The director picked up a manila folder from his desk and shook it in the air. “This report, here? The one that details an illegal investigation into a prominent, respected Japanese businessman? A man who has provided our government with invaluable assistance? And a man who has made significant charitable contributions to this department?”
“Arinori Kusaka is a criminal, sir. I can prove he has associations with the Shimizu yakuza clan. He has provided financial backing to a violent splinter group of that organization known as Tokyo Black.”
“There is nothing in your report that conclusively links Kusaka-san to this organization. And speaking of violence, it wasn’t Tokyo Black that left a trail of dead bodies across this city over the last twenty-four hours. It was you and this American operative, Thomas Caine.”
“That American is a material witness. He can link Kusaka to Tokyo Black and to other crimes involving his daughter, Hitomi—”
“Arinori Kusaka has no children, Officer Murase.”
“She’s illegitimate and living in Japan illegally, which has allowed him to pimp her out to the Shimizu sex clubs while he systematically abuses her in every way imaginable. This ‘respected’ man you’re so intent on protecting? He’s a monster who rapes his own daughter and funds terror and bloodshed on the side!”
Director Yamamoto sighed. He held out his hand and gestured towards the chair in front of his desk. “Murase-san, please. Sit.”
Mariko allowed herself to sink into the chair. The director’s voice softened and took on a fatherly tone.
“Even if your report could prove that these allegations are true, and we both know it can’t, your investigation of Kusaka-san is unauthorized. You are suspended from duty. Any evidence or information in this report is inadmissible. The best I can do is start fresh and open a new investigation of Kusaka’s possible yakuza ties.”
The director pulled a sheaf of crisp white papers from a drawer. He slid them across the desk to Mariko. “And I can remove your suspension and allow you to resume active duty.”
Mariko eyed the papers in front of her. “You would do that? I’d be back on the Kusaka case?”
The director steepled his fingers under his chin and paused for a second. “No,” he answered. “Sign there and your suspension will be lifted, but I can’t have you investigating someone like Kusaka-san based on a personal vendetta.”
“Personal vendetta? This man is a threat to Japan! I have a duty to—”
“I read the report about Aokigahara Forest ... your sister. I’m very sorry for your loss, Officer Murase. I should have insisted you take some personal leave. It was poor judgement on my part. But now I’m sure you can see how it could appear that grief is clouding your judgement, that your personal feelings are motivating you to pursue Kusaka-san ... and this case.”
Mariko was silent. Her intense glare seared into the director’s eyes, but she didn’t say a word.
“Please,” he said, “consider my offer. You’re a dedicated officer. There is nothing I would rather do than allow you to resume your duty and continue protecting the people of Japan. Take some time; put this all behind you. Then come back to us. In the meantime, I will assign an impartial officer to this case.”
He set a monogrammed pen on top of the forms and pushed them a few inches closer to Mariko. “Sign the form. Resume active duty; let this go. It’s for the best.”
Mariko picked up the pen and stared at it. It looked expensive. “What about the American? What happens to him?” she asked.
The director leaned back in his chair. “That’s above our pay grade, Officer. He’s a rogue CIA operative, and he’s wanted by his government for treason. Someone in the CIA has made a deal with the Japanese government to turn him over to a private security team for immediate rendition. I have no idea what they offered us in return, but I assume it must have been substantial. As it stands, I’ve been ordered not to talk to the prisoner or interrogate him in any way. All we have to do is release him to the security team.”
The director paused and checked the dial of the Rolex on his wrist. “By my count, he should have left the building with them ten minutes ago. They’ll remove him from the country, and at that point, he’s no longer our concern. Problem solved.”
Mariko tossed the pen on the desk and stood up. “Beautiful pen. Montblanc? Did Kusaka’s blood money pay for that?”
“That’s enough, Officer,” the director answered in a curt voice. “Take the offer while it still stands, or you can consider your suspension permanent!”
Mariko nodded. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do have a personal stake in making Kusaka pay for his crimes. But unlike you, my devotion to my duty is not for sale. Sometimes honor and duty can become personal, but that’s not an excuse to turn away from what you know is right.”
She stormed out of the office. As she left, she called back to Yamamoto, “And you’re wrong about Caine. If the CIA gets him out of the country, our problems are just beginning.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Secretary of State Janet Kelson peered out her tinted window at the dreary weather. As the limo pulled up to the American Embassy in Akasaka, tiny droplets of rain drizzled down the glass. The dark grey skies did little to flatter the architecture of the embassy building. A heavy-duty iron fence surrounded the plain concrete structure. The building sat on a thin slice of land leased from the Japanese government. An American flag hanging from a lone pole fluttered in the slight breeze.
Her limo driver stopped at the main gate to present their credentials. The guard stepped into his tiny booth to confirm their information on his computer. All standard procedure. A few minutes later, he stepped back out and tapped her window.
Janet forced a smile as the window powered down. Her jet lag from the fifteen-hour flight made this simple act more of a challenge than she expected.
The guard handed her an ID badge. “Thank you, ma’am. Just making sure it’s really you back there.”
Her assistant leaned forward. “Thank you, Officer. I’m sure you’re aware the Secretary has an important meeting at the embassy this morning. It’s critical that we meet the other delegates in a timely manner. Will that be all?”
“Yes, ma’am.” The gate swung open at his wave, and the limo cruised forward onto the embassy grounds. And just like that, she was now on United States soil. She had experienced this hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times in her diplomatic travels. But the feeling never failed to give her a warm sense of pride and patriotism.
She was proud of her country and proud of her role in its international affairs. She felt a surge of confidence. She was certain that the afternoon’s talks would be a success. Rain or shine.
The limo stopped, and embassy staff stepped forward to open her door. Cool droplets of water spattered her designer trench coat as she got out of the car. The rain increased its staccato beat on the metal roof of the limo. She turned to Susan, who had exited the limo on the opposite side. “Looks like you were right about that rain.”
Susan held up her enormous cell phone and smiled. “Thank the Google gods.”
A man jogged up to them and snapped an umbrella open over Janet. Susan joined her underneath, and he escorted them to the building entrance. They were met by a handsome Japanese man wearing a tailored navy suit. A U.S. Diplomatic Service pin adorned his plum silk tie. He smiled and extended his hand.
“Welcome to Japan, Madam Secretary.”
“Don’t you look dashing, Peter? Always a pleasure.”
Peter Takahara, the embassy’s Deputy Chief of Mission, shook both their hands. Then he led them into the embassy building.
“Are the others here?” Janet asked.
Peter nodded. “They arrived a few minutes before you did. We’ve got China’s Foreign Minister and Japan’s Minster of Foreign Affairs. Both are complaining that they’re hungry, but otherwise I’d say they’re in good spirits.”
“Well, I can’t say I blame them,” Janet whispered as Peter led them
into the foyer.
They marched through a series of ornate, white columns that circled the room. Beige settees surrounded a navy throw rug in the center of the room. An American eagle was woven into its fibers. One of the eagle’s talons clutched an olive branch, the other a quiver of arrows. It stood ready, for peace or war.
As Janet entered the room, she had to stifle an urge to laugh. The Chinese and Japanese officials looked almost identical to each other. Both were tall, slender men in charcoal grey suits. Even their glasses were similar.
The Japanese minister stood a couple inches taller than his Chinese counterpart, and his skin was a shade darker. She shook his hand, then turned to the Chinese foreign minister. “Gentlemen, please, accept my apologies. I’m so sorry I’m late.”
The diplomat’s smile was thin, but he nodded. “Of course, Madam Secretary. After all, you did have the longest flight.” Staff photographers darted forward to snap pictures as the officials greeted each other. They all shook hands and shared polite laughter.
“Well,” Janet said, “I understand we’ve all managed to work up quite an appetite this morning. I’ve asked the kitchen to prepare a specialty from the American South. Biscuits and gravy. What do you say we save the photo ops for after breakfast? Then we can visit these islands on a full stomach.”
The officials nodded their consent. Peter and Susan politely blocked the photographers as the three made their way to the dining room.
“I’ve never had this ‘biscuits and gravy’ you speak of,” the Chinese official said. “Sounds a bit heavy for my taste.”
Janet took the man’s arm and allowed them to fall a few steps behind the Japanese minster. “Well, I’ll tell you what. It beats the heck out of miso soup and cold fish.”
The captain of the Gray Fox gazed down from the bridge at the empty main deck. The sparkling daggers of morning sunlight cut through the dark clouds above them, reflecting on the waves ahead.
The Kusaka Industries heavy freighter had set sail from Tianjin Port, south of Beijing. Their cargo hold was only at half-capacity. They were transporting a meager quantity of cheap cell phones and even cheaper t-shirts.
Per his instructions, he had altered the shipping manifest to indicate a full load. His men had cleared the top deck, leaving a long, empty expanse that stretched from the bridge to the pointed bow.
The captain chomped down on his cigar. Smoking was not allowed on the bridge of Kusaka Industries vessels, but he always lit a cigar before returning to port. It was an old tradition, one he expected to take with him to his grave.
After a few deep puffs, he turned away from the window. According to the ship’s GPS navigation equipment, they were just inside Japan’s territorial waters. The huge freighter was positioned between the Sea of Japan and the East China Sea. Several hundred miles west, out of sight on the distant horizon, lay South Korea and their insane neighbors. And south of that, the behemoth ... China.
Less than a hundred miles off their starboard bow sat the Senkaku Islands, the disputed rocks stirring up all the recent political turmoil.
The captain shrugged. He wasn’t much for politics. Japan claimed the islands belonged to them. China rattled its sabers, and occasionally flew drones and fighter jets over the disputed territory.
The captain had seen his share of bar fights in the seediest ports of call all around this world. This latest eruption bore all the markings of two drunkards, posturing and puffing their chests for the crowd. They would throw a few half-hearted punches, then slink back to their beers.
All the captain cared about was getting paid. And taking on this extra assignment for Kusaka-san promised a lucrative payday indeed. He cracked his knuckles and smiled. In the next five minutes, he would make more money than he had all year.
He took another puff of his cigar and turned to the small group of men behind him. He had ordered all general crew to clear the bridge and wait below decks. Equipment inspection, he had told them. The only men left stood behind him, talking in low, quiet voices. They were all dressed in identical black suits.
He wasn’t exactly sure who they were. They looked like yakuza to him—he had dealt with plenty of those types during his tenure in the shipping industry. But these men seemed different somehow.
They exhibited none of the bravado or swagger of the gangsters he had encountered in the past. These men were quiet, driven, and purposeful.
The captain cleared his throat and coughed. The men stopped talking and turned to face him.
“We’re in position,” he announced.
One of the men, a tall, slim figure who towered over him, nodded. He issued a quiet stream of orders to his comrades. The other men bowed and shouted, “Hai!” in unison. They cleared the bridge except for the tall man. He remained, standing next to the captain.
The two men watched as the doors of a large steel cargo container swung open. A few minutes later, a black missile-like form was wheeled out onto the empty deck.
Painstakingly refurbished and modified, the aircraft was a Chinese-made Lijian Mark 2. Also known as the “Sharp Sword,” it was an unmanned aerial vehicle, or UAV for short.
The drone cast a sinister shadow on the freighter’s empty deck. Its sweeping wings and bulging fuselage were covered by rubbery black, radar-reflective material. It resembled some sort of huge, predatory nocturnal bird.
The captain turned away from the window. “When do I get paid?”
The man beside him grunted but did not look away as his men scurried about the drone, preparing it for flight. “Soon. We will all receive our reward soon.”
The tall man slipped in an earpiece. “Final check. Report,” he said. The captain could not hear the response, but the tall man nodded.
“Begin final countdown.”
His lips moved as he silently counted down from ten. The men outside maneuvered the drone into position. The empty deck of the ship stretched before it. Once the drone was in place, the men scattered and took cover behind the cargo container.
The countdown reached zero. The drone’s engines flared to life, and the sinister black craft charged forward. It rapidly gained speed.
Although the Chinese denied it, many believed the Lijian Mark 2 was based on stolen American plans for the U.S. X-47B. Like that device, the drone was designed for aircraft carrier deployment. The Grey Fox was no aircraft carrier, but its upper deck was within operational tolerances for takeoff.
The drone screamed towards the end of the deck. The captain sucked in his breath. He watched as the craft tore across the metal surface. It charged closer and closer to the edge, and the churning sea waters below. What if the damn thing falls into the drink? he thought. How do I get paid then?
The drone was operating on autopilot. There was nothing the captain, or anyone else on board, could do to assist the aircraft. It would either take off and fly to its predetermined coordinates ... or it would not. His companion showed no trace of emotion as he watched the drone speed towards the end of the deck. At the last second, inches away from crashing into the ship’s bulkhead, the drone lifted into the air. It soared above the ship’s deck, rising into the clouds above.
The captain raised his fist in the air and cheered. “Banzai!”
The tall man nodded and spoke into his earpiece. “Takeoff successful. Prepare for phase two. For Japan.”
The captain slapped him on the back. “Now we all get paid, eh?” he exclaimed with a wide grin.
“Hai. Now we have the honor of serving Japan with the ultimate sacrifice.” The man keyed in a code on his cell phone and then slipped the device in his pocket. The men outside sat down on the deck and stared up into the dark, cloudy sky. They watched the drone shrink into a tiny black dot and then disappear into the haze.
“Hey, what the hell are they doing?” the captain asked.
The tall man slipped his hand into his jacket. “They are preparing.”
“Preparing for what?”
“To be purified. By death.”
/> A sudden, deafening explosion rocked through the ship. The deck shuddered beneath his feet.
“What the hell was that?” the captain screamed.
He grabbed the ship’s radio. Before he could bring the microphone to his mouth, a second explosion shook the freighter. He could feel the ship listing already. Water had begun to flood the cargo compartment. The ship’s hull was compromised.
The captain depressed the talk button on the microphone. “All hands, all hands, abandon—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a gunshot rang out on the bridge. The captain gasped as the metal slug tore into his lung. He dropped the radio as he fell. Above him, the mic swung back and forth on its curled rubber cable like a pendulum. He could tell by its swinging pattern that the ship was tilted off axis. They were sinking.
The tall man now stood over him, balancing against the extreme angle of the ship. He was aiming a heavy pistol down at the captain. The captain held up a hand in protest.
The tall man fired again. A bloody hole opened in the captain’s hand. The bullet tore through his flesh and buried itself in his chest.
His attacker knelt down to whisper, “You and your crew will also be purified. Together, we have raised the sword. Others will use it to strike the death blow.”
As the captain’s vision faded, he heard more muted gunfire, followed by screams. He caught a glimpse of the grey clouds outside the window before the ship lurched again and they slid from his view.
As he faded from the world around him, he thought of the drone streaking through the sky. An arrow of death, launched from the black heart of the underworld.
He hoped there was no underworld. No heaven. And, most importantly, no hell.
As the captain slipped in the final blackness of death, the stern of the Gray Fox dipped beneath the dark, churning water. The men on the deck and the tall man in the bridge sat with their legs crossed in the lotus position. Frigid water surged into the ship.
Thomas Caine series Boxset Page 23
