No Game for Amateurs: The Search for a Japanese Mole on the Eve of Ww Ii

Prelude: December 7th, 1941

The sun climbed out of the water a little before seven that peaceful Sunday morning in the Pacific Ocean near the Hawaiian Islands. A few fluffy clouds dotted the sky, as if painted there by an artist. It was going to be another beautiful day on the island paradise of Oahu, location of the Pearl Harbor Naval Base and several Army airfields. Little was stirring yet on the bases or in the city. The ship band of the U.S.S. Pennsylvania had won the Big Band contest the night before, and as a reward, the captain had ordered that its members could ignore reveille and sleep in that morning. None of them would ever have to respond to revelry again. Two Army privates operating radar equipment up at Opana Point had reported a large number of planes heading towards the island from the north, but the duty officer, Lt. Tyler, had concluded it was probably the flight of B-17 bombers expected from California. He told them to shut down the radar and come on back to the base for breakfast.

Around eight, up at one of the well-known, scenic overlooks of Pearl Harbor, an attractive young woman in a yellow dress strolled with a dapperly dressed, Italian-looking gentleman. He wore gray slacks, white shirt and a dark blue blazer. Like many tourists had done before, they were admiring the view below. The only other visitor to the overlook that morning was an Army major, sitting on a bench and reading the paper. The woman noticed the planes first.

Awfully early for practice drills on a Sunday morning, isn’t it? she commented to her husband. Both of them laughed and continued walking towards one of the benches to sit and enjoy the view. Suddenly, bullets tore into the ground around them and a moment later, her husband was thrown forward to the ground. The woman stood frozen, as more bullets from one of the diving planes struck all around her. Her gaze was fixed on large pools of dark-red blood soaking the blue material in his blazer. The Army major came running towards her, grabbed her up and hauled her to the base of a nearby tree, where they both huddled behind the trunk, seeking safety from the whizzing metallic pellets of death. They remained in that position for the next thirty minutes as hundreds of Japanese planes bombed and strafed the ships in the bay and the planes on Hickam Airfield. Large billows of black smoke were soon floating up from several of the massive battleships, as fires raged and massive explosions from deep within their hulls twisted their superstructures into grotesque shapes.

A few American fighter planes got up into the air, but were just as quickly shot down in the lopsided air battle. The Americans had obviously been taken by complete surprise. The major thought about rushing to his base, but to do what? The lady in yellow continued sobbing, alternating her glances between her husband face down in the dirt nearby, and the carnage taking place down below. How did this happen? How did this happen? she kept muttering to the Army man who had saved her.

ONE YEAR EARLIER: CHAPTER 1

Charles stepped gracefully forward and shoved his disc along the polished wooden deck. It came to rest dead center on a ten spot. Nicely played, remarked his elderly opponent. He then proceeded with his own shot, which knocked Charles completely off the deck, leaving his own disc squarely on the ten, winning the game of shuffleboard.

I don’t think this is your first time at this game.

The white-haired Henry smiled. No, I’ve been on board Vincent’s yacht many times before, but to return to the point I was making about personalities and environment. I know it’s the old nature versus nurture debate, but take yourself for example. Your temperament, your overall behavior has been determined by your social background. Having grown up in an educated, upper-class family, attending Harvard, that’s what has made you what you are today – good breeding. You grew up in the same city as those awful hoodlums and gangsters of Chicago, breathed the same air, drank the same water, yet look how you turned out in comparison to the lower-class riff raff of Chicago’s south side. I tell you, the difference is upbringing, plain and simple.

Charles bit his tongue. Perhaps you’re right, sir. He could hardly afford to reveal that his own background was a bit more complicated than just being Charles Worthington, Harvard class of 1937 and Law, 1940. But don’t you think that even if someone grew up in a less than ideal background, they might still change as they grew older?

His playing companion and amateur philosopher on human nature took a sip of the martini that the steward had just delivered to him. I suppose it’s possible, but highly unlikely. The semi-retired banker leaned back in his deck chair and stared out into the calm sea of the South Pacific Ocean.

The 261-foot power yacht, Nourmahal, belonging to Vincent Astor had departed California in October 1940 for a cruise to Australia, several obscure South Pacific islands and Hawaii. For the first three weeks of the journey, twenty-five-year-old Worthington had spent many hours each day alone, looking out over the ship’s mahogany railings at boring, endless stretches of water. As Astor’s recently hired private secretary, he wasn’t certain why the millionaire had even brought him along on the cruise. For company, there were his employer and several of his wealthy friends, like Henry, but they were all at least twice his age. Astor was the richest man in America and enjoyed making trips to exotic lands. Among his guests on this journey was Kermit Roosevelt, son of Theodore Roosevelt and distant cousin of the current president.

Two days after departing Sydney, Charles, Vincent and Kermit were beginning breakfast on the rear deck. Highly polished silver serving dishes brimming with fresh tropical fruits sat on a crisp white linen tablecloth. Vincent and Kermit wore their navy blue New York Yacht Club blazers, open-neck shirts and white trousers. With the ship and the ocean behind them as a backdrop, they looked like they belonged on the cover of a travel magazine. At age 51, Kermit was in good health, but a bit portly; what they called in upper class society as looking prosperous. With each year, he resembled more and more his famous father.

Charles, to the contrary, was tall and slender. Many weeks in the strong Pacific sun had deeply tanned his skin and turned his sandy-colored hair even lighter. He had a lean face, gray eyes and an easy-going smile that put people at ease in his presence. He was by nature quite talkative, but in the presence of these two members of what passed for American royalty, he tended to remain silent unless asked a question. At six feet, he found it unusual to have to look up at people, but his boss was a good five inches taller than he was. The steward poured their coffee into china cups bearing the Astor family crest, took their food orders and left them alone per Astor’s directions. The smell of strong coffee mixed with sea air and a spectacular view brought to Charles’ mind what an amazing change had occurred in his life since becoming Astor’s private secretary. He reflected on his own, much more checkered origins in Chicago, where his father had been an insignificant, but honest lawyer, at least he had been, before the Capone mob and the Great Depression had changed everything. He knew he had taken a risk by accepting such a high-profile position with Astor, but so far he had managed to keep his true bakcground a secret.

The arrival of the first mate with a well-worn leather briefcase from Astor’s cabin brought Charles back from his daydreaming. Vincent unlocked the case and took out a chart of their next destination, the Solomon Islands. Let’s get down to business. Here are the harbors that we’re to check out, he said as he pointed with his croissant at three black X’s drawn on the map. Of course, we’re to keep our eyes open for anything else that looks interesting, but according to the Office of Naval Intelligence, these are the three places where the Japanese are rumored to be establishing a presence, even though the islands are under British rule.

Did ONI give you any other details? asked Kermit.

No, Franklin gave me this chart himself. There was no direct contact with anyone from the Navy, so I don’t know where they got their information or how reliable it might be.

Kermit put on his reading glasses and pulled the chart over to take a closer look. Don’t know why the Japs would be interested in anything way down here, unless they had in mind someday attacking Australia. You’d think they were busy enough in China.

Yes, well, I think that’s precisely Franklin’s concern and why he asked us to take a quiet look around out here, added Vincent. With the British busy with Hitler and the world’s attention on the war in Europe, Tokyo might decide that now is a good time to add a few more countries to its empire. Vincent passed the chart and case to Charles. Why don’t you keep these down in your cabin and any notes that we make as we go along. If any of our Oriental neighbors come on board uninvited, we’ll trust you to drop a lighted match in the case, he added with a wink. Charles suddenly realized that the Franklin Vincent kept referring to was better known to the rest of the world as President Franklin Delano Roosevelt. He was hoping that Vincent would explain more about how they came to be checking out islands for President Roosevelt, but the first mate appeared and advised that the captain had requested Astor’s presence on the bridge to discuss their upcoming stops in the Solomon Islands.

The following morning, Charles went in search of Mr. Astor. He found him reading in one of the deck chairs. Do you mind if I ask a little more about the purpose of what you and Mr. Roosevelt are doing on this trip for the president?

Not at all, Charles. Take a seat. Astor looked around to make sure they were quite alone. Since you’re taking an active part, you should know what’s going on. I only caution you not to discuss this with anyone except myself or Kermit.

Understood.

There’s a small group of us, mostly businessmen, referred to simply as the Club, who for several years have attempted to stay abreast of world events. When one of us travels somewhere, we gather afterwards and brief the others on what we observed. We have a house in Manhattan for our meetings. If we learn something that we think might be important for the government to know, we pass the information along.

Sort of a private espionage organization? asked Charles, looking over his shoulder to see that no one else was near.

Well, that’s perhaps too glamorous a description, but on occasions President Roosevelt has asked me to look into a specific matter or two on his behalf. That’s what this trip is all about. It’s a sad commentary on the pathetic condition of Navy and Army Intelligence that he has to turn to us, but that’s the situation. Since the start of the war in Europe last year we’ve been much busier and I suspect there are going to be even more tasks in the future.

So we’re looking for signs of a Japanese buildup in this part of the Pacific?

In simple terms, that’s it exactly. Now, isn’t this a lot more exciting than keeping notes at board meetings? asked Astor as he rose from his chair and slapped young Charles on the back.

They didn’t cover this at Harvard. I trust you won’t be disappointed in my performance.

Nonsense, lawyers make excellent spies. How about a game of chess later this morning?

Whenever you’re ready, sir.

Charles remained seated, contemplating what he’d just been told. He’d comprehended they were doing a bit of discreet snooping for the Navy, but it hadn’t truly registered that Astor, and himself by extension, were working directly for the president. On the one hand it was all rather exciting, but on the other, he wasn’t sure he liked thinking of himself as a spy. He’d never really given the profession much thought, but what little he had, had not been terribly positive. At least at Harvard, spying wasn’t considered a reputable profession, going around deceiving and blackmailing people, stealing other countries’ secrets. Not much different from being one of those nasty little divorce detectives who peek through windows and hotel key holes. In this case, however, simply noting down what one could openly see on a few islands hardly seemed like spying and there was a war on, even if it didn’t directly concern America. And if Vincent Astor and Kermit Roosevelt were involved in it, it couldn’t be all that unethical.

A few days later, the yacht arrived at the little-known island of Guadalcanal and sailed into a natural harbor, where the Matanikau River flowed into the sea. It was one of the larger islands in the chain, but had few inhabitants other than the small native population. It officially belonged to Great Britain and was the third of the three X’s on Astor’s secret chart. They’d found nothing but coconut trees at the first two stops – so much for Navy Intelligence! They dropped anchor into the crystal-clear water a hundred yards from the sandy beach and sent a few crewmen to reconnoiter. If possible, they were to make arrangements for the Astor party to visit the small village the next morning. From the yacht, Charles could see only a dozen or so grass huts and a small wooden dock. The arrival of the yacht had attracted the attention of a few native children on the shore, but apparently no one else. There was a wide beach and a line of mature palm trees full of coconuts separating it from the dense jungle just beyond. It didn’t appear as though the twentieth century had had much impact on this particular bit of land in the Pacific.

The first mate returned to the ship an hour later and reported to Astor that there wasn’t much to be seen in the village, but the local chief would be happy to have him visit the next day. He added that a long-time resident Anglican minister had died a few years earlier and the natives had mostly slipped back into their ancient ways and gods, but still remembered some English.

I also encountered a funny little Japanese fellow, sir. Said he is an anthropologist doing a study of native customs. He’ll join you at the luncheon with the chief if you decide to go ashore.

Yes, make arrangements for all of us to go have lunch with the chief tomorrow, responded Astor. And let’s post a couple of armed crewmen on deck tonight, just to make sure there’s no funny business from any of those fellows on shore while we sleep.

Yes, sir.

The next morning at eleven sharp a small boat was lowered and the Astor party went ashore. They were greeted on the dock by the chief, a broad shouldered fellow, black as coal and with a good bit of gray in his short curly hair. He wore only a bright green cloth around his waist that came down to his knees. Many of the native women were topless. The chief used his son as interpreter. He’d never heard of the tribe Astor, but assumed anyone with that big of a fishing boat was a fellow chief worthy of his time.

Welcome to our island. The chief ordered hollowed-out cups filled with coconut milk to be served to each of his guests. To your health, good fellows, translated the son with his heavy Australian accent."

Charles barely suppressed a grin, at the incongruous picture of a native islander covered only in a small cloth speaking as if he was part of a touring company of Gilbert and Sullivan.

It’s an honor for us to visit your beautiful island, began Vincent who then rambled on for a full minute with adjectives and accolades probably well beyond the native interpreter’s level of English. Charles noticed that the translation from son to father was condensed to about ten seconds.

At that moment, a small Japanese gentleman in his late twenties wearing a white suit and pith helmet stepped forward. Mr. Akido Nokamura, graduate of UCLA, 1934, proclaimed the bespectacled Oriental. He bowed slightly at the waist.

A pleasure to meet you, responded Astor as head of the delegation of American sightseers. I understand you’re doing some anthropological work on the island.

Yes, I’m very interested in the Melanesian culture and have spent the last month here in the islands doing research for a book, comparing marriage customs between the different tribes.

How interesting. You must send me a copy when it’s finished.

The chief led the way to a large, thatch-roofed hut where great quantities of food, including roasted pig had been placed. The chief had obviously endured a number of English and Australian official visitors over the years and had picked up the white-man’s habit of frequently offering toasts.

To the King of America, stated the chief in stilted English.

To the health of the Queen of England, responded Vincent a few minutes later.

Mr. Nokamura offered several tedious stories of native customs he’d observed on some of the islands, fulfilling everyone’s notion of a college professor who was fascinated by his field of research, even if no one else was.

Once the luncheon ended, Charles and his shuffleboard partner, Henry, opted to go stroll about the island with another villager who also spoke some English as their guide, leaving the others to watch native dancers perform. They headed off into the dense green jungle along a narrow dirt path. The sunlight made interesting patterns as it filtered down through the high canopy and cries of exotic birds filled the air.

Have you ever seen so many beautiful flowers and such colors! exclaimed Henry as he mopped the sweat from his face and neck. Flowers in vibrant reds and yellows and blues stood out in stark contrast to the lush greens of the leaves and palms. The jungle closed in from both sides and above. It’s an island paradise. Henry plucked a few of the blossoms to take back to his wife.

Except you can’t see more than ten feet in any direction, observed the less romantically inclined Charles. Wow, I feel like I’ve walked a mile, commented Charles several minutes later, after only a few hundred yards of an uphill climb. This heat and humidity is a killer. I’d hate to have to do anything terribly energetic out here.

There was an intoxicating fragrance in the air. Their guide with limited English could only explain its source as flower.

I can hardly breathe. Let’s head back to the village, commented Henry, while gasping to get air into his sixty-five year old lungs, just a quarter hour or so into their stroll through paradise.

You take our guide and go back; I’m going to make the full circle. He was almost as out of breath as Henry, but wanted to continue, if only to prove how rugged he was. The native told him the trail was clearly visible and in a short while he would reach the coast and from there could easily find his way back to the village.

Charles pushed on and ten minutes later came out into a large, open meadow, which ran for perhaps half a mile and was several hundred yards wide. He was struck with the thought of how easily the meadow could be converted into an airfield. As he walked through the waist-high grass, Charles noted what looked like surveyor stakes here and there. On one edge of the field he could discern where the grass had been trampled down, not an obvious trail as he was on, but clearly where someone had walked many times. His curiosity was aroused and he decided to follow the faint path.

A short ways into the jungle he came upon a small bamboo shack in which he found surveying equipment and more stakes. As he poked around the disheveled abode he suddenly found a shortwave radio hidden in a corner under a grass mat. He couldn’t read any of the markings on it, but he certainly recognized Japanese writing when he saw it. One didn’t have to be much of a spy to figure out that Nokamura was more than just the bumbling anthropologist he pretended to be. Charles was just starting to examine an architectural plan for an airfield lying on top of the radio set when he saw from the corner of his eye a blur of white coming towards his head. He instinctively leaned forward just enough so that the hammer at the end of a white sleeve coming his way hit his upper back instead of the side of his head. He threw his entire body at his attacker, which took both men to the ground. He quickly realized that it was the previously oh-so-genial Mr. Nokamura with whom he was fighting. The professor grabbed a large knife lying on the bottom level of a shelf. He appeared to have every intention of killing Charles for having discovered his secret shack. While having initially been taken by surprise, Charles was the larger and stronger of the two and his hidden experience as a youth in not-so-upper class Chicago proved useful as well. Charles had hold of Nokamura’s wrist with the knife when they tumbled again to the floor. As the two rolled to the left, the blade was plunged deep into the belly of its owner. The private secretary and amateur spy rose to his knees, breathing heavily and sweat dripping from his face. His hands were shaking. The man who had just a few seconds ago had been full of fight and life mumbled something in Japanese, his face showing great pain, then it relaxed and his body lay perfectly still. Charles noticed the bright red stain spreading across Nokamura’s previously pristine white shirt. His wide-open but motionless eyes stared at the ceiling. Charles had seen a dead body before, but had never personally been involved in a killing and found himself frozen for several long seconds as he stared at the now calm face of the UCLA graduate, class of 1934. The only sounds were his own labored breathing and distant bird calls.

Running was out of the question in that climate, but Charles started walking as fast as he could back to the village, still in a bit of a daze and wondering what to say to someone when he reached there. His role as a passive spy had taken a dramatic and unwanted turn towards the active kind. Fifteen minutes later he found the village and fortunately managed to catch Kermit’s eye as the rest of the Americans were still conversing with the native chief. Kermit joined Charles down on the beach.

What’s up? You look a fright.

I just killed Nokamura, replied Charles in a low voice, surprised now by his own calmness. I came across a hidden shack with a shortwave radio. Nokamura jumped me. We struggled with his knife and I won.

It was now Kermit’s turn to show his steadfast nerves. He gave a bit of a laugh and slapped Charles on the back as if the latter had just told him a good joke. This was for the benefit of several natives who were carefully watching the two white men. The two started strolling down the beach as Kermit pulled out a cigar and lit it. Once out of sight, they hurried back to the hut. Charles confirmed he’d not been hallucinating from the heat. The anthropologist still laid there, quite dead on the dirt floor.

Kermit spoke first. Hard to say just how good of friends he was with the natives and what will be their reaction to this. I’d prefer not to be here to learn firsthand what it is. Let’s carry him off a ways into the jungle, bury him as best we can and hope it’s a few hours or even days before they find him.

I suppose it’s the most practical thing to do, though not the most Christian, replied Charles as he grabbed the man’s feet.

Using stones and bits of wood they dug out a shallow grave in the soft soil and placed Nokamura in it. After pushing the dirt back over the body they spread underbrush around to cover the area as best they could. Kermit then ripped a few wires from the inside of the radio and tossed them into the jungle. I don’t know if he has accomplices, but no sense making it easy for anyone to immediately report to the outside world what has happened. Let’s get back to the others as quick as we can and strongly suggest to Vincent that it’s time to bid farewell to our hosts.

When the two returned to the village, the gathering was coming to an end. Farewells were made and life on the island would soon return to its usual leisurely pace, at least until they discovered the body. For the moment, no one seemed to take any notice that Mr. Nokamura had not returned to see the Americans off.

Once back on the yacht, most of the guests went to their cabins to take naps before dinner. After a few whispers from Kermit, Vincent ordered the captain to immediately get underway. Charles took a quick shower, put on fresh clothes and went up to the lounge area. Vincent and Kermit were already there, each enjoying one of those tropical drinks that combined alcohol with various fruit juices. Vincent waved to the steward to bring one of the same for Charles. You probably need one of these, young man, began Vincent. Kermit has been filling me in on what happened back on the island.

Charles recounted the entire story for Vincent. I keep thinking this is a dream and I’ll wake up in a moment.

You did what you had to do. The man attacked you and you defended yourself, responded Vincent. The question now is whether we should still make our planned stops in the Marshall Islands, given that they’re under Japanese control.

As we don’t know how soon they’ll find Nokamura’s body or when it will be reported to anyone, I think the prudent course of action would be to skip the Marshalls and head straight for Honolulu, answered Kermit. We can arrange for a discreet message to be sent to the Australian authorities about the death of Nokamura from there, with a suggestion that they examine his secret shack. I doubt if the Japanese are going to raise much of a complaint about the matter since he was there spying. They’ll just be left wondering who killed him and why.

I agree. We’ve learned enough for one trip. Let’s head for home, concluded Vincent.

That night as Charles lay in his bunk, he kept seeing the face of Nokamura, eyes wide open, face calm, almost as if he was just resting. One reason he’d left Chicago was to get away from killings, and now he’d killed someone. He decided a stroll might help clear his head. He found Kermit on the rear deck, watching the stars.

Trouble sleeping?

I keep thinking about this morning, replied Charles.

Men die in battle. This is a different kind of war, a silent one, but a war just the same. Don’t feel too badly about what happened.

I keep telling myself that, but every time I close my eyes I see Nokamura’s face.

"He attacked you. You did what you had to do to protect yourself. You’ll feel better in