“Yes. But they came after us. It was close,” Remi said.
“Best not to test the island hospitality right now . . . especially late at night,” the guard said, holding a radio to his ear. He spoke into it and then returned his attention to the Fargos. “We’ll deal with this.”
“Come on, Remi,” Sam said, touching her arm as another guard made his way down the hall toward them.
Back in the room, Sam inspected the phone and then set it on the dresser before opening the terrace door and stepping out. The beach was empty, their tracks the only evidence of their nocturnal jaunt, the faint imprints of the islanders’ feet already washing away from the gentle swell.
“Probably not such a good idea going for a moonlight walk,” he commented as Remi joined him.
“You had to get the phone.”
“Yes, but dropping it in the first place was careless. It’s easy to forget just how precarious the local situation is.”
Remi leaned her head against his arm. “That which does not kill you . . .”
“Atta girl.”
They awoke to a light rain, the morning gray and bleak, the sea churning into an ugly froth. When Sam connected to the Internet again, there was another message from Selma, this one containing a name and address in a town forty miles south of Sydney. Sam called Remi over and read the information aloud.
“Toshiro Watanabe, Wollongong, New South Wales. Number eighteen Brighton Ridge Gardens.”
“Wollongong?” Remi asked. “That’s a real name of a place?”
Sam nodded. “Apparently so.” He checked the time. “I wonder what time the next flight to Australia leaves?”
Remi pulled up a travel website. “There’s a flight in two hours, but they all go through Brisbane, and there’s nothing until the following day to Sydney.”
Sam walked to the closet, where his travel bag was stowed, and pulled it out. “Sounds like we’re going on a little trip.”
“Wonderful. I need some new clothes.”
“Nothing like seeing the world, is there? Come on. Last one out the door buys breakfast.”
“We don’t have time to do anything but get to the airport.”
“Fine. Then cocktails in Brisbane.”
“Are we keeping the room?”
“Sure. Just bring what you need for a couple days.”
The flight to Brisbane was only half full, and when they arrived in the city of more than two million souls, they booked a hotel and spent the remainder of the afternoon relaxing and shopping on fashionable James Street. Or, rather, Remi shopped and Sam attended her with amusement, providing commentary on several new outfits.
The following day they arrived in Sydney and set out on the road to Wollongong, figuring the drive to the sleepy suburb would take about an hour and a half. Selma had contacted the nursing home where the elderly Watanabe was living out his golden years and used her powers of persuasion
to arrange for the Fargos to meet with the former sailor that afternoon.
When they arrived at the home, they saw a two-story brick complex, on a tree-lined lane near the hospital, with all of the charm of a prison. Entering the lobby, a stout woman with the no-nonsense demeanor of a drill sergeant met them and showed them to what she referred to as the card room. Once they were seated, she went in search of Watanabe. She returned five minutes later with a reed-thin Japanese man in a wheelchair. Wisps of silver hair were brushed straight back off his liver-spotted forehead, and the skin on his taciturn face was translucent as parchment.
“Mr. Watanabe. Thank you for meeting with us,” Remi said in English after learning that Watanabe had lived in Australia for many years. She and Sam had discussed it and had agreed that the feminine touch would likely elicit a more positive response than Sam’s direct approach.
Watanabe nodded but didn’t speak.
“My husband and I are archaeologists.”
Nothing. Remi gave him her warmest smile. “We’re interested in talking about the war. About the ship you were on when you were captured. We’ve traveled a long way to hear your story.”
The Japanese’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. Remi decided to try again.