At exactly twelve minutes before three, Fujii led Masters into the courtyard of the prison where a small, unmarked police car was waiting. On the front seat was the driver, and in the rear was a second officer with a boy seated on his left. They were handcuffed together. The guards were dressed in civilian clothes, and the boy wore an ill-fitting, prisoner’s uniform.
Masters glanced at him as he entered the front seat. He was Kimiko’s child, there was no question of that. The year and a half in prison had made him pale, his eyes were downcast, his shoulders drooping in dejection, but there was no doubt who he was. Even if he had not seen pictures of the boy at Kimiko’s house, Masters would have recognized him. He appeared to be slightly taller than Hiroko, with a more solid bone structure, and in the fine features and the rather long jaw - which were family characteristics - he saw the mother and the sister.
“Are you sure the guards speak English?” asked Masters.
“Yes,” said Fujii. He turned to the officers. “Do you have your instructions well in mind?” he asked in English.
“Yes, sir,” they said. The one in the back held up a small pair of binoculars. “I have the glasses, sir.”
The driver leaned forward to see his chief better. “And I have the correct address - at the intersection of Yatsushiro-Dori Avenue and Senda Dori Street. We can be there before three-thirty, sir.”
Fujii raised a brow at Masters, who smiled back. “Thank you,” he said. The adjutant nodded, closed the door of the car, and waved the driver off. He drove slowly through the courtyard to the gate. The gate guard, evidently expecting the vehicle, immediately opened the steel door and allowed it to leave without an inspection.
They turned southeast towards the city center, then swung west into a quieter sector. Masters glanced at his watch; it was 3:15. He swiveled in his seat and faced the guard in the rear. “Does the prisoner know what he is to do?”
“He speaks English, sir,” cautioned the guard. “Yes, he knows what he is here for.”
Masters looked directly at the boy and his heart thumped at this first actual confrontation. “What are you to do?” he asked him.
Ichiro’s eyes remained fixed to his lap. “I am to look at two Americans and to tell you if I have ever seen them before.” His English was not as precise as Hiroko’s, and was heavily accented.
“Very good,” said Masters, turning back in his seat.
“It’s directly ahead,” said the driver, motioning with his hand.
“All right,” said Masters. “Pull over to the curb.” While the vehicle was slowing down, he peered along the lightly-trafficked street for other police cars. There were none. But he was apprehensive, afraid of that prison adjutant and the thoughts which might come into his razor-sharp mind.
The car stopped. Masters and the officers leaned forward to scan the corner, about fifty yards away. There was a restaurant on the near side. “They will meet there,” said Masters, pointing it out. “May I have the glasses, please?” The guard in the rear handed them over. Masters focused them on the corner, then slowly swept the area. There were a number of people walking along the sidewalk, and cars passed from time to time. He scrutinized the people lounging about or stopping to look into windows, then turned his attention to the parked cars along the street, searching to see if they contained any police.
When Masters was satisfied that all was normal, he gave back the binoculars, lifted the attaché case onto his lap, and unhooked the snaps.
The driver’s attention was on the corner when Masters’ hand slid into the case and drew out a pistol. With the same swiveling movement he had used to turn to speak to the rear guard, Masters crashed the weapon against the driver’s temple! The man’s head snapped back! His eyes widened. Then he fell forward against the steering wheel.
Masters did not pause to see the results of his blow. The pistol swiftly continued its turn and stopped, aimed directly at the officer in the back. “Don’t move, or I’ll kill you where you sit,” he growled.
The guard flinched and his mouth popped open in amazement. “Ichiro!” called Masters. The boy’s eyes, rising at Masters’ command to the guard, focused on the American officer with a leveled pistol. “Ichiro, you told someone to listen to the heart. Do you know who I mean?”
The boy hesitated, then his eyes narrowed. “Yes.”
“I am the one spoken about. Do you understand me? Quickly!”
He was Hiroko’s brother, for he grasped it immediately. “Yes,” he said, astonishment written on his face.
Masters handed over the second pistol. “Put this in the guard’s ribs. If he moves, kill him,” he said flatly.
The boy took it gingerly, then squared his jaw and thrust the muzzle into the officer’s side.
Masters glanced at the driver; he was still unconscious. He lowered the gun to his lap to conceal it, and quickly scanned the street. All was still calm. He turned back to the guard. “Unlock the handcuffs,” he snapped.
The man swallowed, then reached into a pocket and pulled out the keys. In an instant the cuff was off the boy’s wrist. “Come here,” Masters growled at the officer. The man sat forward, completely unafraid, fury flaming from his eyes. Masters raised the pistol and brought it down savagely on his head. A cotton cap cushioned the blow, but he knew that it had been a good one. The guard slid limply to the floor.
A man and woman paused by the car, looking curiously at them. Masters motioned roughly for them to keep going. The woman grasped the man’s arm and pulled him along.
“Come, Ichiro, hurry!” said Masters, jumping out of the car and striding back along the street. In seconds, the boy was at his side, baggy prison uniform standing out like a sore thumb. The small Nissan that Masters had rented was only half a block away. Quickly they leaped inside.
Several people had collected around the police car when he sped by, but he blanked out of his mind the many things which could happen and concentrated only on the route he had prepared so diligently and over which he had driven a number of times to familiarize himself with the turns and traffic.
In fifteen minutes they were through the busy section of the city and speeding along the quieter streets leading westward out of the metropolis. Half an hour later they were on the highway traversing the island. Soon he saw the turn-off he had selected, and slowed to enter the forest. Hidden amongst the trees the Toyo was waiting - and Hiroko.
She was leaning against the rear of the car when they came into view. With a cry of relief, she rushed towards them, pulling open the door before he had completely stopped and throwing her arms around Ichiro.
Masters’ eyes flashed to her hands - they were encased in gloves. “Later,” he snapped, bringing their attention to him. “Quick, get him in the car!”
Hiroko grasped Ichiro’s hand, led him from the small vehicle to the open trunk of the Toyo, and told him to lie down inside. Masters drove the Nissan deep into the woods, turned off the path, and parked it among a clump of bushes to conceal it. He trotted back to the larger car and got down on the floor of the rear seat. “Okay, Hiroko,” he called out. “Let’s go.” They bumped over the rough path, then it became smooth as she turned onto the main, asphalted highway. In minutes she was racing westward.
“Not so fast,” Masters growled. She slowed down. He looked at his watch; it was almost 5 p.m. Then, for the first time that afternoon, he listened to his pounding heart, drew in a deep breath, and closed his eyes.
He opened them quickly enough about forty-five minutes later. “Keith,” called Hiroko, and he sensed from her tone of voice that it wasn’t to ask the time.
“What’s up?”
“There is a line of cars ahead. I think the police are checking them.”
“Don’t slow up yet,” he warned. “Keep driving normally. How far ahead?”
“About a quarter of a mile.”
“Hiroko, listen closely. Don’t panic. Are there any turnoffs?”
“No, Keith.” Her voice was shaky. The car slackened speed.
“What are the police doing?”
“They’re inspecting the cars. There are a number of Nissans on the side of the road. They’re checking them closely.”
“Are they looking in the trunks of the other cars?”
“I don’t think so.” The Toyo was just crawling along now.
“Listen, Hiroko,” he said, speaking rapidly. “Do everything you can to distract the inspector, make eyes at him. If he hesitates one second, wave at him, say thank you, and take off - slowly. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Keith.”
“If he opens my door, give the car the gas and break out. Then get ready for me to jump up front and take the wheel. Do you hear?”
“Yes, Keith.”
“Don’t panic, Hiroko, don’t panic.”
She didn’t answer, for she had come to a stop. Masters drew a blanket over himself and lay back, breathing hard. He cursed himself for letting her get involved in this. Then his hand slipped to the pistol in his belt, and he drew it out.
The car moved forward a few feet and stopped again. He could hear a man talking. The voice came closer. Then he heard a man speaking directly beside the car.
Hiroko asked a question and the man replied. She made a remark, and they both began laughing. She added something else - then the car started moving.
He found that he was trembling. After a minute or two, Hiroko called back to him, “It’s all right, Keith.” Her voice was quavering.
He loosened his grip on the pistol, and threw off the blanket, breathing as if he had run uphill. “What happened?”
“I did what you told me. When he came over, I asked him what was going on, and he said they were looking for two men.” Her voice regained confidence. “I told him to let me know if he found them, because I was in need of a man. He laughed. Then I wished him good hunting and took off. He waved goodbye.”
Masters shook his head, chuckling. That Hiroko. The man who gets her should give thanks every morning, noon and night. “Good work,” he called out.
It was after eight and growing dark when they reached their first stop. Hiroko pulled into a small woods and shut off the ignition. Masters climbed out, stiff from lying in a cramped position, stretched his aching muscles, then reached for a package wrapped in brown paper which was lying on the rear seat. Ichiro was already out of the trunk, seemingly unaffected by having lain in a ball for three hours. He and Hiroko were talking rapidly in Japanese.
“Here,” said Masters, handing him the package. “There are clothes inside. Change.” The boy took the bundle and went behind a tree. Masters took another package from off the seat and began stripping off the uniform. Hiroko, unabashed, helped him disrobe and put on his suit. Then she took a food hamper from the front seat and began to lay out sandwiches and cokes.
“Keith,” she called. He walked over to her. “Were you afraid, when we stopped?”
“A little.”
“I would have panicked if you hadn’t spoken to me.”
He patted her shoulder gently. “No you wouldn’t. You are one helluva person, Hiroko.” When Ichiro came up, Masters took a sandwich and a coke. “We have about an hour,” he said to them. “So, go ahead and talk, but keep your voices down.”
He walked through the darkness towards the main road a hundred yards away. At a position a few yards from the edge of the tree-line, he squatted, placed the pistol by his side, and began to eat. He chewed slowly, stopping the movements of his jaws to listen better whenever a car approached, then continued eating as it sped by.
Towards the end of the hour, he rose, stretched, and returned to the car. Hiroko and Ichiro were seated in the front, talking. He got into the back seat. “We still have a few more minutes. Hiroko, did you take off your gloves to eat?”
“No, Keith, I have done exactly as you told me.”
“Did you open your purse or drop any personal effects?”
“No, I didn’t wear any jewelry except my watch, and I didn’t touch my purse.”
“Okay. Did you explain the rest of the plan to Ichiro?”
“Yes.”
“How about corresponding later? Have you decided on a system?”
From the silence, he knew they had not. Hiroko began speaking in Japanese, then stopped and switched to English. “Write to father’s youngest brother,” she told the boy. “And sign your letter with an 0.”
Ichiro was staring through the darkness at Masters. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am, Mr. Masters.”
“All right, but spend the time talking to Hiroko and giving her messages for your mother. We will have time to speak later.”
He sat quietly, listening to them, then after a while he sat up. “Well, we must get started now.”
Ichiro returned to his place in the trunk, Masters resumed his position in the rear of the car, and soon they were back on the highway. Hiroko drove steadily, and just before midnight he heard her call out, “We’re almost there.” He rose from the floor and saw they were coming into Takada. Lights from a few houses were still burning. She entered the town, drove by the parking area, and stopped a block further on.
“Keith,” she said, softly.
“Yes.”
“Do we have a few minutes to talk together?”
“No. It is always the few minutes which destroy a plan.”
“Where will you really go - afterwards?”
“I don’t know. Maybe try for South Korea. Tell your mother to sit tight - I’ll write when I’m able to.” He reached into his pocket. “I almost forgot, here’s four thousand dollars. I’ve kept out enough for Ichiro - and to see this through.”
“Please keep it.”
“Take it,” he ordered. She put it in her purse.
She turned to look back at him, and there were tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Keith, for Ichiro, for mother, for ...” She stopped.
His throat was suddenly dry. “Will you give your mother many kisses for me?”
“Every day, until we meet again.”
“Goodbye, Hiroko.”
“I love you, Keith.”
“And I love you.”
She stepped out, leaving the door ajar, and started towards the parking lot where she had left Kimiko’s car. Masters got behind the wheel, then put his head out of the window to watch her walking stiffly up the street. She was going to have a long drive tonight, back to Tokyo, to establish her alibi.
He started the car and drove through the town, then out to the countryside for a couple of miles until he reached the next stop. It was a small grove of trees. He turned in and parked.
He helped Ichiro out of the trunk, then picked up his blanket and the one the boy had been lying on. “Come.” He led him across an open field to a copse about two hundred yards away, where he spread the blankets. “We’ll stay here until it’s time to go.”
They sat down. The boy was silent for a while. “Hiroko told me how much you care for mother. I feel very bad that you are in so much trouble because of me.”
“If I can get you free, your mother will be a happy woman.”
“But she will be sad that you have gone.”
“Perhaps we may meet again. I’ll try to work it out.”
Ichiro was silent again. Masters thought he had fallen asleep, but soon he shifted his position. “Lie down and sleep,” he told the boy.
“I am not tired,” said Ichiro. “Mr. Masters, would you please tell me about my father?”
“What do you want to know?”
“What he was like, when you saw him.”
“I don’t remember, Ichiro. The fight was over very quickly - and I left soon after. I think I’ve obtained more of a picture of him since I’ve been here than from the few minutes - we met.”
“Did he die bravely?”
“Yes, but his courage was not just shown in the way he died, but rather in the way he continued the struggle during the weeks when there was no hope. A lesser man would have given up long before then.”
“Would you have?”
“Yes.”
“That’s hard to believe, Mr. Masters.”
“Perhaps. But it’s true.”
The boy was silent again. Then he stirred. “Will you come to North Korea with me?”
“No, I fought them in my lifetime. They are still my enemy.”
“You fought my country also.”
Masters grinned; this boy was so much like Hiroko. “I said that incorrectly,” he acknowledged. “Their ideology is my enemy.”
“But you are helping me.”
“There are exceptions to everything.”
The boy hesitated. “I am not a Communist, Mr. Masters. I never was.”
“I figured that. They were the instrument of your hatred, weren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Will you mind going to North Korea?”
“No, I want to live.”
Speaking of living reminded Masters of something. He counted out several bills and gave them to the boy. “Here’s five hundred thousand yen. I guess your mother will get more to you later if you need it.”
The boy took the money. “Thank you.”
Masters leaned back against a tree, very tired. “Would you,” he asked Ichiro, “have used the gun if the guard had moved?”
“No.”
“Both of us were in danger.”
“I would not have shot him. I could never harm another person, never.”
Masters sat up. “Listen to me carefully, Ichiro. You have murdered a man. You’ve had time to think about it and understand what a terrible thing you’ve done. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t fight if you have to - if you believe what you’re doing is right.”
“Would you have shot the guard?”
“You’re damned right I would have.”
“But we were in the wrong.”
“You were, I wasn’t. If I had killed him and been put in prison for the rest of my life, or even sentenced to be executed for it, I would still believe that what I had done was right.” The boy was confused. “Look, Ichiro, a lot of values in this world of ours are at odds with each other. The Bible says you must not kill, but society declares wars and says, ‘Boys, go ahead and kill - you’ve got a special dispensation and an up-to-date hunting license’.
“Society says you should not murder, and it has electric chairs and scaffolds and gas tablets to punish those who do. But if someone had murdered Hitler or Tojo or Mussolini, he would have been given a medal. The answer, I guess, is to be with the right society at the right time.
“However, there is another value, that which is within a man himself. What he believes in. Each man has to weigh his own convictions, because in the end he’s the one who has to live with them - and maybe die because of them. And somewhere along a man’s life, he has to fight. It would be wonderful if the most he had to do was to punch somebody on the nose, but generally it doesn’t work out that way. But if he has once burned his fingers and says he will never use fire again because of that, he’s running away and, sure as God made apples, the fire will catch up with him.
“You’ve killed wrongly, and you’re trying to atone for it by simply saying you’ll never kill again. That’s not enough. You’ve got to try to make amends, by looking around you every day and helping this person and that person and paying it back, dime by dime, even though you know you can never completely repay it.
“And somewhere along the line you may have to fight for this person or that person, because violence is the way of life. But if you turn your back on fighting, then it isn’t atonement - it’s self-pity. Just make sure, when you turn away, that some innocent person doesn’t take the blow meant for you.”
He held up his watch to the dim light of the quarter-moon. “We’ve got to get some rest.” They lay down, and soon he heard the boy’s even breathing. He put his arms behind his head, and, thinking about Kimiko, he was soon asleep.
Masters woke shortly before 4 a.m. He lay still, wondering what the next few hours and days would bring. When he realized that he was about to build castles in the air, he sat up, stretched, and looked down at the sleeping boy.
At four-thirty he shook him awake, folded the blankets, and led the way back to the car. “Up front,” he told him. He started the car, and in a few minutes they were on the road to Naoetsu. He drove slowly, aware that the final stop was only ten minutes away and that he must not arrive before five o’clock.
The small fishing village of Naoetsu was still asleep when they arrived.
He drove directly to the waterfront, then along the dock area to a shed. “Open it,” he said.
Ichiro stepped out, opened the door, and stood back as Masters eased the car inside. He could barely get out of the car, the shed was so narrow. He closed the door and led the way along the dock.
Fishermen were stirring, with here and there a boat already putting out to fish the Sea of Japan. He went straight to a small sloop, about thirty feet long, and jumped aboard, motioning to the boy to follow.
An old fisherman with a long, scraggly, gray beard came out of the pilothouse, buttoning his pants. Behind him was a young boy of about sixteen, still half asleep.
“Good morning,” said Masters. “Can we get started right away?”
The old man scratched his head and grinned. Masters turned to Ichiro. “I’ve been having trouble making him understand.” The boy immediately passed on the order, and the old man, yawning, nodded his head, went to the auxiliary motor, tinkered with it for a few minutes, and soon it came to life, sounding as if it would not hold up very long.
Masters and Ichiro crowded into the tiny, smelly pilothouse to keep out of sight. In a few minutes, the boat started out to sea. The sun was well up by the time the old man set sail and turned southwest.
When they were far out from land, Masters led Ichiro out on deck. “The old man,” he explained, “has been hired to take us to Kangnung, South Korea. That’s about seventy-five miles from the Commie border. I told him we were going to South Korea because he would probably be afraid to go anywhere near North Korea. The chart shows that we must sail about a day and a half to reach Kangnung. Tomorrow morning we will make him change direction and go due west, rather than southwest. That will put us in North Korean waters.”
He stretched his tired muscles; lack of sleep and anxiety had drained his energy. “Try to find out where he keeps his charts and ask him to explain them to you.”
The boy went off, and Masters sat down wearily. A short while later, Ichiro roused him, placing on the deck an old, soiled chart. “He says we will sail generally along this line,” the boy said, “and will reach these points every six hours.”
Masters blinked the sleep from his eyes and leaned over to study it. “Where will we be tomorrow morning?” he asked.
“Here.”
“Okay, we’ll force the change of course then. Are you sleepy?”
“No.”
“Then keep watch. When you become tired, wake me up.” With that, he turned away, rolled himself in the blankets he had brought from the car, and went back to sleep.
At noon, the old man boiled rice and fish, but Masters ate just some rice and drank a bottle of beer. The day passed slowly, finally ebbing away into darkness. They took turns sleeping throughout the night.
At sun-up they faced the old man. “Tell him to change course to due west,” ordered Masters. Ichiro translated.
The old man squatted and tugged at his beard. He sat a full minute before he let loose a torrent of words. Ichiro heard him out patiently, then turned to Masters. “He is afraid the North Koreans will confiscate his boat and put him in jail for entering their waters. He refuses to do it.”
“Offer him two hundred thousand yen extra. I’ve already given him seventy-five thousand and promised him one hundred and fifty thousand more when we land at Kangnung.”
The old man thought this over for another full minute, then spoke again at great length. “He repeats himself,” explained Ichiro, “and adds that this boat is worth much more than that. Also that the North Koreans will take the money from him anyhow.”
Masters squatted by the old man, thinking. He had to agree that the fisherman did have a point. “Ask him,” he finally said, “if he will sail in close enough to the North Korean coast for you to row his small boat ashore.” The rowboat atop the cabin was battered and Masters looked at it apprehensively.
The question threw the old man into a frenzy. “He doesn’t want to go near them, under any circumstances,” said Ichiro.
“Okay, let’s take over,” growled Masters. He drew out his pistol and aimed it at the old man. The fisherman just grinned. Masters lowered the weapon and pulled the trigger. The bullet struck a couple of inches away from the old man’s foot. He remained squatting, peering at the hole in the deck. Masters fired again at the same spot. The bullet bored in an inch nearer. The man’s foot involuntarily turned inward, so Masters quickly fired a third time. It still didn’t faze the fisherman.
Masters sighed, then placed a bullet through the fleshy part of the man’s upper arm. The old man stared at the blood staining his jacket sleeve, then, still silent, he untied the band of cloth holding up his pants and bound it over the wound.
“Tell him the next one goes right through his head!” snapped Masters.
His tone of voice, rather than the explanation by Ichiro, brought results. The old man muttered something to the boy and stood up. “He agrees,” said Ichiro. “But he wants his money now.”
Masters counted out one hundred and fifty thousand yen and handed it to the fisherman. “Tell him that he gets the two hundred thousand bonus only when you are put ashore.”
For the remainder of the day they watched the man and boy closely, consenting to the changes of course to expend time until nightfall, but taking turns to read the compass and record time and direction to ascertain that the old man was up to no tricks.
Just before darkness fell, the boat, having slowly closed in on North Korea all day, was pointed due west and kept on course. About two o’clock in the morning, they were but a few miles from shore.
“He doesn’t want to go any further,” said Ichiro.
“Tell him to keep going or I’ll pull down the sails and go in myself with the auxiliary motor.” The boat kept sailing.
A half-hour later, the old man was in a frenzy again, absolutely refusing to go any further. “He’s afraid we might hit something,” said the boy.
“Okay.” The fisherman and his young assistant dropped the sails, lowered the rowboat over the side, and stood back waiting. Masters led Ichiro to the stern of the sloop. He looked down at him and grinned. “Guess you may make it, son. Take the old man’s flashlight. When you get ashore, signal me with two long and two short flashes.”
Ichiro shyly put out his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Masters, thank you for my life. And I will not forget anything you have said, ever.”
Ichiro and the fisherman’s assistant got into the rowboat, and it was quickly swallowed up by the darkness. Masters and the old man squatted by the rail, anxiously watching the shoreline.
It was almost an hour later that he saw two long and then two short flashes. He picked up a flashlight resting beside him and signaled back. Then he handed the flashlight to the old man to guide his assistant back, and stood up.
He knew his body had held out only until this moment, so he didn’t fight it any longer. His hand went to his pocket, brought out the bottle of pills, and unscrewed the cap. For a moment he thought he was going to beat it. He got the pill into his mouth. Then it hit! He slumped to his knees as if he had been shot in the chest. He clawed at his jacket and shirt while the screams welled up inside him, then he felt the unbearable agony that put an end to any thought of screaming.
Finally he tumbled to the deck.