The Pearl Harbor Murders

dining room, after which Burroughs headed into the bungalow, to get some writing done-he needed to get his hero, Carson Napier, out of one jam and into another. He and Hully would play a round of tennis in the late afternoon on the court on the Niumalu grounds-Burroughs had prevailed yesterday, two sets to one… a spirited game that had exhausted him, though he was damned if he'd let his boy know just how tired he was.

In the sitting room with its pale plaster walls, near a churning window fan, Burroughs was at his typewriter, working on his new Venus story, when two sharp knocks at the bungalow door drew his attention away from the gargantuan beasts threatening his spaceman. He rose from the typing stand-wearing a white sportshirt, white slacks and tennis shoes (ready for his game with Hully)-and saw a familiar face through the screen door.

'I know you're a teetotaler now,' Adam Sterling said, holding up frosty bottles of soda pop, 'but I'm assuming that doesn't include root beer.'

A broad-shouldered six-foot two, his brown hair graying at the temples, strong-jawed, deep-tanned Sterling might have been a hero out of one of Burroughs's own books-in fact, he looked a little like Herman Brix, that poor bastard who almost died playing Tarzan in the Guatemalan jungle for Florence's ex-husband.

'I can use something wet right now,' Burroughs said through the screen. 'You want to sit outside and chug those things?'

Sterting wore a white linen suit and a light blue tie; he'd apparently come from his office in the Dillingham Building in downtown Honolulu.

'No, Ed,' he said, and he was almost whispering, 'I'd like you to ask me in.'

'Well come on in, then,' Burroughs said, opening the door. 'But it's stuffy as hell in here.'

Stepping inside, Sterling said quietly, 'Actually, Ed, I need to talk to you-in private. This isn't even for Hully's ears-he isn't around, is he?'

'No, he went down to the beach for a swim. Probably looking for his next girlfriend.'

Sterling nodded, but-oddly-he took a quick walk around the one-bedroom bungalow, making sure he and the writer were indeed alone. Burroughs watched this not knowing whether to be amused or insulted.

Finally, they sat on the couch and sipped their root beers and Burroughs wondered what the hell was on the FBI man's mind.

'How goes the writing?' Sterling asked him.

He grunted. 'Sometimes I think plots are like eggs.'

'How so?'

'A hen's bom able to lay just so many eggs, and after she's dropped her last one, she can sit on her nest and strain and grunt and never squeeze out another. I'm starting to think a writer is born with just so many plots.'

A smile creased Sterling's face. 'Why, have you been straining and grunting?'

'Hell, yes, and rearranging my feathers; but I'll be damned if I can squeeze out a new plot, and these old ones are starting to smell.'

Sterling shrugged. 'I thought that last Tarzan, the one about the secret treasure, was swell.'

'That was a movie, Adam-I didn't write that.'

'Oh. Sorry.'

'It did stink, though.'

The FBI man took a swig of root beer. 'You going to the luau tonight?'

'Those damn things … They expect you to eat dried octopus and raw fish and disinterred pig, and then there's that library paste they try to disguise under the alias of poi.'

'Yeah, but are you going?'

'Haven't turned down an invite yet.' Burroughs looked sideways at his friend, eyes slitted and amused. 'Christ, Adam, I thought I was the worst conversationalist on the planet, till I heard this sorry attempt on your part. Can the small talk-what's this about?'

Sterling sighed, sat forward, hunkering toward him. 'Ed, I need to take you into my confidence.'

'Be my guest.'

'This is very unofficial.'

'Okay.'

'I've been here at the Niumalu for about three months, now. So has somebody else.'

Burroughs thought about that, gestured with a motion of his head. 'That German next door, the big spender-Otto Kuhn. He and his wife moved in maybe a week before you.' 'That's right. He's why I moved in, Ed.'

'Really!' Burroughs got up from me couch, pulled his typing chair over and sat, so he could face his Mend; this was getting interesting. 'Don't tell me we have a Nazi at the Niumalu.'

'Something like that. He's really just a goddamned beachcomber pretending to be a retired gentleman of substance. But… he was an officer in the Kaiser's Navy during the Great War, that much we know.'

Burroughs arched an eyebrow. 'He's trying to start a real estate business, I understand.'

'That's just talk-before that it was selling furniture; for a while he studied Japanese at the University of Hawaii.'

Now the writer was leaning forward. 'Why does a German in English-speaking Hawaii want to learn Japanese?'

'Our boy Otto has frequent dealings with the Japs-he took one trip to Tokyo in '30 and another in '36. We suspect he's in their employ. My contacts confirm as much.'

'Your contacts.'

'Ed, you put our Mend Colonel Frank Teske on his steamer today. I don't have to tell you he thinks war is imminent… that this island will be under attack, momentarily.'

'What do you think, Adam?'

'He's right and he's wrong-war is imminent Washington isn't having any luck negotiating with the Japanese. But Frank's wrong, too-the threat on our remote little island is not from the sky, but on the ground.'

'Sabotage. I was just telling Hully the very same thing.'

'Well, you're right. Since the middle of last year, I've been developing a network of contacts in the Japanese community-trustworthy ones, Americans who happen to be Japanese.'

Both of the writer's eyebrows lifted. 'Is there such a thing?'

'Oh yes. The vast majority of these Hawaii-born Japanese are loyal to our Sag. And a number of them have been helping me identify the potentially dangerous sorts among them.'

'What does that have to do with a German like Kuhn?'

Sterling spoke softly, but with an edge. 'When the war begins, we'll be cracking down on disloyal Japs- arrests will be made. My contacts tell me that Kuhn is a 'sleeper' agent-set to take over as top local spy, when and if the top Japanese agents on this island are arrested, after hostilities begin.'

'Your contacts are trustworthy? I mean, can you really trust these nisei?'

'I trust them,' Sterling said. 'But I also trust my fellow FBI agents, who've been keeping their eyes peeled. A little over a month ago, the Tatsuta Maru arrived in Honolulu, delivering a pair of Japanese diplomats, both of whom met with Kuhn-who then deposited fourteen thousand dollars in cash in a local bank.'

Burroughs took another swig of the root beer.

'You've convinced me-he's a rat. Where do I come in?'

Sterling's face was a tight mask. 'Things are heating up. This war is coming. I can use another pair of eyes here at the Niumalu … informed eyes… not to do any spying or poking around, understand- just to keep watch. I'm not here during the day, and Kuhn frequently is.'

'You're not asking me to do surveillance-take notes…'

'No. Just keep your head up. Stay alert. Let me know if you see anything, anyone, suspicious around Kuhn or his cottage.'

'Glad to help,' Burroughs said.

'All right, then-mum's the word.' Sterling slapped his thighs, and rose. 'See you tonight at the luau?'

Burroughs stood. 'I'll be there-just don't pass me any of that goddamn library paste.'

The FBI man chuckled, shook the writer's hand, collected the empty soda-pop bottles, and went out, leaving an energized Burroughs behind.