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‘Nothing.’ Only a little less blind was a wife.
He walked out of the hut, pulling his hat down over his brow against the pale blue glare of the Wyoming sky. The mountain peak had the sharp outline of winter; much sharper than the peaks had been back home. When they had brought him and his family here to Blood Mountain relocation camp two years ago he had felt a bitter, masochistic joy at how the Americans had spun the wheel full circle to grind him under again. He had got out of the bus that had brought them from Green River, where they had been unloaded from the train that had brought them from California, and he had looked around at the wide landscape, thinking how little it seemed to have changed since he had first seen it forty-one years ago.
‘Welcome back,’ he had said sardonically, but he had said it to himself, a private joke that he knew was pointless to share with his family. None of them, not even Tsuchi, knew what he had endured here.
He had come to the United States from Nagasaki in 1901, when he was twenty-one years old. He was middle class, descendant of a long line of weapon makers who were more than artisans; the line could be traced back to one of the master swordsmiths of Tanega who were the first Japanese introduced to guns by Portuguese traders in the middle of the sixteenth century. Okada guns and swords were bought and prized by army and naval officers; Chojiro had completed his apprenticeship when he got into trouble. He had never told his own family why he had left Japan: he had climbed into bed with his eldest brother’s wife, something his brother’s wife had liked but his brother hadn’t. He had landed in San Francisco and, through one of the boarding-houses that also acted as employment agents, he had got one of the few jobs then available to Orientals: working on the railroad. He had worked for a year in Wyoming, never becoming accustomed to the vastness of the landscape; it had seemed to reduce himself in his own estimation, making him ridiculously small in any scheme of things. He had received poor pay, poor accommodation and poor food, had been abused day after day by the Irish foremen who, with the advent of the Chinese and Japanese labourers, had now moved up the social scale. It was the first time the Irish long upper lip had come close to being a patrician feature.
The day his contract ended he had left the railroad and gone down to Idaho to work on sugar-beet farms, where the pay was no better but where the farmers, Mormons who themselves knew a little about discrimination, treated him better than had the Irish foremen. Four years later, having saved a little money won at gambling, he had moved to Los Angeles. Since the Mafia and Bugsy Siegel had not yet arrived in California, there was little call for a gunsmith; men were shot dead occasionally, but a Colt .45 was usually sufficient for the deed and it could be bought on mail order. He drifted to Gardena, where there was a small Japanese community, and there he started a nursery, as much by chance as by choice. It had been a hard struggle for the first five years; then he had begun to prosper. He had dreamed of going home to Japan, but he was still in disgrace with the family and he would not return till his parents wrote him to come back. His brother had divorced his errant wife and taken another, but that hadn’t altered his parents’ opinion of Chojiro.
In 1914 he had married Tsuchi Yataba, a ‘picture bride’ he had chosen from a selection sent him by an agent. There had never been any love in the marriage, but there had been respect on both sides: it was enough for each of them. There had been three children: Tamezo, born in 1916 after Tsuchi had had a miscarriage with her first pregnancy; then the two girls, Etsu and Masako, born two and three years later respectively. Their father never forgave them for calling themselves, Tom, Ettie and Madge when they started going to school and, despite their protests, he never called them anything but their Japanese names.
Ettie was now walking up the camp’s main road towards him, picking her way carefully through the dust. The camp these days was half-empty and the camp authorities put in no more than was absolutely necessary to maintain the roads and huts. Earth was piled up against the walls of the huts as insulation against the bitter winds that blew down from the mountains in winter; they reminded him of the sod houses, built by the pioneer settlers, that he and some of the other railroad workers had lived in all those years ago. He regretted, more than he could tell them, that his wife and daughters had to live in such conditions. But it was not his fault: everything was to be blamed on the Americans.
‘Another letter from Tom.’ Ettie held up letter, as she always did, though she knew her father, as he always did, would not ask what news it contained. But this time she did tell him: ‘He is not in the fighting any more, he’s safe somewhere. He said he can’t say where, just that it was some sort of training school.’
Chojiro Okada said nothing, looking away from her.
‘Dad—’ Ettie was a pretty girl with a soft, sad voice that suggested she was ready to weep for the world; instead, she was an incurable optimist, an American trait her father found insufferable. ‘I’m going to Chicago.’
‘What for?’
‘To work as a nurse. I’m tired of living here at Blood Mountain.’
Blood Mountain had been turned into a camp for incorrigibles, the ‘disloyals’ as they were called, those who had refused to take an oath of allegiance to the United States. Some of the women had been passed as trustworthy and were allowed to take jobs in nearby towns; Ettie worked for a dentist in Green River and her sister Madge was a cook on a neighbouring ranch. They were looked upon as traitors by some of the more aggressive men in the camp, but they were never subjected to any abuse because of the respect in which Chojiro, a true patriot, was held.
‘Madge is going with me.’
‘You will not be allowed.’
‘Permission has already been granted.’
‘Not by me.’
Her voice was truly sad now. ‘Dad, Madge and I are grown women. You don’t try to understand that, just as you never tried to understand Tom’s point of view—’
‘Don’t mention your brother.’ He had stopped calling him my son. That implied some bond still existed between them, when there was none.
Ettie bowed her head. Whenever she was with her father, speaking in Japanese as he insisted, she automatically fell into certain Japanese gestures. ‘Madge and I will be leaving in two days’ time. We’d like to go with your blessing.’
He walked away from her, up towards the barbed wire that ran right round the camp. He was aware of the soldier, rifle slung over his shoulder, watching him from the nearest guard-tower, but he ignored him. There had been several escapes from the camp, including one attempt at a mass break-out; half a dozen of the escapers had been shot and all but three of the others had been recaptured. He had never himself attempted to escape, because he had known that his lot would not be improved: he would only have been at large in America. He was prepared to wait till the war was over, till Japan had won and he could go home again to the land of his ancestors. But lately he had been kept awake at night by doubts; if American propaganda could be believed the war was going badly for Japan. He was querulous with impotent rage at the gods. He had never been religious, but he had to blame someone other than the generals for the way things had gone. It did not occur to him to blame the Emperor.
In 1923, when his brother had died, Chojiro’s parents had written to say he was forgiven and was no longer in disgrace. In the late summer of that year he went home alone, leaving Tsuchi and the children in Gardena. Getting off the ship in Yokohama he went straight to a geisha house, determined to plunge into old customs as soon as possible; if there were any geishas in Gardena, he had never met any. He was still in the house when the great earthquake of 1 September struck at just over a minute before noon. He had been dressed and ready to leave when the house suddenly fell down around him. He survived, unhurt but for cuts and bruises, and for the next seven days distinguished himself by his bravery and his devotion to the injured. Four hours after the earthquake struck, a cyclone blew up, fanning the burning buildings and houses into an inferno. Over 100,000 people died or were posted missing and Chojiro would carry the memories of that week with him forever. He was superstitious enough to wonder at first if it meant some omen about his return to Japan.
But no: he went home to Nagasaki a hero. Both Asahi and Mainichi ran stories on him and he went home to more than just a prodigal son’s welcome. From then on he had known he would never be happy to die in America, that eventually he would have to be laid to rest in the shadow of the hills outside Nagasaki where he had grown up. He had gone back again in 1927, telling his father he would come home to stay when he had made himself a rich man in America. He had become Westernized to that extent: the prodigal son is even more welcome if he brings home his own fatted calf. He had come to realize, though reluctantly, that he lived better in America than his parents did in Japan.
In 1929 he had returned to Japan once more, this time taking Tamezo with him. The 13-year-old boy had not minded going; after all, his best friend, Kenji Minato, was also going, with his father. The two boys had been left with their respective grandparents; at the end of two years Tamezo had been glad to return to America, but Kenji had stayed on, content to be thoroughly Japanese. Chojiro had been bitterly disappointed and almost uncomprehending when Tamezo, in his first fit of filial rebellion, told him how much he had hated Japan and everything about it. He had taken Tamezo with him again in the summer of 1937, when Hideki and Mieko Minato had gone home to live in Japan for good. But the visit had not been a success. Tamezo had been politely respectful towards his grandparents, but adamant towards his father that Japan was not for him.
Tamezo had visited the Minatos in their new home in Tokyo and come away shocked. ‘Ken’s become one hundred per cent Japanese,’ he told his father. ‘Ken – he wouldn’t let me call him that, like I used to. He insisted on Kenji—’
‘As he should,’ said Chojiro. ‘You should take him as an example.’
‘Dad, I don’t want that sort of example. For Pete’s sake, I just want to be an American – what’s wrong with that?’ As if to prove his point, Tamezo spoke in English. ‘That’s where we live, isn’t it?’
‘Only till the right time comes to leave,’ said Chojiro in Japanese.
Over the next few years Chojiro talked of going home to Japan to stay. But, though he was not demonstrative, he loved his children and he came to realize that, if he and Tsuchi retired to Japan, Tamezo and his sisters would refuse to accompany them. They had become Americans, despite all his sometimes harsh discipline that was meant to make them Japanese.
He had welcomed the bombing of Pearl Harbor as if it were a blow for freedom. ‘You will see now what Japan can teach the world. There are still too many barbarians masquerading as civilized people.’
‘Hitler, for instance?’ said Tamezo, now insisting on being called Tom.
‘Germany is like Japan, it is entitled to its own sphere of influence. Do you think the barbarians we have in Washington are any better?’
They had argued, stiffly polite, with Tom choking on his anger at his father’s attitude. Then the barbarians did start to emerge. Westbrook Pegler wrote in his column: ‘The Japanese in California should be under armed guard to the last man and woman right now – and to hell with habeas corpus.’ California’s Attorney-General, Earl Warren, demonstrated that Justice could be as blind in one eye as any politician cared to make her. The Western Defence commander, Lieutenant-General De-Witt, showed his stars as a racist; he took an overdose of patriotism, a bad thing for military men. There were no American-Japanese, as far as the bigots were concerned: they were Japs and nothing else, not even to be trusted as much as Germans. The Yellow Peril was peril indeed, and on 19 February 1942, President Roosevelt, one of Tom’s heroes, signed Executive Order 9066, interning all Japanese from the West Coast.
‘I told you so,’ said Chojiro and packed his bags for the internment camp at Santa Anita racetrack, content to have been proven Japanese by the barbarians. Though they did not know it, he and his family were quartered in a horsestall that had once housed Phar Lap, an Australian national hero that had come to California and, according to Australian legend, been poisoned by the Americans. No one was safe from the barbarians, not even horses.
He had ignored Tamezo’s vehement protests to the authorities at Santa Anita and then at Blood Mountain. It was shameful to have a son who so openly and loudly declared his allegiance to the American flag; so he went out of his way to shut America out of the family circle. In the camp he insisted that nothing but Japanese should be spoken amongst them. He had not taken part in any of the pro-Japanese demonstrations by the Issei and the Kibei, the Japan-educated Nisei, leaving that to the younger men; but he had sat in on the meetings that had planned the demonstrations. When a group of Kibei had attacked Tamezo, who had abused them for their treason to the land of their birth, he had turned his back and walked away, though it had hurt him more than he would ever confess, even to Tsuchi.
When in 1943 Tamezo had, after a number of applications, at last been accepted for army service, Chojiro had once more turned his back. This time he had moved out of the family hut and remained out of it till Tamezo had left for Camp Shelby, Mississippi. Once his son had gone he had joined all the demonstrations, as if he were fighting his own small private war. He had to wash away his shame in front of the other Issei.
‘Okada-san—’
He came back from his reverie of the past, turned away from the barbed wire to see Yosuke Mazaki standing a few yards from him. ‘I’m sorry, I was a long way away then – What is it?’
Mazaki was one of the Kibei, a young man whose fanaticism sometimes made even Chojiro uncomfortable. He was a hero who, fortunately, knew he would never be called upon to be heroic; such men are often more dangerous to their cause than to their enemies. Chojiro did not like him, but tolerated him.
‘Okada-san, I’ve had a message. Kenji Minato has been held by American Naval Intelligence for the past six months down in San Diego.’
Chojiro Okada worked his lips up and down over his teeth, the only indication he ever showed that he was perturbed. As a young man he had been like his son, profligate with his emotions and the expression of them; but the years in America had taught him the dangers and non-profit in such indulgence. He had tried to look calm, but it was always the calm of a thinly frozen lake.
‘What else did the message say?’ He had no part in the espionage network that ran through the camps and through other channels of which he had no knowledge at all. But it had been he whom Kenji Minato had come to first.
Mazaki did not look at him directly, as if turning his face away from the steel of the wind. ‘That he has now escaped.’
Chojiro Okada had been surprised when, two days after Pearl Harbor, Kenji Minato had phoned him. ‘I should like to meet with you, Okada-san. But please do not mention me to your family, not even to Tamezo.’
He had driven all the way out to Santa Monica in the two-year-old Buick which he had to sell only three months later for two hundred dollars, the best offer he could get before he and his family were carted off to Santa Anita racetrack. The irony was that on that day of the enforced sale in Gardena there had been several vultures with German names.
He and Kenji Minato had walked up and down under the palm trees on the promenade. People looked at them suspiciously or, in the case of one man, accusingly. He was an elderly man, wearing a faded American Legion cap, and he stood at the promenade railing staring out to sea, towards Japan, then looking back at Okada and Minato as if expecting them to start signalling the invasion fleet just beyond the horizon of his dimly-sighted eyes.
‘Why didn’t you come to visit us?’ Chojiro Okada had been circumspect in his greeting of the younger man, expressing no surprise. The war with Japan was only forty-eight hours old and already bricks had shattered the glasshouses in Gardena. Kenji Minato, wherever he had come from was not here just to pay his respects to his father’s old friend.
‘I had work to do. Seattle, San Francisco, San Diego. I very rarely came to Los Angeles.’
It was a moment or two before the significance of the three cities he had named besides Los Angeles sank in. ‘You were attached to the US Navy?’ Then he smiled at his own naivety; Minato mirrored his smile. Over by the railing the Legion veteran glared at them, then looked hurriedly out to sea again; he hated all Slant-Eyes, but especially ones who smiled as if the war was already won. Okada ignored the veteran of the war long gone; he nodded approvingly at the young man who was fighting the present war, albeit covertly. ‘You started early.’
‘Almost three years ago.’
‘Why are you telling me this? Are you trying to recruit me? I’m too old for such a task, Kenji. In any case, I think it’s too late.’ He glanced across at the Legionnaire by the railing. ‘They’ll be watching us like hawks from now on.’
‘Probably. But it wasn’t you I wanted to recruit. I have to go back to Seattle. We need someone here in Los Angeles as a contact. Someone who can be trusted. Someone younger than you, Okada-san.’
Okada smiled again, bitterly this time. ‘You’re not thinking of Tamezo?’
‘I was hoping … He won’t be interned. He has a good reputation—’
‘He is against us.’ It shamed him to confess it to the younger man, the true Japanese. ‘We argue … I wouldn’t put it past him to betray you, Kenji.’ They were speaking quietly, but in English; there was no point in stirring up the natives too much. For the time being there was safety in appearing to be American. He wondered if the Mexicans down around Olvera Street would give up speaking Spanish for the duration. ‘No, you could not trust Tamezo.’
Minato looked disappointed. ‘I’m sorry about that. We were friends once – it would have been good to be working together … Do you know someone else?’
It had never occurred to him that he would be called upon to engage in such work. Spying (even the word was abhorrent) was for professionals. ‘I can make enquiries—’
‘Be discreet. Careful.’ For the first time Minato showed some of the unease behind the relaxed exterior. Had bricks already been thrown at him?
‘Of course. It will take a week or two.’ He had immediately thought of two men he could approach. ‘But I cannot help you myself. If ever Tamezo found out …’
‘I understand,’ said Minato and looked as if he did.
As they walked away the old Legionnaire hurled abuse after them, only grapeshot but it was a beginning. Chojiro Okada wondered if it were the veterans of the last war who always fired the first shot in the next. He would have to study more history.
Now Yosuke Mazaki was telling him that Kenji Minato had been arrested by US Navy Intelligence, though he had since escaped. ‘Will he call on the network to help him?’
‘Not here in the States. He is already in Mexico City, or was at last report.’ Mazaki faced him, narrowing his eyes against the chilling wind. ‘There is something else, Okada-san. Your son Tamezo Okada was also held by the Americans in San Diego. But he, too, has now disappeared.’
He felt a lift of hope; the war was lost but his son had been won over. ‘You mean he has been working with Kenji Minato?’
‘We don’t think so, Okada-san. We think he is a spy, but for the Americans. The network will try to track him down. In the meantime it is informing Tokyo.’
Chapter Two (#ulink_d87c6760-62cc-59ac-b4d5-3b924ac24f9f)
1
Natasha Cairns had arrived in Japan by the most circuitous of routes, through the passions of randy forbears, her own ambitions and the love of a man she had come to love too late, after he was dead. Her mother Lily had been born in Harbin, the result of two roubles’ worth of sex between a Chinese prostitute and a Russian soldier having a night off from the Russo-Japanese war of 1905. Lily Tolstoy, a surname she gave herself when she was fourteen, left Harbin on the same day that she left school. She went south to Shanghai, where she worked her way up various ladders and traders till she had established herself as one of Shanghai’s better ladies of pleasure. Then she fell in love with one of her clients, an aberration that ladies of her profession should avoid at all costs; she married Henry Greenway, a manager for Jardine Matheson, and donned respectability, a gown that did not fit. She bore Henry a daughter, named her Natasha, gave her to the French nuns to educate and left for Saigon, still half in love with Henry but totally out of love with respectability and life on a Jardine Matheson manager’s pay.
Natasha knew nothing of her mother’s background; and those who did know it kept it from her. Henry did his meagre best to be a father to her; but expatriate Englishmen do not make good parents, especially of girls. Most of them were, at that time, afraid of females; to be responsible for one was too much. He would look at Natasha and see her mother and wonder, though he had genuinely loved Lily, what had ever possessed him to marry her. Of course, though he would not admit it to himself, he had married her because it had hurt him to share her with other men.
There was a great deal of her mother in Natasha; she had a saint’s name but the devil in her blood. Or so said the nuns, who knew more about the Blood of Christ than they did about the blood of young girls. It was they who had given her the saint’s name, Therèse, one that Natasha never used. She already knew that the men she saw outside the convent walls weren’t interested in saints.
In 1938, when she was sixteen, her father was killed. He was up-country, in Sikang, trying to sell Jardine Matheson goods to a warlord, when the warlord took a sudden dislike to Henry, Jardine Matheson, all things British or the goods themselves: the reason was never determined, but Henry was suddenly dead. He left Natasha a small inheritance, his cigarette card collection of English cricketers and a sense of loss that came as a surprise to her. Her true love for certain men, first her father and later Keith Cairns, was delayed. It was as if her absent mother had left behind the unspoken advice that nothing in her heart should ever be committed to men.
She ran away from the convent and went further south, to Hong Kong. She was already beautiful, her beauty apparent in the eyes of perhaps too many beholders; there was a certain coolness to her beauty, almost a remoteness which would suddenly be denied when she smiled. Men besieged her, and she recognized the pleasures of being a prize.
She did not become a prostitute, more a floating mistress: there is a difference of more than just price. In the middle class morality of the British colony, her mixed blood put a brand on her; even a girl with the blood of St Francis of Assisi and one of the better Sung princesses in her would have been looked upon as a half-caste. Though Natasha looked more Western than Eastern, there was a slant to her eyes, a tilt to her cheekbones and an ivory sheen to her skin that set her apart from the Roses and Daisies of Bournemouth, Scunthorpe and other respectable breeding grounds. She graced tea parties at Government House and receptions at the Repulse Bay Hotel, but she was never invited to dinner parties at private homes on the Peak. Then in March 1940 she met Keith Cairns when he came to Hong Kong for what was, supposedly, a conference on Oriental art. Only later did she learn that it was a conference of Intelligence agents.
Keith Cairns was that rare man, an academic with the proper flair for courting a woman. He was forty-two years old, roughly good-looking, had had no wives but a succession of mistresses and, at his first sight of Natasha, decided then was the time to settle down with a wife, one who would also be his mistress. He was a romantic, which was one reason he had become an agent for MI6, and though he did not sweep Natasha off her feet, since she was on her back beneath him when he asked her to marry him, he overwhelmed her with his passionate persistence. She married him for a variety of reasons: she liked him; she had a sudden, if fleeting, yearning for respectability; she knew that the war in Europe would soon spread to Asia. Keith Cairns told her that Japan would probably enter the war, but that he, and she, would be safe in Tokyo.
‘Tokyo is my home,’ he told her, ‘even though I’m a Scot. I live there and I’ll probably die there because, whatever the Japanese have done outside Japan, in their own country I find them honourable and admirable and I want to go on living amongst them.’
Later she would find that frame of mind at odds with his being a spy; but then she would also find him a mixture that, because of his early death, would always remain a puzzle to her. He was kind and cruel, romantic and hard-headed, daring and cautious; he was a mass of contradictions, which perhaps was why the Japanese, a nation of contradictions, liked him and he them. But he loved Natasha as none of her patrons ever had and eventually, but too late, she loved him. She took over from him as an MI6 agent as belated payment for what he had meant to her. Having no country of her own, she was neither friend of Britain nor enemy of Japan. She was, as Keith Cairns had been, a romantic, seduced by the thought of danger, trying to prove, without any hope that the proof would be made public, that life for her was more than bed, board and baubles. She was, in the most hazardous way, still looking for respectability.
‘I got some extra fish on the black market,’ said Yuri Suzuki, coming up from the village. ‘But we are running out of money.’
She was a round little woman, a dumpling spiced with iron filings; Natasha had never discovered her age: she could have been anything between forty and sixty. She had been Keith Cairns’s housekeeper for five years when he had brought Natasha home; they had met like two wives over the still-warm body of a bigamist. But when Keith had died, Yuri had, as if there was no longer anything to fight over, abruptly changed her attitude; she had taken over as Natasha’s surrogate mother. Short-tempered, ungracious, she nevertheless had a motherly instinct she could not deny: she had a need to take care of someone.
‘I have nothing else to sell,’ said Natasha.
She had already sold the jewelry that her admirers in Hong Kong had given her. She had always kept it hidden while Keith had been alive, not wanting to remind him blatantly of what she had been before she had met him. After his death she had brought it out and, piece by piece, had found buyers for it. Now all she and Yuri had to live on was the small pension that the university, with punctilious regard for its dead professor, still paid her. Keith had died after a bungled operation for appendicitis, a mundane death for an agent, and the university authorities had suffered a loss of face in that it was one of their own medical professors who had performed the fatal operation. The pension payment arrived each month like a penance.
‘You should ask your friends to send money.’
Yuri knew of the short-wave radio hidden in the secret cellar of their house. She had never made any comment on Cairnssan’s extracurricular work as a spy, as if it were just another bachelor’s peccadillo, on a par with his drinking and his bringing home women who were no better than they should have been. When Natasha had taken over the broadcasting, Yuri had continued to make no comment, treating it as if it were the normal pan of running a household. Natasha sometimes felt uneasy about her, but she had no alternative but to trust her.
‘Yuri, how can they do that? Cable it to the General Post Office? One hundred pounds payable on the order of the British Government?’
‘They should pay you for what you are doing,’ said Yuri stubbornly. She was not thinking of the risk, but only of the actual work being done. ‘Work should be paid for.’
‘You sound like a trade unionist.’ Natasha had learned from Keith, a born Tory, of the blight one could find in Britain.
‘What’s that?’ sniffed Yuri, and on the other side of the world Keir Hardie and company went on strike in their graves.
Then Natasha saw the local sergeant of police and a stout man in civilian clothes coming up the path towards them. Nayora was a private resort village that had been developed by a group of upper-middle-class professionals just before World War One: government officials, lawyers, doctors who did not want to have to mix in their holiday time with the rapidly expanding lower middle class. All the villas stood in what had once been carefully tended gardens; now, in the present war, one elderly gardener ran an arthritic-gaited race against galloping grass and exploding shrubs. Some of the old families still lived here, though they did not mix with the alien residents who had been foisted on them. Nayora had always been a law-abiding community and even with the advent of the aliens the authorities had seen no need to enlarge the village force of Sergeant Masuda and his rather dull-witted constable.
Sergeant Masuda, who had got where he was by being obsequious, almost contorted himself in his deference to the man he brought to the gate of Natasha’s villa. ‘Major Nagata is from Tokyo, a very important man. We are honoured that he should visit us.’
Nagata, who wrote bad poetry, saw all this as snow falling on Mount Fuji: praise, if taken with proper grace, can only make a man look better. He smiled at Natasha as if to make her feel she was properly honoured by his arrival. ‘Mrs Cairns, forgive my manners. I should have warned you I was coming. But, unfortunately, in my profession warnings are often misunderstood. Or taken advantage of.’
‘What is your profession, Major Nagata?’
‘He is from the kempei,’ said Sergeant Masuda, rolling his eyes as if he were introducing one of the Kuni-Tsu-Kami, the gods of the earth.
‘It is difficult for the secret police to be secret when one is accompanied by a Greek chorus,’ said Nagata. ‘Go and arrest someone, sergeant. Leave me alone with Mrs Cairns.’
Masuda backed off with a bow that bent him double, then went lolloping down the path with his peculiar loose-kneed gait. Nagata looked after him, then turned back to Natasha and Yuri.
‘You may dismiss your servant.’
Yuri snorted, showing what she thought of the police, secret or otherwise, then, without a bow, she turned and marched up into the house. Nagata looked after her too.
‘Does she give you any trouble?’
‘If she does, I tolerate it.’ Natasha felt far less comfortable than she sounded. ‘What do you want, major?’
It suddenly struck her that, for all his fawning towards Nagata, Sergeant Masuda had taken a grave risk in identifying the secret policeman. The kempei was never spoken of openly; certainly not between an official and a woman like Natasha. The sergeant owed her nothing and she wondered why he had put himself at risk by warning her who Nagata was. Did he know about the radio set in the secret cellar?
‘Do you have a pass to leave Nayora, Mrs Cairns?’
‘Yes, a twelve-hour one, once a week. I report to Sergeant Masuda before I leave and when I return.’
