up and began to remove his clothes.

  CHAPTER 12

  Keith Masters, alias Lieutenant Colonel Charles Durkin, fully uniformed, with battle ribbons on his chest, got out of the taxi at the main gate of the Tokyo Central Prison. He paid the driver and turned to look at the high, stone building which stretched a block square, then at the narrow guard towers jutting out above its walls.

  Heaving a deep sigh, he tightened his grip on a slender attaché case and started up the main entrance steps. A husky Japanese guard came to attention, saluted, then opened the door for Masters to pass through.

  Inside, to the left, was an information desk. He strode over to it. “I wish to speak with Captain Watanabe.”

  The desk guard motioned to a man seated next to him, who rose and came to the window. “Yes, sir?”

  “I wish to speak with Captain Watanabe.”

  “Who is calling, please, sir?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Charles Durkin.”

  “One moment, please, sir,” said the guard, picking up the desk phone. Masters glanced at his watch; it was exactly six minutes after one, on a Friday.

  The guard spoke rapidly over the phone, hung up, then came out of the information booth. “Please, sir,” he said, motioning to Masters to follow him. He led the way down a corridor, knocked on a door, and stood aside for the American to enter. It was a small office; two women were sitting behind desks, typing, and a slim, middle-aged man was leaning over a filing cabinet.

  The middle-aged man straightened and bowed. “One moment, please,” he said politely, knocked on a door to one side, and passed through. Soon he returned and held the door open for Masters.

  Masters walked into a large, austerely-furnished office. A long, heavy desk stood in the far corner, with half-a-dozen chairs ranged in a semi-circle in front of it. There were no pictures, paintings or ornaments on the walls.

  Behind the desk sat a stout Japanese, dressed in a plain guard uniform, a number of decorations pinned to his breast pocket. He was about sixty years old, his grey hair as closely cropped as Masters’, a carelessly trimmed, grey, mustache drooping over his upper lip.

  The Captain heaved himself out of his chair and bowed. He was not tall, a few inches shorter than his visitor. Masters returned the bow with a courteous nod. The Captain motioned to a chair and Masters sat down.

  “Do you speak English, sir?” asked Masters.

  “Somewhat,” the Japanese replied. His voice was low and full. Masters breathed more easily. “However,” he continued, “if the conversation should be one o
f an involved nature, I respectfully request that I be assisted by one of my aides.”

  “I have no objection, but the subject is highly confidential.”

  “Would my adjutant be acceptable?”

  “By all means.”

  The officer pressed a button on his desk, and within seconds a light tap sounded on the door leading to the corridor. He pressed a second button. There was the click of an electric lock and the door opened. A tall, solid man of about thirty years of age entered and bowed to the two seated men.

  “My adjutant, Lieutenant Fujii,” said Watanabe.

  Fujii bowed again to Masters, and sat down at a nod from his chief. Watanabe looked at Masters, waiting.

  “I am Lieutenant Colonel Charles Durkin of G-2, Counterintelligence. My identification.” He took out his wallet and opened it, leaning forward to show it to the Captain. The officer peered closely at the picture, name and rank. He nodded, and the hammering inside Masters’ chest slowed down. Masters turned the wallet towards the adjutant. He is the dangerous one, he reflected.

  Fujii’s eyes fastened on the identification card. Masters could see him hesitate, as if he were considering reaching out to take the wallet and study it more closely.

  “I have,” smoothly continued Masters, closing the wallet without haste and placing it back into his pocket, “come to you on a rather delicate mission. This project has heretofore been supervised by one of my assistants, but has reached a point which requires coordination with your office.”

  Captain Watanabe’s unblinking eyes flickered ever so slightly in acknowledgement of the compliment to his position.

  Masters opened the attaché case and slid out a folder. “In early nineteen hundred and sixty-four, January the eighth, five men assassinated a Mr. Adachi, a labor union official. One of the murderers was a man named Takaaki Saito. He was executed on February eleventh of this year.”

  He paused to glance at the two police officers. They nodded. Masters took two photos from the folder. “Have you ever seen this American?” he asked, passing them to Watanabe.

  The heavy man peered closely at the photos, then reached into a drawer to take out eyeglasses, slipped them on, and restudied the pictures. Finally he passed them to his adjutant, who scrutinized them more carefully. An almost imperceptible sign passed from Fujii to his Captain. “We have never seen this soldier,” said Watanabe. “But if you wish, I can have them relayed to our identification section for further inspection.”

  “That’s quite unnecessary at this stage, Captain,” said Masters. “I was almost certain that he would not be known to you, but there was the very slender possibility that he might be. This soldier,” Masters tapped the pictures, “has been in Japan for almost three years now, and has been under surveillance since his arrival. We suspect him of being a member of the Communist Party in the United States. Therefore, he was assigned to a nonessential position at headquarters where we could keep him under observation.¬

  “A year ago he married one of your nationals, and five weeks ago we intercepted a telephone call between them. The call originated from our headquarters,” he added hastily, to explain that the army was tapping only their own lines. “One remark was of specific interest to us. He said to his wife, “Invite Saito’s friend to supper”.

  “This comment was filed away without any special action being taken until a periodic review of his dossier was made two weeks ago by the officer in charge of the case.” Masters gave a slight shrug, as if to explain that, being police officers, they should understand that important matters were sometimes overlooked. Watanabe almost smiled. “The officer immediately decided to investigate the name, and a few days ago he concluded that there might have been a connection between the American soldier and Takaaki Saito.”

  The Captain and his adjutant were leaning forward with great interest. At this point, Watanabe reached into his desk, took out a package of cigarettes, and offered one to Masters, who refused with thanks. The officer lit one and leaned forward again.

  “There are two reasons,” continued Masters, “why we must expedite this matter. First, the soldier is scheduled to be rotated to the United States in about fifteen days, and then discharged. From that point on, the case no longer remains a military counterintelligence project but is handed over to our FBI. Second, we have learned that an accomplice of Saito in the murder of Mr. Adachi is still alive and in your custody. His name is,” he looked again at the dossier, “Ichiro Tanaka.”

  The Captain nodded. “Yes, he is scheduled for execution in ten days.”

  Masters sat back in his chair. “I see,” he said, wrinkling his brow in thought. For a few moments there was silence, then Masters leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. “Captain, would you please assist me in a test? Would it be possible to have one of your people casually state, so that Tanaka can overhear, that an American soldier, by the name of Corporal Walter Hutchins, was responsible for revealing the identity of Saito to the police as one of the murderers of Mr. Adachi? The comment must be made in such a manner that Tanaka does not realize it was meant for his ears.”

  Watanabe glanced at Fujii and nodded. The adjutant rose at once. “The name is Corporal Walter Hutchins?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Very good, sir.” He left the room.

  Masters and the Captain made small talk, and once the officer raised his great bulk from the chair and waddled into the outer office. Masters tensed. When he returned, he was carrying a paper which he placed on his desk. “Excuse me, please,” he apologized, and began to read it carefully, then signed it and pressed a button. One of the female secretaries came in and took it.

  Masters glanced at his watch; it was eight minutes before two. He fought his growing nervousness by taking out his own pack of cigarettes and offering one to Watanabe. The officer lit them both and they continued to talk idly as they smoked.

  At four after two, Fujii returned. “I had two guards take Tanaka from his cell on the pretense of inspecting it. In the waiting room a door was left open, and from the adjoining room I personally made the remark to the cell-block Sergeant about Corporal Hutchins. The two guards later told me that they clearly overheard my comment and were certain that Tanaka did also.”

  “Excellent,” said Masters. He turned to the Captain. “Now sir, I would like to have these two photos shown to Tanaka. He is to be asked if he ever saw this man. Please have his reactions studied.”

  The officer finally understood, and a flicker of amusement and respect came into his eyes. He nodded to Fujii, and the adjutant promptly left the room.

  He was back in a few minutes. “Tanaka says he has never seen this man before. The general opinion is that he is telling the truth.”

  Masters pursed his lips, seemingly disgusted. “Do your people know him well enough to determine whether or not he is lying?”

  “The cell-block guards state that he is a quiet boy who does as he is told and gives no trouble. They have, however, observed his reactions to a number of stays of execution, and insist that he has demonstrated his feelings quite openly.”

  Masters sighed. He glanced at his watch and pursed his lips again. “Captain,” he finally said. “Would you please have a call put in to Lieutenant Colonel C. Wilson at the United States Army Headquarters? Here is his number.”

  Watanabe picked up the phone in a huge hand and ordered his secretary to place the call. It came through at once. Masters took the phone. “Hello, Bill, what do you have for me?”

  “Oh, hi, you wild bastard. How was the trip?”

  “Not too good,” he replied carefully, pressing the receiver tightly to his ear. “What have you learned?” he asked, distinctly.

  “Wait a minute. Here, I’ve got it. FASCOM is commanded by a Major General with a BG as assistant FASCOM commander.”

  “Hmm, that’s way up there,” he replied, careful not to look at the Captain and his adjutant.

  “Well, it’s a helluva big organization, so they need a lot
of brass. The major sections are...”

  Masters cut him off. “Hold it a minute, Bill.” He began to grope in his pocket for a pad. The Captain bowed as he pushed over a tablet and pencil. Masters nodded his thanks. “Okay, go ahead,” he said to Wilson.

  Bill began to give the organizational information, which was not classified. Masters deliberately wrote ‘3:30 - 4 p.m., corner Yatsushiro-Dori Avenue and Senda-Dori Street’. Underneath, he wrote the name ‘Howard Barnes’. He listened until Wilson had finished with the major components and was about to start on the subordinate sections.

  “Okay, thanks, Bill,” he interrupted. Wilson paused in surprise. “Incidentally,” he continued, clearly and distinctly, “that person we spoke of...” he hesitated.

  “Who? Oh, the gal. How are you making out?”

  “I’ll have further information for you a little later today.”

  Bill’s tone abruptly grew quieter. “Hey, Keith, is somebody there standing at your shoulder?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your shack-up?”

  “Yes.”

  “I get it. Okay, give me a buzz when you’re free - or do you want me to recite the alphabet to keep her guessing?”

  “I’ll try to set it up this afternoon,” said Masters, and hung up.

  He sat staring at the phone, thinking, then ostentatiously raised his arm to look at his wrist watch. He cleared his throat, and glanced up at Watanabe. “Captain, two men will be at this address between three-thirty and four o’clock. One of them will be Hutchins, and the second will be a man we also have under observation. Is it possible to have Tanaka taken there to look them over and tell us if he has ever seen either of them before? The photos I gave you are not very clear.” He glanced again at his watch. “There is very little time and this is an extremely important case.”

  Masters leaned forward, trying to ward off the feeling of danger that the quiet adjutant radiated. “In addition, is it possible to get the prisoner as close to them as possible, perhaps using binoculars to observe?”

  Watanabe’s eyes turned towards Fujii. Masters struggled to keep his gaze fixed on the stocky man and not turn. Chills began running up and down his spine.