Japanese shirt with short, knee-length trousers. My eyes had the oriental fold, my skin was tinted a faint amber, and I knew I would easily pass for just another fisherman to anyone watching from shore. Major Nutashi had explained to the two fishermen that they were to go about their work as usual but to do whatever I ordered them to do, no matter how strange it sounded.
What we'd done for the first day was to get in the fish during the morning fogbound hours and then sail around listlessly while the sun burned through. When that happened, they'd repair nets and I'd scrounge down in the bottom of the dory and survey the islands as we moved in and around them. I thanked God there wasn't a helluva lot to survey on most of them or we'd still be surveying as time ran out.
It was late in the second afternoon and the sun's rays were moving low across the water as we steered past a small island with a screen of trees rising a hundred yards inshore. I caught the sudden flash of sun reflecting off field glasses.
"Just keep on sailing past," I said quietly from the bottom of the boat. The old man nodded as we moved on and then slowly circled as though heading back. As we passed the island again, I was sitting up piling one of the nets into the bow of the dory. Once more I caught the brief glint of the sunlight on the glasses. We moved on until night fell, and then I ordered the little dory to come around and head back. The two fishermen didn't ask any questions. When we were off the little island again it was pitch black. The moon hadn't come up high enough yet and I didn't wait around for it.
"Go back to your homes now," I said to the old man and his son as I lowered myself over the side of the dory, leaving the oilskins with them.
They nodded gravely and I heard the faint sound of the water hitting the sides of the dory as she swung around. I swam for the dark mound that was the island, my shoes tied onto my belt, my fancy socks stuck into a pocket. The tide was coming in and helped me along. Soon I felt the pebble bottom under my feet and I crawled out onto a stone beach. I waited a moment, moved further up from the beach and brushed my feet dry on the grass that rose up at the edge of the trees. Then I put on my socks and shoes. It wasn't the best of manners to go calling barefooted. I moved carefully through the trees. I'd gone about a hundred yards inland when I saw the flicker of light.
I crept forward in a crouch, moving closer to what turned out to be a crumbled mass of rock that had once been some kind of temple. But the decay had been arrested by new stone blocks placed in strategic positions and wooden planks filling up holes. The remains of the temple stretched back into a cleared area and I saw the roof had been well repaired with gutters and drains running along the edges. A figure emerged from a narrow, arched doorless entranceway — an old man, crippled and deformed. He lit a torch stuck in a wall holder and then moved along the side of the temple to disappear around the back. He was Japanese, or at least oriental. I waited and saw two men in monk-like robes emerge, gather some firewood and go back inside.
Through cracks in the stones and boards and by the reflected light of an open square that had once been a window, I saw the flicker of torchlight from inside and heard the sounds of chanting. If Carlsbad was here, I had to admit he'd picked a helluva spot to hide in. If his pals hadn't lost that identification locket we could have spent a decade searching for this place. If he was here, he had to feel pretty secure. Except for watching the fishing boat with glasses, they hadn't a guard posted anywhere.
I crossed the short space to the temple wall as the chanting stopped. My back pressed against the wall, I slipped into the dark of the arched doorway and then moved inside, into an area of deep shadows. The floor was plain dirt at the entrance, but a stone floor began just inside the arched area. Before moving
What we'd done for the first day was to get in the fish during the morning fogbound hours and then sail around listlessly while the sun burned through. When that happened, they'd repair nets and I'd scrounge down in the bottom of the dory and survey the islands as we moved in and around them. I thanked God there wasn't a helluva lot to survey on most of them or we'd still be surveying as time ran out.
It was late in the second afternoon and the sun's rays were moving low across the water as we steered past a small island with a screen of trees rising a hundred yards inshore. I caught the sudden flash of sun reflecting off field glasses.
"Just keep on sailing past," I said quietly from the bottom of the boat. The old man nodded as we moved on and then slowly circled as though heading back. As we passed the island again, I was sitting up piling one of the nets into the bow of the dory. Once more I caught the brief glint of the sunlight on the glasses. We moved on until night fell, and then I ordered the little dory to come around and head back. The two fishermen didn't ask any questions. When we were off the little island again it was pitch black. The moon hadn't come up high enough yet and I didn't wait around for it.
"Go back to your homes now," I said to the old man and his son as I lowered myself over the side of the dory, leaving the oilskins with them.
They nodded gravely and I heard the faint sound of the water hitting the sides of the dory as she swung around. I swam for the dark mound that was the island, my shoes tied onto my belt, my fancy socks stuck into a pocket. The tide was coming in and helped me along. Soon I felt the pebble bottom under my feet and I crawled out onto a stone beach. I waited a moment, moved further up from the beach and brushed my feet dry on the grass that rose up at the edge of the trees. Then I put on my socks and shoes. It wasn't the best of manners to go calling barefooted. I moved carefully through the trees. I'd gone about a hundred yards inland when I saw the flicker of light.
I crept forward in a crouch, moving closer to what turned out to be a crumbled mass of rock that had once been some kind of temple. But the decay had been arrested by new stone blocks placed in strategic positions and wooden planks filling up holes. The remains of the temple stretched back into a cleared area and I saw the roof had been well repaired with gutters and drains running along the edges. A figure emerged from a narrow, arched doorless entranceway — an old man, crippled and deformed. He lit a torch stuck in a wall holder and then moved along the side of the temple to disappear around the back. He was Japanese, or at least oriental. I waited and saw two men in monk-like robes emerge, gather some firewood and go back inside.
Through cracks in the stones and boards and by the reflected light of an open square that had once been a window, I saw the flicker of torchlight from inside and heard the sounds of chanting. If Carlsbad was here, I had to admit he'd picked a helluva spot to hide in. If his pals hadn't lost that identification locket we could have spent a decade searching for this place. If he was here, he had to feel pretty secure. Except for watching the fishing boat with glasses, they hadn't a guard posted anywhere.
I crossed the short space to the temple wall as the chanting stopped. My back pressed against the wall, I slipped into the dark of the arched doorway and then moved inside, into an area of deep shadows. The floor was plain dirt at the entrance, but a stone floor began just inside the arched area. Before moving
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