Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  “Find that ship. It’s somewhere between Thailand and the Philippines in the South China Sea,” Ashwood barked at his staff. “Coordinate satellite coverage. Find out what vessels the Navy has in the region.”

  Upon receiving authorization through back channels at the Pentagon, Ashwood sent a high-priority message to the captain of the Sturgeon-class fast-attack submarine prowling the Philippine Sea more than 1,200 miles west of Saipan Island. The submarine surfaced at pre-ordained intervals in order to use its antennae. Change course for South China Sea. Await orders regarding second freighter target.

  Based on the submarine’s current location, the order translated to a sea journey of approximately thirty-five hours, presuming the submarine could maintain its top speed of roughly 28 miles per hour. It required the submarine to pass south of Taiwan before entering the South China Sea to begin the hunt.

  The submarine carried wire-guided Mk-48 torpedoes capable of sinking a fast-moving warship with little or no warning. It was merely a matter of locating the freighter and shooting it like a fish in a barrel.

  Hannah meanwhile fanned through glossy magazines in the first-class cabin as she estimated the airliner’s speed. She was eager to return to Langley and find out precisely what was happening with everyone involved. She was also looking forward to seeing Reb, disappointed that they both had to leave Saipan so abruptly.

  A U.S. Navy P-3 Orion maritime surveillance aircraft — a four-engine, turboprop plane in service since the 1960s — located the rogue freighter two days later and transmitted its location. The submarine was already in the vicinity. The captain adjusted his course so that it intersected with the freighter. When the target was in range, the captain surfaced and prepared to fire a single Mk-48 torpedo. He soon received a second coded message from Langley: Spruance-class guided-missile destroyer en route to assist with interdiction and boarding of freighter. Stand by.

  The captain was secretly relieved. He didn’t embrace the possibility of killing innocents among the freighter’s merchant crew or sinking a ship without knowing more about its cargo.

  Another message from Ashwood: Surface and attempt to contact freighter. Fire single torpedo as a warning. Do not strike target. Repeat. Do not strike target.

  The freighter captain saw the torpedo spinning toward his ship, but he didn’t slow down. He altered his course, knowing it was impossible to outrun the submarine, and uttered a brief prayer as the torpedo veered away.

  If new orders arrived, the submarine commander would not redirect the next wire-guided torpedo. He’d send the freighter to the bottom.

  The Navy destroyer captain didn’t waste any time as his ship arrived at the intersection. He opened fire with both five-inch guns, sending warning shots across the freighter’s bow. The freighter slowed to a crawl.

  The heavily-armed boarding party encountered no resistance from the six yakuza and ten merchant crew. Within minutes, the first reports reached the captains of both the destroyer and the submarine. The cargo hold was overflowing with unprocessed heroin. The freighter captain, under arrest, confirmed his ship was bound for the Philippines. Beyond that, he refused comment.

  Ashwood relayed the news to the CIA director who immediately apprised President Bush’s top national security advisors. The interdiction by the U.S. Navy was heralded as a big win for America’s war on drugs and a powerful gut punch to Japan’s organized crime syndicates. It was up to President Bush’s strategists to explain to the American people how such a victory had occurred in a Pacific Rim war with the Japanese that was never declared or publicized.

  The freighter was escorted to the U.S. naval base at Subic Bay in the Philippines where a press conference was scheduled upon its arrival. Credit for the operation would be awarded to the Navy and to undisclosed intelligence sources that provided the smuggling-route information. No mention would be made of the CIA.

  Hannah arrived in DC just as Ashwood’s team was celebrating the success of the operation. She looked around the cozy Georgetown pub for Reb but he was nowhere in sight. Carrington spotted her walk in and graciously handed her a glass of champagne.

  “As always, coming to my rescue,” she said.

  “Just glad you’re back.”

  Carrington leaned in for a hug but Hannah’s body went statue stiff. Although Carrington was her immediate superior, Hannah had turned the corner on their more intimate relationship.

  “What about Decker and Reb?

  Carrington coldly rattled off an update. “Decker left the naval hospital in Guam even though the doctors advised against it. No surprise there. From what I’ve heard, the Iraqis are about to invade Kuwait. I guess he wants to be there when the fireworks begin. He volunteered for one of the advance sniper teams.”

  “Sounds like Decker. And Reb?”

  “Reb got picked up on Tinian by a Navy chopper. He spent a day aboard a support ship before he was ordered back to the Special Warfare Center in San Diego where he was being debriefed. We haven’t heard from him since he left Saipan.”

  “Will he be rejoining his SEAL team?”

  “I have no idea. The Navy brass only shares information when they’re good and ready. Until then, we’re in the dark.”

  The following day, Hannah repeatedly checked her phone for messages between debriefings at Langley, hoping Reb would reach out. But she received no word.

  Her spirits were momentarily buoyed when Ashwood tossed a designer box on her desk. Inside was a green kimono. “As promised,” he said.

  Hannah held up the elegant kimono and let the high-quality silk slip through her fingers. “It’s absolutely beautiful. You obviously have very fine taste and I’ll treasure it. It’ll be a reminder of this mission, though there were a few moments I’d like to forget.”

  Hannah asked whether Hiraku was already enrolled in the protection program.

  “Not yet. She has some business to take care of in Switzerland first, and we’re assisting her with that. I think she’ll be just fine.”

  “I was just thinking about Krill, the casino night manager at The Lucky Carp. I’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for her. She took out two bodyguards with her pufferfish recipe, but Tanaka’s crazy-ass servant killed her for it. Krill has a young daughter named Starfish. She must be heartbroken. I’d like to adopt her.”

  Ashwood arched his eyebrows. “That might be rather tough, considering your job responsibilities.”

  “I could resign.”

  “I don’t think that would be such a great idea.”

  “But what will happen to Starfish?”

  “When Hiraku’s business in Zurich has been concluded, there will be plenty of money for the little girl’s care and education. Starfish will have an endowment fund. She’ll be set for life.”

  Hannah smiled appreciatively. “Thanks for making that happen.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Her uncle made it happen. He was prepared. The Swiss bank account already had been opened by his niece, though I doubt she understood why at the time or just how flush it was.”

  “And how flush was it?”

  “Just over four million.”

  “Now that’s what I call an endowment fund.”

  “Once the funds have been transferred into a custodial account, a portion of it will be made available to Hiraku under her new identify, courtesy of Uncle Sam.”

  “She should be happy about that.”

  “There’s more. A second Swiss account opened by Yoshi Yamamoto contains well over $50 million. It’s set up as a trust for orphans abandoned by their parents and living in institutions throughout Japan. It appears he had a righteous soul.”

  “What happens to that account?”

  “It’ll likely be fought over by certain people in our national security agencies with plenty of input from INTERPOL and, of course, the bank.”

  “Do you think Hiraku will be allowed to keep the four million?”

  “My guess is, she’ll walk away with half of it. Krill’s daughter will also
benefit from the same account.”

  “And what’s in my future?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “I want to get back to work.”

  Ashwood grinned approvingly. “When you’re fully rested, you’ll head back to Tokyo and try to find out what happened to Stevens and Cahill. We received a tip from a police officer on Saipan that could be worth following up. His last name is Mashima. Perhaps you know him.”

  “Tokyo, here I come,” Hannah said cheerfully, gently fist-pumping the air but choosing not to mention her familiarity with Mashima.

  Returning to the CIA-owned apartment where she was temporarily staying in DC, Hannah discovered a small package wrapped in dull brown paper mixed in with her mail that had been forwarded. It was the size of a cigarette pack and bore no return address. She carefully tore away the paper and opened the lid. It was a silver necklace adorned with a single tiger shark tooth. She felt a rush of excitement pass through her body, knowing Reb hadn’t forgotten about her, but deep inside she was already looking forward to the next mission. She’d find out who killed Stevens and Cahill, and maybe even get some payback.

  59

  Picking Up the Pieces

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Lt. Lou Brick spoke at length with CNMI Police Chief Joe Napuna and the local fire chief about what they believed caused the explosion aboard the ship that left five dead – two merchant crew and three yakuza. Two more crew were still unaccounted for but presumed lost.

  Both chiefs blamed the blast and subsequent fire on shoddy maintenance and unsafe cargo materials. As Chief Napuna told the news reporters who arrived with cameras and notepads, spontaneous combustion aboard freighters past their prime was not a far-fetched theory. “We have an arson investigator arriving from Guam to assist. If it has not been destroyed, we hope to examine the ship’s manifest to learn what dangerous materials were aboard.”

  Brick didn’t buy the theory, but he really didn’t care. What mattered most was the destruction of the white powder, which was no longer marketable. That was a victory.

  A trio of high-ranking yakuza arrived on Saipan a week after the sinking and headed directly to The Lucky Carp.

  Tony was stacking cases of beer behind the bar when they brashly burst through the front door. Sadashi was seated behind a desk in what had been Yoshi Yamamoto’s small office, busily reviewing invoices for food and alcohol supplies. He spotted them through the open door and scurried to the front entrance, bowing deeply and launching into a flurry of explanations and apologies. The new visitors, silent partners in the casino resort, had already heard the story of how Sadashi attempted to prevent Tanaka from leaping out of the helicopter. They praised him for his efforts and his loyalty.

  Following a ceremonial toast with sake, the yakuza bosses informed Sadashi he would be in charge of The Lucky Carp and its related enterprises, at least temporarily, until a vote was taken in Tokyo and a permanent manager appointed.

  Sadashi told them he was short on casino staff because the longtime night manager was dead. He sadly relayed how Akumu had killed Krill in a fit of rage, only to be slain herself by Tanaka for murdering a local police sergeant without his authority. Sadashi said he had witnessed Akumu’s death on the rooftop of Tanaka’s home, as had several bodyguards who could confirm the story.

  The three oyabun arranged a meeting the same day with Chief Napuna to learn who had killed five of Tanaka’s employees – Kira and Yuki shot to death along a rocky path, two bodyguards poisoned by pufferfish, and a third kobun murdered just outside the cliff-side house.

  Chief Napuna informed them Detective Hideyo Mashima was in charge of the investigation but no suspects had been identified. Since the five yakuza deaths did not appear related to drug trafficking, the police chief doubted the controversial Anti-Drug Task Force would become involved. He had no answers regarding the sunken ship but extended his condolences for the three yakuza killed during the explosion.

  The chief was eager to be rid of these men. He had an appointment with his attorney to discuss an ongoing FBI investigation into his allegedly spending $40,000 in taxpayer dollars on an off-island junket and for a “lover’s vacation.” He was also hoping the deaths of The Lucky Carp’s three primary owners might cause the record of his gambling debts to be misplaced. He planned to talk to Sadashi.

  Ray Donley sensed his career as a prosecutor was falling apart before his eyes. The Asaki murder trial was fizzling and would soon be closed by the court for lack of evidence. It was only a matter of time before the judge dismissed the related charges against the two pot farmers who had confessed to the crime.

  Donley was further perplexed now that Tanaka was dead, leaving him without a high-profile racketeering case. He agonized over the death of Akumu, whom he had hoped to charge with the murder of Sgt. Torres and bring to trial, earning him support and respect among the island police.

  His only moment of triumph had occurred during a search of Tanaka’s jet at the airport. Two beautiful young South Korean girls were found hiding in the main cabin. Still in their teens, they had fled a prison-like jungle garment factory for a promise of work in the bathhouses of Tokyo, not understanding the offer from Tanaka meant a life of prostitution.

  Donley held a press conference to address the issues of child abduction and sex slavery, but the cargo ship explosion and spate of yakuza-related homicides on the island overshadowed it.

  60

  Case Closed

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Mashima opened his briefcase and gently rubbed the lacy underwear between his thumb and forefinger, bringing the thin cloth to his nostrils and inhaling deeply. He ran his fingers along the bra’s embroidery, tracing the delicate stitching before cupping one of the high heels in his hands like a holy chalice and filling it with sake until it overflowed.

  The detective gulped until he coughed. The rice wine drizzled from his nostrils and spilled down the front of his shirt. He laughed and gently set the shoe on the kitchen table, admiring its perfection. He poured more sake into a low-ball glass, lit an incense stick, tuned his radio to a classical music station, and sat back in his favorite worn leather chair. He studied the photograph of Ray Donley and wife, Cheryl, smiling on their wedding day, then tore it into four equal pieces and tossed it into a metal wastebasket.

  The voice-message light was blinking on his home phone. It was Chief Napuna, concerned that the Lover’s Lane homicide file folder was missing. He had called to ask whether Mashima might have taken it home to work on the case notes. Mashima assured the chief he had not, adding his personal belief that confidential investigation files should be kept only at the police station unless required in the courtroom.

  When the chief hung up, Mashima dumped the contents of the folder into the wastebasket along with the wedding photograph and carried it to the back porch where he set the papers afire with his cigarette lighter.

  Back inside, he smoked a Dunhill cigarette, drank more sake, splashed cold water on his face and stood staring into the mirror over the bathroom sink. He turned slightly to better see the left side where the thick scars pulled his face into a grimace. Hideyo? No, more like Hideous, he thought, thanks to the yakuza. He slipped the black mask into his pants pocket and the $5,000 in cash he’d skimmed from Whirly Man’s suitcase. It was a balmy Sunday night, the sky filled with shooting stars and promise, perfect for the cockfights in San Antonio.

  THE END

  Author’s Note: If you enjoyed PACIFIC POISON, I hope you’ll read my previous novel, the serial-killer thriller DEADLY FARE as well as my mafia thriller BLOOD SONS.

  Keep reading to find excerpts at the back of this book.

  A Note from the Author

  As 1990 approached, I didn’t know much about the yakuza, but two intrepid government prosecutors and a hard-boiled police lieutenant — people I met routinely as a news reporter covering t
he crime beat in Massachusetts — were about to embark on a mission to fight heroin trafficking by powerful Japanese criminals on Saipan Island.

  The mission sounded intriguing, exotic, the stuff novels are made of, and when I looked at a world map the possibility became more enticing. Apparently my enthusiasm showed through because they suggested I join them as a photojournalist in their remote Pacific island adventure.

  When I pitched the idea to John Moran, the cigar-puffing executive editor at the daily newspaper in Massachusetts where I worked as a reporter and photographer, he approved a paid leave and the following week handed me a check to cover the round-trip airfare to Saipan along with some spending money. I’ve never met another boss like that.

  Moran, who remained a hardcore newsman until the day he died, believed in the story because it had lots of connections to Massachusetts and its North Shore. He also trusted my reportorial skills. News Editors Allan Kort, Ted Grant and Bill Plante, along with the late Associate Editor Fred Goddard, supported Moran’s decision, so it was green lights all around.

  Once on Saipan in the Northern Mariana Islands, I bunked in a defunct CIA compound with Police Detective Lt. John LeBrasseur, one of the toughest men I’ve ever met. I spent my free time exploring abandoned World War II Japanese bunkers, and caves where corroded bayonets and unexploded artillery shells lay scattered about.

  Howitzers and anti-aircraft guns had been transformed over the years into rusted sculptures and on the island’s coral reefs, U.S. military Sherman tanks from the Battle of Saipan remained encrusted where the shells from the Japanese shore batteries had found their mark in 1944.

  In shallow water off one popular beach, a Japanese Zero fighter plane rested on the coral. On another, the wing of an American bomber lay in the sand where it crashed or had washed up in a storm decades ago.