Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Ashwood stopped him mid-sentence. “I’ll let you two get back to your history and cinema studies later. And when you return from Saipan, if you pass the first quiz, you’ll get little silver stars stuck to your foreheads, or glued into your personnel files, whichever you prefer.”

  “That’s really sweet, Stuart, but I’d prefer a silk kimono.”

  Ashwood laughed aloud for the first time as he lit another cigarette. “I’ll sign off on your kimono, Hannah. But let me give you both a word of caution: the Japanese, especially the yakuza, play by different rules and they typically don’t pull any punches. So learn their game quickly and don’t let your guard down. I don’t want two more of my people missing.”

  5

  A Dragon’s Delight

  Komodo Island

  Republic of Indonesia

  March 1990

  Orochi Tanaka sat beneath a palm tree in a folding lawn chair and thoughtfully sipped a fruity rum cocktail from a fresh coconut while watching his underworld partner struggle against the ropes that lashed his hands and feet to a thick wooden pole pounded deeply into the sand.

  Tanaka, whose first name translated roughly to Big Snake, was amused by the fear in the eyes of the man who, he was convinced, had betrayed him. As far as Tanaka was concerned, betrayal was the biggest of unforgivable sins and this man had committed it.

  “Orochi, please. Don’t do this,” pleaded the man tied to the pole who wore only a white loincloth like those favored by sumo wrestlers. “I didn’t betray you. I honor you. I respect you. I would never do such a thing. We have been friends for years.”

  The captive man was taller than the average Japanese, strongly built, with a head shaved close to the scalp and a mosaic of tattoos on his arms and legs. He tugged at his hemp-rope bonds but they were securely fastened. Rivulets of sweat spilled down his face but he was helpless to wipe them. The sand was hot but the sun was waning, the tree branches casting long shadows on the idyllic beach.

  Tanaka, a barrel-chested man in his late forties, was despite the heat clad formally in a black, western-style, two-piece suit. He wore a long-sleeve, white linen dress shirt, wide purple necktie, and aviator sunglasses. If it were not for his bare feet and tiny toes methodically curling into the coarse sand, he might have been headed to a corporate board meeting.

  “Yoshi, you and I were like brothers. How many years did we work side by side? Twenty? I’m saddened it has come to this,” said Tanaka, loosening his silk tie and taking another sip of rum. “You knew Saipan was mine and still you tried to take it, you and Mikito. Look where it got him, and now you’re no better off. When you’re gone, the world will have lost a master tattoo artist, maybe the best ever. That is the biggest shame.”

  “I did nothing. People offered me gifts in return for information about you, but I always turned them away.”

  Yoshi tugged against the bonds, his body glistening with sweat. “Please believe me, Orochi. I’ve told you a hundred times. I didn’t take your money. Someone has miscounted, or they have fixed the ledgers to make it look like I’m a thief.”

  “If only I could believe you. If only you and Mikito had not run off with what belongs not just to me but also to other yakuza families. How do you think that makes me look in their eyes? I’m disgraced by your actions.”

  Tanaka twice pounded the arm of his chair, a signal to two men dressed in baggy shorts, t-shirts and sandals, M16 automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. Normally the men worked as park rangers on Komodo Island but had agreed to turn a blind eye to Tanaka’s activities in return for what amounted to a year’s pay for each. The park rangers, who wore their t-shirts inside out to hide their government unit shoulder patches, casually walked in opposite directions into the underbrush. Tanaka’s four armed bodyguards checked their Uzi machine pistols and nervously glanced at their surroundings, not quite knowing what to expect. Like the others, they were still jetlagged by the seven-hour flight from Saipan to Bali and then to the small fishing village of Labuan Bajo on Flores Island, all aboard Tanaka’s Gulfstream III jet. A chartered helicopter had ferried the group on the final leg to Komodo Island. The pilot and co-pilot didn’t ask why one of the passengers was drugged or sick and barely able to walk. They had been paid handsomely to fly and remain with the helicopter once they landed on the island.

  Nobody spoke as Tanaka rested in the chair and calmly buffed his fingernails with a sandpaper file. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The two-way radio in the pocket of Tanaka’s suit jacket beeped four times. Tanaka held it up so all could hear as the speaker crackled with an excited voice. “Ready. Coming your way.”

  The bodyguards drew their machine pistols and braced for the unknown. Tanaka, a handsome man who many people said resembled a Japanese version of the 1950s American movie star Clark Gable, flashed a full set of oversized white teeth. His high cheekbones were flushed pink, his eyes, with their long lashes, alive with excitement.

  One of the bodyguards frantically pointed to a rustling in the underbrush less than a hundred feet from where Tanaka was seated. Tanaka raised an arm, signaling his bodyguard not to open fire. A Komodo dragon exposed its reptilian head through a break in the tall grass and repeatedly flicked its divided tongue as though sensing nearby prey, more like a snake than a lizard. Yoshi gasped in horror, which caused Tanaka to grin until his lips were stretched to the fullest.

  The rustling continued as two front legs with sharp claws appeared, followed by the rear legs and long tail. The dragon, part of the family of monitor lizards, was at least eight feet long.

  “No, Orochi. No!”

  The dragon moved cautiously toward the sweating prey. The bodyguards, guns drawn, formed a protective flank in front of Tanaka but he ordered them to step aside.

  “Please do not obstruct my view of this beautiful moment,” he said, sipping from his coconut drink.

  As the guards stepped aside, Tanaka leaned toward the tripod and switched on the video camera.

  Yoshi began to recite Buddhist prayers aloud. The dragon moved closer, sniffed the prey with its tongue and without warning sunk its serrated, razor-sharp teeth into the man’s left leg. A horrific scream sent the nearest birds flying in all directions and again Tanaka chuckled.

  The dragon’s jaws glistened with saliva as it ripped away a chunk of flesh and swallowed with little effort. Blood spilled into the sand. Yoshi wailed in pain, which was followed by a remorseful moan that Tanaka knew affected his bodyguards who were trying hard to show no emotion. Tanaka was convinced his men would remember this day and, at some point in the near future, tell others about it. As a result, his reputation would grow and many more would fear him.

  The reptile stood on its hind legs and bit into Yoshi’s right arm, again tearing away flesh. Another woeful scream burst from the throat of the dying man. Tanaka ordered one of the bodyguards to freshen his drink with a rum double. The bodyguard hustled to the Igloo cooler that rested in the shade of a palm tree where he nervously added more rum and ice to Tanaka’s coconut and inserted a new plastic straw.

  A second lizard, smaller than the first, skittered toward the wooden pole and attempted to join the feast. The larger animal hissed but didn’t attack his competitor, content to chomp into Yoshi’s stomach, spilling and devouring his intestines, the blood soaking into the white loincloth so that it turned red. Yoshi’s last thoughts were of his adoptive niece Hiraku, the beautiful young woman he had nicknamed Little Peacock. The moaning soon stopped.

  Tanaka switched off the camera and returned to fine-sanding his fingernails. Before boarding the helicopter he made certain the park rangers would dispose of Yoshi’s body in a place where it would never be found, presuming the Komodo dragons didn’t gnaw it to the bone.

  6

  Watchful Eyes

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  Hannah and Carrington casually walked from the commercial airliner parked on the tarmac to the Customs office where they joine
d the line of tourists, residents and other visitors headed inside the small concrete building. They appeared an unhurried couple on vacation with plans to relax. The flight from Tokyo’s Narita International Airport to Guam and finally to Saipan had taken several hours during which they napped, read and chatted about matters unrelated to their profession.

  Hannah was wearing a red, flower-patterned, wide-leg jumpsuit and leather sandals. Her hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun. Carrington had donned khaki surfer shorts, a Pearl Jam band t-shirt and well-worn Topsiders. His Wayfarer sunglasses rested atop his head, nestled into his ash-blond hair. Both he and Hannah had checked suitcases in addition to their carry-on bags. They’d done this purposefully, filling the suitcases with bathing suits, paperback books and tubes of sunscreen. If Customs agents sifted through the contents, they’d most likely surmise these two were tourists headed for the resort town of Garapan and popular Micro Beach.

  Hideyo Mashima, a detective with the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) police, leaned his lanky frame against an exterior wall of the Customs building and studied each arriving passenger. He was primarily looking for yakuza. If a male passenger was missing a pinky finger, or a portion of it, very likely this was the result of yubitsume, the practice of severing one’s own smallest digit as a way of self-inflicting punishment for having made a poor decision or having engaged in behavior unacceptable to his underworld boss. The amputated finger was usually wrapped in clean white cloth or preserved in a small glass vial until it could be personally delivered to the offended person.

  Although yubitsume was a solid clue to yakuza membership, Mashima found the severed pinky fingers difficult to spot from a distance. He knew the yakuza were a wily bunch, and wasn’t surprised when a cottage industry sprang up to provide fake pinky-finger extensions for those attempting to evade detection by police or customs officers.

  Tattoos were far easier to spot, especially since many yakuza were proud of them and so left the artwork exposed when at the beach. The tattoos often depicted snakes, dragons, carp, or peacocks. Traditionally, most yakuza left a bare strip in the center of their chest, running from neck to stomach and void of tattoos. This allowed them to wear shirts or sport jackets unbuttoned without revealing their ink.

  Mashima moved closer to the counter as a Customs officer began questioning two yakuza who had strutted toward the arrival building as though they did not intend to stop at the gate. The men spoke abruptly and disrespectfully to the Customs officer who had asked them to open their suitcases. Mashima could tell they were yakuza by their stride, so unlike the average Japanese tourist whose gait was more humble. Voices were getting louder and it seemed a confrontation would erupt as Mashima approached.

  With a slight bow, he greeted the two visitors. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Although this may seem an inconvenience, this officer is merely doing as he has been instructed. I’m sure you would do the same if your superior had spoken.”

  In a show of great annoyance, the men unzipped their suitcases and flung the lids open. Folded clothing shared space with cartons of cigarettes and bottles of scotch, far exceeding the import tax limit. Mashima pretended not to notice. He was more interested in the possibility of finding weapons and drugs.

  “Are you here to spend days lounging at our beautiful beaches, or is this a business trip?”

  Both yakuza ignored his question. Mashima didn’t anticipate an answer. He knew the yakuza had a penchant for rudeness and disdain for authority.

  The Customs officer held up a box containing dozens of condoms and inspected it with a wry grin. He opened one flap and peered inside as though the box might contain a surprise. The two yakuza shared a personal joke that apparently referred to the need for so many prophylactics. The Customs officer tossed the box atop the other items in the suitcase, closed the lid and nodded for the next passenger in line to come forward. Both yakuza grunted and headed for the counter where their passports were stamped. Mashima wondered if they were the first wave of a rumored large-scale yakuza meeting among the various families. He was well aware the yakuza bragged a membership of nearly 80,000 spread over about twenty organized families or clans. If so, other representatives would likely arrive within the next day or two, perhaps one or two per family. That’s how it typically worked.

  The detective prepared to brace himself for the brash gaggle of younger yakuza or sons – known as kobun. These were often the troublesome tourists whose primary responsibility was to cater to their oyabun, or father, ensuring his every whim was satisfied — carrying his bags, lighting his cigarette, or answering questions with exaggerated politeness.

  It was well known among the international law enforcement community that the yakuza – with the exception of the Yamaguchi-gumi, Japan’s largest organized crime family – were involved in drug trafficking. Many yakuza clans dealt primarily in amphetamines and heroin. And each treated the details of their smuggling operations and delivery routes as highly-guarded trade secrets. Giving away such information was punishable by death.

  Some days, the only clues Mashima gleaned were from passport stamps indicating the person had traveled extensively between Bangkok and Manila, or Saipan and Honolulu. If those travelers were serving as mules by smuggling heroin, Mashima hoped to catch them red-handed. But given the massive quantities of white powder reaching the streets of America, he knew the transportation methods involved something much larger – tankers, freighters, private aircraft capable of flying over oceans.

  Mashima also prided himself on his ability to pick out undercover American agents arriving on his island. Though these visitors attempted to blend in with the tourists, to Mashima they stood out like sharks amid a school of parrot fish. Despite their flip flops and flowered shirts, their hyper-alert eyes always gave them away.

  The brief altercation between the Customs officer and the two yakuza had not escaped Hannah’s attention. She quickly determined the local cop with Japanese facial features, who had interceded during the heated moment, was not a yakuza fan, unless he was putting on a show for someone else’s benefit. He had shown no fear. The extensive burn scars covering the left side of his face gave him a menacing look, but the undamaged side was pleasant and kind, handsome even.

  Hannah sensed the police officer had immediately pegged her and Carrington as something other than tourists. By the time they reached the Customs officer, Mashima had returned to his observation post, which left him in the shade of the building canopy with his back pressed against the wall of cool cement. The detective lit a Dunhill cigarette and watched as Hannah and Carrington allowed the Customs officer to inspect their suitcases and carry-on bags. Moments later, another Customs official stamped the passport of Argentine citizen Mariel Becker and recorded the arrival of U.S. resident Jake Marson. Welcome to Saipan.

  Mashima followed them at a distance as they stepped into the sun-bleached street, the harsh light reflecting off the white coral pavement. Just outside the airport’s main building, three taxi drivers rested against the front fenders of their battered American sedans and awaited passengers. Mashima already knew from their entry cards that Becker and Marson – names he suspected were false — were staying at the Chalan Kanoa Beach Hotel. The place was not among the island’s luxury resorts. It was nearly ten miles from the commercial stretch in Garapan near Micro Beach where most of the hotels, casinos and other tourist attractions were located. Garapan was where the tourists flocked to gamble and perhaps indulge in Saipan’s prospering sex trade. Mashima assumed the two visitors had chosen Chalan Kanoa because the hamlet would allow more privacy. He made a note to speak with the hotel owner.

  7

  Peacock in a Cage

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  When Tanaka returned to his Saipan home perched on a bluff overlooking the sea, he found Hiraku seated on the couch. As soon as she saw him, the young woman folded her arms across her small breasts and pouted.


  “Where is my Uncle Yoshi? I want to talk to him.”

  Tanaka shrugged. “Nobody has seen him. Perhaps he has run off with a saseko, or maybe a case of sake.”

  “He wouldn’t leave without telling me. Something has happened to him. He has been gone almost two weeks.”

  The young woman wore bright pink shorts and a florescent green sleeveless top, which provided a glimpse of the intricate tattoos that flowed like sleeves from her shoulders to her wrists. Her glossy black hair was punk styled, spiked in a few places with streaks of orange and blue. She was barefoot, which caused Tanaka to stop, as he always did, to admire the peacock feather tattoo that adorned her left foot.

  Hiraku stood but kept her arms defiantly crossed, a scowl on her face. “I want to return to Tokyo. You can’t just keep me here.”

  Tanaka offered an amused grin. “Sit down,” he said, though atypically it was more a request than a command. “Until we find Yoshi, it’s best that you remain here.”

  “So I’m a prisoner.”

  “You are my guest.”

  “If I’m your guest, then I want to leave. Now. If you don’t let me go, I’m going to call the police.”

  Tanaka smiled, exposing his large and perfectly straight white teeth. Slowly he approached Hiraku, reached around and roughly grasped her buttocks with both hands, lifting her so that she was pressed against him.

  “Get your hands off me,” she said, beating her fists into his shoulders. “They call you a snake, but you’re really a pig.”

  Tanaka laughed gregariously as he set her down. He could still feel the warmth of her bottom on his fingertips where he’d massaged the soft skin. It made him recall the first time he’d ever seen her six years previous. She was barely fifteen and appeared at his Tokyo apartment door early one morning, carrying what she described as a very important package from her so-called Uncle Yoshi. Tanaka had been expecting the delivery but not the girl. He invited her inside but she declined, saying she was already late for school. He remembered how sexy she looked in her navy blue blazer, white blouse, short plaid skirt and buckle shoes, the uniform of her private girls’ school.