Honorable Enemies (1994)

by Joe Weber

  Wickham, who flashed his identification and stated that he too was carrying a concealed weapon, also went around the metal detector, then rejoined Callaway in the concourse. They boarded the United Airlines jet and went to the last row of first-class seats that were reserved for them. No one was assigned to the two seats directly in front of the agents or across the aisle from them., Steve and Marcus opened their magazines and began to leaf through the pages. A minute later they gave their beverage orders to the flight attendant and then noticed a last-minute passenger ease into the seat across from them. The scrawny Japanese senior citizen was wearing a wrinkled suit and his bow tie hung askew. Wickham thought he looked like a retired civil servant traveling on a mileage-plus upgrade certificate.

  Callaway waited until the aircraft taxied from the gate before he leaned closer to Wickham. "Steve, have you been briefed about the terrorist attack in Osaka?"

  "Not by the Agency," he explained and paused while the flight attendant checked to see if their seat belts were fastened. "I caught the gist of what happened while I was packing my bags this morning."

  "The Chukaku-Ha has taken credit for the attack," Callaway announced. "Are you familiar with the Chukaku-Ha?"

  Steve nodded and lowered his voice. "Oh, yeah. They're the most powerful terrorist faction of the Japanese New Left. From what I know, they have worked hard to abolish the constitutional democracy and do away with the monarchy, then scrap the U. S.-Japan Security Treaty and toss the American military out of Japan."

  "Toss every American out of Japan," Marcus declared with a concerned look. "If you count all the organizations in the New Left, which we believe consists of twenty-four factions, you'll find approximately forty thousand radicals, including their sympathizers. They are definitely a growing threat--a deadly threat, as we've just witnessed."

  Wickham glanced at the wingtip for a brief moment before he turned to Callaway. "So you think the Chukaku-Ha decided on swift retaliation for the attack at Pearl Harbor, even though no one knows who was flying the helicopter."

  "They hate Americans," Marcus quietly explained while the pilot stopped behind the other airliners waiting for clearance to take off. "They are convinced that it had to be an American, especially after all the witnesses agreed that the pilot appeared to be a Caucasian."

  Steve cast a look at Callaway, noting the fire in his eyes and the anger in his voice.

  "This was vintage Chukaku-Ha tactics," Marcus stated harshly. "They've used front-mounted flamethrowers on trucks to attack everything from the political party headquarters to the Israeli Embassy to the Kansai International Airport in Osaka. It's one of their favorite weapons."

  "Marcus, how do you stop a bunch of fanatics who have an irrational attachment to a terrorist group?"

  "It's very simple. You can't stop them."

  Wickham shook his head. "Terrorism is replacing Communism as the world's greatest threat."

  "True," Callaway continued sadly. "And here's another example of how they use their technical proficiency to obliterate a busful of retired couples from California and the poor Japanese tour guides."

  "It's just the beginning," Steve added.

  "I'm afraid so," Marcus admitted with a touch of irritation. "The Chukaku-Ha is well funded, well organized, and they have continued to concentrate on overthrowing the political system and philosophy they abhor."

  "Dedicated, they are," Steve agreed blandly. "Some of our people believe that the Chukaku-Ha has ties to major players in the Japanese political hierarchy."

  "I've heard the same thing," Callaway confided and leaned closer. "We have firsthand information linking the group to the internal rebellion and the corruption scandals that tore the Liberal Democrats apart."

  Both men remained quiet while the flight attendant chatted with a nearby passenger.

  "The Chukaku-Ha," Steve said at last, "is deeply embarrassed by Japan's political strife and lack of leadership and accountability at the top. They're tired of the bowing-down, hand-wringing image that is symptomatic of Japan's sensitivity about its stature and future."

  "And they have the means to do something about it," Marcus insisted with a sudden frown. "The tactical skills of the group are imaginative and they use mortarlike weapons and timed incendiary devices to augment the flamethrower trucks. These people are receiving clandestine training from some of the sharpest young officers in the Self-Defense Forces."

  "Have the Japanese authorities had any success in stopping the group?"

  Callaway tried to conceal his contempt, but the effort failed. "Are you kidding? The police are afraid of the Chukaku-Ha, and they have a right to be concerned."

  "You mess with the boys," Steve suggested, "and you find yourself at the bottom of Tokyo Bay?"

  "Close. Floating in the bay has more impact. They like to send a visual reminder to those individuals who might be contemplating messing with them."

  "Marcus," Wickham began slowly while his mind shifted to the helicopter attack in Hawaii, "have you received an update from the CIA--about the incident at Pearl Harbor?"

  "I haven't heard a word from your people," Callaway replied while the aircraft inched forward, "but I can tell you the latest from my people."

  Steve suppressed his irritation at the lack of critical communications from the Agency. The unwieldy and inflexible CIA bureaucracy collected data so rapidly that the analyzers had information overload. Situations and events changed so quickly that real-time information occasionally tended to get shuffled aside.

  "We've got over two hundred agents," Callaway said matter-of-factly, "converging on the islands. Our people have been told to get on board with the CIA and find the sonuvabitch who was flying the chopper."

  "Yeah," Wickham said lightly, "I got the same message last night, straight from the head honcho."

  Steve suddenly noticed that the elderly Japanese passenger was staring ata page of his newspaper, but something seemed amiss. Wickham observed that he never turned a page and wondered how slowly did the man read?

  "Marcus," Wickham began while he kept an eye on the eccentric-looking man, "I understand that we're going to be working with another specialist from the Criminal Division."

  "That's right." Marcus grinned. "And she is something else, believe me."

  Puzzled by the remark, Steve thought he detected a hint of pride in Callaway's voice. He studied the smiling FBI agent for a few seconds. "She? What do you know about her?"

  Marcus laughed and shook his head. "Her name is Susan Nakamura, and she's a Japanese-American who was born in Oakland. Susan's one of our best agents. She specializes in criminal cases involving Japanese."

  Steve was impressed so far. "Interesting."

  "She sure is," Callaway answered with a chuckle. "Susan is serious minded and intelligent, but in a quiet, almost shy way. She has a dogged determination and the patience of Job--traits which have been noted by all of her supervisors."

  Wickham gave him a quizzical glance. "If she's assigned to the San Francisco office, why is she working on the Pearl Harbor case?"

  "The same reason they assigned me to the case. The director handpicked certain agents who specialize in particular areas."

  Wickham covertly studied the quiet Japanese man across the aisle. "I assume that Susan is familiar with the islands."

  "Hawaii," Marcus confided while the airplane swung onto the runway, "has been Susan's second home since she was a young girl. Her favorite aunt--her father's sister--lived in Honolulu, and Susan spent her summers with her from the time she was a small child until she graduated from college, so she knows the islands like the back of her hand."

  "Not a bad place to spend your vacations."

  "No kidding," Callaway continued as the captain jockeyed the throttles forward and released the brakes. "Her aunt died three or four years ago and left Susan the home, so she lives there when she's in Honolulu."

  Steve nodded and looked out the window while the heavily laden jet accelerated to rotation speed, then
lifted gracefully into the smoggy sky.

  Across the aisle, the rumpled Japanese passenger appeared to be absorbed in his Chicago Tribune. From his relaxed pretense, it wasn't apparent that his pulse was racing from the tidbits of information he had overheard.

  Chapter 5.

  WASHINGTON, D. C.

  The President, followed by his Secretary of State, Bud Tidwell, walked ramrod-straight into the renovated Oval Office and sat down behind his well-organized desk.

  The stark difference between weekday and weekend Washington was clearly evident this morning. The cars and buses that choked the avenues were in sharp contrast to the empty parking lots and deserted streets of the weekend. The working citizenry of the nation's capital were flooding into the heart of the metropolitan area from all their widely scattered suburban homes.

  "Okay," the portly Commander in Chief declared, "we've got to get a handle on this situation. The Japanese people need reassurances that we'll find and prosecute the person, or persons, responsible for attacking the tour boat at Pearl."

  Tidwell nodded his agreement.

  "By the same token," the President went on, "we expect them to show a sense of urgency in pursuing the sonsabitches who killed the retirees in Osaka. It's hard to believe that the Chukaku-Ha is still operating after they launched incendiary projectiles at the Imperial Palace and fired rocket bombs at the Narita Airport.

  "What kind of idiots run their police force?" the President blurted. "They should have cleaned out the terrorists years ago."

  Tidwell sat down in one of the three chairs that had been arranged in front of the cherrywood desk. The Japanese Ambassador and a special envoy, who normally dealt with the U. S. Ambassador to Japan and the Under Secretary of State, were waiting to meet with the President and his Secretary of State.

  The American Ambassador, who was considered a has-been figurehead by many members of the Administration, had suddenly fallen ill and was recuperating during an extended leave of absence.

  "I agree about taking a strong stance where the terrorist group is concerned," Tidwell replied in his usual confident tone, "but I would like to cover a few unrelated issues before we speak with the Ambassador."

  "This ongoing flap about the trade issues?" the President shot back with a disgusted look.

  "I'm afraid so," Tidwell lamented, "and the continuing plutonium shipments from France."

  Robert S. "Bud" Tidwell was a consummate statesman who believed in a no-nonsense approach when dealing with foreign governments. "We need to talk about those problems, and the information and telecommunications infringement on the previous agreements we signed."

  Tidwell removed his spectacles and allowed his shoulders to sag. "You've gotta know the lights in the Kasumigaseki district have been burning through the nights while their leaders are doing the same thing we're doing . . . debating the next steps to take in this latest standoff."

  "I'm sure you're right, Bud," the President said emphatically. "Both sides are eventually going to have to face these things head-on."

  He swiveled in his chair to look outside, then turned back to Tidwell. "However, the incidents at Pearl and Osaka have ripped open some deep wounds from the past, and the prevailing mood has the potential to set off a series of major international confrontations."

  "No question about it," Tidwell cautioned and took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. "We're sitting on a giantpowder keg, and I think it's time we push for a summit."

  "Bud" the President smiled approvingly--"I was thinking the same thing. These guys have continued to stonewall under the guise of political revolution. I thinks it's time to call their bluff."

  A rare smile creased Tidwell's face. "This is an excellent time to bring up a summit."

  "As good as any," the President replied firmly. He glanced at his daily appointment schedule lying on the middle of the desk, then moved it aside and thought for a moment. "What's the current situation?"

  "Not good, I'm afraid."

  Tidwell opened his flat carrying case and retrieved two pieces of paper. "We have received an avalanche of reports about the violent anti-American protests in many cities in Japan, and we're seeing a groundswell of Japan-bashing beginning to take shape in some of our larger cities, especially in California. The media has seized on the attacks and it's the current hot topic on the talk shows."

  The seasoned statesman, who often soothed the bruised egos of those individuals who crossed swords with the President, slid the papers back into his portfolio.

  "Sir, these protests and racial clashes are becoming a firestorm that is feeding on itself while the goddamn media fan the flames."

  "We can always count on the media vultures," the President said with a touch of sarcasm, "to take a bad situation and make it worse."

  "They're all falling over each other trying to compete," Tidwell offered.

  The President paused to sort through his options. "Bud, we need to stop the violence before we tackle the other problems with Japan. If we allow this situation to get out of control, it could really hurt us domestically."

  "That's true." Tidwell nodded. "We've got to get a grip on things or we'll be dead in the water. I just received confirmation of three drive-by shootings in L. A.'s Little Tokyo district.

  "Four Japanese-Americans are dead," Tidwell went on sadly, "and three others are in critical condition. People are canceling athletic and entertainment events because of the potential for outbreaks of racial violence."

  The President, who was convinced that relations with the Japanese would only become more acrimonious, didn't want to continue the discussion. "Bud, let's talk about our options during the Cabinet meeting, okay?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Right now," the President went on with undisguised irritation, "I want to get this game of posturing with the Japanese out of the way."

  Tidwell quietly acknowledged the statement while the President touched the button that signaled his staff assistant in the reception room. Less than half a minute later the administrative aide escorted the two Japanese diplomats into the Oval Office.

  SAN FRANCISCO

  FBI Special Agent Susan Nakamura glanced at her watch as she drove her white Toyota Camry southwest on Market Street. After working all night on the latest information about the Pearl Harbor attack, Susan was running late for her flight to Honolulu.

  She reached forward and selected an easy-listening FM station as she neared Golden Gate Avenue. A few moments later she saw a large crowd of people moving into the street near the Civic Center.

  She began to slow down when she saw the flashing lights from four police cars approaching from the opposite direction. Another anti-Japanese demonstration was forming.

  The traff slowed to a crawl as the mob of angry Caucasians charged a group of young Japanese protesters.

  Susan was attempting to turn around when she saw an assortment of bottles, sticks, rocks, and other debris fly through the air. Heavily outnumbered, the Japanese were defenseless as the police began to fire tear gas into the unruly crowd.

  Blocked in front and back by other cars, Susan sat helpless as the enraged mob broke and ran in her direction. She made sure her windows were up and the doors were locked, then reached for the 10-millimeter Smith & Wesson in her purse.

  Two scraggly men who appeared to be drunk stopped by the hood of her car.

  Susan stared straight at them and slid her weapon next to her leg. "Move on and do yourself a favor," she said through gritted teeth.

  "Hey, looky here," laughed a skinny man with a birthmark on his face. "We got us a stinkin' Jap bitch drivin' a Japmobile."

  "Yeah, man," his pal chuckled and put his hands on the hood and leaned forward. "Hey, bitch, how about doin' us both for the price of one?"

  Susan's temper flared and she gripped the Smith & Wesson with a renewed strength. "You morons."

  The man with the birthmark reared back and kicked the left front fender as hard as he could, almost losing his balance. "Whad'ya think
about that, Tokyo Rose?"

  Susan flipped her badge on the dashboard where they could be sure to see it, then gripped her weapon with both hands and slowly raised it above the steering wheel.

  "Shit, man!" birthmark exclaimed. "A fuckin' cop!"

  Both of the vagrants ran through the traffic and disappeared into the crowd east of the Civic Center.

  After the adrenaline shock wore off, Susan's heartbeat finally slowed to normal as she continued toward the airport. She turned the radio off and thought about the escalating conflict between the Japanese and the Americans.

  THE OVAL OFFICE

  Ambassador Koji Hagura was a short, rubbery-faced man who epitomized the etiquette of the Japanese lifestyle and ancient traditions. Always the polite gentleman, Hagura never directly contradicted anyone. Instead, he would go out of his way to find an indirect and conciliatory way to express his view.

  Educated at Boston College and Stanford, Hagura would occasionally smile at a particularly amusing story or joke, but he never laughed in front of the Americans. His mission was serious, and he was a proud man who relished being the Japanese Ambassador.

  Special Envoy Yamagata Isoroku was a younger and thinner version of the Ambassador. He had adopted many of Hagura's mannerisms, but not the stiff, formal public face. Isoroku was very active in the Washington diplomatic social circles. He enjoyed the less-pretentious social style of the Americans, and he had quite a reputation as a raconteur of anecdotes after a couple of stiff martinis.

  Although Isoroku often grew impatient with the Americans, whom he considered short-term thinkers, he kept his feelings to himself. Like Hagura, Isoroku believed that any sign of impatience, or any display of irritation, would be regarded as a loss of face.