Atonement for Iwo Read online

  “Society says you should not murder, and it has electric chairs and scaffolds and gas tablets to punish those who do. But if someone had murdered Hitler or Tojo or Mussolini, he would have been given a medal. The answer, I guess, is to be with the right society at the right time.

  “However, there is another value, that which is within a man himself. What he believes in. Each man has to weigh his own convictions, because in the end he’s the one who has to live with them - and maybe die because of them. And somewhere along a man’s life, he has to fight. It would be wonderful if the most he had to do was to punch somebody on the nose, but generally it doesn’t work out that way. But if he has once burned his fingers and says he will never use fire again because of that, he’s running away and, sure as God made apples, the fire will catch up with him.

  “You’ve killed wrongly, and you’re trying to atone for it by simply saying you’ll never kill again. That’s not enough. You’ve got to try to make amends, by looking around you every day and helping this person and that person and paying it back, dime by dime, even though you know you can never completely repay it.

  “And somewhere along the line you may have to fight for this person or that person, because violence is the way of life. But if you turn your back on fighting, then it isn’t atonement - it’s self-pity. Just make sure, when you turn away, that some innocent person doesn’t take the blow meant for you.”

  He held up his watch to the dim light of the quarter-moon. “We’ve got to get some rest.” They lay down, and soon he heard the boy’s even breathing. He put his arms behind his head, and, thinking about Kimiko, he was soon asleep.

  Masters woke shortly before 4 a.m. He lay still, wondering what the next few hours and days would bring. When he realized that he was about to build castles in the air, he sat up, stretched, and looked down at the sleeping boy.

  At four-thirty he shook him awake, folded the blankets, and led the way back to the car. “Up front,” he told him. He started the car, and in a few minutes they were on the road to Naoetsu. He drove slowly, aware that the final stop was only ten minutes away and that he must not arrive before five o’clock.

  The small fishing village of Naoetsu was still asleep when they arrived.

  He drove directly to the waterfront, then along the dock area to a shed. “Open it,” he said.

  Ichiro stepped out, opened the door, and stood back as Masters eased the car inside. He could barely get out of the car, the shed was so narrow. He closed the door and led the way along the dock.

  Fishermen were stirring, with here and there a boat already putting out to fish the Sea of Japan. He went straight to a small sloop, about thirty feet long, and jumped aboard, motioning to the boy to follow.

  An old fisherman with a long, scraggly, gray beard came out of the pilothouse, buttoning his pants. Behind him was a young boy of about sixteen, still half asleep.

  “Good morning,” said Masters. “Can we get started right away?”

  The old man scratched his head and grinned. Masters turned to Ichiro. “I’ve been having trouble making him understand.” The boy immediately passed on the order, and the old man, yawning, nodded his head, went to the auxiliary motor, tinkered with it for a few minutes, and soon it came to life, sounding as if it would not hold up very long.

  Masters and Ichiro crowded into the tiny, smelly pilothouse to keep out of sight. In a few minutes, the boat started out to sea. The sun was well up by the time the old man set sail and turned southwest.

  When they were far out from land, Masters led Ichiro out on deck. “The old man,” he explained, “has been hired to take us to Kangnung, South Korea. That’s about seventy-five miles from the Commie border. I told him we were going to South Korea because he would probably be afraid to go anywhere near North Korea. The chart shows that we must sail about a day and a half to reach Kangnung. Tomorrow morning we will make him change direction and go due west, rather than southwest. That will put us in North Korean waters.”

  He stretched his tired muscles; lack of sleep and anxiety had drained his energy. “Try to find out where he keeps his charts and ask him to explain them to you.”

  The boy went off, and Masters sat down wearily. A short while later, Ichiro roused him, placing on the deck an old, soiled chart. “He says we will sail generally along this line,” the boy said, “and will reach these points every six hours.”

  Masters blinked the sleep from his eyes and leaned over to study it. “Where will we be tomorrow morning?” he asked.

  “Here.”

  “Okay, we’ll force the change of course then. Are you sleepy?”

  “No.”

  “Then keep watch. When you become tired, wake me up.” With that, he turned away, rolled himself in the blankets he had brought from the car, and went back to sleep.

  At noon, the old man boiled rice and fish, but Masters ate just some rice and drank a bottle of beer. The day passed slowly, finally ebbing away into darkness. They took turns sleeping throughout the night.

  At sun-up they faced the old man. “Tell him to change course to due west,” ordered Masters. Ichiro translated.

  The old man squatted and tugged at his beard. He sat a full minute before he let loose a torrent of words. Ichiro heard him out patiently, then turned to Masters. “He is afraid the North Koreans will confiscate his boat and put him in jail for entering their waters. He refuses to do it.”

  “Offer him two hundred thousand yen extra. I’ve already given him seventy-five thousand and promised him one hundred and fifty thousand more when we land at Kangnung.”

  The old man thought this over for another full minute, then spoke again at great length. “He repeats himself,” explained Ichiro, “and adds that this boat is worth much more than that. Also that the North Koreans will take the money from him anyhow.”

  Masters squatted by the old man, thinking. He had to agree that the fisherman did have a point. “Ask him,” he finally said, “if he will sail in close enough to the North Korean coast for you to row his small boat ashore.” The rowboat atop the cabin was battered and Masters looked at it apprehensively.

  The question threw the old man into a frenzy. “He doesn’t want to go near them, under any circumstances,” said Ichiro.

  “Okay, let’s take over,” growled Masters. He drew out his pistol and aimed it at the old man. The fisherman just grinned. Masters lowered the weapon and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck a couple of inches away from the old man’s foot. He remained squatting, peering at the hole in the deck. Masters fired again at the same spot. The bullet bored in an inch nearer. The man’s foot involuntarily turned inward, so Masters quickly fired a third time. It still didn’t faze the fisherman.

  Masters sighed, then placed a bullet through the fleshy part of the man’s upper arm. The old man stared at the blood staining his jacket sleeve, then, still silent, he untied the band of cloth holding up his pants and bound it over the wound.

  “Tell him the next one goes right through his head!” snapped Masters.

  His tone of voice, rather than the explanation by Ichiro, brought results. The old man muttered something to the boy and stood up. “He agrees,” said Ichiro. “But he wants his money now.”

  Masters counted out one hundred and fifty thousand yen and handed it to the fisherman. “Tell him that he gets the two hundred thousand bonus only when you are put ashore.”

  For the remainder of the day they watched the man and boy closely, consenting to the changes of course to expend time until nightfall, but taking turns to read the compass and record time and direction to ascertain that the old man was up to no tricks.

  Just before darkness fell, the boat, having slowly closed in on North Korea all day, was pointed due west and kept on course. About two o’clock in the morning, they were but a few miles from shore.

  “He doesn’t want to go any further,” said Ichiro.

  “Tell him to keep going or I’ll pull down the sails and go in myself with the auxiliary motor.”
The boat kept sailing.

  A half-hour later, the old man was in a frenzy again, absolutely refusing to go any further. “He’s afraid we might hit something,” said the boy.

  “Okay.” The fisherman and his young assistant dropped the sails, lowered the rowboat over the side, and stood back waiting. Masters led Ichiro to the stern of the sloop. He looked down at him and grinned. “Guess you may make it, son. Take the old man’s flashlight. When you get ashore, signal me with two long and two short flashes.”

  Ichiro shyly put out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Masters, thank you for my life. And I will not forget anything you have said, ever.”

  Ichiro and the fisherman’s assistant got into the rowboat, and it was quickly swallowed up by the darkness. Masters and the old man squatted by the rail, anxiously watching the shoreline.

  It was almost an hour later that he saw two long and then two short flashes. He picked up a flashlight resting beside him and signaled back. Then he handed the flashlight to the old man to guide his assistant back, and stood up.

  He knew his body had held out only until this moment, so he didn’t fight it any longer. His hand went to his pocket, brought out the bottle of pills, and unscrewed the cap. For a moment he thought he was going to beat it. He got the pill into his mouth. Then it hit! He slumped to his knees as if he had been shot in the chest. He clawed at his jacket and shirt while the screams welled up inside him, then he felt the unbearable agony that put an end to any thought of screaming.

  Finally he tumbled to the deck.

  CHAPTER 14

  Masters later learned that everything in the book had happened that day. First, the old man had dragged his body into the pilothouse, happily concluding that he was dead. He had taken the remainder of the money from Masters’ pocket, the equivalent of one thousand two hundred dollars, and debated whether or not to cast him overboard.

  Fortunately, Masters had stirred, so the old man had thrown a blanket over him and set sail for Japan. At late afternoon, a Japanese patrol boat had stumbled upon them. The police had initially flung the net southwest, far off the trail, due to the fisherman’s grandson, the sixteen-year old boy, having mentioned around the dock that they had a charter for Kangnung, South Korea.

  The patrol boat captain, congratulating himself on this chance encounter, had taken the semi-conscious American aboard, put a guard on the old man’s boat to keep an eye on things, and had then gunned his twin engines to speed back to his base at Niigata.

  They had arrived early the following morning, and the police doctors at Niigata had placed Masters in isolation, giving him merely normal care. A shattering phone call from Tokyo changed all that; they began rushing about to make certain that the pale, clammy American lived long enough to talk.

  Ten days later, he was loaded into an ambulance and, with a strong police escort, was taken to Tokyo and lodged in the National Police Hospital.

  By this time, Masters had regained sufficient strength to be aware of what was going on around him. He was carried into a room off the main ward, and a guard was stationed at the door. He didn’t know why a guard was necessary; the windows were barred and, anyway, he lacked the strength to even crawl off the bed.

  They gave him another week before the inquisition began. The door opened and two Japanese entered. One was tall and the other short. The short man stood at the foot of the bed and opened a pad while the tall one came to Masters’ side and sat on a white, metal chair.

  “We are from the National Police,” he said. “You are Keith Masters.” It wasn’t even a question.

  Masters didn’t bother answering.

  “Are you Keith Masters?” the policeman finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where have you been living since you came to Japan?”

  Masters sighed. “I want to talk to somebody from the American Embassy.”

  “They have been notified of your apprehension. Now, where have you been living?”

  “I want to talk to somebody from the American Embassy,” repeated Masters.

  “They will come when they decide to come. Answer my question.”

  “I’ll wait for them before I say anything.”

  The cop shrugged and signaled to his partner, who closed his pad and opened the door. Captain Watanabe entered. He came to the foot of the bed and looked at Masters, his unblinking eyes expressing no emotion whatsoever. The lanky man spoke in Japanese, and the Captain answered briefly in a flat tone of voice. Then Watanabe left the room.

  Lieutenant Fujii came in next. His eyes were different; they were full of rage. He stood straight as a rod as he answered a few questions then walked stiffly from the room.

  The driver of the car which had taken Ichiro from the prison then entered. He replied quietly to the questions. As he turned to leave, Masters said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry about what?” the tall one asked immediately.

  “I was just clearing my throat,” said Masters.

  The cop didn’t have a sense of humor; he motioned to his partner to bring in the guard who had been on the rear seat with Ichiro. He was the one who had been unafraid, and Masters thought he would climb over the foot of the bed at him. He answered the questions loudly and at length and it was evident that he wasn’t putting in any good words for the man lying on the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” said Masters lamely, as the guard turned to go.

  He spun round, his lips twisting into a snarl, then he controlled himself and strode out. The tall cop didn’t even ask Masters if he had been clearing his throat again.

  They brought in the guards from the information desk at the prison, then the two girls and the middle-aged man from Watanabe’s outer office, and even the officer who had opened the prison gate to let out the car.

  Masters enjoyed the visit of the clerk from the small hotel - or rather he enjoyed the discomfort it gave to the lanky cop. The clerk talked and talked, as if he had kept a day by day diary of Masters’ stay there. He understood some of the man’s remarks; about a well-dressed woman who drove an expensive car; a beautiful girl who visited his room almost every day; the way his bed was never mussed up by sleeping or - he became dramatic - love-making; and on and on and on.

  The cop must have heard all this before, for he tried several times to interrupt, but without success, so he fidgeted until the clerk ran out of words.

  After the talkative one had left, they brought in a bespectacled man, who was identified as a clerk from the second hotel, then the people from the car rental agencies, and later on a few more he had never seen before, or did not recall seeing.

  The old fisherman came in carrying his arm in a sling, and he immediately began talking faster than the first hotel clerk, pointing to his injured arm and going through all sorts of gestures for the benefit of the police taking the report. Masters wondered how much he would try to sue him for, since the minor flesh wound would keep growing and growing until it became a permanent disability.

  The young boy from the boat was next, and after him came a clerk from one of the stores where he had tried to purchase a handgun.

  Then suddenly, the room was empty, and he lay back, sighing with relief. He should have known better, for the tall cop reappeared, and with him was Lieutenant Colonel Charles Durkin.

  The Colonel looked closely at Masters, then turned to the police investigator. “He’s the one,” he said, simply.

  “Can I speak to him - alone?” asked Masters.

  The cop thought this over, then nodded. When he had gone, Masters cocked an eye at Durkin. “I guess you understand why I can’t say anything for the record, but if I could, I would say I’m sorry.”

  For a moment the Colonel wasn’t certain how to treat it, then he relaxed. “I’ve gotten a few of the facts together,” he said, “and from what I’ve heard, I might be tempted to forgive you. Incidentally, I received all my personal effects by mail a couple of weeks ago. I can see it wasn’t robbery.” He hesitated. “I had to tell the police about get
ting them back. But last week I received a very beautiful set of jade earrings - for my wife, I guess. Should I say anything?”

  Masters shook his head. That damned Hiroko. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “That crack on the head? I’m all right - it didn’t kill me. But it sure played hell with my reputation. I was a judo instructor for five years, and now I’ll have to quit bragging. Well, so long, Masters, I hope they’re not too rough on you.”

  And that took care of the morning.

  In the afternoon, he was barraged by the Americans. Directly after lunch, an alert looking young fellow came in. “Mr. Masters?” he asked, cheerfully.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Pete McMahon, of the Embassy. Would have gotten down to see you before now, but they said you were still somewhat under the weather.”

  They shook hands. “Glad to see you,” said Masters, relieved. He eyed the young man. “What’s the land of the Great White Father going to do?”

  “Oh, we’ll be there with you. I’d better explain right off the bat that you are definitely subject to Japanese law, but we’ll see that you get proper legal representation. Do you have any money?”

  “Not a helluva lot.”

  “Well, you can be sure your rights will be protected and that you will be assigned a proper attorney by the State. He may not be first class, as the Japanese Government have a list and one is selected by lot, but we’ll have someone from the Embassy attend the trial and see that everything is according to law and all that.”

  “And then what?”

  The young fellow caught the gleam of humor in Masters’ eyes. “Well, after they sentence you to a couple of hundred years in prison, we’ll come by now and then. By the way, do you need anything?”