The Pan Am clipper landed at Pearl Harbor about twenty minutes late. For the most part, the fourteen- hour passage from San Francisco was flawless, up and until they met with some head wind about mid-flight over the Pacific. That’s what caused the delay. Touching down, the airplane’s pontoons skipped over the tranquil harbor until the craft settled to cruise smoothly along the surface. As the plane neared the dock, the pilot cut back on the engines to let the craft drift into its berth. Once it was moored by the ground crew, the door was opened, and assisted by a stewardess the passengers filed out.

Most who exited were vacationers looking forward to a week or two of leisure, augmented by tropical cocktails, plates of rich pork, and bowls of bland poi; “Mainlanders” enticed by the promise of warm waters and beachside luaus. Two passengers, however, uncomfortably attired in similar heavy wool gray suits, black felt fedoras, and oversized dark sunglasses, looked strangely out of place. They contrasted with their fellow passengers who, already in the spirit of the island, were dressed in festive shorts and light tropical shirts. One of the two also carried a briefcase, and if you were to look closely, you would notice that it was handcuffed to his wrist. Neither stopped at the luggage wagon, for they had no other clothes to claim than what they had on their backs.

As they reached the street, they immediately flagged down a cab and handed the driver a paper with a neatly printed address. The location was about twenty-five minutes from Pearl Harbor in downtown Honolulu, a two story wooden commercial building with businesses located on both floors. Here they climbed a flight of weathered exterior stairs to the second level and entered a door labeled Ryan Air Tours.

“Is Mr. Ryan in?” one of the two asked an attractive, young Polynesian receptionist. She had a radio on, and a ukulele was strumming the bouncy tune, “On the Beach at Waikiki,” which had drowned out some of his words. She reached over and twisted the volume dial, then asked in a voice almost as harmonious as the music that had previously filled the room what it was that they wanted.

“Is Mr. Ryan in?” the man repeated.

She took a good look at them for the first time, and a frown of puzzlement crossed her face at their unusual appearance. After a moment, she answered. “He is out on a job. Would you like to leave a card?”

In answer to her question, the speaker reached into his inside suit pocket and produced an ID housed in a worn, brown, leather card holder. It identified him as a United States Government Agent. The other man produced his identification as well.

“I’m afraid we do not have much time,” he replied after replacing the ID back in his jacket. “Could you tell me where we can find him?”

She hesitated for a second, then responded, “I am not really supposed to let him be disturbed when he is doing something for another client.”

“You don’t have to worry about that, little lady,” the second person spoke up for the first time. “We’ll take responsibility. This is a matter of national security.”

“Very well,” she finally consented, and wrote down an address.