CHAPTER 28
At the Sukimoko sari-sari shop in Valenzuela, northwest of Manila, north of where the Tullihan River empties into Manila Bay, Maria finished her restocking with several new items she hoped would catch the eyes of her recently arrived Japanese customers. Japanese soldiers strolled her street, a planque, a wet market street, shopping as though they had not a care in the world. That, with the absence of airplane clouds overhead, had caused Maria to assume that the Japanese had already won. She saw a couple soldiers across the street at the rice shop and as she watched them select rice, she thought about where her niece Juanita might be.
At the bar of the golf course surrounding the old Spanish fort Intramuros in Manila, concerned beauty queen Christina Ortegas sipped champaign. It had been served to her by the former bartender, who had now come to the customer side of the bar and was standing next to her. He had revealed to her yesterday that he was indeed Japanese Naval Intelligence Captain, Yoshi Imai. He had been pleasant to her. He seemed considerate and caring about her concerns, noting that she should not worry, as the Japanese meant only to liberate the Philippines from American colonialism, then to help the Filipinos play a constructive part in their Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere.
Today his movements had seemed quicker, tighter, directed toward something. He put his cold hand upon her left hand which she had been resting on the bar. "You are left handed," said the Japanese intelligence major.
"So what," she replied, bored sounding, and took another sip, attempting to slip her hand from under his. The agent squeezed her hand a bit tighter.
"Where exactly does our American elevator salesman live," the intelligence officer asked her.
"How should I know?"
He squeezed her hand harder. "Where did he say he lived?"
"He did not say." The next thing from her mouth was a scream that was stopped at her lips by his other palm across her mouth.
"Where would you say?" He removed his palm from her mouth but not the tremendous pressure he was putting on the bones of her left hand.
"Northwest," she gurgled in pain.
"Northwest where?" Then a little tighter squeeze.
"Valenzuela," she whispered hoarsely.