Shibumi (18 page)

Mr. Able sighed and closed his eyes. Did nothing ever work correctly in this country with its cumbersome form of government? When would they discover that the world is in a post-democratic era? “You say that
one
young woman escaped this spoiling raid? Surely this is not very serious. I cannot believe that one woman is going to London alone and manage singlehandedly to kill six highly trained and experienced Palestinian terrorists who have not only the protection of your organization and mine but, through your good offices, that of British MI-5 and MI-6! It is ridiculous.”

“It would be ridiculous. But Miss Stern is not going to London. We are quite sure she went to France. We are also sure that she is now, or soon will be, in contact with one Nicholai Hel—a mauve-card man who is perfectly capable of penetrating your people and mine and all the British, of terminating the Black Septembrists, and of being back in France in time for a luncheon engagement.”

Mr. Able looked at Diamond quizzically. “Is that admiration I detect in your voice?”

“No! I would not call it admiration. But Hel is a man we must not ignore. I am going to fill you in on his background so you can appreciate the special lengths to which we may have to go to remedy this screw-up.” Diamond turned to the First Assistant, who sat unobtrusively at his console. “Roll up the printout on Hel.”

As Fat Boy’s lean, prosaic data appeared, rear-projected on the tabletop before them. Diamond quickly sketched out biographic details leading to Nicholai Hel’s learning that General Kishikawa was a prisoner of the Russians and scheduled for trial before the War Crimes Commission.

Nicholai requested and received a leave of absence, to free his time and energy for the task of locating the General. The next week was nightmarish, a desperate struggle in slow motion against the spongy but impenetrable barricades of red tape, autonomic secrecy, international mistrust, bureaucratic inertia, and individual indifference. His efforts through the Japanese civil government were fruitless. Its systems were static and mired because grafted upon the Japanese propensity toward overorganization and shared authority designed to lessen the burden of individual responsibility for error were elements of alien democracy that brought with them the busy inaction characteristic of that wasteful form of government.

Nicholai then turned to the military governments and, through perseverance, managed to piece together a partial mosaic of events leading to the General’s arrest. But in doing so, he had to make himself dangerously visible, although he realized that for one living on forged identity papers and lacking the protection of formal nationality, it was perilous to irritate bureaucrats who thrive on the dysfunctional status quo.

The results of this week of probing and pestering were meager. Nicholai learned that Kishikawa-san had been delivered to the War Crimes Commission by the Soviets, who would be in charge of prosecuting his case, and that he was currently being held in Sugamo Prison. He discovered that an American legal officer was responsible for the defense, but it was not until he had deluged that man with letters and telephone calls that he was granted an interview, and the best he could get was a half hour squeezed into the early morning.

Nicholai rose before dawn and took a crowded train to the Yotsuya district. A damp, slate-gray morning was smudging the eastern sky as he walked across the Akebonobashi, Bridge of Dawn, beyond which crouched the forbidding bulk of the Ichigaya Barracks which had become symbolic of the inhuman machinery of Western justice.

For three-quarters of an hour, he sat on a wooden bench outside the counsel’s office in the basement. Eventually a short-tempered overworked secretary showed him into Captain Thomas’s cluttered work room. The Captain waved him to a chair without looking up from a deposition he was scanning. Only after finishing it and scribbling a marginal note did Captain Thomas raise his eyes.

“Yes?” There was more fatigue than curtness in his tone. He was personally responsible for the defense of six accused war criminals, and he had to work with limited personnel and resources, compared to the vast machinery of research and organization at the disposal of the prosecution in their offices above. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, Captain Thomas was idealistic about the fairness of Anglo-Saxon law, and he drove himself so hard that weariness, frustration, and bitter fatalism tainted his every word and gesture. He wanted nothing more than to see all this mess over and return to civilian life and to his small-town legal practice in Vermont.

Nicholai explained that he was seeking information about General Kishikawa.

“Why?”

“He is a friend.”

“A friend?” The Captain was dubious.

“Yes, sir. He… he helped me when I was in Shanghai.”

Captain Thomas tugged the Kishikawa brief from under a stack of similar folders. “But you were just a child then.”

“I am twenty-three, sir.”

The Captain’s eyebrows went up. Like everyone else, he was fooled by Nicholai’s genetic disposition toward youthful appearance. “I’m sorry. I assumed you were much younger. What do you mean when you say that Kishikawa helped you?”

“He cared for me when my mother died.”

“I see. You’re British, are you?”

“No.”

“Irish?” Again the accent that was always identified as being from “someplace else.”

“No, Captain. I work for SCAP as a translator.” It was best to sidestep the irrelevant tangle of his nationality—or rather, his lack thereof.

“And you’re offering yourself as a character witness, is that it?”

“I want to help in any way I can.”

Captain Thomas nodded and fumbled about for a cigarette. “To be perfectly frank, I don’t believe you can help all that much. We’re understaffed here, and overworked. I’ve had to decide to concentrate my energy on cases where there is some chance of success. And I wouldn’t put Kishikawa’s in that category. That probably sounds cold-blooded to you, but I might as well be honest.”

“But… I can’t believe General Kishikawa was guilty of anything! What is he being accused of?”

“He’s in the Class A grab bag: crimes against humanity—whatever the hell that means.”

“But who’s testifying against him? What do they say he did?”

“I don’t know. The Russians are handling the prosecution, and they’re not permitting me to examine their documents and sources until the day before the trial. I assume the charges will center around his actions as military governor of Shanghai. Their propaganda people have several times used the label: ‘The Tiger of Shanghai.’”

“‘The Tiger of—!’ That is insane! He was an administrator. He got the water supply working again—the hospitals. How can they…?”

“During his governorship, four men were sentenced and executed. Did you know that?”

“No, but—”

“For all I know, those four men might have been murderers or looters or rapists. I
do
know that the average number of executions for capital crimes during the ten years of British control was fourteen point six. You would think that comparison would be in your general’s favor. But the men executed under him are being described as ‘heroes of the people.’ And you can’t go around executing heroes of the people and get away with it. Particularly if you are known as “The Tiger of Shanghai.’”

“He was never called that!”

“That’s what they’re calling him now.” Captain Thomas sat back and pressed his forefingers into his sunken eye sockets. Then he tugged at his sandy hair in an effort to revive himself. “And you can bet your Aunt Tilly’s twat that that title will be used a hundred times during the trial. I’m sorry if I sound defeatist, but I happen to know that winning this one is very important to the Soviets. They’re making a big propaganda number out of it. As you probably know, they’ve picked up a lot of flack for failing to repatriate their war prisoners. They’ve been keeping them in ‘reeducation camps’ in Siberia until they can be returned fully indoctrinated. And they have not delivered a single war criminal, other than Kishikawa. So this is a set piece for them, a chance to let the people of the world know they’re doing their job, vigorously purging Japanese Capitalist Imperialists, making the world safe for socialism. Now, you seem to think this Kishikawa is innocent. Okay, maybe so. But I assure you that he qualifies as a war criminal. You see, the primary qualification for that honor is to be on the losing side—and that he was.” Captain Thomas lighted one cigarette from another and stubbed out the punk in an overflowing ashtray. He puffed out a breath in a mirthless chuckle. “Can you imagine what would have happened to FDR or General Patton if the other side had won? Assuming they had been so self-righteous as to set up war-crimes trials. Shit, the only people who would have escaped being labeled ‘warmongers’ would have been those isolationist hicks who kept us out of the League of Nations. And chances are they would have been set up as puppet rulers, just as we have set up their opposite numbers in the Diet. That’s the way it is, son. Now, I’ve got to get back to work. I go to trial tomorrow representing an old man who’s dying of cancer and who claims he never did anything but obey the commands of his Emperor. But he’ll probably be called the ‘Leopard of Luzon’ or the ‘Puma of Pago-Pago.’ And you know what, kid? For all I know, he might really have been the Leopard of Luzon. It won’t matter much one way or the other.”

“Can I at least see him? Visit him?”

Captain Thomas’s head was down; he was already scanning the folder on the forthcoming trial. “What?”

“I want to visit General Kishikawa. May I?”

“I can’t do anything about that. He’s a Russian prisoner. You’ll have to get permission from them.”

“Well, how do
you
get to see him?”

“I haven’t yet.”

“You haven’t even talked to him?”

Captain Thomas looked up blearily. “I’ve got six weeks before he goes to trial. The Leopard of Luzon, goes up tomorrow. Go see the Russians. Maybe they can help you.”

“Whom do I see?”

“Shit, boy, I don’t know!”

Nicholai rose. “I see. Thank you.”

He had reached the door when Captain Thomas said, “I’m sorry, son. Really.”

Nicholai nodded and left.

In months to come, Nicholai was to reflect on the differences between Captain Thomas and his Russian opposite number, Colonel Gorbatov. They were symbolic variances in the superpowers’ ways of thinking and dealing with men and problems. The American had been genuinely concerned, compassionate, harried, illorganized… ultimately useless. The Russian was mistrustful, indifferent, well prepared and informed, and ultimately of some value to Nicholai, who sat in a large, overstuffed chair as the Colonel stirred his glass of tea thoughtfully until two large lumps of sugar disintegrated and swirled at the bottom, but never completely dissolved.

“You are sure you will not take tea?” the Colonel asked.

“Thank you, no.” Nicholai preferred to avoid wasting time on social niceties.

“For myself, I am addicted to tea. When I die, the fellow who does my autopsy will find my insides tanned like boot leather.” Gorbatov smiled automatically at the old joke, then set down the glass in its metal holder. He unthreaded his round metal-rimmed glasses from his ears and cleaned them, or rather distributed the smudge evenly, using his thumb and finger. As he did so, he settled his hooded eyes on the young man sitting across from him. Gorbatov was farsighted and could see Nicholai’s boyish face and startling green eyes better with his glasses off. “So you are a friend of General Kishikawa? A friend concerned with his welfare. Is that it?”

“Yes, Colonel. And I want to help him, if I can.”

“That’s understandable. After all, what are friends for?”

“At very least, I would like permission to visit him in prison.”

“Yes, of course you would. That’s understandable.” The Colonel replaced his glasses and sipped his tea. “You speak Russian very well, Mr. Hel. With quite a refined accent. You have been trained very carefully.”

“It’s not a matter of being trained. My mother was Russian.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I never learned Russian formally. It was a cradle language.”

“I see. I see.” It was Gorbatov’s style to place the burden of communication on the other person, to draw him out by contributing little beyond constant indications that he was unconvinced. Nicholai allowed the transparent lactic to work because he was tired of fencing, frustrated with short leads and blind alleys, and eager to learn about Kishikawa-san. He offered more information than necessary, but even as he spoke, he realized that his story did not have the sound of truth. That realization made him explain even more carefully, and the meticulous explanations made it sound more and more as though he were lying.

“In my home, Colonel, Russian, French, German, and Chinese were all cradle languages.”

“It must have been uncomfortable, sleeping in so crowded a cradle.”

Nicholai tried to laugh, but the sound was thin and unconvincing.

“But of course,” Gorbatov went on, “you speak English as well?” The question was posed in English with a slight British accent.

“Yes,” Nicholai answered in Russian. “And Japanese. But these were learned languages.”

“Meaning: not cradle?”

“Meaning just that.” Nicholai instantly regretted the brittle sound his voice had assumed.

“I see.” The Colonel leaned back in his desk chair and regarded Nicholai with a squint of humor in his Mongol-shaped eyes. “Yes,” he said at last, “very well trained. And disarmingly young. But for all your cradle and post-cradle languages, Mr. Hel, you are an American, are you not?”

“I
work
for the Americans. As a translator.”

“But you showed an American identification card to the men downstairs.”

“I was issued the card because of my work.”

“Oh, of course. I see. But as I recall, my question was not
whom
you worked for—we already knew that—but what your nationality is. You are an American, are you not?”

“No, Colonel, I am not.”

“What then?”

“Well… I suppose I am more Japanese than anything.”

“Oh? You will excuse me if I mention that you do not look particularly Japanese?”

“My mother was Russian, as I told you. My father was German.”

“Ah! That clarifies everything. A typical Japanese ancestry.”

“I cannot see what difference it makes what my nationality is!”

“It’s not important that you be able to see it. Please answer my question.”

The sudden frigidity of tone caused Nicholai to calm his growing anger and frustration. He drew a long breath. “I was born in Shanghai. I came here during the war—under the protection of General Kishikawa—a family friend.”

“Then of what nation are you a citizen?”

“None.”

“How awkward that must be for you.”

“It is, yes. It made it very difficult to find work to support myself.”

“Oh, I am sure it did, Mr. Hel. And in your difficulties, I understand how you might be willing to do almost anything to secure employment and money.”

“Colonel Gorbatov, I am not an agent of the Americans. I am in their employ, but I am not their agent.”

“You make distinctions in shading which, I confess, are lost upon me.”

“But why would the Americans want to interview General Kishikawa? What reason would they have to go through an elaborate charade just to contact an officer with a largely administrative career?”

“Precisely what I hoped you would clarify for me, Mr. Hel.” The Colonel smiled.

Nicholai rose. “It is evident to me, Colonel, that you are enjoying our conversation more than I. I must not squander your valuable time. Surely there are flies waiting to have their wings pulled off.”