1942

CHAPTER 12

Staff Sergeant Charley Finch was just about the only American who was delighted by the Japanese attack on December 7. Charley was a supply sergeant who had access to the vast warehouses that housed the army’s store of supplies.

At thirty-eight, short and overweight, Charley had been preparing for his retirement from the army by padding his nest. He had sold substantial amounts of material and army equipment to international dealers at a tenth of its worth. Even with this fragment of value, he saw thousands of dollars coming in, which he cabled to an account at the Bank of America in San Francisco. It was, he thought, foolproof.

At least it was until he got greedy and sold stuff to some local people who got stupid and then got caught, at which point he began to sweat bullets. The local crooks’ possession of military goods had brought in the FBI and, if it hadn’t been for the Japanese attack, would have seen him arrested when they traced it back. As it was, he’d been tipped off, and, while the bombs were fortuitously falling, he’d set fire to a couple of warehouses, figuring that “bomb damage” would account for any shortages.

He’d been right, and the FBI forgot about trivial matters like missing equipment and went chasing more important targets.

What he hadn’t counted on was being thrown into a POW camp. The conditions were brutal, the food was totally inadequate, and the guards were sadists who took great delight in beating prisoners to bloody pulps for the most trivial of reasons. They thought it was fun for one guard to direct a prisoner to perform one task while another would come along a few seconds later and change the order. Then the first guard would brutally beat the hapless prisoner for not carrying out the original assignment. If the prisoner tried to protest or did anything other than stand and take it, the beating got even more severe. Already, several prisoners had been beaten to death. Everyone knew it was a sadistic game the guards played, but there was nothing anyone could do about it.

So far, Charley had not been caught in it, but he figured his luck had run out when a pair of guards called him by name and dragged him out of the camp, so terrified that he could barely stand up. It’d happened to a lot of soldiers; not all of them had returned, and many of those who did come back had been beaten pretty badly.

Charley was dumped in the back of a truck and forced to lie on his face while he was driven a short ways. He knew where he was going- the kempetei headquarters.

He sat for several hours on a hard stool while he sweated and worried. Finally, two new guards grabbed him and dragged him into an office where he confronted a Japanese officer. His knees weakened and he almost fell as he recognized the officer. It was Colonel Omori, the head of the kempetei and a man whom others described as Satan himself. Beside him stood Satan’s helper, Lieutenant Goto.

“Sergeant Finch,” Omori said, “you are a crook, a liar, a thief, and a coward. Do you know what we do in Japan with people like you? We execute them, that’s what.”

Finch moaned in terror, and Omori continued. “The FBI destroyed most of its more important files before we took over. Yours they didn’t consider important. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Had we not attacked, you would have been in an American prison. Now you’re in a Japanese one.”

Finch did not respond. He was too frightened.

“Do you like prison, Sergeant Finch? Are the guards treating you kindly enough? Perhaps a couple will come and visit you tonight.”

“I’m fine, sir,” he stammered.

“Would you like to leave the camp and live in comfort?”

Charley turned wary. What was the Jap offering?

Omori continued. “Comfort means good food, clean quarters, liquor, and even sex. Wouldn’t you like to spend the rest of the war regaining your weight and fucking women?”

Now Finch was intrigued. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I want information from your camp. We know there’s a radio in there, perhaps more than one, and we know there’s a camp hierarchy that is a potential source of resistance. Also, the FBI agents in Honolulu have disappeared. We think they are disguising themselves as prisoners, and we would like very much to talk to them.”

Charley nodded. He knew this was something he could not refuse to do. The comment about the guards’ conduct meant that his denial would be his death warrant. The guards would stomp him into the ground of the camp.

“We will devise a way for you not to get caught. For instance, we will take you out each day and return you each night to the camp, at least for the short term. Your story will be that you are inventorying the contents of several warehouses for us, and that we’ve given you the choice of doing it or being killed. Your friends will understand.

“Once you’ve given us the information, you will be taken from the camp and housed separately for the duration of the war.”

Charley liked the idea. There were risks, like how would he explain it away later, but later might just be a long ways in the future. He would cross that bridge when later actually arrived.

Omori opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of pliers. “These belong to Lieutenant Goto. Do you know what he does with them?”

“No, sir.” All of a sudden Charley felt that events had taken a wrong turn.

“The lieutenant likes to use the pliers to make people cooperate. First, he uses them to pull out fingernails and toenails, and then to crush fingers and toes, knuckle by knuckle and joint by joint. When that is done, he’ll either pull out a person’s teeth or use the pieces as a hammer to break the teeth off just below the gum. I understand the pain is excruciating.”

Charley was sweating again, and he had the sudden urge to urinate.

Omori looked fondly at the pliers and smiled at Goto, who just stared at Charley as if he were a lower form of life. “Then the lieutenant likes to use them to crush a person’s testicles and nose. Maybe he’ll just put loose folds of skin in them and squeeze with all his strength until the ends meet. It all proves that interrogation can be done quite effectively and with inexpensive and unexpected tools.” Omori smiled. “Do you know why I’m telling you this?”

Charley understood. “So I’ll know what’ll happen to me if I double-cross you.”

Omori beamed. “Excellent.”

Lieutenant Goto signaled, and two guards suddenly pinned Charley’s left hand to Omori’s desk. Goto took the pliers and smoothly yanked out the nail from the little finger. He waved the little piece of Charley as a trophy. Then, as Charley was gasping with pain and shock, Goto crushed the first knuckle of the same finger with the pliers.

The guards released Charley, who howled and writhed on the floor.

“Why?” he groaned as he clasped his damaged hand. “I said I’d cooperate.”

“I know,” Omori said, looking down on him. “This was to guarantee it. The pain you’ve just felt will be a thousand times greater if you fail me. Also, you have now been tortured by the Japanese for insolence and failure to cooperate fully. This means you can return to the camp as a hero. The medics there will be able to treat your wounds, and you will now be trusted by those in charge.”

Charley let the guards help him up. The pain was almost controllable, although his finger throbbed like it was on fire. Omori was right on both counts. The pain was an investment. Hell, if he survived, and he had every intention of doing so, he’d get a Purple Heart for this, maybe even some other medal. And he knew damned well that he wasn’t going to cross Omori for anything.

“Amazing,” Jake said as he looked at the slender silhouette of the sub offshore. “You navy guys can get a sub across the Pacific and right up to the coast of Hawaii with more precision than a bus arriving at a destination in a city.”

“No traffic,” Rochefort said.

The transfer had so far gone off without a hitch. Jake had figured it would take three days to reach the rendezvous point, so he allowed four. That gave them more than enough time to travel and to reconnoiter on arrival to ensure there were no Japs in the area. Japanese presence would have been very unlikely, as the only Japanese military on Hawaii was a very small contingent in Hilo.

The sub surfaced at three in the morning, a time chosen because it was dark and just about everyone who might see it would be asleep. Again, this was a small chance, as the area was desolate and almost uninhabited.

The rafts arrived with additional supplies for Jake and his band, and were filled with the men who were leaving Hawaii. There was a slight change in the passenger list; two of Jake’s men had decided they really didn’t want to spend the war as guerrillas on Hawaii, and Jake had permitted them to leave. Volunteers were all he wanted. The departing two were offset by the two marines from the St. Louis who did want to stay. Rochefort didn’t have a problem with that, and Jake figured that he was a little ahead with the trade-off.

Finally, Rochefort waded out to the last raft, which bobbed in knee-deep water. “Jake, I truly appreciate everything you’ve done, and, good God, I wish you the best of luck,” he said.

Jake and the commander shook hands warmly. “I’ll see you someday in California,” Jake said.

“God willing.”

“Joe, I want you to do me a favor. Here’s a letter I’ve written, with some thoughts I’ve put down. After the sub’s been under way for a couple of hours, please open it and read it, but not before. Will you do that?”

Rochefort was a little puzzled but agreed to Jake’s request. He settled into the raft and was taken out to the looming bulk of the submarine. She was the Cachalot and had been present at Pearl Harbor during the attack.

Like all subs, the Cachalot was small and cramped, and stank of oil, sweat, urine, and stale air. Rochefort soon found that his quarters was a folding bunk that he was expected to share with at least one other officer. It was going to be a miserable voyage, but at least he was headed to safety.

Even if he had wanted to read Jake’s letter right away, he wouldn’t have been able to as he spent nearly half a day helping the sub’s skipper get everyone and everything squared away.

When he finally got a moment’s rest, he recalled the letter and unsealed it. As he began to read, his expression changed from anticipation to astonishment.

When he was through, he folded it carefully and put it in his pocket. “Jake, you are a son of a bitch,” he muttered with a mixture of anger and admiration. Then finally he laughed. “Yeah, a real, no-good, rotten son of a bitch.”

Admiral Spruance looked through the window of the PBY at the panorama below. A sizable fleet was stationed around the target area. “Congratulations, Lieutenant Priest. I gave you virtually unlimited authority, and I see you exceeded it. Are there any ships in the navy not involved in this experiment?”

Jamie grinned. “I presumed you wanted this done right, sir.”

In the couple of days since the meeting, Jamie had been almost frantically busy, and, if it hadn’t been for Sue Dunnigan’s help and connections, he might not have completed the assignment in the time allotted.

First, he had to acquire target ships. By going through local registries, Sue was able to find a couple of ancient freighters that hadn’t gone anywhere in a couple of years because their engines were completely shot. These had been towed to the target area and anchored.

Then it was necessary to have a number of destroyers stationed in the area to keep the curious away and to make sure that errant torpedoes didn’t sink a friendly ship. A more distant screen of destroyers and light cruisers was employed to keep out any possible Japanese submarines. None had ventured as far south as San Diego, but there was always the first time.

After that, the rules of the test were developed. It was decided that the Monkfish would fire two torpedoes at the first ship while submerged and fire the second pair at the remaining ship while on the surface. The Monkfish had fired at the Japanese destroyer while submerged, but other attacks and misfires by other boats had occurred both on the surface and while submerged. From anecdotal evidence, it seemed to make no difference whether the sub was submerged or not-the torpedoes just weren’t exploding.

All four torpedoes would be fired at a range of a thousand yards. If either target ship remained, Lieutenant Fargo of the Monkfish had permission to try impact shooting with an additional two torpedoes.

Captain Winters was confident that both ships would be sunk forthwith. “Hell,” he’d said with a laugh. “Those tubs are so rusty a near miss’d make them fall apart.”

With that Jamie agreed. Winters was so certain of his torpedoes that he bet a dinner in town with Fargo and Jamie. Jamie didn’t begrudge him his happiness. He was a scientist and engineer, and looked forward to the results of an experiment that, while expensive, would get people off his back. In the couple of days since the meeting, Jamie had found Winters to be sincere and hardworking, although more than a little stubborn about his beloved torpedoes.

As an added bonus, an experimental sonar system had been mounted on one of the destroyers. It was hoped that it had been fine-tuned enough to hear the torpedoes in the water and ascertain what occurred when they were fired. Sonar could determine the direction and distance of an object but not its depth. Even so, it would be invaluable if the targets were missed. At a thousand yards on a sunny day and with a calm sea, Captain Winters was confident his torpedoes would hit.

“Where’s Winters?” Spruance asked. Admiral Lockwood was on one of the destroyers, while Sue Dunnigan was onshore.

“He’s on the sub, sir, managing things. Uh, and that’s why we’re making the first shots submerged. He’s claustrophobic, and we want to get the boat up as quickly as possible.”

Spruance stifled a smile. “Then let’s get on with it.”

Jamie confirmed that all was in readiness, then spoke into the radio. “Captain Winters, the admiral wishes you to commence when you are ready.”

Almost immediately, the Monkfish reported a torpedo fired. Seconds later, the sonar operators said they heard it running in the water.

Anxiously, Spruance and Jamie counted down until time of impact.

Nothing.

“Sonar,” Jamie called. “What do you hear?”

“Torpedo is still running and the sound is fading. It’s like she’s getting farther away.”

Okay, Jamie thought. One malfunction. An angry Winters said he was firing the second, and sonar again picked it up. A little later, the results were the same. No hit and the torpedo continued on.

“Surfacing,” radioed an obviously shaken Winters, and, seconds later, the sub emerged from the sea and took up station to fire at the second hulk.

From the PBY, they could see the torpedoes leave the tubes and head directly for the target before they submerged to run under it. Sonar reported them running loud and true and, again, nothing. No hits and the torpedoes continued on, out into the ocean. Jamie turned toward Spruance, who looked perturbed.

“Sir,” came Fargo’s voice on the radio, “we wish to fire two impact-trigger torpedoes with the normal mechanism and two with triggers we’ve made ourselves.”

“Go ahead,” Spruance said and then muttered under his breath, “Can’t hurt.”

The first impact torpedo hit the target ship and exploded. This brought relieved cheers from everyone on the plane. The target immediately began to settle in the water. The second torpedo arrived a moment later and, to the astonishment of everyone, clearly bounced off the crippled target without exploding.

“Unbelievable,” said Spruance.

The Monkfish then shifted and quickly fired two more torpedoes at the remaining target ship. These, Fargo reminded them, had had their triggers altered by one of the sub’s mechanics. Both hit and exploded, sending the rusty hulk to the bottom in a minute.

There was nothing more to be seen, and the PBY headed back to shore.

“Well,” said Spruance. “We’ve raised questions and possibly resolved some of them. We’ll tell Admiral Lockwood that his subs are to override the hull-detecting trigger mechanism and go impact only.” Then he recalled that only one of the first two impact triggers had worked. “I will strongly suggest that our people see just what the Monk’s people did to make their triggers work better than the original ones and copy it.”

Unsaid was the fact that it would take time, maybe months, for all the changes to be made. Many American subs were at sea and wouldn’t even know about the changes until they returned to port. All present hoped they would return to port and wouldn’t be sunk by angry Japanese warships after failed attacks with the flawed Mark 14s.

Unsaid too was the fact that this was a patch, not a solution. At least, Spruance thought ruefully, they could now begin to fight back more effectively.

The admiral reached over and clasped Jamie on the shoulder. “Good job, Lieutenant. That was a well-designed test.”

Jamie flushed. “Thank you, sir. Miss Dunnigan did a lot of the work for me.”

Spruance laughed. “I’m not surprised. When the Congress gets around to permitting women to enlist, she’ll be one of the first officers. She’s a navy brat. Her father served with me back on the Mississippi. He was a chief petty officer and a fountain of knowledge. He was killed on the Arizona, you know.”

Jamie hadn’t known that. There hadn’t been enough time to find out much at all about her, except that she was pleasant, intelligent, and sometimes very intense. Now he knew why. Jamie quietly resolved to find out more about her. While far from a raving beauty, she was growing on him.

Sergeant Hawkins sighted his rifle and pretended to squeeze the trigger at the distant but clearly visible target. “Bang,” he said.

“One dead Jap,” Jake said. “Good shooting.”

“Sir, I could nail him if you’d let me.”

“Sure, and you’d get us all killed.”

The Japanese officer was about three hundred yards away. Hawkins was a crack shot and could have dropped him easily.

However, the Japanese officer was the leader of a column of infantry that looked about platoon strength. That meant the Americans hidden on the hill overlooking the Japanese were outnumbered three or four to one. However tempting it might be, they were not going to give away their position, even their existence, to a Japanese patrol who had no idea they were being watched.

“You’ll get your turn,” Jake said.

These were the first Japanese the small group of Americans had seen outside Hilo, and it looked like they were nothing more than a probe to see what lay in the interior of the island. Half an hour earlier, four trucks, a staff car, and the platoon had driven up and parked at the intersection of two dirt roads. From the casual way they moved about, it appeared that they didn’t expect to find anything exciting. Just a drive in the country.

Jake was grateful the hills in the area were so thickly covered by shrubs and low, twisting trees. His small army could hide within feet of the Japanese and wouldn’t be seen unless a Jap was lucky enough to stumble over them. Since the Japs were road bound, this was highly unlikely.

It was tempting to kill one or two Japs and then retire into the boondocks, but Jake nixed the thought. It was not yet time to let anyone know they existed.

“More Japs,” Private Dunbar whispered. Another column of trucks began to emerge from a valley about a half-mile away. All the more reason not to draw attention. The new column, also four trucks and a car, drew up to the first group and stopped. Now their numerical disadvantage had doubled.

“Gang’s all here,” one of Jake’s men commented.

“Oh, shit,” Hawkins snarled. “They’ve got prisoners.”

A half dozen men in blue denim had been thrown from the back of one of the trucks. They clustered together on the ground while the Japs circled them. The Americans on the hill could hear distant laughter.

“Sailors,” said one of the marines. “Probably some of our guys from the St. Louis. And there’s not a damned thing we can do to help them, is there, Colonel?”

“That’s right, not a damned thing,” Jake said grimly.

“Now what the hell?” Hawkins muttered.

The American prisoners had been pushed behind one of the trucks. Their hands had been tied in front of them and then to the truck. They stood there, a pathetic little group, while the rest of the Japs loaded up in their vehicles.

“Bastards are gonna make them walk to Hilo,” said Dunbar.

“I don’t like this,” Jake whispered. His stomach tightened. Something terrible was about to happen.

The vehicles started up and began to move slowly down the road. It was straight for about a mile, and Jake could see everything as it unfolded. At first, the prisoners were able to keep pace with the slowly moving truck, but then the truck speeded up and they had to try to run. The sailors were doubtless weak from wounds and hunger, and they hadn’t gone more than a few yards at a trotting speed before one of them stumbled and fell. It was like a bowling ball hitting pins. First one man fell, then the others dropped until they were all being dragged by their bound hands along the dirt road.

“Stop, you motherfuckers!” screamed Hawkins.

Instead, the Japanese vehicle continued to accelerate. The six men bounced along the road like children’s toys in a sickening dance of bloody death. Whatever screams they made were drowned out by the sound of the trucks and the distance involved. Jake wondered if the sailors were all dying in stunned silence.

A few moments later, the Jap column and its hideous cargo were out of sight. Jake and his men stood in silence. Several were crying in anger and frustration, and Jake felt tears on his own cheeks. The Japs would pay for this.

“You gonna radio this in, sir?” Hawkins asked.

Jake thought for a moment. It would be risky, but the truth of the Japanese atrocity had to be told. He had a code and a list of frequencies to use. He would take the chance. “Yeah. Tonight when it’s real late and all the little yellow bastards are sound asleep.”

Jake wondered how the sailors had been caught since the Japs had been so casual in their patrolling. Was it bad luck? Hey, even a halfhearted attempt at hiding should have worked. Or had they surrendered in the desperate hope they’d be treated fairly? Then it struck him that maybe they’d been turned in by a local. He might never know, but the possibility would make him redouble his caution.

Hawkins nodded. “I learned something today, sir.”

“What’s that, Hawk?”

“No fucking way I’m gonna be taken prisoner.”

Admiral Yamamoto felt that Prime Minister Tojo was not quite the man for the job of leading the nation. Perhaps Tojo was a good army minister, but it looked like the combined duties of army minister and prime minister were overwhelming. Yamamoto thought Tojo was not enough of an internationalist to cope with being prime minister. The result was a man who was nervous and looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“More military successes, Admiral?” Tojo asked with a brittle smile.

“Some, but nothing grand. We have defeated a joint Anglo, Dutch, and American squadron in the Java Sea and are consolidating our landings in that area. The naval portion of the noose is tightening around the Americans in the Philippines. With MacArthur having abandoned them, it is only a matter of time before they too surrender.”

“It’s taken the army enough time already.” Tojo sniffed. “The Americans are outnumbered and starving.”

The comment surprised Yamamoto. In effect, the prime minister had just criticized the army minister, himself. “Very shortly,” the admiral said, “our fleet will sail into the Coral Sea and strike at Port Moresby as a precursor to invading Australia.”

“And the operation against the British in the Indian Ocean remains canceled?”

“Regrettably, yes. We are stretched too thin, and our men and equipment are too fatigued to undertake it at this time.”

Tojo agreed that it was regrettable but made no further objection. Yamamoto knew the capabilities and limitations of his fleet. If he said the raid was a bad idea at this time, then so be it.

“And Hawaii?”

“Organized resistance is over. The army is withdrawing, and our marines are garrisoning Oahu and the Hilo region of Hawaii. Some of the fuel depot is already repaired, and tankers are en route to begin stockpiling oil. When that occurs, Oahu will be a truly viable fortress.”

Tojo nodded. “You are aware that the first American food convoy is on its way. The kempetei will be on the alert to ensure that the Americans don’t try to sneak in spies or saboteurs.”

“I’m certain Colonel Omori will do an excellent job, Prime Minister. However, that does bring me to a point. It might appear that he is being overenthusiastic in his application of authority. A case in point might be that massacre of prisoners the Americans are screaming about.”

While the army had led the patrol, it had been the handful of kempetei operatives escorting them who had ordered that the Americans be dragged to death behind the truck.

“The Americans were outlaws,” Tojo said. “According to international law, they were subject to execution. However, I agree that a little more prudence was called for. I am also surprised that the Americans found out about it and so quickly. Any thoughts, Admiral?”

“Prime Minister, I said that organized resistance had ceased, but there still remain some incidences of disorganized resistance. The death of the prisoners might have been observed, and the information either radioed or telephoned to someone able to get it out of the islands. We have evidence that there are other stray American military personnel in the area, and the information may have come from them. If nothing else, this will definitely discourage any remaining Americans from surrendering, which could be unfortunate.”

Tojo concurred. He would discuss it with his army subordinates. “There are those who feel that such harsh actions may hasten the Americans to the conference table.”

“Have you seen any indication of that, Prime Minister?”

Tojo was surprised at the sarcasm in Yamamoto’s voice. “None yet, but it will come.”

The prime minister rose. The audience was over, but the admiral wanted the parting shot. “I hope it comes soon, Prime Minister. In a short while, the American fleet will be strong enough to confront us on even terms. In a while longer, we will be dreadfully outnumbered and facing the possibility of defeat.”

When Yamamoto left, Tojo sat alone in the room. He was close to despair. Why hadn’t the Americans asked for a truce, an end to the conflict? He felt totally inadequate. Events were running out of his control. He was like an engineer on an accelerating train whose brakes wouldn’t work. He had to prevent a crash.

However, he did not agree with Yamamoto about the kempetei’s actions being counterproductive. No, he felt that the screws could be tightened even more on the Americans in Hawaii.

Alexa knew that the Japanese colonel was mentally undressing her and ignored it. At least he was a little more subtle than his assistant, Lieutenant Goto, who had practically fucked her with his eyes as he admitted her to Omori’s office.

Goto’s hand had brushed her hip as she passed him in the doorway, and it was not an accident. She was glad that she had worn an older dress, one that came well below her knees and was baggy as a result of weight loss. Jake would have been proud of her. In her mind’s eye, she looked absolutely sexless.

“Be seated,” Omori said in only slightly accented English. “I am pleased that you could meet with me, Mrs. Sanderson. First, let me extend my condolences on the tragic loss of your husband.”

“You’re very kind.”

“You must be wondering why I requested the opportunity to talk with you, Mrs. Sanderson.”

Indeed she was. It had come as a request, but few were foolish enough to decline such a summons from the head of the kempetei.

Alexa thought it amusing that Omori made any implication that the meeting was voluntary. The “invitation” had come the day before and said that a car would pick her up.

The office was fairly small and sparsely furnished; a slightly ajar door led to what appeared to be sleeping quarters. She wondered if that was where Omori lived. She caught a glimpse of an Asian woman in the room and concluded she must be one of the prostitutes the Japanese were rumored to have brought with them.

Alexa smiled. “Before we get to that, may I ask you a question, Colonel?”

Omori was mildly surprised. “Certainly.”

“When will the schools reopen? I have almost forty students who haven’t been inside a classroom in several months, and this is not good for them. They should not be idle.”

Omori nodded in apparent sympathy. “I understand your concern. However, it will not happen for a while. Perhaps not until fall. All schools will remain closed until we can reorganize the curriculum. As Hawaii is now part of the Japanese Empire and the Greater Southeast Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, we must change the local schools’ academic focus toward Japan. Instead of American history and values, schools will teach everything that is Japanese, including the language to those who don’t know it.”

“I see,” said Alexa. His answer confirmed a rumor she’d heard earlier. To the conqueror went the spoils, and the schools.

“Now, Mrs. Sanderson, may I come to the reason you’re here? Are you aware that there was a dossier on you in the FBI offices?”

“No,” she said in genuine astonishment. It must have had to do with her pacifist activities and openly stated opinions. She was shocked to realize that the FBI was even remotely interested in what she did and said.

“The FBI destroyed many of their files, but they did not get to all of them, and yours was one of a number that remained. Tell me, Mrs. Sanderson, are you still a pacifist?”

“I consider war to be awful, and now I have personal proof of that awfulness,” she answered carefully.

“Then you would be willing to do what you can to bring a peaceful end to this terrible conflict, would you not?”

Alexa felt a trap opening. “Within reason.”

“I am aware that you have influence in Washington, and, therefore, your comments on war might be listened to. We have prepared a series of statements that we would like to publish under your signature.”

He handed her a sheaf of papers, each of which contained several paragraphs of virulently anti-American propaganda. After she read them a second time, Alexa returned them to Omori. “These go too far,” she said. “They would proclaim me as a traitor to the United States. I’m sorry, but I cannot sign them.”

Omori shrugged. “And afterward, we would like you to broadcast a number of prerecorded radio statements supporting the written statements. We will, of course, prepare the scripts for you.”

Alexa was puzzled. Hadn’t he heard her decline? “I’m sorry I can’t do that.”

“Are you aware that your friend Father Monroe was arrested yesterday?”

“For what?”

“Insulting a Japanese officer. The punishment can be as extreme as death by beheading.”

Alexa’s mind whirled. Father Monroe was a good man. A bit naive, perhaps, but not one to go about insulting their conquerors. “There must be a mistake,” she said.

“Would you like to see him?”

Without waiting for an answer, Omori took her arm and led her outside and across a road to a building that looked like a warehouse. Inside, the walls were bare with a number of cruel-looking hooks hanging from rafters. From one of them dangled Father Monroe. He was naked and blindfolded, and his hands were tied behind his back. A rope from his wrists was connected to one of the hooks, and his feet were tantalizingly but barely in touch with the ground. Alexa watched in horror as he groped for the ability to stand and ease the pain in his extended shoulders.

“The effect of suspending him from his hands as we have,” Omori said, “is to slowly dislocate his shoulders. As you can see, he is suffering terribly.”

Alexa was appalled. “That’s barbaric.”

“Not to us. We believe in quick, severe justice in these circumstances. A trial would simply be a costly and unnecessary delay. Punishment must occur immediately and must deter others from doing the same thing. However, we do not consider the incident with Father Monroe serious enough to require his death.”

“How long will he be like this?” Alexa wanted to vomit. Under the blindfold, Father Monroe’s face was a mask of pain. Bruises and welts showed where he’d been beaten, and there was a puddle of urine and feces on the floor. She felt ashamed to be looking at his old, frail body in his humiliation and pain. She could not, however, stop staring. It was so horrible as to be unreal. It must be a nightmare from which she would soon wake up.

“He will remain where he is for twenty-four hours. Of course, he might be dead well before that, which would be a shame. However, he could be released if you agree to work with us. If you decline, he could easily die. Perhaps I will just leave him up there until that happens. If he’s stronger than he looks, he could be in agony for days.”

Alexa took a deep breath. The trap had been sprung and she was helpless. “All right,” she said sadly. “I’ll sign the statements.”

Omori led her back to his office, where she quickly signed all the papers he put in front of her. She didn’t reread them. There was no point. “We could have forged your signature,” he said, “but this is so much better. We will get back to you when we’re ready to record your speeches. As an added benefit for your cooperating with us, you will immediately start getting better rations, and you will no longer be required to work in the rice fields.”

Alexa mumbled her thanks. She would share her additional food with Melissa and the child. Perhaps some good would come of her humiliation.

When Alexa left to be driven back home, Omori turned to Goto, who had been watching the proceedings with interest. “Did you see how easy that was? Had I tortured her, she might have resisted out of a sense of outrage and courage, and made herself a useless martyr. But, by my threatening someone else and making her responsible for that other person’s fate, she folded immediately. Americans are very predictable like that. This is an extremely effective technique you can use in your own future interrogations.”

Goto nodded politely. He understood that Omori had gotten his desired result, but to Goto it had been an empty result because Mrs. Sanderson did not yet truly fear Omori and the kempetei. He preferred the more direct and painful approach. Not only was it equally effective, but it was so much more satisfying.

Omori laughed. “Besides, I have further plans for Mrs. Sanderson. I had no idea she was so attractive. American women are so tall and arrogant, and it is so marvelous to reduce them to a more primitive level. The next time she’s here, it’ll be far more interesting for both of us.”

Goto smiled. He did not think Mrs. Sanderson was attractive at all. Not only was she so much taller than both he and Omori but she was older than he was. Goto preferred his women to be both smaller and younger. Much younger.