Jon Cleary - The Phoenix Tree

JON CLEARY

Dedication Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Keep Reading About the Author Author's Note Also by the Author Copyright About the Publisher

To Judith and Arthur Morris

Contents

Cover

Title Page JON CLEARY

Dedication Dedication Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Keep Reading About the Author Author's Note Also by the Author Copyright About the Publisher To Judith and Arthur Morris

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Keep Reading

About the Author

Author's Note

Also by the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

1

Kenji Minato’s escape from the San Diego naval base did not go according to plan.

‘We shall have to arrange your escape,’ Commander Embury had said. ‘It has to look genuine. You’ve got to land back in Japan without any chance of them thinking you’ve been planted. You make for the Mexican border and get out of the States, that’s your first priority. As you know, there’s no Japanese embassy in Mexico City – the Mexicans are theoretically at war with the Japanese.’

‘The best way to be at war,’ Tom Okada had said. Though he was the American he had been far less cooperative than Minato. But then, Minato remembered, Tom had always been a rebel, even at high school.

‘That’s enough, corporal,’ Embury had said, not even glancing at Okada. I’m the important one here, Minato had thought, the real hero; and Tom doesn’t like it. ‘Lieutenant, there are Japanese and German businessmen down in Mexico who haven’t been interned. We know they are part of the Japanese spy network – I’m sure you have contacts there.’

Minato nodded. ‘And I’m sure you know who they are, Commander.’

Embury nodded in return. ‘We do, but they don’t worry us. You will have to persuade them to move you along their line back to Japan. It’ll probably be down to an embassy in South America, one of the smaller countries. From there it will probably be by ship to Lisbon; then by plane the rest of the way, through Occupied Europe to Turkey. We’re not sure what route the Japanese or Germans use from there on, but they do move personnel between themselves. It’s a long way home, but there’s no other way – it has to look as if you made it without any help from us. We’ll allow six to eight weeks, but that will depend on how quickly you’re moved along the line. We’ll give you names of contacts in Mexico City and other possible stopovers, so that you can keep us informed of when you’re being moved on. As for you, Corporal Okada—’

Okada sat up.

‘You’ll be going in by a much more direct route. We’ll drop you by parachute. Or take you in by submarine. You have nothing to worry about.’

Okada, for the moment, had chosen to be more Japanese than American. He had looked inscrutable.

On 3 January, the night of the escape, all went well to begin with. At 10 p.m. Minato complained to the Shore Patrol guard on duty that he had a slight attack of diarrhoea and had to go to the head. In all the weeks he had been here at the Navy base he had given no trouble; he and his guards were on the friendliest of terms, though the guard detail still had no idea why he had been held here so long. The SP on duty that night had no reason to believe that this trip to the head was any different from all the other trips Minato had made. Nothing establishes a routine as much as certain natural functions.

The guard suspected nothing when Minato stopped to tie up a shoelace. He was all innocent curiosity when Minato said, ‘What’s going on over there?’ He turned his head and was facing away from Minato when the latter hit him with a karate chop across the side of the neck. He went down in slow motion, allowing the Japanese to catch him and lower him into the shadows beside the latrine block. Minato took the guard’s pistol and the scout’s knife that was clipped to the man’s belt; the knife was not general issue but had been a proud possession of Alvin Gellen, ex-Eagle Scout. Minato waited till he was certain he had not been observed by anyone still moving about on the base. Then, keeping to the shadows, he made his way to where he had been told the admiral’s car would be parked.

He found the car, got into the boot and closed the lid, though making sure it could not be locked. Twenty minutes later the car was driven out of the base. The admiral, whose wife was keeping the home fires burning in Norfolk, Virginia, spent several nights a week being warmed by the wife of a commander absent on duty in the Pacific; keeping their adultery in the service, neither the admiral nor the commander’s wife thought they were being too traitorous. The driver delivered the admiral to his rendezvous, then drove on to his own assignation with the wife of a yeoman first class who was also absent on duty in the Pacific. The celibate Minato removed himself from the boot after the driver had hurried off whistling ‘Pistol Packin’ Momma’, a lover’s serenade.

Minato had half an hour’s walk through the darkened streets before he came to the alley off Market Street where he had been told the getaway car would be parked. He did not know San Diego well; he had not been in the city since before Pearl Harbor; so he had asked for the car to be parked where it could easily be found. Several times during the walk he had to slip into doorways to avoid being recognized as a Japanese. He sardonically wondered if the spies in Europe, from either side, appreciated the camouflage of looking no different from the enemy.

The car was a black 1938 Pontiac with California plates; the keys were taped under the front right-hand wing. He was just opening the driver’s door when the escape plan went wrong. Embury and his fellow planners had, quite reasonably, not taken into account the perambulations of a half-drunken, off-duty SP mate third-class.

Clem Bateman was from a farm in Missouri, prone to seasickness and therefore confined to shore duty; but he was big and strong and he could wield a billy-stick with all the woundup efficiency of a corn thresher; he had broken more American heads than any Kraut or Jap ever had. He hated Japs, particularly because it seemed that he would never get the chance to fight any and he would go back home at the end of the war and have nothing to boast about to the folks in Pike’s Corner. But if Japs had to go on living, then he reckoned the guy he had been guarding for weeks, l’il ole Kenny Minato, was as good as any to be given the chance. He had come to think that l’il ole Kenny was a real nice guy.

He was taking a short cut through the alley, heading for a cathouse he had run aground on while on SP patrol, when he came on the Jap trying to open a car door. He was almost past him before he recognized that he was a Jap; he had taken two more stumbling paces before he recognized Minato. He turned round, fell against the car in his surprise.

‘Hey, Minato! What the hell you doing here?’

‘Nothing. I got a pass—’

‘The hell you did!’ He made a grab at Minato. ‘Lemme buy you a drink! When’d you last have a good drink, eh?’