by Joe Weber
Thinking back to the arrest of the eccentric forger, Marcus grinned. "The front door--the doors were the bifold type--had windows that matched the ones at the other end of the home. That hangar was really elaborate."
Steve tilted one of the photos upward and then looked at Callaway. "Do you think there's a hangar concealed in this home?"
"I wouldn't bet against it."
Susan carefully inspected the photographs and sat back in her seat. "Why would someone have two jackhammers near the pool area? The house appears to be finished as far as I can tell."
"To mask the sounds of a helicopter's rotor blades," Marcus casually offered without looking up. "Throw in the screech of a power saw, or something equally loud, and it sounds like you're still building the house. The racket might not conceal the sounds of a big military chopper, but it sure would disperse the noise from a JetRanger."
Steve paused to look at the prints and form a mental image of the view from the highway. "You can't tell what's happening from the lower terrain, so who would question the sounds of a construction crew?"
Susan glanced at Wickham and gave him a lazy smile. "It does look suspicious, doesn't it?"
"Yes," he answered and hesitated while a customer walked past their table. "When you put everything together, including the guy you saw carrying a rifle, the oddities do raise a few questions."
She studied him with wondering curiosity. "More than a few questions, in my view."
"I may be wrong," Steve conceded, "but we won't know until we investigate."
"Let's take both cars," Susan suggested while she pointed to the tennis court, "and begin with this place. If we don't find anything there--or at the other two homes with heliports--we can split up and start canvassing the area."
"I'm ready," Steve declared while he finished the last sip of his tea and shoved the photographs into the packet.
After the trio walked out of the airy restaurant, a slight, nondescript Japanese diner who had been sitting with his back to the agents slowly adjusted his bow tie and reached for his check.
Chapter 13.
NORTHEAST COAST OF OAHU
Steve and Marcus slowed to a stop along Highway 83, north of Punaluu Beach Park, and examined the dog-eared aerial chart Theresa had given Wickham.
Susan followed them to the side of the road, then raised her binoculars and carefully studied the steeply rising terrain. The monotonous rain had finally stopped and the clouds were dissipating, leaving only the top of the slopes obscured. She examined the general area they had previously flown over, but was disappointed when she couldn't find a trace of the grand estate.
"I'm sure this is the right spot," Steve said confidently, pointing to the circled area on the map. "I guess we're going to have to do some reconnoitering to find the road up to the house."
Callaway studied the chart at length and then looked up toward the distant ridgeline. "If we're at the right place, which I'm sure we are, that house is definitely well concealed."
"This is the right place," Wickham said quietly. "I remember that point of land that juts out into the ocean, and I know the lot for the homesite had been leveled by a bulldozer."
"Okay," Marcus said. He placed the car in gear. "Let's go take a look."
Susan fell in trail while Steve and Marcus tried two different roads that went in the general direction of the hilltop home. Each promising avenue eventually turned into a narrow, muddy path that abruptly ended.
Wickham listened to the constant chatter over the FBI radio frequency. Susan and Marcus had agreed not to add to the communications problems unless it became a necessity.
"Dammit," Steve swore to himself. "I wish I'd paid closer attention when we flew over the place."
"Don't worry about it." Callaway gave him a cheerful look. "We'll find it in a few minutes."
Steve was about to suggest they call Theresa and see if she could fly to the house, then trace the road to its origin, when he noticed a secondary road leading into a thick forest. Many of the trees had been cut and were piled along the side of the road.
"Marcus, let's try that one."
Callaway cast a cautious look at the muddy trail. "I hope we don't get stuck in that mess."
"Have faith."
"Right."
With Susan close behind, Marcus negotiated the steeply rising drive for three quarters of a mile. At that point the soft surface widened into a paved roadway.
"It looks like we're onto something," Callaway suggested and glanced in the rearview mirror. Susan was right on their bumper.
A half mile farther they spotted the elegant home after the winding road suddenly turned into a long, stone and brick driveway.
"This is it," Wickham announced. He reached into his battered canvas bag and extracted a 9-millimeter M9 Beretta.
Callaway casually glanced at the handgun. "Let's hope we don't need any weapons."
"Yeah," Steve said while he checked the fifteen-shot magazine and slid the pistol into a specially made holster that attached to the back of his belt.
With the Beretta resting snugly against the small of his back, Steve straightened his sport coat. "Marcus, since this is your bailiwick, why don't you and Susan go to the door and I'll provide backup?"
"Actually," Callaway answered while he stopped the car, "I think it would be better if you and Susan go to the door." Steve gave him a curious look. "How's that?"
"If they're Japanese," Marcus explained, "Susan can deal with them. If there's any hesitation or resistance, the initials CIA generally have more of an impact than FBI."
Wickham gave him a skeptical glance. "Whatever you think."
Steve and Marcus got out of the car and looked around the lushly landscaped grounds while Susan walked to the front of the sedan. From their vantage point, there didn't seem to be anything that appeared suspicious or any indication that a helicopter had operated from the premises.
After they discussed what Marcus would do in the event something went wrong, Steve and Susan approached the huge home. Their adrenaline levels were elevated, but they didn't let it show. In their professions, image was almost as important as experience and training.
Wickham saw a small surveillance camera mounted near the apex of the wooden roof, then spotted the microwave sensors hidden in the shrubbery on each side of the wide yard. The monostatic sensors transmitted and received radar signals to detect intruders.
"They've got a fairly sophisticated security system," he said under his breath as they approached the ornate mahogany double front doors.
"I suppose I would too," she replied without moving her lips, "if I lived in a palace like this."
They stepped on the porch and Steve rang the doorbell. Then they noticed the small square of tinted glass recessed in the irregularly colored marble wall. "Another camera."
"They're everywhere."
A few seconds later the intercom speaker came to life. "How may I help you?" the hollow voice asked in clear, unaccented English.
"Susan Nakamura, Federal Bureau of Investigation," she stated evenly and pressed her identification badge near the camera port.
Steve flashed his credentials and announced his name and position with the CIA.
"Are you the owner of the home?" Susan politely asked. "No," came the quick response. "I am house-sitting while the owners are traveling."
"Then you're the one we need to speak to," Susan continued in an authoritative voice, "if you'll be kind enough to open the door."
A long silence hung in the air.
"I'm sorry," the empty voice finally responded, "but this is a very busy time for me."
Wickham's patience was rapidly dwindling as he turned to face the surveillance camera. "Sir, we only need ten to fifteen minutes of your time, so let's make it easy for everyone, okay?"
Another awkward silence caused Steve and Susan to question each other with their eyes.
"If you insist," came the curt reply a second before the intercom went dead.
St
eve darted a look at Callaway, then turned to Susan. "I don't think we'll get very far with this guy."
She gave him a reassuring smile. "I'm afraid you're right."
A moment later, one of the massive wooden doors swung open. Susan and Steve were surprised to see a gap-toothed Japanese man who appeared to be in his early forties. Slight of stature, bespectacled and prematurely bald, the man was attired in an expensive silk suit and sported a gleaming watch that was encircled with diamonds.
He gave a small courtesy bow before he spoke in the same precise English.
"My time is extremely limited," the man stated with a distinct frown of displeasure, "so how may I be of assistance to you?"
Susan took the lead. "May we step inside for a few minutes?"
The man stiffened and glanced at the black agent standing in the driveway. "I'm sorry, but I am not allowed to let anyone in the home during the absence of the owners. What is it that you are inquiring about?"
"We would like to ask you a few general questions," Susan explained in a smooth, professional manner, "in regard to the recent incident at Pearl Harbor."
"Unfortunately," the small man quickly countered, "I cannot help you. The only thing I know about the tragedy is what I have seen on television and read in the paper. Now I must return to my duties."
Susan and Steve noticed a hint of nervousness in the canned response. The delivery was too fast and there was a jumpy, apprehensive sound to his voice.
Steve's calm appearance belied the growing hostility he felt. "Sir, you speak excellent English. Obviously you've been in the United States long enough to know that we have a job to do, one way or the other."
The pinched eyes turned cold and he took a half step back. "Yes," he snapped, "I am familiar with your agencies. But I have nothing to offer."
Wickham tried to hide his irritation. "Sir, you can either cooperate with us now or we'll be forced to do it the hard way. It's your decision."
The man's growing animosity was clearly evident in his voice. "You surely must understand the concept of orders. You have your orders," he almost hissed, "and I have mine. I am not permitted to allow anyone in the home during the absence of the owners. It really is quite simple." He finished with what passed for a disdainful look.
"Who are the owners?" Susan politely interjected when Wickham went rigid. "And where are they now?"
The Japanese man displayed his most exasperated expression. The effect was diluted by his restlessness. "I am not at liberty to divulge that information."
, "That's fine," Steve said evenly as he noticed a tall, muscular Oriental man with a crew cut and horribly scarred ear step into sight fifteen feet behind the house-sitter. "We'll make this as easy as possible. If you'll be kind enough to telephone the owners and explain the situation, we'll be happy to wait."
A look of pain crossed the nervous man's face. "I'm afraid that is impossible at the moment. The owners are on an extended cruise and I don't have an itinerary."
Steve was boiling inside, but he forced himself to appear undisturbed.
"Perhaps we could approach this subject from another angle." Wickham smiled easily, then stopped in midsentence when he caught a glimpse of two armed men who were quietly approaching Callaway from the side of the expansive grounds. It's time to pull the rip cord.
Steve quickly decided to take a different course and grabbed Susan by the back of her arm. "As soon as you have an opportunity to contact the owners, please give Miss Nakamura a call at the local FBI office in Honolulu."
Susan followed Wickham's lead and handed the fidgeting man her business card while Steve shifted his look to the area where Callaway waited for them. Marcus would be a sitting duck if the men in the foliage decided to take him out.
"If Miss Nakamura doesn't hear from you in the next twenty-four hours," Steve continued firmly, "we'll be forced to resort to another option, but we will accomplish our objective. If the owners have nothing to hide, there'll be no problem."
Susan and Steve caught the brief moment of genuine fear in the man's dark eyes. It was the kind of look that a terrified animal gets when it's penned into a corner by a ravenous predator.
When the massive door shut, Steve spoke in a hushed whisper as they turned to leave. "Don't react to what I'm about to say, but there are two armed men kneeling in the shrubs near Marcus.
Susan looked out across the driveway and never glanced toward the edge of the yard. "Steve, I think maybe we've hit it. Did you see the look on his face when you mentioned that we will accomplish our objective?"
"Yes," he replied out of the side of his mouth. "Did you see the enforcer with the mutilated ear?"
"How could I miss him?"
"I think we've seen enough to confirm our suspicions," Steve said under his breath.
As they walked toward him, Marcus sensed that something was wrong. He sagely got into his sedan while Susan slipped behind the wheel of her car. When Steve shut his door, Callaway made a U-turn in the wide driveway and gave Susan a fleeting look. She was right on their bumper.
"What the hell is going on?"
Steve gave him a detailed but succinct account of what had transpired on the front porch, adding that at least two men with handguns had slipped down the side of the property to a point near Marcus.
"You're shitting me . . ."
Steve let his eyes shift toward Callaway. "They would have nailed you in a New York minute."
"Okay, so I'm a little rusty," Marcus said. "We need to throw a net over that place as quickly as we can get everyone organized."
"I agree that we need to move fast," Steve said hastily and shot a glance at Susan. "If there's a helo hidden somewhere on the property, they'll try to fly it out before we come back with a search warrant."
Callaway kept his eyes on the road while he spoke. "If these people were part of the Pearl Harbor attack, even if the chopper is gone, they'll want to get rid of any other evidence that could link them to the assault."
"Marcus, if we're right about this, you can bet that they're in the process of sanitizing the place right now."
Callaway gave him a concerned glance. "We need some backup, like now."
Steve looked back at Susan's car. "Marcus, pull over by the slope up ahead."
"Okay."
When both cars came to a stop, Wickham and Callaway leaped out and hurried to Susan's door.
"We've got to move quickly," Steve advised, "but we can't risk using the radios. Those people are sharp, and I have no doubt they have the equipment to monitor radio calls from both the air and the ground, including the FBI."
"Hell," Callaway snorted, "everyone listens to us."
"Susan," Steve continued, planning for what he believed to be inevitable, "I can use my secure phone and have Langley contact your office."
"That would be great."
"Steve," Marcus said and looked up the road toward the imposing residence, "I'll find another approach to this place while you and Susan stake out the home."
"Good idea," Wickham replied, "but be damned careful. These people aren't clowns."
Susan nodded in agreement. "Marcus, keep your distance and if anything develops, call my code name over the radio." "I'll do it."
"Steve," she said hastily, "I think we should move closer to the house."
"Yeah," Wickham agreed while he watched Callaway grab a pair of coveralls from the trunk of their car. Then Marcus handed him his SecTel secure phone.
Steve energized the discrete communications system. "I've got to coordinate some air cover since we can't completely surround this place."
Steve jumped into Susan's car and she turned it around while Callaway drove down the road.
"What do you think?" she asked as they made their way slowly up the long drive. "Is the helicopter there?"
"I don't know." He sighed and opened the phone case. "But something is definitely wrong when two armed men are sneaking around in the yard."
She gave him a quick glance. "Especially with tw
o FBI cars sitting in the driveway.".
Chapter 14.
U. S. NAVAL BASE, YOKOSUKA, JAPAN
The bridge of the aircraft carrier USS Independence (CV-62) was quiet at this time of the morning. The sailors and officers were asleep, except for the early risers and members of the ship's company, who were standing watch.
Belowdecks, the mess cooks worked against the clock in order to be ready to serve a savory breakfast when reveille sounded. They had fourteen peaceful minutes remaining before the hungry, sleepy-eyed men would begin forming a chow line.
Outside on the long carrier pier, two food-vending trucks were preparing to serve the civilian "yardbirds" who were reporting for work. The vendors also did a booming business with the multitude of sailors who opted for a change from the usual navy fare.
The hushed solitude of the cool morning was suddenly shattered by a deafening explosion. The thunderous report echoed across the base as the rocket-propelled grenade burst in a blinding white flash when it detonated against the carrier's bridge.
Three panes of glass blew inward, seriously injuring one of the sailors on the bridge. Everyone in the area dropped to the deck and scrambled for cover as the violent concussion reverberated through the big flattop.
The majority of the crew sat up in their bunks and looked at each other with questioning eyes. Whatever it was, it wasn't good news.
On the quarterdeck, confusion reigned while a seasoned chief petty officer talked the young officer of the deck out of sounding general quarters. The salty boatswain's mate grabbed a phone and called out the Marines, then ordered medical corpsmen to go to the scene of the explosion.
OAHU
Marcus Callaway drove to a narrow road a quarter mile from the path leading to the mansion, then followed it up the incline until he came to a dead end. He grabbed his binoculars and stepped out in the muddy path.
After locking the car, he placed the strap over the 10-millimeter Smith & Wesson in his shoulder holster and started making his way to higher ground. The going was tough in the dense vegetation, but he made steady progress and finally reached an area where he could observe the sprawling home.
