Chameleon

2

They had flown from Miami to San Francisco and taken the Great Circle flight over the Pole to Tokyo. Then they collapsed for two days. The pickings were slim. The Magician was going to check out Red Bridges’ shipyard and then snoop around, see what he could dig up. Eliza had a lunch date with Ira Yerkes, the Tokyo bureau chief for Howe News Service, hoping to pick up some background on AMRAN. 0’ Hara set out to find an old friend in Japanese army intelligence. As usual, they would use the hotel telephone as a drop in case of emergency.

She had interviewed Yerkes two years before, while he was back in Boston on vacation. He was tall arid slender, in his late thirties, and hyper; a darkly handsome man who could hardly sit still long enough to eat lunch. He hadn’t changed a bit. She remembered him as a man buzzing with energy and mildly flirtatious, but who acted as if he always had someplace else to go — right that minute, and not necessarily on business, just anyplace at all. It was his nature, and possibly because of it, he was one of the best reporters in the Howe chain.

He picked up some sandwiches in an American-style restaurant and led her to a small park at the edge of the Ginza, near his office building, spread out the food like a picnic and immediately lay back with his eyes closed, facing the sun.

‘I really need to get some rays. It’s been an inside wintuh,’ he said. His long New England vowels seemed strangely Out of place in Japan. ‘So what’re you doing in Tokyo, where are your cameras, all that stuff?’

‘That’s part of it. I’ll probably have to arrange for a camera crew and truck before I leave.’

‘No problem. The old man’s got the best in Japan. And twice as much as he needs. You speak the language?’

‘Uh-uh.’

‘That could be a problem. Maybe I’ll go with you as interpreter.’ He looked up suddenly. ‘Are you on to something hot?’

‘Nah.’

‘You got a reputation for poppin’ outa the box with some crazy shit, lady.’

‘Tourist stuff. Maybe a little something on Japanese industry.’

‘A little something on Japanese industry she says,’ Yerkes said around a laugh. ‘You can’t do a little something on Japanese industry. That’s like doing a little something on Uncle Sam. Where do you start?’

‘How about oil?’

‘There isn’t any in Japan. Not enough to do thirty seconds on. Refining, maybe. Lotsa refining.’

‘What do you know about AMRAN?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re interested in Hardluck Hooker.’

‘Why do you call him that?’

‘You don’t know about Hooker?’

‘I know he was a big-shot general in the war. What do you want from me — I wasn’t born until 1949.’

‘So — it’s history. He’s got a great war record but he steps in shit every time he turns around. He got chased outa the Philippines by the Japs, his son was killed in the war, he got axed out as a presidential candidate, and half a dozen of his partners in AMRAN have dropped dead on him. He’s been trying to put this consortium together for years.’

‘I didn’t know about his son.’

‘It’s been soft-pedalled. Excuse me, you’re in my sun...’

‘Sorry.’

‘That’s better. Anyway, the Hook was military governor of one of the southern provinces here during the Occupation. He was very sympathetic to the needs of the country, helped put it back on its feet. Even arranged some loans for some of the local big boys. He doesn’t talk about the kid anymore. Bad politics.’

‘Why does AMRAN have its main offices over here?’

‘Why not? Oil is an international business. Also I think the old man likes it here. The Japanese either love him or hate him.’

‘Hate him?’

‘The younger ones think he was a dictator. Maybe he was, but what the hell, he was the conqueror. He could have been a real asshole.’

‘What do you think of him?’

‘He’s a war hero, right up there with Patton and MacArthur. History’ll probably give him about eight out of ten.’

‘Can I talk to him?’

‘If you luck out. I did a piece on him about a year ago. I said he was the most tragic figure in World War H. Some dipshit on the international desk changed it to “one of the most tragic figures.” Anyway, if you’re interested in AMRAN, check the assignments desk in Boston. I filed a ten-page wraparound on that yesterday.’

‘On what?’

‘On their merger with San-San.’

‘What’s San-San?’

‘San-San means The Three Sirs, a triad, It grew out of the war. It was a little scandalous. The head knocker, Shichi Tomoro, was one of Japan’s industrial giants during the war. MacArthur let him off with a wrist-slapping, then Hooker helped finance their whole gig. Now it’s one of the most powerful industrial groups in Japan. Very strong politically, and they got more money than the Rockefellers.’

‘What kind of industries?’

‘Oil refining. Shipbuilding. Electronics.’

‘Maybe I should talk to Tomoro.’

Yerkes raised his chin slightly to get the full benefit of the sun. ‘You’re too late, He packed it in a couple of months ago.’

‘You mean he’s dead?’

‘Dead, cremated and scattered to the winds.’

‘How—’

‘He had a wild-boar preserve up on the north end of the island near Aomori. Accidentally shot himself.’

Chameleon at work again, she thought. It had to be. It fit the pattern perfectly.

‘Ira, ever hear of anyone called Chameleon?’

‘That’s his name, Chameleon? What does he do ‘-sit around the house and change colours?’

‘It’s his nom de plume.’

‘Nope. Why?’

‘Just curious.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘What do you mean, bullshit?’

‘I mean bullshit. C’mon, you just don’t casually ask about somebody called Chameleon, for Christ’s sake. What is he, some hot new rock singer?’

‘Punk rock.’

‘Oh, forget it. I’m just getting into disco.’

They got up to leave and Eliza remembered the ‘Midas’ notation in Lavander’s book. ‘One other thing, Ira, does the word “Ghawar” mean anything to you?’

He carried their trash to a basket and dropped it in. ‘The only Ghawar I know is in Saudi Arabia,’ he said.

‘Saudi Arabia?’

‘Sure. It’s the largest oil field in the world.’

The Kancho-uchi, headquarters of the secret service, was in a three-story building in an obscure corner of the government complex. O’Hara was escorted to the third floor by a young woman in a white suit. She was formal to the point of making him uncomfortable. Hadashi was waiting for him at the door of his office.

O’Hara had not seen Bin Hadashi for three years. The Japanese agent had changed little. He was in his early thirties, a tall man for a Japanese, slender, his hair cropped short. He was a cum laude graduate of Princeton.

‘Hey, Kazuo, where you been,’ Hadashi said with a broad smile. ‘I heard you were on the dodge. Your own man was trying to get you hit, hunh?’

Something like that.’

‘Some asshole.’

He led O’Hara into a small spotless office. There were no pictures on the walls, and the desk was empty except for the telephone and a can of apple juice.

‘He was never anything different,’ O’Hara agreed.

‘And then he called it off.’

‘Yeah.’

‘What an asshole. You still writing for a living?’

‘Trying. There’re easier ways of feeding yourself.’

‘What you snooping around here for? You want something, right?’

‘Just a little information.’

‘That’s the hardest thing to get around this place. You know how we Japanese are. Inscrutable bastards.’

‘The guy I’m looking for maybe the most inscrutable bastard of all. You ever hear of a Japanese agent calling himself Chameleon? This was back during the war.’

‘Which war, World War II?’

O’Hara nodded and held up two fingers.

‘This guy — Chameleon — was a spy, that it?’

‘He was head of some kind of special training section for Japanese agents.’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘Any old-timers around here who might know something?’ ‘You think this guy’s still alive?’

‘A hunch.’

‘Anybody that dates back that far— is either dead or retired.’

‘Then, how about somebody who’s retired? I just want to talk to somebody who remembers him.’

Hadashi pinched his nose a coup1e of times. ‘You buying lunch?’

‘A rich publisher back in the Stats is buying.’

‘In that case, I thought of a guy. And he’s right here in the building.’

‘Will he talk to me?’

‘He’ll talk to anybody who’ll listen’

They went down in the elevator— to the subbasement and walked through a grim, poorly lit subterranean tunnel to what

appeared to be the basement of the adjoining building. Steam

pipes hissed angrily overhead.

‘They must dislike this guy to put him down here.’

‘They’ve probably forgotten he’s here.’

They entered a large room which was divided by rows of steel shelves stuffed with file folders, books, logs, seemingly endless stacks of paper. The old man sat cross-legged on a tatami. He was sorting through file , using a brush and black

ink to log entries in calligraphy on ledger sheet. There was

no desk in the room, just the mat a.-id the old man and a very modem brass gooseneck lamp over his shoulder.

He was ancient, a shrunken memory of a man with wisps of white hair that flowed down almost to his shoulders. He had no eyebrows. He wore thick horn - rimmed glasses. His face was so wrinkled, only a prune could love it.

He finished the character he was drawing and looked up.

‘Ah, Hadashi-san, how nice of you to come by.’ His soft voice sounded like an echo of yesterday.

‘It is an honour, Kami-sama. I have brought you a small gift.’ He handed the man a package of Redman chewing tobacco.

‘The spirits will reward you at the proper time. Thank you, my friend.’

He immediately opened the package and stuffed a cluster of brown ringlets into his cheek.

‘This is my friend O’Hara, although he is known here as Kazuo. He has a question and I think only you can answer it.’

‘Ah, quite a distinction. You understand I am only a clerk. I have never been more than a clerk. I am the custodian of all this. Records that have been fed to a computer. Our history has been reduced to beeps on film. But these are true records. lam indexing them.’

‘How long have you been doing this?’ O’Hara asked.

‘Oh, I really don’t know. Ten years perhaps, and I am only a little way along. It takes a while, you understand, one tends to get interested in the files. I spend a lot of time reading. There’s no hurry. When I’m through they’ll just make me quit and go home and die.’

‘How long have you been clerk of the records?’

‘Since 1944. I was too old for the service.’ He paused to draw another character in his ledger. ‘All the records went through my hands. I have a good memory for small facts.’

‘Do you remember an agent called Chameleon?’

His eyes widened. He laid down the brush and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. ‘The Chameleon I am thinking of was a true chameleon. He changed colours constantly, so who can say what his true colour was.’

‘I am talking about the man whose code name was Chameleon.’

‘So am I. Nobody knows who he was. It is a secret that went with him to the gods.’

‘He’s dead, then?’

‘Since 1945. He died at Hiroshima. It was verified by your own intelligence people. It was in the records.’

‘What do you know about him?’

‘Only what was in the records. That he existed and that he died. Nothing more.’

‘So, the only proof that he is dead is that the Japanese secret service says so.’

‘Would they lie?’

O’Hara took out a slip of paper. It was the print-out from Izzy of the CIA report on Chameleon:

—Chameleon. N/O/I. Head of special Japanese training unit for intelligence agents. On list of war criminals, 1945-1950. Believed killed at Hiroshima, 8.6.45. Declared legally dead, 2.12.50.

‘Perhaps someone wanted to protect him. Why did it take the US Army Intelligence five years to verify his death?’

‘That you will have to ask Army Intelligence. But I don’t think they were at fault. They would have declared him dead long before that, except for one man.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Your General Hooker. He was passionate in his desire to find Chameleon.’

‘Do you know why?’

‘I would rather not guess.’

‘How could a man in the military service conceal his identity from so many people?’

‘Perhaps that was one of his many colours. Perhaps he was not in the service. It is possible he was a civilian serving the Emperor. There were many like that.’

‘In which case the people who served under him would certainly know who he is.’

‘That is of no consequence, Kazuo. The records for that section were destroyed just before the war ended. They were kept with the unit at all times. I never saw them. I saw only the final report, closing an empty file.’

‘Did the section have a name?’

‘Yes — Chameleon. That is all, just Chameleon. They had their own headquarters in the south.’

‘Where?’

‘At Dragon’s Nest, a fortress in the mountains.’

‘And that’s all there is to know about Chameleon?’ The old man nodded slowly as he mulled the tobacco in his cheek. ‘There is nothing more to know. He was a chameleon and he died,’

Hadashi looked at O’Hara and shrugged. ‘Thank you, Kami-sama, you have been a great help.’

‘It was nothing. Next time ask me something difficult. I have little left to do but show off.’

On their way out of the building Hadashi remarked, ‘It’s probably a strange coincidence, but this Dragon’s Nest the old man was talking about. ..‘

Yeah?’

‘It’s in Tanabe. It is now AMRAN’ s corporate headquarters. And Hooker is head of AMRAN.’