Chapter 1 The First Day July 5, 1949 The Occupation had a hangover, but still the Occupation went to work: with gray stubble shadows and damp sweat stains, heels and soles up stairs and down corridors, toilets flushing and faucets running, doors opening and doors closing, cabinets and drawers, windows wide and fans turning, fountain pens scratching and typewriter keys banging, telephones ringing and a voice calling out, For you, Harry. On the fourth floor of the NYK building, in the enormous office that was Room 432 of the Public Safety Division, Harry Sweeney turned back from the door, walked back to his desk, nodded thanks to Bill Betz, took the receiver from him, put it to his ear and said, Hello. Police Investigator Sweeney? Yes, speaking. Too late, whispered the voice of a Japanese man, then the voice was gone, the line dead, the connection lost. Harry Sweeney replaced the receiver in its cradle, picked up a pen from his desk, looked at his watch, then wrote down the time and date on a pad of yellow paper: 9.45 - 07/05. He picked up the telephone and spoke to the switchboard girl: I just lost a call. Can you get me the number? Hold on a minute, please.
Thank you. Hello. I have it for you now, sir. Would you like me to try it for you? Please. It''s ringing for you now, sir. Thank you, said Harry Sweeney, listening to the sound of a telephone bell, and then - Coffee Shop Hong Kong, said the voice of a Japanese woman. Hello? Hello? Harry Sweeney replaced the receiver again. He picked up the pen again.
He wrote down the name of the coffee shop beneath the time and the date. Then he walked over to Betz''s desk: Hey, Bill. That call just now? What did he say? He just asked for you. Why? By name? Yeah, why? Nothing. He hung up on me, that''s all. Maybe I spooked him? Sorry. No. Thanks for answering it.
Did you get the number? A coffee shop called Hong Kong. You know it? No, but maybe Toda does. Ask him. He''s not here yet. Don''t know where he is. You''re kidding, laughed Bill Betz. Don''t tell me the little bastard''s gone and got himself a hangover. Harry Sweeney smiled: Like all good patriots.
Doesn''t matter, forget it. Be a crackpot. I got to go. Lucky you. Where you going? Meet the comrades off the Red Express. Colonel''s orders. You want to tag along, listen to some Commie songs? Think I''ll just stay right here in the cool, laughed Betz. Leave the Reds to you, Harry.
They''re all yours. Harry Sweeney ordered a car from the pool, had a cigarette and a glass of water, then picked up his jacket and hat and went down the stairs to the lobby. He bought a newspaper, turned the pages, and scanned the headlines: SCAP BRANDS COMMUNISM INTERNATIONAL OUTLAWRY: SEES JAPAN AS BULWARK / RED-LED RIOTERS STIR DISORDERS IN NORTH JAPAN / RED LABOR CHIEF HELD / NRWU GETS READY FOR COMING FIGHT AS JAPAN NATIONAL RAILWAYS START PERSONNEL SLASH / ACTS OF SABOTAGE CONTINUE / REPATRIATES DUE BACK IN TOKYO TODAY. He glanced up and saw his car waiting on the curb outside. He folded up his paper and went out of the building into the heat and the light. He got into the back of the car, but didn''t recognize the driver: Where''s Ichiro today? I don''t know, sir. I''m new, sir. What''s your name, kid? Shintaro, sir.
Okay, Shin, we''re going to Ueno station. Thank you, sir, said the driver. He took a pencil from behind his ear and wrote on the trip ticket. And hey, Shin? Yes, sir. Wind down your windows and stick on the radio, will you? Let''s have some music for the drive. Yes, sir. Very good, sir. Thanks, kid, said Harry Sweeney as he wound down his own window, took his handkerchief from his pocket, mopped his neck and face, then sat back and closed his eyes to the strains of a familiar symphony he just couldn''t place.
Too late, barked Harry Sweeney, wide awake again, eyes open again, sitting up straight, heart pounding away, with drool on his chin and sweat down his chest. Jesus. Excuse me, sir, said the driver. We''re here. Harry Sweeney wiped his mouth and chin, unstuck his shirt from his skin, and looked out of the windows of the car: the driver had pulled up under the railroad bridge between the market and the station, the car surrounded on all sides by people walking in all directions, the driver nervously glancing into the rear-view mirror, watching his passenger. Harry Sweeney smiled, winked, then opened the door and got out of the car. He bent down to speak to the driver: Wait here, kid. No matter how long I''m gone.
Yes, sir. Harry Sweeney wiped his face and neck again, put on his hat and found his cigarettes. He lit one for himself and passed two through the open window to the driver. Thank you, sir. Thank you. You''re welcome, kid, said Harry Sweeney, then he set off through the crowds, into the station, the crowds parting when they saw who he was: a tall, white American - The Occupation. He marched through the cavernous hall of Ueno station, its crush of bodies and bags, its fog of heat and smoke, its stink of sweat and salt, marched straight up to the ticket gates. He waved his PSD badge to the ticket inspector and walked on through to the platforms.
He saw the bright-red flags and hand-painted banners of the Japanese Communist Party and he knew which platform was his. Harry Sweeney stood on the platform, in the shadows at the back, mopping his face and neck, fanning himself with his hat, smoking cigarettes and swatting mosquitoes, towering over the waiting crowd of Japanese women: the mothers and sisters, the wives and daughters. He watched as the long, black train pulled in. He felt the crowd first rise onto the tips of their toes, then surge toward the carriages of the train. He could see the faces of the men at the windows and doors of the carriages; the faces of men who had spent four years as Prisoners of War in Soviet Siberia; four years of confession and contrition; four years of re-education and indoctrination; four years of hard, brutal, pitiless labor. These were the fortunate ones, the lucky ones; the ones who had not been massacred in Manchuria in the August of 1945; the ones who had not been forced to fight and die for either of the Chinese sides; the ones who had not starved to death in the first postwar winter; the ones who had not died in the smallpox epidemic of April 1946, or of typhus in the May, or of cholera in the June; these were some of the 1.7 million fortunate ones who had fallen into the hands of the Soviet Union; a few of the one million very lucky ones the Soviets had now decided to release and have repatriated. Harry Sweeney watched these lucky ones step off the long, black train and into the hands and tears of their mothers and sisters, their wives and daughters.
He saw their own eyes were blank, embarrassed or looking back, searching for their fellow soldiers. He saw their eyes lose their families and find their comrades. He saw their mouths begin to move, begin to sing. He watched the mothers and sisters, the wives and daughters step back from their sons and brothers, their husbands and fathers, step back to stand in silence, their hands now at their sides, their tears still on their cheeks, as the song their men were singing got louder and louder. Harry Sweeney knew this song, its words and its tune: the Internationale. Where the fuck you been, Harry, the fuck you been doing all this time, whispered Bill Betz, the second Harry Sweeney came in through the door to Room 432, Betz taking his arm and leading him back out through the door, back down the corridor. Shimoyama''s gone missing and all hell''s broke loose. Shimoyama? The railroad man? Yeah, the railroad man, the goddamn President of the railroad, whispered Betz, stopping in front of the door to Room 402.
The Chief''s in there now with the Colonel. They''ve been asking for you. Been asking for an hour. Betz knocked twice on the door to the Colonel''s office. He heard a voice shout "Come," opened the door, and stepped inside ahead of Harry Sweeney. Colonel Pullman was sat behind his desk facing Chief Evans and Lieutenant Colonel Batty. Toda was in there, too, standing behind Chief Evans, a bright-yellow pad of paper in his hand. He glanced round and nodded at Harry Sweeney.
I''m sorry I''m late, sir, said Harry Sweeney. I was up at Ueno station. The latest repatriates were arriving. Well, you''re here now, said the Colonel. One less missing man. Mister Betz told you what''s happened? Only that President Shimoyama is missing, sir. We came straight here, sir, said Betz. The minute Mister Sweeney got back.
Well, isn''t a whole lot else to tell, said the Colonel. Mister Toda, would you be so kind as to recap for the benefit of your fellow investigator what little we do know. Yes, sir, said Toda, looking down to read from his pad of yellow paper: Just after thirteen hundred hours, I received a call from a reliable source at Metropolitan Police Board Headquarters that Sadanori Shimoyama, President of the Japanese National Railways, disappeared early this morning. I then confirmed that Mister Shimoyama left his home in Denen Chofu around 0830 hours, en route to his o.