"Do I look like one?" Dugan crinkled his eyelids together to make himself look more Asiatic. He let a rumble of irresponsible mirth come up from his belly to his throat.
"You look like no Russian to me," the Chinese conceded. "Of what place are you? Why did you say you were a glorious Soviet soldier?"
"But it is true. I am a Soviet soldier, but no Russian. Haven't you heard the telling, comrade, about the many nationalities of the Soviet Union?"
"Have heard."
"I am a Uighur."
"Never heard of them. Come along to the village."
The four other peasants fell into line. Dugan noted that their Japanese rifles were new and in good condition. Their cartridge belts showed little wear. They were dressed in the nondescript jackets and pajamalike pants of the Chinese peasantry. Their only uniform consisted of a white armband with a red star and the characters, "Democratic Self-Development Brigade," crudely stamped in ink. And their shoes, which were Japanese Army issue, and good.
Dugan walked beside the leader. Thus far, things were going well. Not as perfectly as he might wish, but well enough for him to be satisfied.
After leaving Sarah, he had spent six more days in Tokyo. Two in the hospital. Two more were spent in conversation with a nuclear scientist and an engineer.
Through the interviews, Dugan wore a mask. These men were too conspicuous to be trusted. Tokyo was full of Soviet agents and if the scientist or engineer had seen his un-American face, there might have been talking. As it was, they heard Dugan mimic the ripe Irish voice of his uncle Ed. The rest of their lives, they would suspect that some mick had been hiding behind the black mask. Their information, reduced to its crass essentials, was fairly simple. Dugan refused unnecessary information on the ground he might be drugged or tortured. He asked only what he should look for.