Hunt for the Bamboo Rat Page 8

  The four guys followed several paces behind for close to ten minutes. When Zenji could no longer hear them, he glanced back and found them gone.

  He stopped, leaned against a building, and bent over to throw up. No one stopped to ask if he needed help.

  When he was able, he moved on toward the bay. His burning face and aching kidneys grew worse as he worked his way back to the Momo. Luckily, he made it to his room without being seen.

  Ma’s note, he thought, lying on his bed. That’s what saved me.

  He pulled the money out of his shirt pocket and looked at it. That money would end up in his mother’s hands if it was the last thing he did.

  * * *

  The next time he was called in to see Colonel Olsten, Zenji told him about the incident in the ghetto. “You wandered into Freddy’s territory,” the colonel said. “He sees guys like that every day.”

  “And they don’t kill him?”

  “They pushed him around at first. But you know Freddy.

  He bounced back and made it a point to get to know them.

  Now they give him information, some of it valuable.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Survivors. Criminals. The underworld. Living in a place where information can be had for a price. Men like that, for a couple of bucks, they’d pull their own mother’s fingernails out.”

  “But they wanted my ID. What’s that all about?”

  Colonel Olsten frowned. “My thought, too.”

  “Freddy has more guts than I do.”

  “No one trusts anyone where he is.”

  “It’s getting spooky around here, Colonel.”

  “You got it.”

  That night lying in bed, trying to fall asleep, Zenji knew he would never be the same. The personality of the city was changing, and so was he. One thing was sure: whenever the back of his neck tingled, he would go on full alert.

  He shuddered … then bolted upright.

  “Jeese!”

  Without warning, the tingling had sprung up again, crawling all over his skin: what if John Jones hired those guys … to roll me … for my ID? He kept asking if I was military. No one else ever has. What if he got those guys to search me?

  But why?

  That was the big question, not really the ID itself. Why did John Jones want to know if I was military?

  It didn’t make sense.

  One thing he knew—it was only a feeling, but it felt as real as a slap in the face: John Jones was not the American he seemed to be. There was something different about him, something bad.

  He was hunting, looking for something.

  That thought made Zenji shiver. Maybe Jones was hunting him.

  But why?

  Zenji lay back and put his pillow over his face. “Freddy,” he mumbled. “Be careful … very, very careful.”

  At the post office one day in mid-November, Zenji received instructions to report immediately to G2.

  When he got to Olsten’s office, the colonel said, “I have an assignment for you, Zenji, one you might find interesting. I want you to get to know someone. We’ve had eyes on him for a while now, but we need to get closer. I think you can do that for us.”

  “Not John Jones, I hope.”

  The colonel frowned. “Mr. Jones is still a mystery to us, but I’ve got people following up on it. No, this person is a young attorney from Honolulu by the name of Benny Suzuki. He’s been working here in Manila as a legal adviser to the Japanese embassy. We want to know what he does, specifically.”

  Zenji brightened. “From Honolulu?”

  The colonel smiled. “That’s your ticket in. You two will have something in common.”

  “So, I just walk in and try to meet him?”

  “Exactly. You heard about him from the men at the hotel and you were excited to hear there was someone else in Manila from Hawaii. Be casual. Maybe you’re homesick. Nothing more than that. Don’t raise suspicion.”

  “Got it.”

  “Check in by way of your post office box. Keep me current.”

  “I will, Colonel.” Zenji started to leave, then turned back. “I haven’t seen Freddy Kimura around at all. I’m concerned about him.”

  “Don’t worry about Freddy. We’ve got him on a special assignment at the moment. We just opened up an intelligence language school in San Francisco, and we’re having him provide information on the field so new linguists can get a truer picture of what they might be getting into in the Pacific.”

  “He’s in San Francisco?”

  The colonel laughed. “No, his office is still the ghetto.”

  “He can have it.”

  The next afternoon Zenji stopped by the Japanese embassy on Escolta Street to see Benny Suzuki. No appointment, best to just show up.

  He hoped.

  Benny’s receptionist was appalled that he thought he could just walk in and see someone. “He’s very busy,” she said in Japanese, hesitant to even let Benny know he had a visitor.

  Zenji nodded. “Yes, of course. But I heard he’s from Hawaii, like I am. I just wanted to introduce myself. I won’t take much of his time.”

  She eyed him, then huffed and got up. She tapped on a door. “Do you have a moment for an unscheduled visitor?”

  Benny came out and gave Zenji an impatient look. “Yes?”

  Zenji was momentarily knocked off-balance by how young Benny looked; not even thirty.

  He recovered quickly, brightening, trying to look as if he were finally meeting someone he’d been hoping to run into for some time.

  He spoke in Japanese. “Mr. Suzuki,” he said, extending his hand, “thank you for taking a moment out of your busy schedule. I’m Zenji Watanabe from Honolulu. I’m staying at the Momo hotel and heard from the businessmen there that there was another Hawaiian in town … and I just wanted to stop in and say hello.”

  A smile replaced Benny’s impatience. “Honolulu! Great, great.” He shook Zenji’s hand and switched to English. “It’s been a while since I’ve run into a fellow Hawaiian. Come into my office. What school did you go to?”

  He pointed Zenji to a chair.

  Zenji sat. “McKinley. Where’d you go?”

  “Roosevelt.”

  “Good school.”

  “For sure. You go to college?”

  Zenji shook his head. “Not yet. Still trying to figure out what I want to do with my life. I’m here mostly because I didn’t want to get drafted.” That lie had worked well at the Momo.

  Benny pulled his chair from behind his desk and sat facing Zenji. “So, tell me how you ended up in Manila.”

  “Well, I had a job on a ship, but being at sea wasn’t that exciting, plus I get seasick. So I jumped ship and found a job at a warehouse. It’s something. At least for now.”

  “And you’re staying at the Momo?”

  “Just happened on it. I like it there, full of businessmen from Japan.” He grinned. “They treat me like a kid brother.”

  “You speak Japanese well.”

  “I get along.”

  “Yeah, me too. Japanese school paid off, huh? That’s how I got this job. After law school I couldn’t find work back home, so I brought my family to Japan hoping to find something there. They can always use people who speak English. I got a job, but was soon sent here.”

  “Your family?”

  “Wife and son. He’s two now. But I’m so busy here I’m lucky to find five minutes to spend with him. He’s pretty much growing up without a father, and that’s not so good.”

  Zenji nodded. He felt for the boy. “I know what it’s like to grow up without a father. My dad died when I was eight.

  Accident at work.”

  Benny winced. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah.”

  After a second of awkward silence, Benny said, “I’m hoping to get some time off.” He shook his head. “I’m so swamped it could be a year before that happens.”

  “You look swamped,” Zenji said, nodding toward the stacks of paperwork
piled on the desk and on a folding table under the window.

  Benny grunted.

  Since Benny wasn’t bringing up U.S.-Japan relations, Zenji decided that he wouldn’t, either. Not until Benny did. “If you were back home, you could take your son to the beach.”

  “Yes, home.” Benny looked out the window.

  Zenji wondered what he was thinking.

  “So,” Benny said, regaining focus. “You didn’t want to get drafted.”

  “Yeah, my mother thinks the army is no place for me. She’s prob’ly right. Anyway, I wanted to travel and see the world.”

  Benny nodded slowly, pondering something.

  Zenji tried to relax, be careful he didn’t say something wrong. You’re a civilian, a kid looking to find himself.

  “You know,” Benny said. “If you have extra time in the evenings, I could use some help … and you could make some extra cash. You can see how much I have to do.”

  “That’s a lot of paper, all right.”

  “Too much for one guy. You could help me out and we could talk about home.”

  Zenji eyed all the papers. What might they reveal? He didn’t want to sound eager. “Well, I don’t know … I haven’t even gone to college yet.”

  “Don’t need college for what I’m thinking. You speak English and Japanese, and that’s what matters.”

  Zenji made a show of mulling it over. But inside he could hardly contain his excitement. Benny’s office could be a gold mine of information for G2.

  He nodded. “Sure. How can I help?”

  Benny grinned, tapping his fingers on his desk. “Did you know that the U.S. just froze the assets of all Japanese citizens living in the Philippines?”

  “Really? Why?” Zenji hadn’t heard that news.

  “Just happened, and I don’t know what caused it. But one thing is sure—I’m going to be flooded with requests, absolutely flooded.”

  “Requests for what?”

  “Asset reports. All Japanese nationals need to file a report with the U.S. High Commissioner’s Office. You can assist me by interviewing people and helping them fill out their declaration forms.”

  Colonel Olsten wasn’t going to believe this.

  “Do you think war is coming, Benny? I mean, between us and Japan?”

  “I sure hope not.”

  “What will you do if it does?”

  Benny looked down. “I don’t know.”

  In a moment, he glanced back up, and Zenji saw the worry in his eyes. “I’ve got my family here.”

  Zenji held Benny’s gaze until he felt uncomfortable. “Hey … uh … you sure I don’t need college to help you out?”

  Benny blinked and took a breath. “Positive.”

  “Well … fine, then,” Zenji said. “What do I have to do in the evenings, anyway? I can help you.”

  Colonel Olsten could hardly contain himself when Zenji told him about Benny Suzuki’s invitation. “Do it!” he said, astounded by the unexpected opportunity. “This is brilliant, Zenji! Brilliant!”

  “Yes, but it’s awkward, in a way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well … he’s just working for them. It’s a job. He couldn’t find work in Honolulu. He’s not really a Japan Japanese. If we got in a fight with Japan, he’d be in a jam. I don’t think he’d choose to be on their side.”

  “Why is that awkward?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to help him without admitting that I’d also been deceiving him.”

  Colonel Olsten thought a moment. “Yes, true. Time will play itself out, I suppose. Let’s just hope our diplomats are making progress.”

  On his first day of working for Benny Suzuki, Zenji learned how to help applicants fill out their asset declaration forms, and for weeks after, that’s what he did in the evenings.

  He quickly got over his reluctance to question his elders, who graciously understood that he was helping them, not being disrespectful.

  There wasn’t much to it, really. It was way easier than operating a forklift, and far more interesting than a fake job in a warehouse.

  Zenji set himself up in his room at the Momo hotel and offered his services. Benny paid him, but it was free to all Japanese nationals. When word got around about how easy it was to get help with the forms, Zenji received a ton of business, and was soon a kind of star at the Momo.

  “Look at you,” a businessman said at dinner one night. “At first you were just a kid who jumped ship. Now you’re a lawyer.”

  “Come see me when you get in trouble,” Zenji said.

  “I like your rates. No charge.”

  That caused a laugh.

  Zenji grinned, and added, “Yeah, but for you I’ve been thinking about raising my rates.”

  As he laughed, Zenji felt ill thinking about how deep his betrayal was becoming. It was the ultimate disrespect.

  But he had a sworn job to do.

  One valuable thing he learned for G2 was that somewhere around half the businessmen in Manila were Japanese military reservists, something Colonel Olsten had suspected and now knew for a fact.

  But that wasn’t all.

  One evening, a reluctant customer showed up at Zenji’s hotel room. He looked to be in his fifties and introduced himself as Saburo Hiashi. “I am a Japanese language school principal,” he said. “Can you help me with these forms?”

  “Of course. Come in. Please.”

  Zenji led him to the small desk near the only window. A gold-shaded lamp cast warm light over their work space.

  Mr. Hiashi sat and placed the forms on the table in front of him. He glanced around Zenji’s room, his eyes darting from one spot to another.

  He’s nervous, Zenji thought. Or maybe shy. No, that couldn’t be it. He was a school principal.

  Zenji noticed his fingers were thick, and his hands were rougher than one would expect of a principal, as if he were also a gardener or one who worked outside in some way.

  “So,” Zenji said. “Let’s take a look at what we have here, Mr. Hiashi.”

  Mr. Hiashi pushed the forms closer.

  Zenji flipped through the pages, smiling to put the man at ease. He was far more nervous than anyone Zenji had helped so far. Why?

  “I’m quite familiar with these forms,” Zenji said. “We’ll just start at the top.”

  Mr. Hiashi nodded. “It must be done.”

  “Yes,” Zenji said, amazed at how devoted these men were to following the letter of the law. He understood; it was his culture, too.

  Zenji filled in Mr. Hiashi’s basic information—who he was, where he lived, how he was employed and for how long.

  When they got to a question regarding his military service, Mr. Hiashi fell silent.

  Zenji looked up. “The military, Mr. Hiashi. Are you now, or have you ever served?”

  “Do I have to answer?”

  Zenji sat back and looked across the table. “Well, I guess you could skip it. But it would raise suspicion if you left it unanswered.”

  An uncomfortably long moment of silence followed before Mr. Hiashi spoke again. “What happens if I have served, but say I haven’t?”

  Zenji put his pen on the table. “I don’t know, Mr. Hiashi. I suspect that would be up to the person reading these forms.”

  Zenji waited.

  There’s something important here.

  Mr. Hiashi pursed his lips. “I am the ranking officer in the Philippine Japanese Reserve Corps.”

  Zenji squeezed his hand into a fist under the table as a distraction. He must not show one fragment of the surprise he felt. This was precisely the kind of information Colonel Olsten needed to know.

  “I see,” he said. He rubbed his chin, as if in thought. “That would make me hesitate, too, Mr. Hiashi.”

  Mr. Hiashi shifted in his chair. He almost smiled, as if relieved that Zenji was sympathetic. “I trained at the Nakano School for intelligence officers. It was an honor to have been chosen.”

  “Indeed,” Zenji said. “Indeed.”
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  Mr. Hiashi could be a possible source for a lot more information. “Listen,” Zenji said. “Why don’t we take a chance and say you’ve never been a part of the military. It’s most likely that no one will pursue it further.”

  Mr. Hiashi nodded once, with authority. “Thank you.”

  “Well, don’t thank me yet. Someone may question it.”

  “I understand.”

  Zenji finished with the forms and handed them back. “There you go. Turn them in and forget about it.”

  Mr. Hiashi stood, bowed curtly, and left.

  Zenji closed and locked the door. He sat on his bed to write his report. “With this I might get promoted to general.”

  He chuckled.

  Someone rapped on the door.

  Zenji stuffed his report under his pillow and stood up.

  It was Tadeo. He looked pale, spooked. “We just heard … a ship has arrived from Japan. They’re evacuating all Japanese embassy personnel and their families.”

  “What? When?”

  “Immediately.”

  The news caused a near panic at the hotel.

  Guests poured out of their rooms to stand in line around the two telephones in the lobby, trying to call home and see if anybody knew what was going on.

  Nobody knew anything.

  The evacuation had not been made public. Tadeo had gotten a call from a friend at the embassy, and that was all they knew.

  “Maybe it’s just a rumor,” Zenji said, mingling among the guests. He should call Benny. He’d know.

  “But the ship,” Tadeo said. “Why would it be here?”

  The next morning Zenji headed off to his fake job. As far as he could tell everything was normal. No one on the streets seemed any different. At the warehouse he asked if anyone knew about an evacuation of Japanese nationals. No one knew anything.

  He slipped out the back door and made his way to the harbor. If the ship was there, then what Tadeo had heard from his embassy friend had to be true.

  There it was.

  A long gray Japanese passenger liner alongside the wharf.

  Silent in the still water.

  It gave Zenji the creeps.

  It won’t be long, he thought. When people see crowds at the harbor, and lines of people climbing aboard that ship, Manila will know something is up, something bad.