by Swigart, Rob
Chazz smiled.
Shinawa smiled too, a broad grin. He shook his head, still smiling. “You are still written in sand, but it is getting better, isn’t it?”
“The sand is getting wet,” Chazz said softly.
Shinawa held up a finger and shook it. He turned slightly to take in the class. “The sand is getting wet. But the anger was there for a moment, too. The anger is an attachment. It must flow through like water, giving energy without controlling action. So now, Koenig-san, what is your intent?”
“Not to suffer and to save others from suffering.”
“What is your intent?”
“To not give way to foolishness or greed or anger.”
“What is your intent?”
“To live a life of wisdom and kindness.”
“That is the highest ethical goal of aikido. To protect yourself and the one attacking you. Do not forget, though, that the first goal is to protect yourself. What else is your intent?”
“To teach this class.”
Shinawa bowed and stepped off the mat.
Chazz took his place in front of them, seated on his heels in the Japanese style. When he felt the calm gather, he turned to face the kamiza, the heavy wooden frame containing a picture of O’Sensei, founder of aikido, who in the photograph was a good twenty years older than Shinawa. Chazz placed his palms together and bowed his forehead to the mat. The students, lined up at the edge behind him, followed as one. When he straightened again, Chazz placed his palms together and gave two rhythmic claps, which the students matched precisely: two sharp cracks that echoed off the curved metal walls of the Quonset hut in which they trained. They bowed again to O’Sensei, Chazz turned, and he and the students bowed to each other.
Class had begun. Shinawa went to the desk near the door and concerned himself with paperwork. The class went well. Some of the students were ready for promotion, and afterwards Chazz and Shinawa discussed scheduling their exams. With the administrative matters out of the way, Shinawa tipped his head and looked at Chazz with his penetrating gaze, as intently as he had looked at him before the class. “Something is on your mind, Koenig-san.”
Chazz said nothing for a moment, considering. He was used to Shinawa’s surprising insights, which seemed to be based on no visible clues and appeared from nowhere. If Shinawa said something was on his mind, then something was.
“I’m not sure,” he said slowly. “But I think this ship has been bothering me. Six people were dead.”
“Yes,” Shinawa nodded. “Our friend Kimiko Takamura found it, I heard. She was very brave to investigate alone like that.”
“Brave, or foolish? There was a strange powder on some of the victims’ feet. Like some kind of poison or something.”
“And something else, yes?”
“I know there’s no connection, but a tourist, a woman, was murdered too. I keep getting the feeling that there is something on the island, some… evil. I don’t know how to say it, exactly. I’m uneasy. I worry about Patria and Orli.” He looked sheepish. “I have no… facts. It’s just a feeling. Could you… I don’t know, keep an eye on them or something. No, never mind.” Chazz shook his head. Being foolish.
Shinawa was silent for a time. Finally, he spoke. “I don’t think you should ignore this. You have had experience of those who are like letters carved in stone.”
“Yes,” Chazz agreed. “I was one of them.”
“There is no shortage of such people. For desire, or fear, or anger, or pride, people may act to increase the suffering of the world. They may steal or kill and feel no remorse. The results of that kind of action, certainly with that doctor’s wife, perhaps with the seven on the ship, are with us. You may be right to fear for your family. As long as the fear does not control you, it might be a good idea to be more than usually… vigilant.”
NINE
MISSING PIECES
“Vigilance,” Vincent Meissner was saying, “is our watchword. The Gaia Foundation has stopped tuna fishermen from killing dolphins and the Army Corps of Engineers from raping the Columbia River. We can stop the United States Coast Guard from stealing our ship!”
He leaned over Shafton’s desk, his hands splayed on its polished surface, his face purple. He wheezed, and Shafton, whose glacial calm grew firmer with each word, made note of the medical bracelet chattering softly on the man’s wrist. This outburst could have consequences. He was not at the moment alarmed at Meissner’s threats.
“We’re following procedure,” he said quietly. “Ocean Mother will be returned to you when and if this investigation comes to a satisfactory conclusion. Until then she is under the protection of the Coast Guard, and I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. I have my orders.” He folded his small neat hands together on the polished surface of his desk and lapsed into studied silence.
Meissner was trembling. “You have your orders,” he sneered. His voice turned ominously quiet. “I lost friends and colleagues aboard that vessel. I have an interest in finding out what happened. I do not think the Coast Guard is competent to handle this investigation. We will file suit. Today, in Federal Court in Oahu. You won’t get away with this.”
“That is your privilege, of course, Mr. Meissner,” Commander Shafton said. “But you are not a citizen of the United States, and that strategy may not be as effective as you would wish. There’s evidence that a crime was committed aboard your vessel, and the French government claims she was herself engaged in illegal activities back in Polynesia. They have filed a diplomatic protest. It all looks like a complicated international problem… You might be better advised to cooperate.”
Vincent glared at him for a moment, turned without a word, and stomped out of the small office.
The sunshine was intense, bathing the lush island vegetation with a sharp brilliance he found painful after the dim office. He opened the door of his rental car and stepped back as a gust of heat poured out.
He sighed and climbed in, adjusting his back carefully away from the hot vinyl. Carrie had proved something of a liability, awed as she was by that pompous ass inside, so he’d sent her back to the beach where she belonged. Now he had to drive himself around in this cheap rental, but at least he didn’t have to answer her endless questions.
Mentally he ticked it off: Shafton first. No satisfaction, so he would approach Takamura next. After that, the Foundation attorneys in Vancouver. Nothing about this would be easy.
Takamura also thought there was nothing easy about this peculiar case. He sat on a bench beside the County Building eating his bento lunch. Beside him Sergeant Handel wolfed down a dripping cheeseburger.
“How can you eat that stuff?” Handel asked around a generous mouthful. He gestured with his half-eaten sandwich at the neat wooden box with its square compartments. Cobb snipped a small morsel of rice and fish with his chopsticks and chewed thoughtfully.
“Easy,” he said after a time. He laid the chopsticks inside the box and closed it with a soft snap. He looked at his partner. “It is delicious.”
“Oh.”
“And who do I see approaching us?”
Scott looked up. “Meissner.”
“Yes. Good afternoon, Mr. Meissner. I’m glad you came. I was about to call you.”
Vincent was in no mood for courtesy. “What the hell is happening with this case, Takamura?”
“Your people were poisoned, it seems.”
“What?” Meissner seemed distracted, his voice was so soft, but the color had left his face. “What do you mean?”
“Someone may have boarded the ship and poisoned the crew. The young woman is alive, but only in a manner of speaking. Perhaps you would like to see her? It may help.”
“Of course.”
Takamura asked Handel to take his bento box back to the office.
The trip to the hospital lasted less than three minutes. On the way Cobb asked Meissner what his plans were now.
“File suit against the Coast Guard for starters,” he said. “We need that ship.
She was on her way back to Vancouver for refitting. The French have another bomb test scheduled for month after next, and we wanted to get some new equipment aboard. Ordinarily, we’d go to New Zealand, but this time… Well, anyway, we were going to be on site for it. But this is screwing our schedule royally indeed. That’s about it.”
Cobb noticed that he pronounced “about” something like “aboot.” “What would you be protesting, after all?” he asked. “The tests are underground, aren’t they?”
Meissner nodded glumly. “The basalt core of Moruroa is cracking open. Radiation leaking into the South Pacific. We needed new equipment because the health hazards— primarily ciguatera poisoning…”
“Excuse me?”
“Ciguatera, a dinoflagellate, a deep-ocean algae. Mankind disturbs a reef, say by blowing it up or creating shock waves, these things multiply like crazy and infect fish; it makes them toxic to people who eat them. We needed some biological test equipment.” He shrugged. “It’s evil what they’re doing. The French government has been intractable and should be stopped.”
Cobb Takamura nodded. “You may be right,” he agreed as they stopped in front of the hospital.
Their facilities could do little for Tracy Ann Thrasher. She sat in a sunny room, in a comfortable chair covered with blue vinyl. Vincent stooped to look into her dead eyes. She gave no sign she knew he was there. Whatever she could see was not visible. Vincent thought at first it was not real, either.
Then he was not so sure. Tracy Ann appeared rigid with terror. Her breathing was shallow and rapid, her pulse light and tripping. Vincent recoiled. She seemed to be looking at something beyond death, beyond decay, something from her private nightmares he couldn’t even approach understanding.
“Jesus. What happened to her?” he murmured.
Behind Vincent, Takamura stirred. “We don’t know. She doesn’t speak or recognize people. She doesn’t respond. That ship was up to something in Tahiti. Perhaps something got on board down there.”
Vincent turned swiftly on him. “Don’t be absurd. We’re an international organization, well respected, militant but not stupid. We do not do things to break international law.”
“Hmm. An interesting thought, but I wasn’t suggesting that, exactly. Perhaps it was something like your ciguatera.”
Vincent shook his head. “They ate tainted fish? Vomiting, itching, tingling, that sort of thing. Not death. Certainly not… this.”
Vincent gave Tracy a final look and muttered that he had to get out of there, she was giving him the creeps.
Out in the hall, Cobb stopped him. “You have no ideas what might have killed your crew? Or who?”
“You can’t really be serious about that— someone boarding the ship and all that? It’s preposterous. Who would want to do such a thing? Why? People may object to what we’re doing, but they don’t do something like this!”
“There was an attack on the Rainbow Warrior in New Zealand a few years ago.”
“A fluke. Unauthorized, overzealous agents. They were arrested. No one would try it again. Besides, that was a bomb.”
“Very good publicity for the organization, though,” Cobb said thoughtfully. “Someone was killed, I believe.”
Meissner was truly shocked. He turned and stared into the policeman’s expressionless face. “What are you suggesting? You can’t think we would deliberately kill seven of our own people for publicity?”
Cobb shrugged. “Motives for crimes are obscure, often even to the people who commit them. Could it be possible someone in your own organization saw this as a way to get international headlines? It could have an effect on the French government, couldn’t it?”
Vincent shook his head. “One,” he ticked off on his pudgy forefinger, “our organization is not so large we can throw away seven members for publicity. Two, we have not gotten any international headlines. Your local paper refers to it as the ‘Death Ship,’ but I haven’t seen much mention of Ocean Mother anywhere else. We’re too far away from Tahiti to get any attention. Forget it.”
They drove slowly back into town. Cobb let Vincent off by his car and parked behind the police department. He came around to the front entrance as Chazz drove up in his battered VW van. Patria was bouncing Orli on her knee, and the child was screaming with delight.
“What is going on here?” Patria asked the child.
“What do you mean, exactly?” Chazz was rummaging in the glove compartment.
“What are you looking for in there?”
“What am I looking for?” He slammed the compartment closed and leaned back, looking at his wife owlishly.
“There’s a creep loose on this island, isn’t there?”
“Is that another question?”
“Don’t be funny, Chazz. I’m serious.”
“The answer is yes.”
“There’s a creep?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me.” The man behind Chazz had a heavy accent, perhaps French, although there were overtones in it that suggested other, more indefinite parts of the world.
Chazz turned. “Yes?”
“I am a … stranger here, maybe you could help me.” He dropped the “h” sound at the beginning of “help.” “I am journaliste, ah, journalist. From Polynésie—Tahiti, you know. Are you with the police?” He shrugged toward the headquarters building.
Chazz smiled patiently. The man spoke slowly. His English was very rusty, and he was thinking out each sentence before he said it. An odd tattoo writhed on the journalist’s forearm: an elaborate creature that twined around the flesh, blue, shaded with purple and red.
“No, not exactly,” he answered slowly. “But I work with them from time to time. Why?”
“A ship came a few days ago. I flew up, you see, because I heard of it. A, how do you say, environmental ship. It had left Tahiti, you know, and I heerd, heard that everyone was dead. Do you know?” He was very careful pronouncing “that.”
“You should talk to Lieutenant Takamura here.” Patria watched curiously, drawn to his tattoo, his short-cropped black hair, his accent. Her head tilted to one side, regarding him with a quizzical expression as Chazz made the introductions.
Takamura frowned. “A journalist? I have nothing to say to the press,” he said.
“But the ship, she did come from Tahiti, yes?”
“Yes. Something happened there just before Ocean Mother left for Kauai.”
“Ah! And what was that, please?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say. Do you have any identification?”
“Ah, I am so sorry. Of course.” The man produced his wallet and passport from a money belt under his T-shirt and handed them over to Cobb.
“So, Mr. Hobart, you are from Tahiti originally?”
The man laughed softly. “No, no, not really. I come from France many years ago, just to visit the South Seas, you know. The paradise immortalized by Gauguin. But I did stay, yes.”
“When did you arrive in Hawaii, may I ask?”
“When we heard about the ship, you know, because she had left Raïatéa just a few days ago. It is, how do you say, un mystère, a mystery?”
“Yes,” Takamura said shortly “A mystery. I see you’ve had your visa for some time.”
“Always I must be prepared. A journalist’s work, non? Soon we will no longer need visas to come to America, as you do not need one to visit the islands.”
“All right.” Cobb handed his passport back to him. “Look, why don’t you check back in a week or so? Perhaps I’ll have something then.”
The journalist was disappointed. “Well, of course, I must wait. I am, what you call free-lance. I cannot afford two trips. You do not mind if I look around while I am here?”
“No, of course not. Feel free.”
Hobart gave a little half-salute and left. The back of his shirt advertised Hinano beer, a product of Tahiti.
Chazz watched him leave, thoughtful. “Just out of curiosity, Cobb,” he said, “what about your other investig
ation? The woman?”
Cobb shrugged. “Not my case. Taxeira is handling it. I just help him out occasionally.” He shook his head. “Now he says he doesn’t need my help.” His expression nearly concealed his doubts.
Chazz didn’t laugh, but he came close. “Okay, Okay. As for Tahiti, you’re going, and I of course am going with you. I want to follow a hunch, and I can get the Center to pay since I can also do a little prospecting while there.” They took the stairs up to Cobb’s office.
“A hunch?” Cobb paused at his office door to lift his eyebrow “Well, you’re welcome to come along, of course. I could use your perspective.”
“What kind of prospecting?” Patria asked. Her eyes twinkled.
But Chazz was serious. “I know it’s an excuse, really, but there’s a man from Texas in Raïatéa who is trying to develop some local cottage industry with seaweed and vitamin E, and I thought an interview might be productive for this research. Not really my area, but I’m interested, and as an administrator… well, you understand.”
“And the hunch?” She wouldn’t let him off that easily.
“I think those people were poisoned. I’ll let you know about it when I know more, but it’s in your field.”
A small thought niggled at her. An alarm. She started to say something, but Orli threw her arms out and emitted a small sharp cry, and Patria shushed her instead.
When Orli was smiling again, Cobb asked Patria what she thought of the French journalist.
“I don’t like him.” She handed a now-sleeping Orli to her husband.
“Why not?” he asked, taking the child.
“The way he looked at me.” She saw his look and gave a half-shrug. “Okay, that’s not a reason. Call it intuition. And his French accent was too strong.”
“His accent was too strong?” Chazz lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “You just don’t like the French.”
