Flying Blind

attended our every whim, keeping first our teacups filled, then later serving tiny warm cups of sake, which I sipped guardedly. Lacquered trays with small dishes of food—seaweed, rice, pickles, miso paste—were set before us. The stuff was lousy.

It wasn’t like I didn’t know or appreciate Japanese cuisine. There was a place back home, on Lake Park Avenue, called Mrs. Shintani’s where they cooked sukiyaki on a little gas stove right at your table, thin slices of beef, crisp fresh vegetables, the warm aromas rising to your nostrils like undulating dancing girls. Take a young lady to Mrs. Shintani’s for an intimate evening of heavenly dining, and I dare you not to get lucky.

This tasteless goo wouldn’t get you to first base.

“I hope you enjoy meal,” the shichokan said. “We eat only finest imported food. Sent from home in can, jar, sack.”

“Aren’t there farms here?” I asked, my chopsticks finding a pinch of flavorless seaweed. “I know there’s fishing.”

The shichokan made a sour face. “Island food. We do not eat the harvest of primitive people.”

On a tropical paradise, surrounded by waters teeming with fish, where coconuts and bananas and pineapples flourished, where native farmers raised chickens, cattle, and hogs, these proud people ate canned seafood and seaweed out of jars. This was my first real indication that they were nuts.

The roly-poly shichokan’s tour of the island was fairly brief—an hour and a half or so—but illuminating. Riding in back of another black sedan, with a white-uniformed driver, our route was at first scenic, following hard dirt roads south through lush foliage, stopping to take in a small bay, a tidal pool, a blowhole, and several craters. Then, apparently to demonstrate to his new I.R.A. friend the capabilities of the Japanese, the shichokan paused to allow me to take in the panorama that was Aslito Heneda airfield.

Two vast crushed-coral runways, two service sheds with spacious crushed-coral aprons, five dark-green wood- frame hangars, and a similarly constructed terminal, Aslito Heneda was a modern airfield in the shadow of an ancient mountain. The facility had an unmistakable military look, but as we coasted by, I caught sight of no fighter planes, no bombers—the only planes on the apron were a pair of airliners—and a few parked automobiles, with some civilian activity around the terminal building, a small ground crew on the field.

“Great Japan Airways,” the shichokan explained. “People come to work Saipan. Some come for vacation from Tokyo.”

Later, the shichokan pointed out a flat stretch of land, which looked to have been recently cleared, and said, “Marpi Point. We begin clear second airfield soon.”

Saipan didn’t seem to be in dire need of another commercial airport; in fact, Aslito Heneda was barely used for that purpose. In his sly way, the shichokan was letting his I.R.A. ally know that, though military aircraft and combat units were not yet in place, the island was undergoing heavy-duty fortification.

He was less coy back in Garapan, when we rolled past the chain-link-fenced-off Chico Naval Base with its sprawl of barracks skirting the seaplane base with its ramps and repair shed, and modest population of two flying boats. Within that fenced-off area, there was no sign of any military personnel.

“Those buildings full by next year,” the governor bragged. “With konkyochitai…” Noticing my confusion, he thought about that and came up with a translation: “Battalion. Also, a bobitai, defense force. Five hundred men. And keibitai…guard force. Eight hundred navy troop.”

Our sedan headed back up the main street, and turned over onto a side street parallel to the waterfront, my spider-haired chubby tour guide proudly pointing out an imposing low-slung complex of concrete buildings on golf- green grounds—a modern hospital specializing in tropical diseases (“Dengue fever, big problem Saipan”). Across the street was a small park, where a few palm trees and stone benches attended a towering pedestal on which stood a larger-than-life-size bronze statue of an older Japanese gentleman in a business suit, a hand in his pocket, an oddly casual pose for such a formal monument.

“Baron Matsue Haruji,” the shichokan said, answering my unasked question. “Sugar King, bring prosperity to Saipan.”

On a side street nearby, however, the tour turned less cheerful, as the sedan pulled over by an undeveloped overgrown plot of land, a reminder of the jungle this town had been carved out of. Across from us were two one- and-a-half-story concrete buildings with high barred windows. The building at right was long and narrow, stretching out like an endless concrete boxcar; across a crushed-stone area, where several black sedans were parked, a similar but much smaller building squatted, a concrete bungalow with four barred windows. Probably the maximum-security section.

“Father,” the shichokan said quietly, “we give you trust. We show you…” He searched for the words and found perfect ones. “…good faith.”

“That is true, Shichokan.”

He nodded slowly. His bassy voice was somber as he said, “We ask a favor.”

I nodded in return. “You honor me, Shichokan.”

“We would like you to speak to two American prisoners…. Pilots.”

My heart raced but I kept my voice calm. “Pilots?”

“Spies.”

I gestured toward the concrete buildings. “Are they held in that prison, Shichokan? ”

“One is. Man.”

“There is a woman, too?”

“Yes. She is famous woman in your country…. She is call ‘Amira.’”

I was trembling; I hoped he didn’t see it. “Amelia,” I said.