Zenji tore his letter into tiny pieces and buried them in five different holes he dug deep in the sand. It would be quite a puzzle for anyone to find the pieces and put them back together.
He headed through the trees in the direction Freddy had gone. When he reached the road that edged the shoreline, he looked back to be sure he hadn’t been followed.
He was alone.
He saw Freddy in the distance, walking toward Manila, and waited until he caught a cab before moving out into the open.
A few cars passed. None of the drivers paid any attention to him.
About fifteen minutes later, he spotted a cab and flagged it down. The driver’s name was Carlo and he spoke decent English.
“Where you like go, mistah?”
“Uh … Momo hotel?” Zenji said, too fast. Slow down. It was his first time in a taxi. He knew at the end you had to pay, but that was it.
Carlo glanced up at the rearview mirror as they sped away. “Whatchoo doing way out here?”
“Somebody dropped me off. They had to get home.”
Carlo nodded.
Zenji cringed. What a dumb answer! He’d have to get better at making stuff up.
They headed into the city.
Manila was far busier than Honolulu. They drove past cramped huts and through old streets, across a river, into a city edged by parks and big homes that were hidden by hedges and rich landscaping. The contrast was startling. Poor, then wealthy. Crowded, then spacious. Frantic, then peaceful.
The drive along the sparkling bay was lined with palm trees, and Zenji could almost see himself at home in Hawaii.
“Momo,” Carlo said, startling Zenji out of his daydream. “Nice hotel. I had dinner there once.”
“Uh, yeah … the food is why I stay there.”
“Lot of you guys stay there.”
“You guys?”
“Japanese.”
“Yeah, yeah. We like it.”
It wasn’t part of his cover story, but he figured he didn’t have to explain anything to a cabdriver.
They drove on. Manila air flowed into the cab, hot and humid.
Carlo kept peeking up at the rearview mirror.
Zenji caught him looking, but quickly averted his eyes. Already this undercover stuff was getting to him. He needed to work on getting comfortable with it. If he felt nervous, he’d look nervous. Which would bring unwanted attention.
“Nice day,” Zenji said. That sounded okay. Normal.
“Hot,” Carlo answered.
The guy didn’t look Filipino, Zenji thought. Maybe he was Spanish. Back home at the library he’d read that Spain had once claimed these islands. The architecture of the buildings was kind of Spanish, too.
Grass, trees, a river running through the city. Shiny cars, people walking around in loose shirts, bare feet, slippers, shorts. Bicycles, carts. In some spots it could even be Honolulu.
Zenji nodded. He was going to like it here.
He leaned forward and pulled his sweaty shirt away from his back, wishing he had shorts on. “Humid.”
Carlo looked into the rearview mirror. “Even if you doing nothing, you sweat. Best place is a seat in a bar … by a fan.” He laughed.
“I’ll remember that.”
At the hotel, Zenji pulled his gear out. He paid Carlo and added a generous tip. “Thanks for the ride,” he said, and bowed for good measure.
Carlo looked at Zenji a moment too long.
“What?” Zenji said.
“For Japanese, you seem diff’rent. Not bossy. And you bowed. Firs’ one I ever met did that to me.” The guy dipped his head and drove off with a smile.
Zenji watched him go, then turned toward the hotel.
Here goes nothing.
The Momo wasn’t deluxe, but it was very well kept.
The five Japanese businessmen sitting in the lobby glanced over the top of their newspapers when Zenji walked in with his suitcase and duffel.
Zenji nodded and headed to the counter. He felt instantly out of place. He was at least ten years younger than the youngest man there.
“I … uh, I’d like a room,” Zenji said in Japanese.
The Japanese hotel clerk waited a long moment before answering. “You don’t have a reservation?”
“No, sir, I don’t. But do you have a room?”
The man opened a book, turned a few pages. “Hmm,” he said, shaking his head.
Zenji wondered why. It wasn’t that big of a hotel. Twenty-five rooms, at most, and he didn’t know if he had a vacancy?
“Where you from?” the guy asked, looking up.
“Honolulu.”
That got a reaction. “Honolulu? Your family live there?”
“Yes. I’m Nisei.”
The guy’s face lit up. “Hey,” he called to the guys in the lobby. “This kid is from Honolulu. He’s Nisei.”
Zenji turned.
All five businessmen folded their papers and headed over, as if being a second-generation American was something amazing.
“None of us has ever met an American Nisei before,” the clerk said. “What are you doing here?”
The businessmen gathered around the counter. They didn’t seem threatening. Then Zenji thought: well, why would they?
He had to loosen up.
“I had a job on a ship,” Zenji said. “But I decided I wanted to work on land. I get kind of seasick.”
The businessmen laughed.
One guy asked, “Where did your family come from?”
“Okinawa. My parents moved to Hawaii to find work. But my father was killed in an accident. I live with my mother, brother, and sister.”
The hotel guy nodded thoughtfully.
“And,” Zenji added, getting better at making stuff up, “I was, uh, about to get called up by the army. I didn’t want that, so I got a job on the ship. But the ship, like I said, made me seasick. I thought Manila seemed like a good place to, uh, you know, find work.”
“It is,” the clerk said with a smile.
Zenji looked down. What a story he’d just told! Where had all that come from? It was so easy to make up.
“I didn’t want to leave home,” he added, getting into it. “But my mother didn’t want me in the army, so she let me travel.”
Maybe he should shut up. But everyone nodded, seeming to understand his predicament.
“How old are you?” the hotel guy asked.
“Twenty-one.”
The clerk grunted and reached out to shake. “Call me Tadeo. I own the place.”
The clerk owned the hotel? Ho, Zenji thought. He would have to start judging people better.
Zenji shook Tadeo’s hand. “So, do you have a room?”
“Sure. How long you want to stay?”
“A while, I guess. I have some money.”
After he signed in, Zenji spent the next half hour talking with the men in the lobby. It was the first time in his life that he’d been a curiosity, and he kind of liked it. They were friendly and made him feel at home.
But that night in his room, he was overcome by emotion, lonely and homesick for his family and all that he had known up to now.
His throat swelled. He wished Freddy were around to cheer him up. Even the noisy geckos outside reminded him of home.
But in the following days the Japanese businessmen treated Zenji like a younger brother, someone to mentor and advise.
Zenji liked these guys.
Soon his homesickness vanished, and he didn’t even notice the noisy geckos anymore. They were just part of the night, like cars passing on the streets, or music from nearby nightclubs. It surprised and pleased him how easily he could burrow into the landscape of Manila.
The Bamboo Rat had arrived.
For the next few days, Zenji wandered around, getting a feel for the city. On Thursday at nine a.m., he took his key to the post office and checked mailbox number 72.
Inside was a single envelope.
He folded it twice, stuck it in his pocket.
He’d read it in a more private place. He locked the mailbox. Before he left he bought a postcard with an aerial shot of Manila on it.
What would a civilian do? Someone who just got here? Be relaxed, for a start. He had to start building his cover.
He sat in a park and wrote to Aiko, giving her the address of the Momo. He told her he was fine, that he missed everyone, and that he liked it in Manila. There were nice people here. And tell Ma I haven’t seen a machete yet. That’s a joke, Aiko. And one more thing—can you ask Tosh to give Mina my address?
Since he was supposed to be a civilian, he had no concern about revealing his location. In fact, if anyone checked, it just strengthened his story.
He mailed the card.
The day was hot and very humid, and the folded letter in his pocket was on his mind.
He found a fountain shaded by a banyan tree and sat on a bench. No one seemed to be watching him, as far as he could tell. Being at the Momo under false pretenses did make him a kind of spy, even though he didn’t know what he was supposed to be spying on.
Relax. Breathe.
He cleaned his glasses with his shirt.
It suddenly hit him that Manila could be crawling with spies from Japan … who were watching him!
Nah. Doesn’t make sense.
He put his glasses back on. Trying hard to be inconspicuous, he took the folded envelope from his pocket and eased it open.
Be at the corner of Magallanes and Padre Burgos at 1400 hours. Look for a white sedan.
Zenji checked his watch. Plenty of time.
He glanced up the street and around the fountain. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. He tore the note into tiny shreds and dropped the pieces into two different trash cans as he headed out to find that corner.
If only he could look at a map! He had one in his room, and he’d studied it well. Still, it would probably take all the time he had to find the right streets.
He’d have to rely on dumb luck.
He found the intersection with a half hour to spare.
The sidewalks were busy, which was good. He could blend in.
He leaned against a post near a crowded bus stop and pretended he was waiting for a bus. Perfect.
At two o’clock a white car stopped. The driver scanned the sidewalk.
Zenji stepped forward.
The driver motioned him over. He looked American. “Bamboo Rat?” he asked.
“I heard they live underground.”
“Get in.”
Zenji nodded and slid into the front seat, relieved.
The guy checked his side-view mirror and pulled back into traffic. “Warm enough for you?”
He wasn’t in uniform, but he had the same military posture as Colonel Blake. Short hair, focused attention.
“Heat’s okay,” Zenji said. “It’s the humidity.”
“Sucks the life right out of you.”
“What is a bamboo rat, anyway?” Zenji asked. “You ever seen one?”
“Over in Burma, I did. Like a massive hamster, and they actually do live underground. They’re pests. They eat bamboo roots and kill the plant. Wipe out entire forests. Lots of weird creatures down here.”
“Pests.”
The guy laughed. “It’s just a code name. But here’s the funny thing: there aren’t any bamboo rats in the Philippines. You’re the only one.”
“Where we going?”
“G2 headquarters, Fort Santiago. Look around as we drive so you can find your way on your own if you ever have to. It’s pretty easy. Just head north and then toward the bay when you hit the river.”
After a short drive, they turned into a massive stone entry gate and pulled up to a security shack. The driver showed his ID. The guard glanced at it, peeked in at Zenji, and waved them through.
They pulled up in front of a three-story building.
“This is it,” the driver said. “Look for the office of Colonel Jake Olsten. He’s the head of G2.”
Zenji got out. “Thanks for the ride.”
The guy grinned and drove off.
Maybe now Zenji would get some real answers.
As Zenji walked in, the colonel stood, smiled, and reached across his desk to shake. “Colonel Olsten. Welcome to G2.”
“Zenji Watanabe, sir.”
“Everything going well since you arrived?”
“Yes, sir. Everything’s fine.”
“And the hotel?”
“Nice people, and the food’s good.”
Colonel Olsten nodded. “Been there myself. Please, sit down.”
First, Colonel Olsten told Zenji what his military pay would be: eighty dollars a month. Jeese. Henry was right: peanuts. Not even half of what he’d made at the warehouse in Honolulu.
“I know,” the colonel said, reading Zenji’s face. “It doesn’t sound like much, but there are benefits. You’ll also receive a generous food and clothing allowance, and you’ll be reimbursed for expenses while doing your job. Theoretically, you can save every penny you make.”
“Sounds fine, sir. I need to send my pay home.”
“We can work that out.”
“Thank you, sir. What’s my job? Japanese radio? Translating documents? The kind of stuff I did in Honolulu?”
“There’s that. But there’s more. First of all—and this is utterly important for your safety, and your cover—never, ever have anything even remotely related to the military on your person or in your possession at any time, even in your hotel room. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Zenji said, his nerves going into overdrive.
“You noticed that we didn’t exchange salutes when you walked in?”
“Oh, sorry. I—”
The colonel held up a hand. “I don’t want you to salute. It’s a dead giveaway, and I mean dead. Never, ever salute.”
“Uh … yes, sir.”
“And don’t say sir, either. Ever.”
“Okay.”
Colonel Olsten grinned. “That said, you are now a special undercover agent, United States Military Intelligence. You know your code name, right?”
“Bamboo Rat.”
“And the response?”
“I heard they live underground.”
“And you have your cover story down?”
“I’m just a civilian, looking for work.”
Colonel Olsten tapped his desk to punctuate the point. “Perfect. An American civilian in an American commonwealth.”
“That’s me.”
“Now,” Colonel Olsten went on, “you will receive periodic instructions and file your reports by way of your mailbox. Check twice a day. To maintain your cover, we’ve secured a job for you. Not a real job, a cover job, which you’ll understand once you go there. Even though the job isn’t real, it’s extremely important that you show up. We need people to trust you and to believe you are who you say you are.”
Zenji listened carefully. “Where’s the job?”
“International Trading Company. An American business that’s been cooperating with us.”
How could you have a fake job and make it look real?
Colonel Olsten went on. “Here’s what you will really be doing.” He got up and started to pace. “There’s a lot at stake here. Our relations with Japan are getting worse. We’re trying to negotiate a peaceful coexistence, but personally I’m not optimistic. They need our oil and we’re not giving it to them. We’re also worried that Japan and Germany are about to cause us even more concern. There’s no telling where that would lead.”
“I heard back home that Japan was causing trouble in China,” Zenji said. “But the Japanese businessmen at the hotel are friendly. They treat me well. They don’t seem like they could kill innocent people.”
“There’s a big difference between civilian Japan and military Japan. Now listen, your assignment is to live among and mingle with the Japanese nationals in Manila, several of whom you are already acquainted with at the hotel. We need you to observe and identify anyone you susp
ect might be working for Japanese military intelligence. I can’t put my finger on exactly what might allow you to know that, but I want to know about anything that stirs your curiosity. Listen in on conversations. Look for the unusual. Talk with the men at your hotel, see what they say, try to discern what they think. Pay particular attention to anyone asking a lot of questions. Anything and everything, you bring it to me.”
Zenji shifted, beginning to feel the weight of what was expected of him. It’s true. Freddy was right.
“You mean I’ll be a … spy?”
The colonel clapped his hand on Zenji’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “Starting with the nationals at the Momo hotel.”
Zenji opened his mouth to speak.
But nothing came out.
“We’ll have a man at the International Trading Company talk to you on your first day. He’ll give you a few pointers on how to observe without being noticed. But you’ll see him only once. We can’t risk having the two of you seen together more than that. It’ll have to do.”
Spy on the men at the Momo.
Back at the hotel Zenji sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the wall, thinking about the turn his life had just taken. What Colonel Olsten was saying was that those guys were no longer his friends and big brothers … they were his targets.
For their friendship, advice, help, and guidance, what he would give them in return wouldn’t be appreciation and gratitude. It would be betrayal.
It took his breath away.
Early the next day Zenji checked his map and slipped out of the Momo before any of the businessmen got up. He took what he hoped was an inconspicuous route to his new fake job in a warehouse near the harbor.
He stopped once to look into a store window, studying the reflection of what was behind him on the street. It didn’t seem that anyone was following him.
He frowned. Why would anyone follow me? Is there more going on here than I can see?
He chewed on that for a moment, then continued on. Was Freddy doing the same thing and having the same thoughts?
Boy, he sure missed him and his jokes. Where are you, Spider? Are you betraying good guys, too?
The businessmen at the Momo were generous with him. Talking with them at dinner the night before had gone well enough, though the joy Zenji had felt in their camaraderie had been drained away. That was the hard part. Living the lie, the pretense.
Hunt for the Bamboo Rat Page 6
