“But of course,” Gorbatov went on, “you speak English as well?” The question was posed in English with a slight British accent.

“Yes,” Nicholai answered in Russian. “And Japanese. But these were learned languages.”

“Meaning: not cradle?”

“Meaning just that.” Nicholai instantly regretted the brittle sound his voice had assumed.

“I see.” The Colonel leaned back in his desk chair and regarded Nicholai with a squint of humor in his Mongol-shaped eyes. “Yes,” he said at last, “very well trained. And disarmingly young. But for all your cradle and post-cradle languages, Mr. Hel, you are an American, are you not?”

“I work for the Americans. As a translator.”

“But you showed an American identification card to the men downstairs.”

“I was issued the card because of my work.”

“Oh, of course. I see. But as I recall, my question was not whom you worked for—we already knew that—but what your nationality is. You are an American, are you not?”

“No, Colonel, I am not.”

“What then?”

“Well… I suppose I am more Japanese than anything.”

“Oh? You will excuse me if I mention that you do not look particularly Japanese?”

“My mother was Russian, as I told you. My father was German.”

“Ah! That clarifies everything. A typical Japanese ancestry.”

“I cannot see what difference it makes what my nationality is!”

“It’s not important that you be able to see it. Please answer my question.”

The sudden frigidity of tone caused Nicholai to calm his growing anger and frustration. He drew a long breath. “I was born in Shanghai. I came here during the war—under the protection of General Kishikawa—a family friend.”

“Then of what nation are you a citizen?”

“None.”

“How awkward that must be for you.”

“It is, yes. It made it very difficult to find work to support myself.”

“Oh, I am sure it did, Mr. Hel. And in your difficulties, I understand how you might be willing to do almost anything to secure employment and money.”

“Colonel Gorbatov, I am not an agent of the Americans. I am in their employ, but I am not their agent.”

“You make distinctions in shading which, I confess, are lost upon me.”

“But why would the Americans want to interview General Kishikawa? What reason would they have to go through an elaborate charade just to contact an officer with a largely administrative career?”

“Precisely what I hoped you would clarify for me, Mr. Hel.” The Colonel smiled.

Nicholai rose. “It is evident to me, Colonel, that you are enjoying our conversation more than I. I must not squander your valuable time. Surely there are flies waiting to have their wings pulled off.”

Gorbatov laughed aloud. “I haven’t heard that tone for years! Not only the cultivated sound of court Russian, but even the snide disdain! That’s wonderful! Sit down, young man. Sit down. And tell me why you must see General Kishikawa.”

Nicholai dropped into the overstuffed chair, voided, weary. “It is more simple than you are willing to believe. Kishikawa-san is a friend. Almost a father. Now he is alone, without family, and in prison. I must help him, if I can. At very least, I must see him… talk to him.”

“A simple gesture of filial piety. Perfectly understandable. Are you sure you won’t have a glass of tea?”

“Quite sure, thank you.”

As he refilled his glass, the Colonel opened a manila folder and glanced at the contents. Nicholai assumed that the preparation of this file was the cause of his three-hour wait in the outer offices of the headquarters of Soviet Occupation Forces. “I see that you also carry papers identifying you as a citizen of the USSR. Surely that is sufficiently uncommon as to merit an explanation?”

“Your sources of information within SCAP are good.”

The Colonel shrugged. “They are adequate.”

“I had a friend—a woman—who helped me get employment with the Americans. It was she who got my American identification card for me—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Hel. I seem to be expressing myself poorly this afternoon. I did not ask you about your American papers. It was your Russian identity card that interested me. Will you forgive my vagueness?”

“I was trying to explain that.”

“Oh, do excuse me.”

“I was going to tell you that this woman realized I might get into some trouble if the Americans discovered I was not a citizen. To avoid this, she also had papers made up indicating a Russian nationality, so I could show them to curious American MP’s and avoid questioning.”

“And how often have you been driven to this baroque expedient?”

“Never.”

“Hardly a frequency that justifies the effort. And why Russian? Why was not some other nationality selected from that crowded cradle of yours?”

“As you have pointed out, I do not look convincingly Oriental. And the attitude of the Americans toward German nationals is hardly friendly.”

“While their attitude toward Russians, on the other hand, is fraternal and compassionate? Is that it?”

“Of course not. But they mistrust and fear you, and for that reason, they do not treat Soviet citizens highhandedly.”

“This woman friend of yours was very astute. Tell me why she went to such efforts on your behalf. Why did she take such risks?”

Nicholai did not answer, which was sufficient answer.

“Ah, I see,” Colonel Gorbatov said. “Of course. Then too, Miss Goodbody was a woman no longer burdened with her first youth.”

Nicholai flushed with anger. “You know all about this!”

Gorbatov tugged off his glasses and redistributed the sneer. “I know certain things. About Miss Goodbody, for instance. And about your household in the Asakusa district. My, my, my. Two young ladies to share your bed? Profligate youth! And I know that your mother was the Countess Alexandra Ivanovna. Yes, I know certain things about you.”

“And you have believed me all the while, haven’t you.”

Gorbatov shrugged, “It would be more accurate to say that I have believed the details with which your story is garnished. I know that you visited Captain Thomas of the War Crimes Tribunal Staff last…” He glanced at the folder. “…last Tuesday morning at seven-thirty. I presume he told you there was nothing he could do for you in the matter of General Kishikawa who, apart from being a major war criminal guilty of sins against humanity, is also the only high-ranking officer of the Japanese Imperial Army to survive the rigors of reeducation camp, and is therefore a figure of value to us from the point of view of prestige and propaganda.” The Colonel threaded his glasses from ear to ear. “I am afraid there is nothing you can do for the General, young man. And if you pursue this, you will expose yourself to investigation by American Intelligence—a title more indicative of what they seek than of what they possess. And if there was nothing my ally and brother-in-arms, Captain Thomas, could do for you, then certainly there is nothing I can do. He, after all, represents the defense. I represent the prosecution. You are quite sure you will not take a glass of tea?”

Nicholai grasped for whatever he could get. “Captain Thomas told me I would need your permission to visit the General.”

“That is true.”

“Well?”

The Colonel turned in his desk chair toward the window and tapped his front teeth with his forefinger as he looked out on the blustery day. “Are you sure he would want a visit from you, Mr. Hel? I have talked to the General. He is a man of pride. It might not be pleasant for him to appear before you in his present state. He has twice attempted to commit suicide, and now he is watched over very strictly. His present condition is degrading.”

“I must try to see him. I owe him… very much.”

The Colonel nodded without looking back from the window. He seemed lost in thoughts of his own.

“Well?” Nicholai asked after a time.