Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Hiraku glanced at the computer screen and her eyes welled with tears. “I helped my uncle draw them.”

  The first map purportedly showed seaborne smuggling routes from Thailand to the United States. The second outlined aerial paths from the Philippines to Tinian Island. Other files listed identities or nicknames of those involved along the supply chain, boat names, the addresses of warehouses in Thailand, the Philippines and Hawaii, and specific docks used at key shipping ports.

  Ashwood abruptly stood and offered his seat to one of the men copiously scribbling notes on a yellow legal pad. “I’ll leave you two to analyze this intel. Put together a report and try to have it ready for me within the hour. I know that’s lot to ask, but I’ll need enough to justify our operation in case anyone over at National Security decides to start asking questions. The Defense Department is already in the loop because of the sub and the SEALs.”

  Ashwood slipped the videocassette into the VCR player perched on a table several feet away and, with arms folded and jaw locked, watched as Yoshi Yamamoto was eaten alive.

  Hiraku had covered her eyes and was sobbing. “Please, I can’t watch this.”

  Carrington set a hand on her shoulder but she continued to wail.

  When the video ended, Ashwood pulled up a wheeled office chair next to Hiraku. “I didn’t want to put you through this again, but I need direct confirmation that the victim is the man you refer to as your Uncle Yoshi.”

  Hiraku nodded, barely able to swallow.

  Ashwood glanced at the two men studying the floppy disk. “For the record, gentlemen, note this woman has confirmed the identity of Yoshi Yamamoto in the videotape.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Ashwood poured a glass of water from a pitcher on the table and offered it to Hiraku who drank it in a fast series of gulps. “You’ve provided a great service by working with our officers in Tokyo and now by handing over this information. Before you leave here, we’ll begin the process of giving you a new identity and a new start here in America. But until then, we need to know more about your meetings with CIA Officers Stevens and Cahill. It’s my job to find out who killed them.”

  Hiraku answered more questions about the secretive meetings. There had been five all together over approximately two years, or at least that was to the best of her recollection. The first had taken place in London when a man and woman had introduced themselves to her Uncle Yoshi in the dining room of the posh hotel where they were all staying. Hiraku recalled both were good looking in an American way.

  Yoshi Yamamoto, the famed tattoo artist, routinely serviced a short list of wealthy clients in London who enjoyed a touch-up or enhancement to their tattoos. Hiraku initially assumed the two Americans were among them, though neither wore clothing that revealed any ink work. She remembered concentrating on her dessert of tiramisu at the hotel, and how she slowly devoured it with a small fork, feeling bored and distracted while the others talked about adult subjects.

  “My uncle seemed nervous later that night, but I didn’t ask him why. He drank a whole bottle of sake and read the newspapers long after I went to bed,” she said. “And he didn’t meditate, which is something he always did.”

  Approximately two months later, the same Americans showed up in Zurich, where Hiraku was celebrating her nineteenth birthday.

  Carrington leaned forward in his chair. “Tell us more.”

  “I love that city. It was my first time in Zurich. My uncle took me shopping for clothes and to fancy restaurants. We had so much fun, except for the business meetings at the bank, which were very long and I had to sign my name too many times,” she said. “We went back to Switzerland the following year when I turned twenty and again we saw the Americans. They were skiing at the same resort.”

  Hiraku smiled inwardly as she recalled their skiing lessons at St. Moritz in the Swiss Alps, she and Uncle Yoshi laughing uproariously as they tumbled down the slopes. She had felt like a celebrity. She wished he were still alive.

  The final two meetings had taken place in Tokyo – one in a parking lot and the other along a darkened roadside near Narita Airport.

  Ashwood was most interested in how the information about the meetings with Stevens and Cahill might have been leaked. Did Hiraku and her uncle share with anyone their plan to permanently leave Tokyo and the world of the yakuza? Did they tell a close friend, believing their words would travel no farther? Did she mention it in passing to one of her girlfriends? Could someone at a supermarket, the beach, an automotive repair shop, or along the street have overheard her and her uncle talking about moving to America? A bartender, perhaps? A casino customer? An exotic dancer? A prostitute? Did Hiraku notice anything unusual during any of these meetings with the Americans, such as the same stranger turning up more than once?

  Ashwood wondered why the two seasoned CIA officers had not been more careful. Perhaps they had been, which meant whoever gave them up was an insider, someone they trusted.

  Carrington recalled discussing the deaths of the two CIA officers with Mashima, who claimed that as a professional courtesy the homicide detectives in Tokyo had informed him that Stevens and Cahill were last seen driving a Chevrolet Blazer stolen from Narita Airport.

  If Mashima’s story was accurate, the Tokyo police learned about the stolen vehicle from a paid informant who saw what looked like a man and woman hot-wiring the ignition of the SUV and speeding away from the parking garage.

  Ashwood had sent a forensic team to examine the vehicle days after it had been discovered dumped along a side street in the Ginza. No matching blood or fingerprints. But that was expected since the vehicle had been towed to a police pound. As a crime scene, the Chevrolet Blazer was as useless as they come. Yes, the ignition had been hot-wired, but that wasn’t unusual in a case of car theft.

  Ashwood constantly asked himself: Could Stevens and Cahill still be alive? It wasn’t unheard of for intelligence and security agencies like the CIA or the KGB to trade captive spies. If so, where were they being held? And how to find out?

  54

  Church Service

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Father Garcia was administering confessions when Mashima entered the church, which, because of its diminutive size, in Europe or South America might be described as a chapel. Mashima got in line behind three parishioners — two old women clutching rosary beads and a middle-aged man with a wooden leg. When Mashima’s time came to enter the veiled booth with its heavy curtains, the priest was surprised to see him.

  “I’m sorry to say I’m not here to make a confession today, Father Garcia, though I’m sure there are plenty of sins that need cleansing. I’m here to ask for your help.”

  “Please go on, Hideyo.”

  “The freighter that is tied up at Sugar Dock, it’s filled with heroin. Yakuza heroin. My friends from America are going to help me sink it. We just need a place to temporarily store our equipment until that happens. We can’t leave it at their hotel.”

  “And you want to store these materials in the church?”

  “Yes, father. I believe in this mission. If it’s successful, it will send a message to the yakuza that Saipan is not a place where they can safely do business.”

  The priest was silent but Mashima could see his lips moving in prayer. Finally, he said, “How can I help?”

  Mashima gave him the details and immediately returned to the Chalan Kanoa Beach Hotel where Hannah and Reb were relieved to learn they now had an available stash house, an observation post, and use of the church’s white van.

  Hannah grabbed her pistol off the dresser and tucked it into her belt. “We should move this gear to the church now.” She slung one of the cumbersome Draeger rebreathers over her shoulder and marched out the door carrying her wetsuit, mask, fins and weight belt. Reb and Mashima followed with the second dive set, underwater lights and other equipment. They quickly returned for the heavy Limpet mines, which would be more buoyant once in
the water, and finally the C-4 bricks and detonators. An hour later, everything was stacked and covered with a tarp in the church basement. Boxes of food from the upcoming weekly food pantry were piled atop the tarp along with a stack of folding chairs.

  Mashima bowed to the others. “Time for me to sleep. I’ll see you all in a few hours.”

  “I’m tired as well,” said Father Garcia. “Time to save our strength. The next few days may be very exhausting.” He turned to Hannah and Reb. “If you’d like, sleep in the small bedroom on the first floor. Not up to hotel standards, but surely better than sleeping on the floor. I’ll leave fresh sheets for the bed.”

  After a flurry of thanks, Hannah grabbed two cold beers from the church refrigerator. She popped open both bottles with her SOG knife and handed one to Reb. “Let’s go up to the tower.”

  Reb followed her up the stairs. They both leaned against the tower’s waist-high cement wall and gazed out over the water.

  “I never got to thank you for saving Decker.”

  “I didn’t do it as a favor to you. I did it because he was in harm’s way and I was in a position to do something about it.”

  Hannah took a long pull from the beer. “If that’s the way you want to put it, that’s fine with me. But whatever the reason, it was a brave move. Decker would have done the same if the situation had been reversed.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “He saved my life once in Boston. That’s how we met.”

  “I get it. One of my SEAL brothers saved my ass in the desert. He nearly died doing it, but if it wasn’t for him, I’d be decomposing in a sand dune right now.”

  Hannah swigged her beer. “I returned the favor to Decker in Cuba. So I guess he and I are even.”

  “Fair enough. I know it’s none of my business, but it seems like some uneasy history exists between you and Decker and you and Carrington.”

  Hannah didn’t answer immediately. She studied the countless stars. “It’s complicated. Men can be such a pain in the ass.”

  “Frankly, I’m glad they’re both out of the picture here. I don’t want any of that to interfere with what we need to do. We’ve got to be clear headed.”

  “It wouldn’t interfere.”

  “So what’s the story with you and Decker?”

  “Long over. Decker is married to the desert and the jungle and any other place where war is the theme of the day. Oddly, it’s what keeps him alive.”

  “And what about Carrington?”

  “William has been a great mentor. Taught me a lot from my very first day on the job. He’s a brilliant analyst and strategist.”

  “Are you in love with him?”

  “No. I respect him. I even admire him. He’s a close friend.”

  “Decker told me you like to ride horses, drink wine, and spend hours in art museums looking at paintings that he finds confusing. Oh, and that you have a thing for turtles. I guess that’s the sort of stuff you both did in Boston.”

  “For a while, yes, we did. We shared an apartment on the harbor and everything seemed right. But after the mission in Cuba nothing was ever the same. Decker was gone again. I cancelled the apartment lease and put everything in storage, not that there was anything either of us really want or need.”

  “You mean it got complicated, with Carrington?”

  “Yes, that and other things. But I don’t even know why I’m telling you all this. It doesn’t really matter. We could die tomorrow. This mission sounds risky.”

  “Think of it as just a leisurely swim.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’ve probably spent more time in the water than most dolphins.”

  Reb laughed easily. “That could be true. But you don’t need to worry. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

  “You probably say that to all the girls.”

  “And what girls are those?”

  “I’ll bet you have ten girlfriends spread from Memphis to Madagascar.”

  “You have some seriously mistaken ideas about me. I like women. I won’t deny that. But some day, I’d like a wife and kids. I think you know what I’m saying. A family. Sounds corny, but that’s what I think about when I’m out there and people are trying to kill me. I think about getting back home to something that, ironically, doesn’t even exist.”

  “It’s not corny. I know exactly how you feel. I just haven’t met the right guy. I’m 31, but I’m not tossing in the towel. Most of the girls I grew up with are already married with kids. So if I don’t die trying to sink this ship, I’m going to move to Southern California and learn to surf.”

  “Well, I’m 35 and not ready to die. There are plenty of things I’d like to do before that happens.”

  Hannah extended an arm without looking over at Reb and clinked her beer bottle to his. “Nor am I. So tell me, Alabama boy, what is it you want? What’s on your bucket list?”

  “I’d like to spend some time in Africa, on a safari, only I’d be carrying a camera instead of a rifle. I’d like to visit Paris and drink lots of wine while sitting at a café table along the Seine. Italy, too. And Greece. What about you?”

  “Argentina. Ever since I became Mariel Becker, the Argentine travel agent, I’ve been intrigued by Buenos Aires. It was part of my research before coming here. I love horses. I’d like to ride them in the Pampas and camp out with the cowboys. I was on my high school equestrian team, but my parents could never afford a horse.”

  “Well, if there’s time before we leave, I can help you with the surfing part. I checked out the waves here. Not quite the challenge of Hawaii, but fun nonetheless. I can imagine a tent on the beach, three or four boards of different sizes planted upright in the sand, cold beers, juicy burgers on the grill, and a bonfire after sunset. Maybe even roasted marshmallows, though I’ve never liked them.”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll take you up on that. I’ll even make the burgers and let you in on my dad’s secret seasoning. Oh, and one more thing – I’d like to get a tattoo, maybe a small turtle.”

  A wise man in the Deep South once said to Reb, how you treat a woman will determine the woman you see. Hannah was a fighter and from what he’d seen and heard, a definite bad ass — serious-minded, someone who relishes being in control — but Reb sensed there was a softer side to her that could easily be light-hearted. He imagined she would be an amazing lover. The thought of it caught him off guard.

  “What are you thinking about?”

  Reb seemed suddenly embarrassed. He nervously rubbed his chin through his black beard. “You.”

  “Me? And what do you see?”

  “Somebody who I like very much. A friend.”

  Reb was glad they had gotten to talk before heading out on the mission. They had been hyperaware of each other’s presence, but unable to share a private moment.

  Reb raised his beer bottle. “I’ll have your back when we enter the water. We’ll get in and out.”

  Hannah smiled. “And then you can teach me to surf.”

  Hannah awoke in the middle of the night, surprised to find her arms wrapped around Reb who was sleeping soundly. She studied his handsome face – wild black hair and beard, ruddy complexion, high cheekbones. She tried to push thoughts and fears about the mission out of her head, so she let her mind wander.

  Why was it she always seemed to find herself entangled with complicated men like Decker and Carrington, rather than a seemingly straight-shooter like Reb? Would she ever be satisfied living a simple life with kids and a husband, instead of secret missions and special ops?

  Looking at Reb, she laughed quietly to herself as she envisioned what their children could look like.

  55

  That Sinking Feeling

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Ashwood’s analysts at Langley quickly recognized simple codes embedded in the text on the floppy disk. One note indicated a second yakuza-funded freighter was laden with unprocessed heroin and scheduled to sail from Thailand t
o the Philippines in late April, where its cargo would be transformed into white powder, loaded aboard a C-47 airplane and flown to Tinian. Carrington relayed the information to Hannah via the ARPANET along with the names of two Saipanese fishermen who were routinely helping the yakuza move the heroin from Tinian to Saipan for the next seaborne leg to Hawaii.

  When Hannah shared the intel, Mashima’s face flushed red with anger. “The Camacho brothers. They live near the village of San Roque but keep their boat moored near Sugar Dock.”

  “According to what’s on the disk, these two guys are ferrying white powder from Tinian to the ship docked in Saipan,” she said.

  “That doesn’t surprise me. They’ve been trouble since they were born. Let me see what I can find out.”

  Tano and Adai Camacho, both in their late twenties, had stopped by a roadside beer shack after a day of fishing and drank a couple of cold Budweisers. They’d caught three fat grouper, which lay in the bed of their pickup wrapped in palm fronds, and planned to cook them on the barbecue when they arrived home. The brothers were shocked to find Tano’s wife naked, gagged, bound with heavy fishing line and seated atop the four-burner stove in their kitchen. Both immediately went for their knives, but Mashima stepped from the shadows holding a silencer-equipped pistol that was pointed directly at them.

  “Put down your knives or you’ll be dead in two seconds. I’m not in a good mood.”

  The brothers exchanged glances, trying to determine their next step. Tano’s wife began wriggling wildly, threatening to topple off the stove. Before Tano could take a step, Mashima fired a bullet into the wall behind the stove, inches from the terrified woman’s head.

  “Next round goes between her big brown eyes. Now drop your knives and put your hands where I can see them. We’ve got some things to talk about.”

  Mashima stood beside the stove, pistol in one hand, cigarette lighter in the other. As a tease he turned on one of the stove’s gas burners and, when it failed to ignite, flicked open the cap on the lighter. The woman went completely still, her eyes wide with terror. The brothers dropped their knives.