“I’m Chief Inspector Koizumi of the Sapporo police. We have reason to believe you are planning to launch a mercenary operation from Japanese soil.”
He had said “mercenary” as if it hurt his mouth. He ran his fingers through his gray hair.
“Not me,” I said in partial truth. He didn’t look convinced.
“Horikawa-san of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs”—he flicked his head toward the other younger man in a well-tailored blue suit—“and I are authorized to forestall any such military operation—by any means we deem fit.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The chief inspector raised one eyebrow.
“We can hold you indefinitely if we find you constitute a threat to our national security,” said Horikawa, rising from his chair. “And despite your persistence in maintaining this little charade, I am confident we can foil your plans.”
He was polished and unflappable.
“I’m sure your contracted services are on some sort of timetable. Most military operations, no matter how ragged, seem to be. We can hold you until your organization and its project have become quite stale.”
I was beginning to dislike Horikawa; he understood too much. I wasn’t sure about my right to a lawyer, but perhaps I could get one in here anyway.
“Maybe we can straighten this misunderstanding out,” I said, hoping “straighten” would not mean explain. “Call Kiyoshi Sato at…” I gave them his office number.
Koizumi and Horikawa looked skeptical as they led me to a cell.
Legally we had little to offer in our defense, and I couldn’t bring up moral arguments without disclosing the objective of the operation. I didn’t see where Sato could be of help, but it’d give me time to think.
Someone had tipped them off convincingly that there was an operation afoot. Japan didn’t want to awaken one chilly morning to find that it had been the springboard for a surprise attack against one of its neighbors. Japan had had a bad experience with surprise attacks. Its stance was no different from the United States’ squeamishness over Cuban refugee attacks launched from Florida against Cuba. The conventional diplomatic wisdom deplored such vulgar self-help. I felt the foul, self-serving presence of the Ackert hand in all this.
The next morning, Sato showed the talents that had earned him a Ginza letterhead. Immediately, with a flurry of accusations, he put the police on the defensive. Furthermore, it developed that he had considerable political clout with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. His coup de grâce was suggesting deportation as a solution. That jewel of an alternative could save face for everyone.
“To where? Who would accept them? They’re bound to be the focus of an international incident wherever they go,” Horikawa stammered.
I waved Sato over for a whispering session. Then he turned to the two officials. “I believe the Republic of Korea would react favorably to a visit from a small anticommunist veterans group.”
The chief inspector looked bored, and Horikawa exasperated. Again I was led to my cell.
Twenty-four hours later, Sato—using the contacts I had suggested—secured our informal deportation from Japan. Horikawa told us in very strong terms that we would never again be granted visas in any sequence that would allow us to assemble in Japan as a group. When pressed, he did admit that as many as four of us could enter Japan during a given period without sanction. And of course, Matsuma maintained his Japanese citizenship. They couldn’t touch him.
It had been a close call, too close. Our schedule was thrown completely out of kilter. But Korea had been our next stop. What really disturbed me was the uneasy realization that someone—Ackert, perhaps—was determined to stop us and had upped the ante. Each passing day increased our vulnerability.
The walls of the police station seemed suffocatingly close… but never as close as the walls of a Soviet prison would be.
CHAPTER 17
The KCIA put us in isolation immediately upon our arrival in Korea. They quartered us in a hermetically sealed farm village on the eastern coast. For everyone but myself, there would be no further communication with the outside world until we returned from Siberia.
The village complex consisted of several tiled-roof, one-story structures surrounded by rice fields that gradually acquired, with distance, the energy to bunch up into a rugged mountain chain. Our new home had none of the resort charm of our Hokkaido quarters; it was clearly an often-used staging area whose buildings were nothing more than glorified barracks. Our common opinion might have been prejudiced by our lack of freedom. Korean soldiers carrying submachine guns waved at us whenever our maneuvers brought us near the fence that surrounded the village fields—but they carried submachine guns just the same. The mature, rational view was that they were protecting us from ourselves, but there was little comfort in it. Even the occasional evening movie—black and white, in Korean, with subtitles—heightened the dismal sense of isolation. At least our turncoat could not make contact with his parent agency.
Keiko delighted in being the only female among the eleven visitors. The troops adopted her wholeheartedly. She was easier on the eyes than any of them were, and she made the whole setup seem more routine.
Keiko was mesmerized by the Koreans. “Korean people eat with chopsticks,” she observed with great gravity one day.
“Well, what did you expect? Doesn’t everyone in the Orient?”
“I was always told they ate with their hands,” she responded confidentially.
The Japanese and the Koreans were Asia’s eternal Hat-fields and McCoys. Neither nation gave the other much credit. No Korean women ever entered the complex, and despite her growing respect for the Koreans, she was pleased.
Late the second evening, after a long day’s workout with the kayaks, two Mercedes trucks arrived with the equipment Heyer had requisitioned. I ordered everyone out into the crisp night air to unload the ordnance and equipment.
Chief Puckins led the working party, which sorted and stored the gear. “Now here we have,” Wickersham started to lecture in grandiose style, “one AK-47, with Chinese markings and a spike bayonet, sometimes called a Type-56 assault rifle. Designed by Kalashnikov, it is gas operated, and carries a thirty-round magazine….”
They broke open another box.
“And here is a Type 67 light machine gun, also Chicom. Well, well… gas operated, and belt fed with a range of eight hundred meters…. Now here’s a delight. A Dragunov SVD sniper rifle with both Chinese and Soviet markings and a convenient little four-power sight, integral range finder, and infrared night-sight accessories.
“My, my, isn’t this interesting, boys and girls. White camouflage over-uniforms and fur hats with big red stars on the front. Considered very chic in Shanghai.”
The troops’ eyes were opening wider and wider. The back of the truck was cloudy from the vapor of their breaths.
“B-b-botha’s beard, what’s this all about?” stammered Kruger, who could restrain himself no more. “Are we doing a rem-m-make of Mao’s Long March?”
“Close, very close,” I replied.
Puckins stepped forward. He threw his arms to the heavens in mock despair.
Keiko gradually assumed the role of cruise director. She participated in training swims. She demanded better food from the KCIA support section and finagled mulberry-paper watercolors out of the guards to brighten our quarters. Irrepressible, she unearthed obscure holidays for us to celebrate at the evening meal. There were special “guest” chefs. Chamonix and Alvarez presided with great success. Kruger and Lutjens’s contributions were utter disasters. She even cajoled Gurung into cooking up a Nepalese meal.