1942

“Without going into detail,” Leahy continued for Roosevelt, “I can assure you that your niece is no longer under Japanese control. She has been moved by our people to a different location in the islands, and there will be no further broadcasts of that sort by her, although, of course, some old ones might be replayed. She is not out of danger, but she is much freer than she had been.”

Cordelli exhaled in a whoosh of relief. “Thank you.”

They shook hands, and the congressman departed.

“You know what I wish?” Roosevelt mused.

Leahy smiled. “I have no idea, sir.”

“Just once, I wish that the FBI would learn a little about tact and discretion. Why should the President of the United States be so involved in so minor a problem?”

Leahy smiled. He knew better. Roosevelt was exuberant at being able to give his friend Cordelli some good news. That simple act had lifted some of the stress from FDR’s shoulders. That he had been able to be angry at the FBI was an added bonus. Admiral King and General Marshall had been right. The way to keep FDR alive and well was to keep him happy. Helping Congressman Cordelli was the perfect tonic. As to Roosevelt’s lament about the problem being too small for him, Leahy knew that was so much hogwash. The president had enjoyed the whole thing immensely.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt had had a good day, and that was all that counted.

Lieutenant Uji Goto knew he wasn’t much of a warrior, but his new commander at Hilo, Major Osami Shimura, was even less of one. Shimura was short, fat, flabby, lazy, and dissolute. He was generally drunk by noon, and Goto thought he might be using opium as well.

Shimura also was a coward. He had close to five hundred men at his disposal and had done nothing to rid the island of Hawaii of the American guerrillas who, in the opinion of Goto and other more determined officers, operated with impunity outside Hilo.

“Too many,” Shimura had said on several occasions. “There are hundreds of them out there just waiting to ambush us. Our job is to hold Hilo, not run all over this wretched island chasing shadows.”

Goto wondered how a group of well-armed Americans could become shadows, but he said nothing. He had read the raw intelligence data and knew there was only a very small American force in the field, somewhere between fifty and a hundred, and they would not be able to stand up to a battalion of Imperial marines if they were cornered.

Of course, Goto acknowledged that cornering them was the problem. Hawaii was four thousand square miles of jungle, mountain, and volcanoes, some active, in which the Americans could hide. As a boy visiting relatives, he had hiked some of the trails and knew that a full division of Imperial marines might not be able to root them out unless they had to stand and fight for something they deemed important.

With an active campaign out of the question for the immediate future, he settled into a fairly comfortable existence. Like the other officers, he got drunk almost every evening and spent many of the nights in the local brothel. The madam, a fat Hawaiian with many gaps in her smile where the teeth had rotted out, quickly understood his unique pleasures. She made certain he had access to several girls in their early teens, although she had been disturbed by his requests for girls who were even younger. So far, she had not been able to get any prepubescent children for him, and that disturbed Goto as well.

Of course, if he could get back to Honolulu, with its larger population, his needs could be more readily fulfilled. In order to get back, he had two choices: First, he could wait out the necessary time, as Omori had suggested, or, second, he could do something outstanding that would require him to be sent back to Honolulu regardless of what the civilians thought. Who gives a shit, he snarled to himself, what the civilians think?

Thus, it was with some eagerness that he greeted the foul creature who stood before him. “Sergeant Finch, you are to be congratulated on all you have done for Japan. I can only hope you will be as successful here.”

Finch was uncomfortable but tried to hide it. He should not have been sent to Goto’s quarters, where his presence might be noted. Even though it was night and he was wearing civilian clothing and a hat, someone might have recognized or remembered him.

“As always, Lieutenant, I will do my best.”

“It was easy for you on Lanai. The Americans there were total idiots and there was really no place for them to hide. Here on Hawaii, it will be different.”

Indeed it would, Charley thought. Finding the guerrillas would be the first part of the problem.

“How will you explain yourself?” Goto asked. “You will appear to them as a reasonably healthy POW. How will you explain yourself?”