Shibumi

“I see. You’re British, are you?”

“No.”

“Irish?” Again the accent that was always identified as being from “someplace else.”

“No, Captain. I work for SCAP as a translator.” It was best to sidestep the irrelevant tangle of his nationality—or rather, his lack thereof.

“And you’re offering yourself as a character witness, is that it?”

“I want to help in any way I can.”

Captain Thomas nodded and fumbled about for a cigarette. “To be perfectly frank, I don’t believe you can help all that much. We’re understaffed here, and overworked. I’ve had to decide to concentrate my energy on cases where there is some chance of success. And I wouldn’t put Kishikawa’s in that category. That probably sounds cold-blooded to you, but I might as well be honest.”

“But… I can’t believe General Kishikawa was guilty of anything! What is he being accused of?”

“He’s in the Class A grab bag: crimes against humanity—whatever the hell that means.”

“But who’s testifying against him? What do they say he did?”

“I don’t know. The Russians are handling the prosecution, and they’re not permitting me to examine their documents and sources until the day before the trial. I assume the charges will center around his actions as military governor of Shanghai. Their propaganda people have several times used the label: ‘The Tiger of Shanghai.’”

“‘The Tiger of—!’ That is insane! He was an administrator. He got the water supply working again—the hospitals. How can they…?”

“During his governorship, four men were sentenced and executed. Did you know that?”

“No, but—”

“For all I know, those four men might have been murderers or looters or rapists. I do know that the average number of executions for capital crimes during the ten years of British control was fourteen point six. You would think that comparison would be in your general’s favor. But the men executed under him are being described as ‘heroes of the people.’ And you can’t go around executing heroes of the people and get away with it. Particularly if you are known as “The Tiger of Shanghai.’”

“He was never called that!”

“That’s what they’re calling him now.” Captain Thomas sat back and pressed his forefingers into his sunken eye sockets. Then he tugged at his sandy hair in an effort to revive himself. “And you can bet your Aunt Tilly’s twat that that title will be used a hundred times during the trial. I’m sorry if I sound defeatist, but I happen to know that wi

“Can I at least see him? Visit him?”

Captain Thomas’s head was down; he was already sca

“I want to visit General Kishikawa. May I?”

“I can’t do anything about that. He’s a Russian prisoner. You’ll have to get permission from them.”

“Well, how do you get to see him?”

“I haven’t yet.”

“You haven’t even talked to him?”

Captain Thomas looked up blearily. “I’ve got six weeks before he goes to trial. The Leopard of Luzon, goes up tomorrow. Go see the Russians. Maybe they can help you.”

“Whom do I see?”

“Shit, boy, I don’t know!”

Nicholai rose. “I see. Thank you.”

He had reached the door when Captain Thomas said, “I’m sorry, son. Really.”

Nicholai nodded and left.

In months to come, Nicholai was to reflect on the differences between Captain Thomas and his Russian opposite number, Colonel Gorbatov. They were symbolic variances in the superpowers’ ways of thinking and dealing with men and problems. The American had been genuinely concerned, compassionate, harried, illorganized… ultimately useless. The Russian was mistrustful, indifferent, well prepared and informed, and ultimately of some value to Nicholai, who sat in a large, overstuffed chair as the Colonel stirred his glass of tea thoughtfully until two large lumps of sugar disintegrated and swirled at the bottom, but never completely dissolved.

“You are sure you will not take tea?” the Colonel asked.

“Thank you, no.” Nicholai preferred to avoid wasting time on social niceties.

“For myself, I am addicted to tea. When I die, the fellow who does my autopsy will find my insides ta

“Yes, Colonel. And I want to help him, if I can.”

“That’s understandable. After all, what are friends for?”

“At very least, I would like permission to visit him in prison.”

“Yes, of course you would. That’s understandable.” The Colonel replaced his glasses and sipped his tea. “You speak Russian very well, Mr. Hel. With quite a refined accent. You have been trained very carefully.”

“It’s not a matter of being trained. My mother was Russian.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I never learned Russian formally. It was a cradle language.”

“I see. I see.” It was Gorbatov’s style to place the burden of communication on the other person, to draw him out by contributing little beyond constant indications that he was unconvinced. Nicholai allowed the transparent lactic to work because he was tired of fencing, frustrated with short leads and blind alleys, and eager to learn about Kishikawa-san. He offered more information than necessary, but even as he spoke, he realized that his story did not have the sound of truth. That realization made him explain even more carefully, and the meticulous explanations made it sound more and more as though he were lying.

“In my home, Colonel, Russian, French, German, and Chinese were all cradle languages.”

“It must have been uncomfortable, sleeping in so crowded a cradle.”

Nicholai tried to laugh, but the sound was thin and unconvincing.