Masters did not sleep very much that night, so when the tall police investigator and his short partner entered the room the following morning, he was in a morose and contrary mood.
“Have you anything further to say?” asked the lanky cop.
A devil took hold of the weary man. “You’re damn right I have,” he snarled. The investigator leaned forward eagerly, the short one whipping out his notebook and pencil. “I wish to state publicly,” said Masters, in a clear, firm voice, “that the information you have obtained from the people you paraded through here is absolutely correct.” The tall man almost smiled. “Furthermore, I also wish to state publicly that Ichiro Tanaka’s escape was engineered with the full cooperation and approval of high-ranking police officers and officials of the Japanese government, and that I was brought to Japan for the express purpose of carrying out that plan. I will not tolerate being double-crossed, and will reveal all identities at my trial.”
He lay back and closed his eyes - but not before he saw the look of utter stupefaction on the face of the tall agent. He lay in the deepest silence he had ever experienced, then there was the sound of footsteps and the opening and closing of the door. He raised an eyelid and saw that the room was empty.
The deluge swept in less than an hour later. Captain Watanabe and Lieutenant Fujii were the first ones. The Captain’s eyes were not expressionless this time; they were flashing flames of outraged fury. Fujii’s face was a mask of absolute hatred. They shouted, yelled, stamped their feet, threatened, jerked at the bed, pushed over chairs, and almost reached the point of laying hands on the bed-ridden man. Masters kept his eyes closed and refused to open them or to reply. Watanabe’s voice finally gave out half an hour later and they went away.
McMahon, from the United States Embassy, must have been waiting outside. He tramped in and stood stiffly at attention. “Are you trying to create an international incident?” he roared. Masters was tempted to ask him whatever had happened to his collegiate manners, but remained silent and shut his eyes instead.
He didn’t open his eyes but he did listen carefully to the next visitor. “Mr. Masters,” said a soft voice. “I am from the Japanese Ministry of State. My office would look with great favor upon you if you would kindly reveal the names of the people who have participated in this plot. I am quite confident that our appreciation would be demonstrated in court.”
Masters opened his eyes and saw a small, well-dressed man, his hat resting squarely on his head, seated on one of the white, metal chairs at the foot of the bed. He closed his eyes. The man sat quietly until he realized that Masters would not speak, then left the room.
The next visitor was from the Ministry of Justice and offered even more for the names - merely five years in prison. Masters did not bother to open his eyes to look.
Then the flood stopped; he was cut off from the outside world. For three days, the only people who entered his room were the doctor and the attendant who brought his meals. Each was escorted by a guard who made certain that Masters did not pass a message to the hospital personnel.
On the fourth day, the well-dressed man from the Ministry of State returned. “Mr. Masters,” he said, in his soft voice. “I am sure you understand the gravity of the charges against you. Would you please not reconsider?”
Masters opened his eyes. The visitor’s hat was still squarely on his head. “Go discuss it with Mr. Takahashi,” he ordered, then closed his eyes again.
Mr. Takahashi and his assistant, Kawamoto, were there directly after lunch.
The lawyer was smiling.
“I have,” translated his assistant, “been visited this morning by a number of government officials, who informed me of the statement you gave to the investigating officers. Before we go any further, I wish to advise you categorically that I do not want to know whether the statement is true or not.” His smile grew broader. “All the officials are convinced that you are lying, but they have asked me to intercede.”
“So,” mused Masters. “Politics are the same the world over.” He glanced up at Kawamoto. “What have the newspapers been saying?”
The young man spoke to the attorney and was given permission to reply. “They have been filled with the most inaccurate stories about Tanaka’s escape, and the capture of an American who engineered it. Your identity has not yet been revealed to the public, and I am certain that the police have sworn all participants to strict silence. The news media of the center left and the center right are hinting at a complicity between the present administration and certain unidentified parties. The center right infers that it is a Communist plot, and the center left intimates that the far right is in collusion with the government.”
Masters whistled softly. “Then perhaps we can fish in troubled waters, eh?”
The young man’s eyes were shining. “Yes.”
Masters turned back to the attorney. “What do the officials want?”
“They are willing,” translated Kawamoto, “to have the prosecution recommend ten years of imprisonment as a sentence and permit me to appeal. It should end up with no more than five years of actual confinement.” He regarded Masters closely. “They wish, however, to have the names first, undoubtedly to take immediate action to silence the rumors being bandied about by their political opponents.” Takahashi raised a brow. “If there are names. However, if there are no names, they want you to make a full confession to dispel the doubt.”
Masters lay back, the excitement was taxing his heart. He was suddenly very weary again. “I’ll think it over,” he said.
Takahashi saw his condition, bowed, and prepared to leave. Kawamoto leaned over closer. “Hiroko...” He caught himself. “Miss Tanaka gave me this message for you. Mr. 0 has written. He is well and working in a factory.”
Masters nodded, then closed his eyes. It had worked. He had given the boy his life in exchange for the one he had taken from the father. Nothing else really mattered - not really.
Keith Masters reached a decision two days later, shouted for the guard at the door, and asked to see Takahashi. The attorney and his aide were there in almost no time. “I want a package deal,” said Masters. “Me and Ichiro, together.” The lawyer sat up, and Masters continued, “Our main objective is to help the boy - so that he does not have to continue running or remain in exile for the rest of his life. Have them consider this; if the boy returns voluntarily, it will take the wind out of the sails of the opposition who are saying that the escape was engineered by the Government. Ask them what they will give in return. If it is acceptable, I will reveal the names they want, and promise to remain silent in the courtroom - and afterwards.”
They almost ran from the room. It must have been quite a bargaining session, for they did not return until nightfall, and their faces were drawn with fatigue. Kawamoto could not control his eagerness to speak. “The officials acquiesce. Tanaka’s sentence will be commuted to life imprisonment. Your sentence will be as last proposed - about five years actual confinement.”
Masters did not hesitate. “Tell them the whole deal is off, that I am ordering my attorney to release my statement to the newspapers.”
Takahashi sighed, for obtaining the commutation was more than he had hoped for. Courteously, he asked one question. “What would Mr. Masters consider as a basis for negotiation?”
“Twenty years for Ichiro, no more. After all, he doesn’t have to return. And twenty years is a lifetime to a young boy. I don’t give a damn about myself. They can set their own limit on that.”
The accidence came so swiftly that it caught the lawyer, Kawamoto, and even Masters off balance. Takahashi explained that the rumors had grown to such an extent that the administration was now completely on the defensive.
“Do you have a water-tight agreement?” asked Masters. “No loopholes?”
The lawyer smiled. “No loopholes.”
Masters sighed in relief, then a thought suddenly struck him. “I’ve forgotten one thing - you must ask Mrs. Tanaka if she agrees.”
“I already have.”
“What did she say?”
“She said that the head of the house must decide.”
“All right. Have Hiroko write to Ichiro right away and find out if he accepts.”
The attorney’s eyes softened. “She was not referring to Ichiro,” he said.
It took a few seconds for this to register, then Masters’ heart began thumping again, but not from pain. “Very well, have Hiroko write and tell him to return,” he said finally.
The October winds were sweeping the streets. Masters stood at the barred window, looking out at the cloud-filled sky. He was fully dressed and wearing a fine overcoat which Takahashi had brought. He knew it had come from Kimiko. The door opened to admit two guards. One walked up to him and held out handcuffs. Masters raised his right arm and the cold steel encircled his wrist. They went out into the corridor, took an elevator down the three flights of stairs, and entered a police van. Masters drew his coat tighter against the cold.
The courthouse was packed. The cuff was taken off, and he was escorted to a long table at the front of the room. Takahashi and Kawamoto were already there. They rose and bowed as he took his seat. His eyes flicked over the assembly seated to the rear. Kimiko and Hiroko were not there. He had given strict instructions for them not to attend, but deep inside he had hoped they would come anyhow, for he wanted to see them so badly. He knew Kimiko would obey, but he felt that Hiroko was enough of a rascal to come, regardless of his order.
He didn’t look for the officials who had bombarded him during his hectic weeks in the hospital. He almost chuckled at the memory of the last meeting with them, when all the secret papers had been signed, sealed and delivered. They had crowded into his room and stood there, expectantly, to hear the names.
“There are none,” he had said, simply. “I was lying.”
They had not even become angry. In fact, he sensed a wave of relief sweep over them. Then, after the officials had left, the tall investigator and his partner had come in and taken down all the details which Masters had refused earlier. He did not mention his personal associations with Kimiko, nor did he speak of Hiroko, and the officers did not try to clear up certain points which evidently required the assistance of an accomplice. He realized that the tall man was aware of these gaps and had been ordered to cooperate.
The court action was over by early afternoon. They called only Fujii, the two guards whom he had assaulted, and the old fisherman. They must have worked over the old man, for he had very little to say. The sentence followed swiftly on the heels of the verdict - Takahashi had gauged it to a hair - they gave him thirteen years confinement with hard labor.
When the guards came to take him away, the attorney stood and bowed. Then, as he had done once before, he thrust out his hand in the American manner. “Goodbye, my friend,” he said.
They took him back to his old room in the National Police Hospital, and the doctor immediately came in to check him over. He couldn’t get an injection into Masters’ arm fast enough.
He later learned that it had been a rather hectic week. A couple of specialists had been called in, an oxygen tent had been quickly set up, and a flock of nurses had been placed around him - as if he was some goddamn pasha.
In late November, they permitted him to get to his feet, and he finally began to stop wishing that he had died during his last attack so the pain inside would go away.
Fujii came for him in the middle of December. He stood in the doorway, still and straight, and behind him were two guards from the prison. There was a hard glint in the adjutant’s eyes. All right, you bastard, thought Masters. Now you get your pound of flesh.
One of the guards placed his clothes on the bed. “Get dressed,” snarled Fujii. Masters had to sit on a chair to put on his shoes, and when he leaned forward to tie the laces, he thought he’d still beat the bastard and die on the spot.
Fujii snapped on the handcuffs himself, then tugged on them as he led Masters from the room. One of the guards picked up his suitcase and brought it along. They went down the elevator and got into a police car, which seemed to be the one that was used to take Ichiro from the prison. He wondered if he could be assigned to the same cell as Ichiro. He’d like that. But it would never happen, not with that vindictive bastard, Fujii, running things.
He didn’t come awake until he saw the road signs pointing to Yokohama. “Where are we going?” he asked.
“Be quiet,” growled the adjutant. Masters was tempted to ask why he was so damned mad; he was going to have thirteen long years to vent his spite. Instead, he looked wistfully out of the window.
The police car drove through Yokohama and stopped at the docks. Fujii jerked him out of the car, literally dragged him to a building, and through it to a counter. He pulled out Masters’ passport and handed it to an official to be stamped.
Masters’ heart almost stopped beating. Fujii towed him out of the building and to the open quay. A small ship was tied up alongside the pier.
At the gangplank, the adjutant, his face reflecting absolute hatred and disgust, drew out a key and unlocked the handcuffs. He gave Masters’ passport to one of the guards following him, then turned to the white faced man.
“The Government of Japan finds your physical disability incompatible with the execution of your sentence, and hereby expels you from this country.” Then he spat on the ground and walked away.
Sweat was pouring down Masters’ face and body as he slowly mounted the gangplank. The guard handed his valise and passport to a steward, then took up a position on the wharf to see that the deportee left with the ship.
The Japanese steward led him to a small cabin, deposited the bag on a rack, and left. Masters sat limply on the lower berth, head spinning, unable to realize that he was a free man.
After a while, he became aware of the wetness of his body, and rose. Slipping out of the overcoat, he placed it on the single chair in the cabin, laid his jacket over it, and hung his sweat-drenched shirt on the corner of the double bunk. He sat down and took off his pants and shoes, flinging them on the jacket.
He had to rest before he could build up the energy to stand and open the valise. On top was the blue, silk robe that Kimiko had given him. It was wrinkled, as if the suitcase had been searched and researched a dozen times. He draped it over his shoulders and sank back on the bunk, breathing heavily, harshly.
There was a knock at the door. “Come in,” he said, his voice weak with weariness.
The door opened. He sat silent for a long second. “Hello, Kimiko.”
“Hello, Keith,” She motioned, and two porters rushed in, carrying a small mountain of fine, handmade luggage. They deposited the bags neatly to one side, bowed several times to acknowledge the tips they received, then quickly left.
Her eyes could not meet his. To look at him, loving him so, would spell the utter collapse of her control. Desperately she glanced round the cabin. “It is too small,” she said. “There is not enough room for you to walk around. I will speak to the captain in the morning.” He knew she would, too.
Her eyes settled on his clothes lying on the chair. Quickly she walked to the closet, hung up her overcoat, then picked up his pants and folded them neatly over a hanger. She put his jacket over the pants, and hung them next to her coat.
“Where are your pills?” she asked, her back to him. He could see that she was crying.
“In my pocket.”
“Put them on the stand so I can see them.”
“All right.” He placed them on the stand.
She began unpacking his suitcase and stowing away his clothes.
“This boat is going to America,” he finally said. “There are no actors in dragon masks there.”
“They are not important,” she replied, firmly. “Anyhow, Mr. Takahashi said that I should write him in two years - that doors always reopen.”
She still could not look at him. She saw his shoes and picked them up, looked around for polishing materials, then laid them to one side. “You should lie down and rest,” she said.
He lowered himself on the bunk and placed his hands under his head, watching her every movement.
Her eyes fastened on his shirt hanging on the berth. She took it down, looked at the collar, then carried it to the basin in the corner and turned on the water. It spurted out, splashing her perfectly tailored suit, but she ignored it. She filled the basin and began to soap the shirt, to wash out the sweat and the dirt - like the country women did. She was crying again.
Then she began humming. Masters closed his eyes and listened. “What’s that you’re humming?”
“It is an old Japanese song. A love song.”
He leaned further back on the pillow and felt his body relax. “It’s nice. I like it.”
“Then I’ll hum it,” she whispered, “every day of our lives.”
Suddenly, she heard a sound - like the flutter of a dove’s wings as it takes off and soars skyward. Slowly she turned, wiped her hands on her skirt and walked to the berth. She drew up the chair and sat down, then reached out and gently closed the lids over the staring eyes. She lifted the lifeless arm, hanging limply against the side of the bunk, and laid it across his chest. Then, with infinite tenderness, she kissed his still lips.
When all this had been done, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.