by Ty Patterson
That shout again.
‘What?’ he grunted irritably and went to the deck.
‘There’s something there.’ Toshio pointed excitedly. ‘It’s green and white. Looks like a parachute.’
Makito followed his eyes and stared. His son was right. There was a whitish blob in the water. Too large to be something castaway. He knew that greenish glow well. Some lifejackets gave it off.
‘Get the binoculars,’ he snapped urgently, ‘and guide me to it.’
Toshio dashed below the deck while Makito swung the wheel and turned his trawler around. He slowed down as Toshio called out instructions, and then his son shouted loudly, ‘It’s a man!’
* * *
Zeb woke once deep in the night. He was warm. Comfortably warm, and snug. He figured he was dead and went back to sleep.
Bright sunlight was pouring in his room when he woke next. He squinted and rose on an elbow. He was on a small bed, his feet nearly sticking off the end. He was covered by a patchwork quilt. Firm mattress. Small room. Schoolbooks. Posters on the wall. A chair and a study table. Everything neat and simple.
Heaven would be more luxurious. Hell would be worse. Looks like I survived.
He swung his feet off the bed, noting that he had been stripped of his wet clothing. He covered himself hastily when the door opened and a tiny woman bustled in.
She was middle-aged and tiny, her white hair tied behind her in a braid. Her face was a wreath of smiles and wrinkles. She averted her eyes and placed a mug of what smelled like coffee on the table.
‘Makito,’ she yelled at someone outside, ‘your fish is awake.’
An hour later, Zeb was showered and dressed in spare clothes that Makito had lent him. They were a tight fit, and the trouser legs ended a couple of inches above his ankles. The shoes bit into his toes. However, he didn’t have many options.
He felt well. A long sleep had been the best healing he could have wished for. The aches had faded to faint twinges. His face was bruised, but the bruises would disappear. He knew his body had gotten back its speed.
He listened silently, spooning gruel into his mouth as Toshio, Makito’s young son, chattered excitedly and went through how they had rescued Zeb.
‘You would have died,’ the boy exclaimed, ‘if I hadn’t spotted you.’
Zeb bowed deeply. ‘You saved my life, Toshio-san. You are a real hero.’
Zeb meant it. The cold would have gotten to him. He would have drowned if the trawler hadn’t found him. He had thanked Makito profusely the moment he had woken up. The fisherman had smiled gently and had clapped him on the shoulder. No thanks were required, the gesture meant. It was the way of seafaring folks.
He emptied his bowl as he half-listened to the young boy, remembering why he had been in the water in the first place. Makito and his family were curious. He evaded their questions and told them of a skydiving experiment gone wrong.
He knew Makito didn’t buy it. It was there in the fisherman’s shrewd eyes. A gaijin who spoke his language as fluently as a native. Skydiving at night. Not geared up for it. However, the older man went along and nodded sagely as if the whole world and its dog did that sort of thing regularly.
When Makito’s wife stood up, Zeb rose and handed her his bowl. Makito shooed his son away, and when the two men were alone, Zeb bowed slightly.
‘Makito-san, I am with Keishicho, on a joint mission with them. An operation went wrong and hence…’ He shrugged in the direction of the ocean.
He had to get away. Get in touch with his crew. Go to Tokyo. There wasn’t much time to stop the next attack.
‘Was there any report on TV of a plane crashing?’
Makito shook his head. He called his wife and asked her. No. There wasn’t any such news.
‘Makito-san, I need to make a call. I need to get to Tokyo.’
The old man picked up on his embarrassment. He produced his cell from his pocket and led his wife away to give Zeb some privacy.
‘Makito-san, what’s your address?’
The fisherman stopped and recited it, watching as Zeb scrawled it on one of Toshio’s notebooks. Zeb bowed and dialed a number.
‘Nishikawa-san, I need your help,’ he told the police chief abruptly.
Nishikawa read the tone in his voice and held off his questions.
‘Anything.’
‘I am with a fisherman and his family in Okinawa. I need money. Can you make arrangements?’
‘Hai. Give the phone to him. And, Carter-san, I want the full story afterwards.’
Zeb sought out Makito, who was in his living room, watching TV. He handed the phone to him and smiled as the fisherman’s eyes went wide when he heard the voice at the other end. He bowed to his invisible speaker and uttered a chorus of hais.
‘You are with Keishicho,’ he said respectfully when he had hung up.
‘That’s what I said, Makito-san.’ Zeb made a mental note to thank Nishikawa.
The fisherman disappeared into an inner room and returned with a wad of bills. He handed them silently to Zeb, who bowed again. The family had saved him. Had taken him into their home and had fed him, without any hesitation, any holding back.
And now, Makito was giving him money. He knew the family was of modest means. It showed in their home. However, that one call with Nishikawa, and Makito was handing out what looked like a large portion of his savings.
Zeb didn’t know what to say. He kept quiet, bowed as deeply as he could, and shook Toshio’s hand gravely.
He would repay the money. Their help, that was a debt that couldn’t be repaid.
Ninety minutes later, Zeb was dressed in new clothes. His usual outfit of a tee over jeans, belt, and sneakers.
He bought a phone, inserted a SIM, and called his New York office.
‘It worked,’ he said when Meghan picked up.
It was ten a.m. in Okinawa, eight p.m. in New York. He knew his crew would be at the office. Bunched up, tense, waiting for the phone to ring, getting Werner to search for any mention of him. Any mention of a dead American.
The TV would be turned to a news channel. The twins would be staring at the GPS signal from his shoes, which were somewhere in the ocean.
‘Zeb!’
Her yell could have been heard all around the world.
He heard them come close to her and he broke down the night for them. They listened silently. Someone sniffled, Beth or Chloe, and someone else cleared a throat.
‘Broker?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It worked.’
‘I heard you the first time,’ Broker retorted, his relief leaking through.
‘Zeb,’ Meghan said, taking over, ‘we cracked almost everything. We know who the reporter is—’
‘Jessica Whitley, the ambassador’s daughter. Her presentation is the report.’
‘We do the hard work and he steals our thunder,’ Beth grumbled in the background.
Meghan shushed his sister to silence. ‘Get this,’ she said. ‘That link Oyahashi gave you? We dived into it and went to several other sites. On one of them, a message board, there was a profile picture of hers. With a bunch of other women, in what looks like a Tokyo neighborhood. The message underneath that photograph was, Who is she?’
‘This was six months ago?’ Zeb hazarded a guess.
‘You got it. There was a reply to that message, a month later. It will be taken care of.’
They probably threatened her, Dana Kantor, the TKWC women, once they identified her.
‘There was a spike of threats from unidentified sources,’ Meghan said, seeming to read his thoughts. ‘All received by women. Stop the WAS investigation. Holly didn’t pay any attention to those threats. She said neither did Shira or Theresa.
‘She finished her investigation six months ago. Someone spotted her. Attempts were made to identify her. The threats started. They didn’t go after her, since they didn’t know where she was,’ said Beth, narrating the likely turn of events.
‘
She had returned to the US by then. Went anonymous. Spent the time verifying her report. Changed her security. She was trusting no one,’ Zeb finished for her.
‘Correct. We tracked her on airport cameras when she arrived back.’
‘Dana Kantor?’
‘She’s stonewalling again. Zeb?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She’s presenting in person, the day after tomorrow. We got that from the university after a lot of persuasion.’
‘Which means the yakuza could get that date as well.’
‘Yeah. And that means she has to come back to Japan tomorrow.’
Chapter 42
‘How can he escape from a plane?’ Mineyuki ranted in his office. Shinoda stood in front of him, has hands crossed, his face an expressionless mask. Naoki stood to one side, watching. News had reached them that their plane had landed on the island, minus their hostage, and minus a large part of fuselage. That information had sent the second son into a tirade.
‘Your men didn’t search him?’ Mineyuki screamed at his lead killer.
‘They did.’
‘Then how did he escape?’
‘There must have been something in his clothing or in his shoes.’
‘You said these were your best men,’ Mineyuki whispered, his eyes glistening dangerously.
‘No. I do not use my best men to transport a prisoner. These were good men, but looks like they were not good enough.’
Mineyuki slapped him.
Naoki whitened, but Shinoda didn’t even flinch. Mineyuki was Shinoda’s oyabun. There were years of loyalty, and it wasn’t the first time the second son had raised his hand to the killer.
‘You had so many opportunities to finish him. Not once did you succeed. This man has bested you each time.’ Mineyuki sprayed spittle on Shinoda’s face as he raged.
‘Brother,’ Naoki intervened, hoping his face and voice conveyed calm, ‘we should focus on what happens next. Shinoda has been a loyal servant to the gang. I am sure he will not fail the next time.’
Mineyuki turned his back on both of them and paced. He was smiling when he faced them, the debonair look back on his face. ‘You are right, brother. There are no reports of a man found in the ocean. We can hope he died. Even if he hasn’t, our plan hasn’t changed.’
The plan was to grab Jessica Whitley before she arrived at the university and either kill her on the spot or hustle her away to a safe house where the deed could be done. Naoki, Mineyuki, and Shinoda had relocated to their Tokyo office to manage the grab-and-kill.
The plan was fluid since they didn’t know when Whitley would arrive in the country. Nor did they know which hotel she would be staying at. However, the Hayagawa yakuza had blanketed the city with their men and their informants. There were people at the airport, and snitches at the university. Taxi drivers and hotel bellboys had been alerted.
‘We will know when she arrives. Are the vehicles and the men ready?’ Mineyuki asked the two men.
‘Hai.’ Shinoda nodded.
‘They have Carter’s photograph as well?’
‘Hai.’
* * *
Zeb took a flight from Okinawa to Tokyo and, once he reached the large city, rented a cab. He found a less crowded café in the city and pulled out his cell phone.
Alexander Whitley took his call on the first ring, as if expecting it.
‘Mr. Carter,’ the ambassador answered, sounding disturbed, ‘I spoke to Jessica after your call. She didn’t confirm anything. She said whatever she was working on was so important that she couldn’t tell anyone.’
‘She’s investigating the yakuza, sir.’
‘I asked her about that. She didn’t say anything.’
‘She doesn’t trust you?’
He felt the ambassador shake his head. ‘It’s not that. The yakuza are everywhere in a city like Tokyo. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had informants in the embassy.’
‘Sir, when is she coming to Tokyo?’
‘Tomorrow. She admitted that much. But she didn’t tell me the flight details. Mr. Carter, I’m worried for her. She has good men with her. I looked them up. I also looked up that Mexican reporter who was killed. The yakuza are bigger and more organized than any cartel. I fear for her, Mr. Carter.’
Zeb knew of the security firm Jessica had hired. It was run by one Billy Dowdy, a former Ranger. He had heard good things about the firm.
‘Mr. Carter, I know General Daniel Klouse very well. He speaks highly of you. He says if you can’t protect Jessica, no one can.’
Klouse was the National Security Advisor, one of the few people who knew of the Agency’s existence. He didn’t just know of it; he was an avid supporter and championed its cause if the need arose. The general was a close family friend of the Whitleys and godfather to Jessica.
‘Sir, I will do everything I can. Please talk to your daughter. It’s best she drops her Japan visit.’
‘She won’t, Mr. Carter,’ the ambassador replied with exasperation and paternal pride. ‘I know her. When she’s working on something, she will see it through.’
‘Even if it costs her life?’
‘Yes. Her principles are more important to her.’
Zeb made a brief call to Clare and then to General Klouse. He followed that up with a call to Dowdy.
‘I can’t tell you, Carter. You know how we work. Our principal’s safety and wishes come first. She has explicitly asked me not to reveal her travel arrangements.’
Dowdy didn’t express any surprise when Zeb called. General Klouse. He must have burned the wires and spoken to Dowdy about me.
‘Where’s she holed up right now?’
‘Can’t tell you.’
‘I can find out.’
‘I’m sure you can. But it’ll be too late. We’ve been moving for the last month. Never in the same city for more than a night. You know how it is.’
Zeb knew. ‘Dowdy, convince her. Get her to cancel the trip.’
‘Tried. No luck. She’s one determined woman.’ There was admiration in the ex-Ranger’s voice.
‘At least tell me when you’re arriving.’
Dowdy finally relented. Zeb was impressed when he heard the plan.
Dowdy had rented three private aircraft. Two of them were carrying blonde women who resembled Jessica. All three would land at the same time. They would be met with identical SUVs.
Dowdy’s lead agent, Trev Martin, who would be in Jessica’s SUV, would make a hotel reservation only at the last minute.
It could work in most circumstances. The yakuza are a different kind of enemy, however.
* * *
The next day dawned bright, sunny, and traffic-laden. Zeb was geared up after visiting one of their vet-owned garages in Tokyo. His SUV was black and armored.
Jessica’s flight was to land at two p.m. He parked his vehicle illegally at the VIP exit and went inside the concourse at twelve p.m. No one paid attention to the Japanese businessman in the dark suit, with the briefcase and cell phone in hand. There were hundreds of such businessmen.
Zeb sat in a café and kept watch on the double doors through which VIPs emerged. He tried to spot yakuza, but gave up. There were too many people, and the yakuza would use their informants.
It won’t go down in the concourse. It’s too public. There’s too much security.
He whiled away the time trying to identify the celebrities who walked through. He thought he recognized a few pop stars, but couldn’t be sure. That wasn’t his world.
At two forty-five, two suits emerged, behind them a blonde in dark glasses. The blonde had her head down and walked close to her protection detail. There were three men behind her.
The six people didn’t look left, didn’t look right. They hurried outside and climbed into a black SUV.
Zeb didn’t move. He had received a text from Trev Martin. First blonde is dummy.
Fifteen minutes later, his phone vibrated and he moved. One hand inside his jacket, the briefcase in his left.
The second blonde arrived, five men surrounding her, and made her way quickly to the exit. A camera flashed and her head bowed deeper. Zeb sought out the photographer, who waved his hand in apology. He mistook her for someone else.
He followed them casually, turning back a few times to locate the photographer. He was still in the concourse. Maybe a yakuza man. Maybe not.
He followed Jessica’s SUV, riding close behind them, not allowing any other vehicle to cut in, watching approvingly as Martin took evasive measures. Circling back and doubling down repeatedly on the same exits, till he was sure there were no tails.
Martin joined the river of traffic that headed to Hongo, to the northwest of central Tokyo. Hongo was where the University of Tokyo was located.
Fifteen minutes out, he got a call.
‘Hilton, near the university.’ Martin was laconic and didn’t elaborate.
Traffic jammed up at a light. Jessica’s vehicle on the left-hand lane. Another lane next to it. Zeb right behind them.
The light turned green, and the SUVs surged ahead. A space opened up in the right-hand lane. Another SUV rushed to occupy it and its driver couldn’t control his speed.
The SUV smashed into a black van at full speed. The van’s rear crumpled as if made of tin. The SUV bounced back from the impact.
Traffic stalled as drivers turned to look and horns sounded in frustration and anger.
Jessica’s SUV didn’t move. Its windows didn’t lower.
Good. Zeb watched the accident. He also watched Jessica’s SUV. No threat so far.
Men rushed out from the damaged SUV, towards the van.
They got the van’s sliding door open and a woman fell out. Her face was a bleeding mess. She crawled out of the vehicle and flopped onto the concrete. Two men from the SUV bent over her. They spoke to three men who alighted from the van and the five argued.
The woman screamed. Zeb could hear her even through the toughened glass of his vehicle.
