“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 winning this one is very important to the Soviets. They’re making a big propaganda number out of it. As you probably know, they’ve picked up a lot of flack for failing to repatriate their war prisoners. They’ve been keeping them in ‘reeducation camps’ in Siberia until they can be returned fully indoctrinated. And they have not delivered a single war criminal, other than Kishikawa. So this is a set piece for them, a chance to let the people of the world know they’re doing their job, vigorously purging Japanese Capitalist Imperialists, making the world safe for socialism. Now, you seem to think this Kishikawa is innocent. Okay, maybe so. But I assure you that he qualifies as a war criminal. You see, the primary qualification for that honor is to be on the losing side—and that he was.” Captain Thomas lighted one cigarette from another and stubbed out the punk in an overflowing ashtray. He puffed out a breath in a mirthless chuckle. “Can you imagine what would have happened to FDR or General Patton if the other side had won? Assuming they had been so self-righteous as to set up war-crimes trials. Shit, the only people who would have escaped being labeled ‘warmongers’ would have been those isolationist hicks who kept us out of the League of Nations. And chances are they would have been set up as puppet rulers, just as we have set up their opposite numbers in the Diet. That’s the way it is, son. Now, I’ve got to get back to work. I go to trial tomorrow representing an old man who’s dying of cancer and who claims he never did anything but obey the commands of his Emperor. But he’ll probably be called the ‘Leopard of Luzon’ or the ‘Puma of Pago-Pago.’ And you know what, kid? For all I know, he might really have been the Leopard of Luzon. It won’t matter much one way or the other.”

“Can I at least see him? Visit him?”

Captain Thomas’s head was down; he was already scanning the folder on the forthcoming trial. “What?”

“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 tanned like boot leather.” Gorbatov smiled automatically at the old joke, then set down the glass in its metal holder. He unthreaded his round metal-rimmed glasses from his ears and cleaned them, or rather distributed the smudge evenly, using his thumb and finger. As he did so, he settled his hooded eyes on the young man sitting across from him. Gorbatov was farsighted and could see Nicholai’s boyish face and startling green eyes better with his glasses off. “So you are a friend of General Kishikawa? A friend concerned with his welfare. Is that it?”

“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.