Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  26

  A Nightmare in Black

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  After the first day of torture, Hiraku was allowed to sleep for what she estimated was at least twenty-four hours, although with no windows or clocks she couldn’t be certain.

  The next meeting with Akumu was equally unpleasant. The feisty woman burst into the room without formalities, still clad in a black Lycra bodysuit, strutted toward Hiraku who was about to stand and struck her on the side of the head with a leather-covered truncheon.

  When Hiraku awoke her head throbbed and her vision was hazy. She was strapped with nylon webbing to what remained of the four bedposts. Akumu was sitting beside the bed in a folding chair reading People magazine.

  “Did you know that 87 people were killed in a fire in the Bronx last month? The place was called the Happy Land Social Club. Lots of young people were dancing to the music but somebody set it on fire with gasoline.”

  “No. I hadn’t heard,” said Hiraku, confused by Akumu’s sudden change of mood. “That’s very sad.”

  “We all have to die, sooner or later. Might as well be while we’re having a good time.”

  Akumu tossed the magazine aside and plugged in the electric circular saw that was suspended on a rope from a ceiling pulley, its safety guard removed, the trigger taped to the on position to keep it running.

  Hiraku watched in horror as Akumu slowly let the rope slide through her fingers to lower the saw, its blade screeching and whirring lethally. When the blade was almost touching Hiraku’s chest, which was rising and falling in panic and fear, Akumu tied off the rope. It was a matter of millimeters. Akumu smiled devilishly and returned to reading her magazine.

  “I don’t like Marla Maples and I don’t like Donald Trump,” she said loudly over the whine of the saw, turning the pages to read more about the unfolding celebrity sex scandal.

  “You’re sick,” Hiraku shouted over the din. “I don’t know what you want from me. Please let me go.”

  “You know exactly what I want. If you tell me truthfully about your conversation with the two CIA agents, I’ll ask my boss if you should be spared.”

  Hiraku twisted her arms and legs against the straps, but the exertion caused her hips to rise and allowed the blade to nick her stomach. Blood spurted from the saw and spattered the bed sheet. She thought she was about to die but Akumu hauled on the rope and the screaming saw moved upward, twirling in a small circular pattern as it dangled from the rope. Akumu unplugged the electrical cord and after a few moments the room was quiet except for Hiraku’s panicked breathing.

  Akumu grabbed Hiraku by the hair so that her head was lifted from the bed. She poured water from a glass directly into Hiraku’s mouth, forcing the young woman to swallow as she coughed.

  “Don’t you like my water?”

  Hiraku shook her head back and forth. “Please stop.”

  “You still haven’t told me what I need to know,” said Akumu, who placed a wet washcloth over Hiraku’s nose and mouth and began saturating it with more water.

  Hiraku squirmed, trying to turn her head away from the falling water, but Akumu had done this many times and easily kept the woman’s head positioned.

  “Are you ready to talk?”

  “Uuughhh!”

  “Yes?”

  More guttural sounds followed.

  “I hear yes,” said Akumu, removing the washcloth. Hiraku’s face was a profile of sheer terror.

  “Names. I want the names of the two CIA operatives.”

  “I thought you already knew who they were and that they were dead?”

  Akumu pushed Hiraku’s head down forcefully and again covered her nose and mouth with the washcloth. She poured bottled water until Hiraku’s haunted and muffled screams suggested the torture was successful. Hiraku truly believed she was drowning.

  “Names.”

  Hiraku coughed up water. “The man is Stevens. The woman is Cahill.”

  “Now tell me what you told them about yakuza activities on Saipan – the heroin smuggling, the marijuana fields, the weapon sales.”

  Hiraku felt defeated as she glanced around the damp cellar. On one table was an array of ice picks and pliers, on another two car batteries attached to wires that ended in alligator clips. She didn’t want to drown or be bled to death. She described to Akumu the places where she had met the CIA officers and gave her the specifics of their agreement – namely that she and her uncle Yoshi would gather bank account numbers, delivery routes, and the names of key contacts along the heroin trail from Thailand to the Philippines to Saipan, and then on to Hawaii and California.

  Although she had cooperated under duress, Hiraku had not delivered the most important piece of information sought by Tanaka – the location approximately $80 million siphoned primarily from the heroin trafficking operation. Even when Akumu administered powerful electrical charges from a 12-volt battery attached by wires to Hiraku’s genitals, no information about the missing funds was unveiled.

  The outcome left Akumu frustrated and alone with her thoughts. The girl holds the power of her ancestors. She will not break in the way others do. But I will find her weakness and then she will tell all about where the millions are hidden.

  27

  Here Come the Tattooed Men

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Hideyo Mashima counted forty-two yakuza arriving on the island over three consecutive days. The Customs officers at the airport had also taken notice and word among the local law enforcement community was that something big was brewing.

  For some Customs and CNMI police officers, the intel simply meant more private detail pay should the yakuza schedule any events or gatherings that might require a police cordon. For other police officers and Customs agents, it was an opportunity to interact with members of Japan’s organized crime syndicates, if not to arrest them then to at least gain some experience in dealing with their ways.

  It wasn’t unusual for a dozen yakuza to meet on Saipan for a mix of partying and business, but the week’s headcount was far above average. Mashima’s suspicions were further confirmed by the arrival of at least twenty tall, young, blonde women, mostly from Australia but as far away as the United States, Iceland and Sweden, who arrived independently and in small groups. Nearly all the women were in their twenties or early thirties and staying at the new 14-story Kensington Hotel built on a private beach in San Roque. The luxury hotel was a 10-minute drive north from Garapan along Marpi Road.

  Although most firearms were prohibited on Saipan, locals were allowed to possess .410 shotguns and .22-caliber rifles, some of which for the right amount of currency would fall temporarily into the hands of yakuza bodyguards during their stay.

  Mashima suspected more powerful weapons would also become available through local gun smugglers but his department did not have the resources to investigate such matters. He knew Tanaka’s bodyguards routinely carried Uzi machine pistols.

  The detective decided to share his information with Palmer and O’Reilly, the FBI special agents working on the two murder cases – that of yakuza underboss Mikito Asaki tossed off Banzai Cliff, and the slaying of local police Sgt. Alfred Torres, found stabbed to death on Marpi Point. Mashima caught up with Palmer and O’Reilly as they exited the courthouse.

  The detective approached with his head lowered and offered a slight bow. “Good day, gentlemen. There is some activity on the island this week that could be important to your work.”

  Palmer furrowed his brows as though he disapproved of Mashima’s approaching them. He doubted anything the detective had to say was relevant to their mission. He had no desire to partner with local law enforcement. As far as he was concerned, they were amateurs.

  O’Reilly slowed his pace. “Make it quick. We’re busy taking care of homicides on your home turf.”

  It was a professional jab, but Mashima chose to ignore it. He s
howed no emotion as he explained that a meeting of many high-ranking yakuza was about to occur. Such an event might signal a change in drug-trafficking or gun-smuggling operations on Saipan, he said, or perhaps lead to an increase in the abduction and sexual exploitation of girls and young women. It was, as he put it, a significant opportunity to learn more about yakuza plans, information that if handled properly could result in a crackdown on regional crime.

  O’Reilly laughed out loud. “And what do you suggest? We get ourselves invited to this big shindig?”

  “That would not be possible. But if we pool our intelligence sources, we might end up with a clear picture of what’s going on.”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said Palmer, stopping long enough to dab the sweat from his forehead with a soiled white handkerchief. “A large group of Japanese businessmen are planning a party on your miserably-hot island. You counted some heads at the airport. That’s great. If you were paying close attention, you probably saw a parade of good-looking blondes arrive since they seem to be the party girls of choice among these Japanese mobsters.”

  Mashima fixed his stare on the backs of the dismissive FBI agents as they resumed walking to their car. Palmer stopped again momentarily and looked back over his shoulder. “If you do get an invitation to the party, let us know. We’d love to tag along.”

  Palmer backslapped O’Reilly as they opened the car doors and waited for the trapped heat to escape. “What’s with that guy? I think he’s been watching too much Miami Vice.”

  28

  Who Killed Mikito Asaki?

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Jury selection in the murder case of Mikito Asaki was an exercise in frustration for Ray Donley, the American assistant attorney general assigned to prosecute the case.

  “There’s no fucking way we’re going to impanel a fair and impartial jury on this island. Literally everybody is related or connected by some kind of friendship or business,” he complained to his legal team, which consisted of Ned Hayward who, like Donley, was an assistant attorney general from Boston, Massachusetts, and a local woman named Nona who needed a secretarial job. “Nobody is going to come forward even if they know what happened.”

  Donley tossed a sheaf of court documents on his desk in a manner that unveiled his disgust with the case and the island’s judicial system.

  “We’ve got two defendants charged as accessories to commit murder and none willing to cooperate. Frankly, that sucks. Mashima has his nose to the ground but so far there’s nothing to link these guys directly to the murder.”

  Hayward nodded sympathetically. “This place is fucked up, Ray. The surface has nothing to do with what’s going on right below it.”

  Donley gulped a pint of water from the plastic bottle on his desk. “It gets weirder by the minute,” he said. “Mashima is convinced Asaki may have been killed by a former bodyguard who hated him because of some shit-filled underwear. Unfortunately for us, that bodyguard isn’t one of the people we arrested.”

  Hayward’s face showed marked confusion as Donley continued. “Apparently Asaki had an unexpected bowel movement during a recent plane ride and when they touched down he ordered the bodyguard to immediately wash the stinky grunts. The guy never forgot it and considered it a personal insult. Admittedly, it’s a sketchy motive for murder, but I’ve tried people who committed murder over possession of a TV remote control.”

  Donley sighed as he set his heavy leather briefcase on the desk in the small courthouse office reserved for attorneys. He was startled by a knock on the door. “Come in.”

  Detective Mashima bowed his head slightly. “I have some news. But it may be best if it is shared only in private.”

  Donley glanced at his two colleagues who were already moving toward the door. Mashima rested a hand on the wooden chair next to the prosecutor’s desk. “May I sit?”

  “Of course. What’s up, detective?”

  “I have spoken again to the family of the deceased policeman, Alfred Torres. His widow, Amista, indicates two men were seated in a car along the road to her home the same day her husband failed to return from the courthouse.”

  “Locals? FBI?”

  “No. She believes they were yakuza.”

  “Did she recognize any of them?”

  “No. But she described the make and model of the vehicle and was able to recall part of the license plate number.”

  “And?”

  “The black Nissan Pathfinder is registered to a company owned by Orochi Tanaka.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No. It does not. But it gives reason to bring in Mr. Tanaka for questioning. If we put pressure on him, he may make a mistake that will tell us more about who killed Sgt. Torres.”

  “Do you think Tanaka killed him?”

  “It’s very possible that Tanaka caused it to happen. When money is lost, anger usually leads to violence. We’ve seen a lot of that on Saipan these days.”

  29

  A Meeting of the Mob

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  When Tanaka closed The Lucky Carp restaurant and casino for two days so that it could host a private yakuza business convention, it angered the Chamorro and Carolingian natives and the tight-knit group of American and British ex-pats who frequented the establishment three or four times a week to drink, play electronic betting games and ogle the dancers.

  On the first day of the convention, yakuza guards were stationed at all entrances and exits during the event. CNMI police officers, paid privately by Tanaka, maintained a loose buffer zone along the perimeter of the property. Some of the yakuza guards wore black tuxedos but were shirtless to show off elaborate chest tattoos. Others were dressed in American-style two-piece suits, the back of their jackets distorted by weapons tucked into their belts.

  The festivities were well under way by noon. Exotic dancers gyrated on stage or from within their hanging cages. A punk rock band filled the room with hard-edged music while a second band clad in black leather despite the heat was tuning up behind a wall curtain.

  The blonde women who had arrived on the island in droves were drinking, laughing and flirting with the yakuza. Some were engaged in lap dances with the men, or performing other sexual favors in the booths along the open-air wall facing Micro Beach. Several yakuza were passed out on the floor or staggering and rudely pushing their way through the crowd. In one corner, three men had stripped off their clothes and were comparing full-body tattoos. Two yakuza were fist-fighting martial-arts style in a far corner and bleeding from wounds to the face, but both seemed to be enjoying it.

  In the center of the room, two heavily-tattooed men, wearing only loincloths and white socks, balanced atop separate wood logs from which the bark had been removed. The logs were held aloft on the shoulders of each opponent’s supporters. Amid the shouting and cheering, the challengers feigned ferocious kicks and attempted to knock the other off his log. Tanaka gleamed with pride. This was his kind of party.

  When one of the tattooed fighters was finally dethroned from his perch, the logs were set aside and the winner crowned with a rubber shark mask that covered his entire head. The shark received dozens of exuberant cheers from his yakuza brothers and countless backslaps of congratulations. One of the taller blondes was summoned to stand before the winner and expose her ample breasts. She backed away gingerly when the shark tried to bite.

  As the afternoon waned into evening, more bottles of sake, bourbon and single-malt scotch were opened. The back-up band began to play, the musicians cranking out whatever was requested, mostly covers of 1980s songs: Thriller by Michael Jackson; True Blue and Like a Virgin, both by Madonna; Make it Big by Wham!; several numbers by a Japanese pop icon band, The Checkers; an out-of-tune rendition of Julio Inglesias’ Momentos; and the entire soundtrack to the movie Footloose.

  As the music blared, Detective Mashima walked the pe
rimeter of the property, keeping watch on the CNMI officers hired as a private security detail. Had it been his decision, he would have denied the request for security assistance from Orochi Tanaka, mostly because he detested the man, but Joe Napuna, the local police chief, obviously saw no harm in it. The offer of a private security detail seemed an easy way for his men to pick up some extra pay at no cost to the police department.

  Mashima was aware some of the local police officers didn’t appreciate his attitude toward private-detail pay. Those who understood his dislike for the yakuza, and knew the story behind his facial scars, harbored no grudge. They allowed him through the perimeter cordon so that he could better witness the festivities.

  Tanaka worked the crowd, individually approaching the six most powerful yakuza in the room and whispering a confidential invitation to a special ceremony in the back room.

  A simple plank table draped with fine white linen was set for seven places in a small storeroom that had palm thatch walls, wooden window shutters and carved teak door. Six cream-colored paper lanterns hung from the ceiling and several tall candles perched on wrought-iron stands illuminated the room. Tanaka made certain each man had a fresh drink before he announced the menu – fugu.

  Mere mention of the delicacy caused a stir at the table. One man’s complexion turned ashen. Another laughed uneasily, while still others cheered Tanaka in a show of bravado.

  “Krill learned how to prepare it in Japan,” Tanaka reassured his guests. “She is a top fugu chef.”

  Krill modestly waved at the men and bowed deeply, which caused her mini-skirt to rise up and expose her cheeks. Some of the men were transfixed by the sight and the nearest tried to put a hand up her skirt but Krill quickly swirled out of range. Krill shook a finger at the man. “Naughty boy,” she said, flashing a dazzling smile. Laughter broke out at the table. Tanaka was pleased. It was all in good fun.