Sam’s tone hardened. “Do you have proof of that?”
“Well, it depends on what you mean by proof. The Japanese government claims it has no documentation on Unit 731.”
“How convenient.”
“Exactly. And the way I understand it, under Japanese law, all the eyewitness testimony and confessions from Unit 731 personnel are considered inadequate to prosecute. There were plenty of accounts from workers, even some photographs, but nobody wanted to pursue it. Especially when the people who were responsible for it became bigwigs — I’m talking owners of pharmaceutical and technology companies, seriously highly placed politicians and lawmakers, the whole nine yards.”
“Why on earth would the Allies grant those animals immunity?”
“At the end of the war, the Americans wanted to keep all information on biological and chemical weapons to themselves, out of Soviet hands. There was only one way to accomplish that — and to acquire the knowledge that years of inhuman research had generated. The Soviets wanted to prosecute all the Unit 731 scientists, but the Americans refused for the ones in their custody. The Soviets had a trial for a dozen they’d captured and the evidence was irrefutable, but it was dismissed by the U.S. as Soviet propaganda until the 1980s, by which time it was ancient history.”
“And you think that the same thing was done with the Meiji Corps?”
“It would certainly explain why everything related to it is still top secret.”
“And you’re sure about all of this?”
“Hundred percent.”
Sam hung up, and filled Remi in on the Tokyo contact and Selma’s research. When he finished, Remi was shocked.
“I don’t want to believe it, but if it came from Selma…”
“I know — it must be true. We can probably research more online — at least the Unit 731 stuff. She said there’s now plenty of information about it, after decades of total secrecy.”
Remi shook her head in disgust. “We need to talk to Kumasaka’s daughter, Sam. Sooner, the better.”
“I know. You want to make the call or should I?”
“I’ll do it. Don’t want to scare her off.”
“I’ve been told I can be very persuasive,” he said, handing her the phone.
“Then put all that persuasiveness to good use and book us a flight to Tokyo. Since you were the one who decided not to bring the Gulfstream to Guadalcanal…”
Sam sighed. “I’ll look at the flight schedules.”
“Good idea.”
CHAPTER 35
The customs line at Narita International Airport moved at a rapid clip. Sam and Remi were waved through, after a cursory study of their passports and a few disinterested questions in perfect English, and were blinking in the sunlight a few minutes after changing money at an airport kiosk.
It had taken them a full day to get from Guadalcanal to Japan since all flights went through Australia first. Remi had poured on the charm with Kumasaka’s daughter in their brief phone conversation the prior day and found her to be friendly but cautious in her replies.
Sawara turned out to be closer to Narita Airport than to the proper city of Tokyo. Sam took one glance at the map of train lines and instructions Selma had e-mailed him and then headed to the waiting line of taxis.
“No train?” asked Remi. “Afraid to navigate the system?”
“Time is money,” replied Sam, “and I’d rather not spend the better part of the afternoon puzzling out which train is the local and which is the express. It’s only about fifteen kilometers from here. How hard can that be?”
The first cab in line pulled up, the passenger door swung open automatically, and the white-gloved driver jumped out to help them with their carry-on bags, stowing them efficiently in the trunk before slipping behind the wheel again. He nodded vigorously several times when Remi showed him the address printed neatly on the paper. He spoke limited English, learned from watching American movies and YouTube, he said, and pointed to the GPS unit in his dashboard when Remi asked if he knew the quickest route.
The trip took longer than they’d expected, as the taxi wound around country lanes bordered by rice fields. They were a good forty-five minutes late when they finally rolled to a stop in front of a modest wooden house in a residential neighborhood. The driver told them he’d wait for them, after pocketing Sam’s generous tip. They stepped out onto the sidewalk and made their way to the front door, eyeing the crumbling concrete steps that led to the porch without comment.
The door opened before they had a chance to knock and a diminutive woman wearing a sweater and dark slacks offered a tentative smile from the shadows. Remi smiled at her as the woman fiddled with the screen door, Sam standing slightly behind her, having agreed that Remi would take the lead in the questioning.
“Mrs. Kumasaka?” Remi asked.
The woman nodded. “Yes. But, please, call me Chiyoko. You must be Remi-san. I recognize your voice.”
“This is my husband, Sam,” Remi said.
“Nice to meet you,” Sam said with a small bow.
“Come in,” Chiyoko said. Remi smiled again, her expression offering no reaction to Chiyoko’s profile when she turned to allow them to step past. The Japanese woman’s face was puckered scar tissue on the left side, artfully repaired at some point in the past but still obvious even with a layer of heavy foundation applied in an attempt to mask it.
“Thank you for agreeing to see us,” Remi said as they entered. They slipped their shoes off and left them by the front door, where several other pairs, most likely Chiyoko’s, lay on the floor.
“My pleasure. I’m just not sure I’ll be able to help you much. I hardly knew my father,” Chiyoko said. “Please. Help yourselves to slippers,” she said, motioning to a neat rack of house slippers behind the shoes. “This way, please,” she said, leading them up the little step that separated the entryway from the hall. “Let’s go to the living room.”
Remi and Sam sat on a stuffed chintz couch and looked around the room. The overhead lights were dim, but even in the faint light they could see the scar tissue on Chiyoko’s hand as well as her face.
“I’ll be right back. I have made some tea. I hope that’s all right,” Chiyoko said, and disappeared through a doorway.
Sam and Remi sat wordlessly, waiting for Chiyoko to return, the only sound the whirring of an overhead fan. When the Japanese woman reappeared, she was carrying a tray with three small cups, a teapot, and a plate of sweets.
Once the tea was prepared and they had sipped appreciatively from their cups, Chiyoko sat back in the shadows and eyed them expectantly.
Remi leaned forward and cleared her throat. “Thank you so much for the hospitality,” she began.
“It is nothing. You have traveled a long way.”
“Well, it’s true, we have. We’re so glad that you agreed to meet with us.” Remi paused. “Your English is very good.”
“I was a secretary for an international company that did considerable business with the United States. I studied it in school, which proved wise, because as Japan changed after the war being an English speaker became a valuable skill. But it has been some time since I have had a chance to practice, so forgive me if I am a little rusty.” Chiyoko touched a hand to her beautifully styled gray hair. “You mentioned you are researching my father. I hope you haven’t come so far to go away empty-handed.”
“Yes, we’re trying to piece together his story. He was one of the highest-ranking Japanese prisoners of war in Australia and New Zealand. But we’re having a difficult time creating a coherent account of his time before being captured or during his imprisonment. All we have about his stay in the camp was the account of his illness, and later his death, from the camp physician’s records. There are no real details.”