Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Mashima assumed a tipster had spotted Stevens and Cahill talking to Yoshi Yamamoto, recognized the master tattoo artist, and passed along the information to police in return for money or favors. The CIA officers were always so careful, which meant whoever gave them up was an insider, someone they trusted.

  Mashima asked the Tokyo police if any criminal activity had been reported at or near the address where Yoshi lived when in the city. The detective who returned his phone call acknowledged that a break-in had occurred at Mr. Yamamoto’s apartment. It was unclear whether anything of value had been taken, although the place was torn apart during what apparently had been an intensive search. Light fixtures and electrical outlets had been removed and inspected as possible hiding places. Gaping holes had been made in some of the walls, the toilet tank dismantled, the stove and refrigerator moved, and every piece of upholstered furniture slashed open.

  The interior of the modest wood-frame home Yamamoto owned on Saipan was also ransacked. When Mashima arrived, it looked as if a grenade had exploded. The detective donned a pair of latex gloves before touching anything, but he knew the odds of learning what the intruders had been seeking were slim.

  Later that day he visited The Lucky Carp where Tony, the bulging Chamorro bartender and bouncer, unlocked Yoshi Yamamoto’s cramped office where he handled casino business. Desk drawers were open, papers strewn across the desk and floor, photographs and calendars removed from the walls. The safe door was hanging by twisted hinges.

  Tony swore nobody but the managers had been in the office for the past two weeks. At least not while he was working.

  “I can’t say what happens overnight.”

  “Where do you put the money at the end of the last shift before closing?”

  “In the safe.”

  “So you have a key to the office and a combination to the safe?”

  “Not me. I have a key to the office. I can’t open the safe. But there are others who can.”

  “I’m listening. Who are they?”

  “Asaki had the combo, but of course he’s dead.”

  “Who else?”

  “The night manager, Krill.”

  “Any others?”

  “Maybe. I can’t be sure. I’m just the bartender. Yoshi had several business partners. Yakuza guys. But I’m sure you know that.”

  “Whoever broke into the office was looking for something specific. Any idea what that might be?”

  “Cash. Drugs. Lots of desperate, strung-out people around here these days.”

  “So who’s running the casino now that Yoshi isn’t around?”

  “Krill. She likes her blow but she doesn’t steal. She never seems interested in money. She’s cool.”

  Mashima knew he wasn’t getting anywhere with the bartender, whose teeth were stained red from chewing betel nut. “Thanks, Tony. If you hear anything, I’d appreciate your letting me know.”

  Tony nodded his head, unconvincingly, and spat his reddish saliva through the open window. “Hafa Adai.”

  12

  Dawn Raid in Tanapag

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  Detective Mashima quietly made his way in the dark from one police officer to the next as they crouched amid the mosquito-infested underbrush composed mostly of tangan-tangan trees and tall grasses. More than two hours had elapsed since they’d gotten into position within view of the tiny cinderblock house with its corrugated tin roof.

  The rural village of Tanapag was asleep, the sky above sparkling with stars that would be invisible to the human eye in places with more light pollution.

  The ragtag tactical team included five CNMI police officers armed with .38-cal. revolvers, 12-guage pump shotguns and AR-15 rifles, and a rugged American police lieutenant named Louis Brick on special assignment as an anti-drug consultant. The men were eager for the operation to get underway.

  FBI Special Agents Brent Palmer and Sean O’Reilly hunkered at a distance, making it unclear to everyone present whether they planned to take part in the raid or merely intended to observe. Both were wearing body armor and packing 9mm SIG-Sauer P226 handguns.

  Detective Mashima chuckled to himself when roosters began crowing to announce the sun’s anticipated arrival. Boonie dogs barked in reply, setting the police officers on edge for fear the suspects would be awakened and incite a gun battle. It was what commandos call first light, when the sun is about twelve degrees below the horizon and rising.

  Mashima flashed the OK hand signal to Lt. Brick and whispered into his handheld, two-way radio. “Team members one and two, flank to your right. Team members three, four, and five fan out to your left. Everyone stand by.”

  The radio crackled with static and what sounded like an acknowledgement of the detective’s orders. Mashima had instructed his men to double-click the transmit button on their radios as a signal that his message was received and understood. But the men continued to push the talk button and respond with words.

  As the police officers shifted their positions, the boonie dogs followed suit, skulking warily between the scramble of rusted cars and trucks in the yard, some with foliage bursting through their shattered windshields and open hoods.

  Moments later, the sun crept over the island, illuminating the small house guarded by strutting roosters and clucking chickens. Mashima pushed the transmit button on his radio. “One minute to green.”

  “Team one, received. One minute to green.”

  More radio static. Mashima’s face showed concern. “Second team, acknowledge.”

  Static again. Garbled words.

  “Good here. Team three and four. One minute and we go.”

  “Team five, report.”

  “I’m here. Team five ready for action.”

  Mashima drew his 9mm Glock and glanced back at Palmer and O’Reilly, the two federal agents, but they remained pokerfaced. He held the radio to his lips. “Thirty seconds and we go.”

  Mashima carefully followed the second hand on his wristwatch. “All teams go. Green. Green.”

  Mashima was first through the rickety wood door, which splintered and easily gave way after a single boot kick. Lt. Brick and the CNMI police officers were right behind him, weapons set to blast away at the slightest sign of resistance.

  Two men asleep on rack beds in the first room were stunned by the sound of the cracking door and the sight of guns pointed in their faces.

  Mashima’s voice left no doubt he was in command. “Hands where we can see them.”

  The men looked fearful, eyes wide, hands above their heads.

  “Don’t move.”

  Rustling sounds in the back room let the adrenaline-pumped police officers know there were other suspects in the house. Shotguns aimed, three CNMI officers burst into the back room followed by plenty of shouting.

  Minutes later, two additional suspects were brought out into the dawn light, their wrists secured with plastic handcuffs. They were roughly shoved into the open bed of a Datsun pickup truck and ordered to sit quietly. Although none asked questions, Mashima informed them they were being arrested on unspecified charges connected to the murder of Mikito Asaki.

  The CNMI officer standing in the doorway to the house clutched a rusty machete and gave a thumbs-up. He waved the menacing blade to direct everyone’s attention toward the rear of the property.

  Inside a small goat shed, wooden floorboards were scattered about, revealing a shallow underground chamber. Mashima spread his arms in the doorway to keep others from getting near the cache.

  “Don’t disturb anything. We need to take these weapons back to the station for testing. They could be linked to crimes on the island that remain unsolved.”

  Mashima photographed the cache with a point-and-shoot 35mm camera. An olive green canvas duffel bag like those used by soldiers lay in the hole next to two hunting rifles and a sawed-off shotgun. Mashima carefully hauled it from the hole and laid it on the floor. His eyes narrowed as he peered into the d
uffel stuffed with U.S. currency, the top layers in small denominations of fives, tens and twenties. He ordered two officers to put the duffel into the rear cargo bed of the SUV.

  One CNMI policeman was posted at the truck while the other four officers fanned out onto the property where they quickly discovered fields covered densely with marijuana plants.

  The youngest officer, still in his teens and dressed in camouflage fatigues, began waving wildly as he stood amid a jungle of healthy plants. “Umbilico,” he shouted proudly, announcing he had found a system of hidden irrigation hoses. “Now we know how they water the money trees.”

  The round-bellied sergeant, approaching with some difficulty as he navigated the uneven terrain, simply chuckled at the sight of the younger police officer holding the black rubber hose.

  “Be careful it’s not a snake,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Or a booby trap.”

  The teenage officer quickly let go the hose and stepped back from it, looking at the sergeant for guidance. The sergeant chuckled again as he pinched a bud from one of the thriving female marijuana plants so that his thumb and forefinger came away coated with a sticky resin. He sniffed his fingers and smiled. “Best harvest in five seasons. We should come and cut some plants before the chief gives orders to burn the field.”

  The younger officer seemed uncertain whether the sergeant was being serious or just joking, so he remained silent. He kicked away the black hose with his boots and shrugged his shoulders.

  13

  Plucking Little Peacock

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  Hiraku was no longer allowed access to the entire house. Tanaka first locked her in one of the ground-floor bedrooms. When she protested by pounding on the door and hurling an original Tiffany table lamp against a wall, Tanaka jabbed her in the stomach with iron-stiff fingers. The blow took her breath away and left a bruise.

  Hiraku dragged herself to the bed and climbed atop it. She hadn’t eaten a meal in the nearly two days with the exception of water and a dozen Oreo cream-filled cookies found stashed in a bedside night table, which were Tanaka’s favorite. The Oreos had been made in America, at least it stated so on the package label, because Tanaka believed cookies baked under the Oreo brand name in Japan were inferior.

  When the pain subsided, Hiraku again began to shout and pound the door with her fists and feet. Tanaka barked orders and two men roughly escorted her to the windowless, typhoon-proof cellar room with its thick cement walls and steel entry door. The room was more like a cell, with a toilet, sink, and a four-poster bed against one wall. The floor surface was concrete and slightly pitched to reveal a rusty drain in the center.

  The following morning, or perhaps it was the middle of the night since there were no windows or clocks, Hiraku was jerked from sleep by the sharp crack of a flat wood paddle across her buttocks.

  When her eyes focused, before her stood a middle-aged woman no taller than five-feet-two, wearing a black Lycra bodysuit and red Converse high-top sneakers. The woman’s short-cropped hair was coal black and her face fully tattooed, as presumably were her arms, legs and torso. She wore a dark blue headband scrawled with Kanji symbols in white ink, but the cloth was folded sloppily, making it impossible for Hiraku to read the words.

  The small woman in black smiled clownishly, revealing her rotted brown teeth and the red stain of betel nut. Her eyes had an intensity found typically among crazies or those high on hallucinogenic drugs.

  “Good morning. I hope you were not awakened from a pleasant dream.”

  Hiraku sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, legs hanging off but not touching the floor, rubbing the pain in her lower back with both hands. The flesh of her buttocks was stinging. She stared defiantly at the woman who was gripping the flat wooden paddle in her left hand and a samurai sword in her right. The woman oddly bowed and quickly swirled. Her sword made a musical zinging sound as it slashed through the air in looping circles. The woman began to hum deeply as she swirled, as though engaged in some ancient tribal dance.

  Hiraku flinched when the sword easily lopped off one of the four wooden bedposts that had been carved into the shape of a pineapple. Tears wetted her eyes but she did her best to retain courage.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

  The woman again bowed, this time respectfully. “Only that you cooperate. Tanaka-san would like some information and it is my task to obtain it for him.”

  “I don’t know anything.”

  “And how would you come to that conclusion when I have not yet asked you a question?”

  “Because I know Tanaka. He’s a snake. That’s what the name Orochi means, isn’t it? He thinks I have contacts at the CIA and that I’ve told them about the heroin shipments.”

  “Did you?”

  “No. I said nothing to anyone. It’s not my place. And drugs are not my business. I don’t want to know anything about it. I just want to be left alone to live my life.”

  The interrogator squinted and smiled as she slapped Hiraku hard across the face with one of her bony hands. The blow sent Hiraku tumbling back onto the bed.

  “Let us not waste time,” she said, tossing aside the wooden paddle that clattered to the floor. “We know you and your uncle met with the CIA agents – Stevens and Cahill — and now they are no more. So you are alone.”

  Hiraku unstably got to her knees on the soft bed. “My uncle will kill both you and Tanaka when he returns.”

  The interrogator belly-laughed as she expertly swung the sword. A split-second later another wooden bedpost pineapple skittered across the floor. Hiraku recoiled and curled her body onto the bed as though attempting to make herself smaller.

  “Your Uncle Yoshi has joined those two CIA agents in the after life.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Tanaka-san has not told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “I will leave that pleasure to him,” she said, suddenly pressing the tip of the sword so that it barely touched the skin between Hiraku’s breasts. “My name is Akumu. It means nightmare, and I will be yours if you don’t start talking. So tell me, what information did you give these agents? Did you tell them about the plane?”

  When Hiraku refused to cooperate, the interrogator applied more pressure until the blade sliced through her t-shirt, leaving behind a thin line that glistened with blood. Hiraku screamed as her hands examined the flesh wound.

  “You cut me!”

  “Next time, the sword will go deeper. Now tell me, how much does the CIA know? What did you tell them? Do they know about the ship?”

  Hiraku closed her eyes and prayed Stevens and Cahill were still alive and about to rescue her at any moment. She felt certain they would come charging through the door, tossing flash bangs and smoke grenades, shooting down whatever opposition they encountered. She merely needed to stay alive until that happened. She imagined, too, that Uncle Yoshi would rejoin her once he was no longer delayed. Whatever was causing the delay must be truly important, she told herself. Otherwise, Yoshi would be at her side. He was her protector.

  “If you hurt me, my uncle will find you and kill you. Make no mistake about it.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Your uncle will kill no one because he’s dead.”

  Hiraku sat up and spat into the woman’s face. Just as quickly she was propelled off the bed and across the room by another bony slap. Once again she curled her body into a fetal position on the cold floor and began to weep.

  “Your uncle took money that did not belong to him. I’m sure he mentioned it to you. I’ll bet you know where it’s hidden.”

  Through her tears and choked voice, she said, “My uncle is an honorable man. He doesn’t steal. He runs a successful business at The Lucky Carp. He doesn’t need more money.”

  Akumu, in her finest interrogator mode and with almost superhuman strength, lifted Hiraku by her ankles and tossed her back onto the bed. The samurai sword whir
led, creating a whooshing sound before cleanly decapitating a third bedpost. Hiraku cringed as the interrogator slashed the bed, cutting deep furrows into the mattress. She tried to hold back her tears.

  “You were saying?”

  When Hiraku spat again, Akumu lost her temper. She tore off Hiraku’s t-shirt and bra and beat her bare back with the paddle, coming down hardest on the pictorial tattoo where the peacock’s wings began to spread upward amid a kaleidoscope of dragons, koi fish, plants, words and numbers, some in English, others in Kanji. Each blow left a red welt. Just before Hiraku passed out from pain, she heard Akumu say, “That is the most magnificent tattoo I have ever seen. Such a pity it was wasted on you.”

  14

  The Lucky Carp Casino

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  With his primary business partners Mikito Asaki and Yoshi Yamamoto both dead, Tanaka began spending more time at The Lucky Carp, reviewing the long-term financial records while keeping close tabs on the daily casino and bar operation. He considered bringing in an accountant whose only job would be to conduct a forensic audit, but he was wary about trusting anyone outside his immediate circle. Letting a stranger know about your financial status was just as dangerous as talking about your medical or marital problems. If weakness was revealed, a competitor might use it as an opportunity.

  Although Krill was supremely competent as casino night manager and Tony confidently handled the bar, Tanaka trusted neither. He was still seething over the embezzlement of two hundred million dollars by the two men he had been foolish enough to call his close friends.

  Tanaka knew the money had not been siphoned from the casino, hotel, or the restaurant and bar. He had studied the two ledgers of profit and loss, each maintained for a separate audience. The ledger kept solely for the taxman showed marginal profit in some categories and a slight loss in others. The private ledger kept for the three partners and a handful of lesser investors in Tokyo, displayed the truth – massive earnings from gambling, prostitution, gun running and heroin smuggling. Since owning a handgun in Japan had been made illegal at the end of World War II, a single pistol could easily reap $7,000 on the black market. The yakuza had plenty of guns for sale.