Masters later learned that everything in the book had happened that day. First, the old man had dragged his body into the pilothouse, happily concluding that he was dead. He had taken the remainder of the money from Masters’ pocket, the equivalent of one thousand two hundred dollars, and debated whether or not to cast him overboard.
Fortunately, Masters had stirred, so the old man had thrown a blanket over him and set sail for Japan. At late afternoon, a Japanese patrol boat had stumbled upon them. The police had initially flung the net southwest, far off the trail, due to the fisherman’s grandson, the sixteen-year old boy, having mentioned around the dock that they had a charter for Kangnung, South Korea.
The patrol boat captain, congratulating himself on this chance encounter, had taken the semi-conscious American aboard, put a guard on the old man’s boat to keep an eye on things, and had then gunned his twin engines to speed back to his base at Niigata.
They had arrived early the following morning, and the police doctors at Niigata had placed Masters in isolation, giving him merely normal care. A shattering phone call from Tokyo changed all that; they began rushing about to make certain that the pale, clammy American lived long enough to talk.
Ten days later, he was loaded into an ambulance and, with a strong police escort, was taken to Tokyo and lodged in the National Police Hospital.
By this time, Masters had regained sufficient strength to be aware of what was going on around him. He was carried into a room off the main ward, and a guard was stationed at the door. He didn’t know why a guard was necessary; the windows were barred and, anyway, he lacked the strength to even crawl off the bed.
They gave him another week before the inquisition began. The door opened and two Japanese entered. One was tall and the other short. The short man stood at the foot of the bed and opened a pad while the tall one came to Masters’ side and sat on a white, metal chair.
“We are from the National Police,” he said. “You are Keith Masters.” It wasn’t even a question.
Masters didn’t bother answering.
“Are you Keith Masters?” the policeman finally asked.
“Yes.”
“Where have you been living since you came to Japan?”
Masters sighed. “I want to talk to somebody from the American Embassy.”
“They have been notified of your apprehension. Now, where have you been living?”
“I want to talk to somebody from the American Embassy,” repeated Masters.
“They will come when they decide to come. Answer my question.”
“I’ll wait for them before I say anything.”
The cop shrugged and signaled to his partner, who closed his pad and opened the door. Captain Watanabe entered. He came to the foot of the bed and looked at Masters, his unblinking eyes expressing no emotion whatsoever. The lanky man spoke in Japanese, and the Captain answered briefly in a flat tone of voice. Then Watanabe left the room.
Lieutenant Fujii came in next. His eyes were different; they were full of rage. He stood straight as a rod as he answered a few questions then walked stiffly from the room.
The driver of the car which had taken Ichiro from the prison then entered. He replied quietly to the questions. As he turned to leave, Masters said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what?” the tall one asked immediately.
“I was just clearing my throat,” said Masters.
The cop didn’t have a sense of humor; he motioned to his partner to bring in the guard who had been on the rear seat with Ichiro. He was the one who had been unafraid, and Masters thought he would climb over the foot of the bed at him. He answered the questions loudly and at length and it was evident that he wasn’t putting in any good words for the man lying on the bed.
“I’m sorry,” said Masters lamely, as the guard turned to go.
He spun round, his lips twisting into a snarl, then he controlled himself and strode out. The tall cop didn’t even ask Masters if he had been clearing his throat again.
They brought in the guards from the information desk at the prison, then the two girls and the middle-aged man from Watanabe’s outer office, and even the officer who had opened the prison gate to let out the car.
Masters enjoyed the visit of the clerk from the small hotel - or rather he enjoyed the discomfort it gave to the lanky cop. The clerk talked and talked, as if he had kept a day by day diary of Masters’ stay there. He understood some of the man’s remarks; about a well-dressed woman who drove an expensive car; a beautiful girl who visited his room almost every day; the way his bed was never mussed up by sleeping or - he became dramatic - love-making; and on and on and on.
The cop must have heard all this before, for he tried several times to interrupt, but without success, so he fidgeted until the clerk ran out of words.
After the talkative one had left, they brought in a bespectacled man, who was identified as a clerk from the second hotel, then the people from the car rental agencies, and later on a few more he had never seen before, or did not recall seeing.
The old fisherman came in carrying his arm in a sling, and he immediately began talking faster than the first hotel clerk, pointing to his injured arm and going through all sorts of gestures for the benefit of the police taking the report. Masters wondered how much he would try to sue him for, since the minor flesh wound would keep growing and growing until it became a permanent disability.
The young boy from the boat was next, and after him came a clerk from one of the stores where he had tried to purchase a handgun.
Then suddenly, the room was empty, and he lay back, sighing with relief. He should have known better, for the tall cop reappeared, and with him was Lieutenant Colonel Charles Durkin.
The Colonel looked closely at Masters, then turned to the police investigator. “He’s the one,” he said, simply.
“Can I speak to him - alone?” asked Masters.
The cop thought this over, then nodded. When he had gone, Masters cocked an eye at Durkin. “I guess you understand why I can’t say anything for the record, but if I could, I would say I’m sorry.”
For a moment the Colonel wasn’t certain how to treat it, then he relaxed. “I’ve gotten a few of the facts together,” he said, “and from what I’ve heard, I might be tempted to forgive you. Incidentally, I received all my personal effects by mail a couple of weeks ago. I can see it wasn’t robbery.” He hesitated. “I had to tell the police about getting them back. But last week I received a very beautiful set of jade earrings - for my wife, I guess. Should I say anything?”
Masters shook his head. That damned Hiroko. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“That crack on the head? I’m all right - it didn’t kill me. But it sure played hell with my reputation. I was a judo instructor for five years, and now I’ll have to quit bragging. Well, so long, Masters, I hope they’re not too rough on you.”
And that took care of the morning.
In the afternoon, he was barraged by the Americans. Directly after lunch, an alert looking young fellow came in. “Mr. Masters?” he asked, cheerfully.
“Yes.”
“I’m Pete McMahon, of the Embassy. Would have gotten down to see you before now, but they said you were still somewhat under the weather.”
They shook hands. “Glad to see you,” said Masters, relieved. He eyed the young man. “What’s the land of the Great White Father going to do?”
“Oh, we’ll be there with you. I’d better explain right off the bat that you are definitely subject to Japanese law, but we’ll see that you get proper legal representation. Do you have any money?”
“Not a helluva lot.”
“Well, you can be sure your rights will be protected and that you will be assigned a proper attorney by the State. He may not be first class, as the Japanese Government have a list and one is selected by lot, but we’ll have someone from the Embassy attend the trial and see that everything is according to law and all that.”
“And then what?”
The young fellow caught the gleam of humor in Masters’ eyes. “Well, after they sentence you to a couple of hundred years in prison, we’ll come by now and then. By the way, do you need anything?”
“Yeah, how about getting somebody to break me out of here?”
They both laughed. “Sorry we can’t help more,” added McMahon, “but your treatment will be quite above board, we’ll see to that.”
“How about bail?”
“We’ve already checked on that. It was refused.”
Masters felt much better after the enthusiastic young man had left; at least he wouldn’t be getting a drum-head trial.
A short while later, there was a knock at the door, and Bill Wilson, accompanied by a tall, gray-haired full Colonel, came in. Bill tried to hide his anxiety with a big grin, but it didn’t come off too well. He shook Masters’ hand.
“Hi, you wild bastard,” he said, rather softly. “I should have known you were up to something. Are you all right?”
“I’m okay, Bill. Thanks. Did they grill you?”
“And how. What a patsy you made of me. The Old Man is eyeing me like I should have my head examined.” He turned to the Colonel. “Sir, this is Keith Masters. Keith, this is Colonel Carradine. I hope you don’t mind my bringing him along.”
Masters glanced at the Judge Advocate’s insignia on his uniform. “Is the United States Army going to hang me, too?”
The Colonel grinned as he brought a chair over to the bed. “Hello, Masters,” he said, shaking his hand. “Wilson has been beating my ear off, so I thought I’d come along and have a few words with you.” He pulled out a folder. “We sent to Washington for your record. You’ve been a pretty good soldier.”
“Pretty good, my eye,” interjected Bill. “He was a real soldier. Christ, Colonel, we just can’t let the Nips drop him into one of their cells.”
“Your record,” explained the Colonel, “would have weight in an American court, but the Japanese ...” He glanced again at the folder. “A DSC, Silver Star with cluster....”
“One of those Silver Stars was mine,” interrupted Bill. “He wouldn’t have gotten it without me.”
“Lay off,” said Masters.
“Like hell, I will,” replied Bill, seriously. “I owe you one, Keith, a real big one. You just shut up and let people say what they must.” He turned to the Colonel. “Keith saved my life in Korea, and not by just reaching out a hand and pulling a fellow back into a hole. Colonel, I don’t give a shit what he’s done, you’ve got to help.”
“Well, perhaps it would be best to get all the facts before giving an opinion.”
Masters sat up a little. “If I say anything, can they make you reveal it in court?”
Carradine rubbed his jaw. “They can work on Wilson, but I can claim a consultant’s immunity.” He turned to Bill. “How about taking a walk?”
“Okay,” he replied, pleased to see that the Colonel intended to help. “I’ll wait outside.”
Masters told the Colonel the entire story, from start to finish, from Iwo Jima to Kimiko’s house. He left out nothing except intimate details. The officer listened closely, making notes every now and then. When Masters had finished, he leaned back in his chair and rocked to and fro for a few minutes.
“Well,” he finally said. “There isn’t a damn thing the United States Government can do to you. Your only concern is the Japanese court, and I’m not enough of an expert in their law to advise you.”
“You mean I haven’t violated American law? How about wearing the uniform?”
“The impersonation of an officer was not done in the United States.”
“How about conking Durkin and taking his things?”
“The housing area was on property subject to Japanese law. Even if we had caught you in the act, we would still have had to turn you over to them. You’re a civilian. The army has no jurisdiction over you, and the United States civil authorities have none either - as regards this case. You can only be tried and sentenced by the people having jurisdiction, and in this action it is the Japanese. Of course, if you ever return to the United States, Colonel Durkin could bring suit for physical damages, if any were sustained. Outside of that - nothing.” He called in Bill. “There’s nothing for me here, Wilson. Masters has not violated any American law.”
Bill heaved a great sigh of relief. “How about the Nip courts. Can you help there?”
“I’ll speak to some of my people in the office and look for a good attorney. They come high, though.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Wilson.
“Bill ...” started Masters.
“No dice,” said Bill, cutting him off short. “You just lie quiet and rest.” He took Masters’ hand. “Hold on tight, wild man. I’ll visit you again as soon as I get something going.”
When they had gone, he lay back and tried to calm his jumping heart. They wouldn’t get him to court alive if the door kept opening and closing like it did today. He tried to think of Kimiko, but he was too weary. He was too weary to think of anything except breaking down and crying, and maybe begging to be put some place where it was restful, where the vise-like pressure on his chest could be eased.
For a moment he thought of Ichiro, of when the boy had asked him if he would have surrendered, and how he had said “yes”. But deep inside, he knew he was pulling the kid’s leg, that he would have tried to kill at least one more guy instead of hiding in a cave and rotting away like a vegetable.
But now he wanted to surrender, and didn’t know how. All he wanted was peace and quiet, for people to leave him alone so he could get that goddamn weight off his chest and that crummy, broken-down heart to allay its searing pain.
But he could feel the net drawing in relentlessly. They were going to stamp on him, cut him up, hurt and torture his body - and all the praying and begging and blustering in the world wouldn’t make one goddamn bit of difference. If it hurt one iota more, he decided, I’d kill myself. Then I’d have no more of it. But like some gullible simpleton, my brain will listen to some fool nonsense that the pain and heaviness inside must sooner or later ease up and will tell the muscles not to finish me off yet, but to hold off for just a little longer. Horseshit.
He tried to sleep that night, but it was difficult to go under, and it was a restless sleep that weakened the already fragile fibers of his heart.
In the morning, the doctor took one look at him and stopped all further questioning. It was three more days before the police could prevail upon him to relax his restrictions, and on the following morning, Masters got his first pleasant surprise. Mr. Takahashi, Ichiro’s attorney, walked in. He stopped at the doorway, bowed, and advanced to the bed. Behind him was a tall, husky, young man. Without a word, the lawyer reached into an inner pocket and handed Masters a sealed envelope. Masters motioned for them to take seats, then tore open the envelope. It was a letter from Hiroko.
‘Oh, Keith, dear, dear Keith. Mother and I are frantic with worry. We hope you are getting better, and we send our love and our gratitude. Please, Keith, keep well for us. Mother has sent Mr. Takahashi to assist you. He is very interested in your case. Will you please accept him? Just nod at him. He’ll understand.’
Masters raised his eyes to the lawyer and nodded. Takahashi nodded back and placed one finger in the palm of his other hand.
‘With Mr. Takahashi,’ continued Hiroko, ‘is Mr. Kawamoto, his chief assistant, who speaks fluent English and can interpret. Mr. Kawamoto is a wonderful young man. He told me to shut up and keep to the point when I spoke about you. He looks and acts so much like you that I think I could fall in love with him. Please nod again at Mr. Takahashi if you accept him as an interpreter.’
Masters studied the tall, husky aide. Like hell he looks like me; that fellow is a damned good-looking guy. He switched his glance to the attorney and nodded again. Takahashi placed a second finger in his palm.
‘Keith, mother and I are determined to visit you. Mr. Takahashi says we should not, but he is only smart in legal matters. Now you just nod ‘yes’ at him.’
Masters grinned and shook his head. The lawyer almost smiled, then took his fingers out of his hand.
The next part of the letter was written in tiny, precise letters, and they reminded him immediately of the woman.
‘My dear Keith. Forgive me, dear husband, for having had doubts during the weeks you were worrying and making yourself ill to help Ichiro. Thank you, dear husband, for having given life back to my son. My heart is sad that you are not a free man and that you have no one to take care of you. I have been to my altar and prayed like I have never prayed before. I love you.’ It was signed, ‘Kimiko, your wife.’
Masters folded the letter and began to place it under the pillow to be reread at a later time, but Takahashi reached out and plucked it from his hand.
“The Honorable Counsel for the Defense, Mr. Takahashi,” said the young man, in a clear, firm voice, “wishes to retain the epistle until a more appropriate time. It contains material which should not be revealed to the prosecution.” Masters nodded.
“The Honorable Counsel ...” Takahashi must have caught the drift, for he waved a hand, and Kawamoto got down to business. “Please, Mr. Masters, would you tell Mr. Takahashi all the details. I am to inform you that Mrs. Tanaka has spoken at great length regarding her relationship with you, and her daughter, Miss Tanaka, has recounted every incident of which she is cognizant. You may exclude, if you wish, all information leading up to your arrival in Japan, such as the battle on Iwo Jima, and,” he hesitated, swallowed, and continued, “any personal facts relating to yourself or to Mrs. Tanaka.”
Masters grinned to himself; Hiroko would eat this boy up. Then he sobered down and began the story all over again. Kawamoto was a good translator. He spoke lucidly, without hesitation, and seemed to express Masters’ sentiments exactly. It took a long time, and now and then Takahashi interrupted to recheck a point or to ask a question. He made no notes.
When Masters had finished, the attorney sat quietly, turning the details over in his mind. Then Masters learned why Kimiko had engaged him. Kawamoto translated as if Mr. Takahashi himself were speaking.
“Mr. Masters, you are guilty of the following violations of Japanese law; you have assaulted Colonel Durkin with a deadly weapon, inflicted a wound upon him, and committed armed robbery. The wounding of the officer will not be a serious charge, as he has fully recovered. Furthermore, the charge could be fought on the grounds of common assault.
“You have entered the American Post Exchange and purchased military supplies. That does not violate the Status-of-Forces agreement, nor does the wearing of the uniform constitute a felony, regardless of its purpose. You have, however, bought an attaché case. That violates the Status-of-Forces agreement in that you have purchased this article without having paid customs and sales tax on it. The government will insist upon this.” Masters almost laughed.
“Your impersonation as an officer of the United States Army at the prison is without precedent, and the prosecution would be amiss in bringing this charge against you. Your deceiving of Captain Watanabe and Lieutenant Fujii is merely interference with the police, and is a misdemeanor. This is an offense of secondary importance.
“The freeing of a prisoner is obstruction of justice, and is a serious charge. The striking of the two guards is assault with a lethal weapon, and is a much more serious offense than the assault against the American officer, as the police were acting in the performance of their duty.
“The renting of vehicles and the purchasing of the pistols do not break the law. However, if there is damage to the cars, the companies can, and will, seek indemnity.
“The wounding of the owner of the boat is again assault with a lethal weapon, and the forcing of the boat to sail for North Korea is piracy, for you did, in essence, assume command by force. However, as he did ask for money and did accept one hundred and fifty thousand yen after the assault, and then did change course, you can disregard any action against you. He cannot even sue you for injuries sustained, as the one hundred and fifty thousand yen is evidence of his having accepted compensation for the wound, and agreeing, for an additional sum of two hundred thousand yen, to the change in course. Your statement about taking the vessel in by the auxiliary motor can be construed as having been a disagreement as to the distance inshore stipulated in your contract.
“You will receive four years of imprisonment for the assault with an offensive weapon upon Colonel Durkin, two months for interference with the duties of the police, eight years for the obstruction of justice in having freed a prisoner, and eleven years for assault with a lethal weapon upon the guards who were acting in the performance of their duty. This comes to a total of twenty-three years and two months.
“Appeals will consume approximately two years, and at the conclusion, the sentence will be reduced to approximately thirteen years. You will then be eligible for parole in eight years.”
He rose. “Do you have any questions, Mr. Masters?” There were none; Masters was almost in a state of shock. The attorney bowed, then thrust out his hand for an American handshake.