After helping the elderly woman into the car, they drove along the coast highway to a point near Kahana Bay Beach Park. Recognizing the familiar terrain where she first spotted the helo, Mrs. Sakoguchi asked Susan to slow down, then pointed to the area where she had seen what she thought was the Sky Nine helicopter.
"There," the frail woman said with a gesture of excitement. "Helly-copter fly 'long ridgcgo north."
"Television helicopter?" Susan asked in a low-key, conversational way. "You're sure it was Theresa's TV helicopter?"
Mrs. Sakoguchi tensed and cautiously looked at the pilot. "It's okay," Theresa assured her and patted her hand. "Just tell us what you saw."
"TV helly-copter," she muttered and looked up at Susan. "I sure it TV helly-copter."
"Okay, we believe you," Steve said with a reassuring smile. "We thank you for your cooperation, and rest assured that you have nothing to worry about, okay?"
She nodded and cast a nervous look at Theresa.
Steve and Susan carefully studied the ridgeline while Theresa continued to comfort the anxious woman.
Wickham turned and looked at the layer of clouds settling over the island. "It looks like that tropical depression is moving toward us."
"You're right," Theresa said with a quick glance at the gray clouds. "It's supposed to move onshore this evening."
After a few more questions, they drove Mrs. Sakoguchi back to her home and again reassured her that she had nothing to fear. The FBI and the CIA, Steve patiently explained, were thankful for the information she had given them. The small woman beamed when the sedan drove away.
When they reached Highway 83, Steve turned in his seat to face Theresa. "We really appreciate your help."
"I'm happy to help in any way possible."
Susan leaned her head to the side, keeping her eyes on the road. "I have to add my thanks, too. We finally have a solid lead to follow."
"I just hope you find the sonuvabitch," Theresa said without any sign of embarrassment.
"We'll find him," Susan assured her and glanced at Steve. "Were you able to get a helicopter?"
"All set. The Army is going to provide a helo for as long as we need it."
"When do we get it?"
"Tomorrow morning." He looked at the ominous clouds. "If the weather holds. They'll pick us up at Fort De Russey at oh-seven-hundred."
"It may be a long shot," Susan conceded, "but I'm anxious to start scouring the windward side of the island."
Theresa chuckled. "You and everyone else. This island is crawling with planes and helicopters."
"But they don't know what we know," Susan remarked and then noticed the question in Steve's eyes. "Before we tell the world what Mrs. Sakoguchi saw, we need to take a crack at finding the helo. Otherwise we'll be dodging every flying machine on the island… instead of searching."
"You're right," Theresa chimed in. "I've got an idea, if you don't mind flying with a civilian—"
"Can we use your helo?" Steve asked, anticipating her offer.
"It's already approved." She looked at her watch. "Our general manager has offered the use of Sky Nine in the search, so when it lands after drive time, we'll go refuel, then head for Kahana Bay."
Tadashi Matsukawa settled in his thickly cushioned chair as the Dassault Falcon 900B accelerated the length of runway 17, then smoothly rotated near the end of the pavement. He watched his brightly lighted Gochi Nyorai pass under the starboard wing before he reached for the Global Wulfsberg Flitefone.
The airborne telephone system incorporated a sophisticated voice scrambler and automatic channel-selection.
Matsukawa kicked off his made-to-order ostrich-skin shoes and propped his feet on the couch next to his desk. A minute later, his personal business manager was awake and taking notes at his home in White Plains, New York.
With unusual patience, Matsukawa explained that he wanted to quietly sell all of his American stocks and his real estate in the contiguous U. S., including the ranch in Colorado. He would keep his properties in London, Bermuda, Hawaii, Paris, Guam, and Singapore.
When his school friend from Harvard queried him, Matsukawa told him not to worry about anything. He explained that secrecy was paramount and that all proceeds must be sent through his holding company in Tokyo.
After his business manager copied and read back his instructions, Matsukawa abruptly terminated the conversation and reached for his drink. Next, he called the president of the firm that handled all of his travel arrangements when he was in the U. S.
Matsukawa punched on the VCR while he waited for the sleepy man to confirm that he had a reservation in the first-class section of the Japan Air Lines flight from Los Angeles to Tokyo.
The $24-million, three-engined corporate jet was too ostentatious for Japanese business standards, so Matsukawa always used JAL for his international travel.
Listening to the soft buzzing sound emitting from the Flitefone receiver, Matsukawa's expression turned sour when he recalled the time he had been stranded in Los Angeles. The Transportation Department had ruled that Japan had violated the bilateral aviation agreement with the U. S. by restricting certain United Airlines flights from Toyko.
The open threat to take retaliatory action and impose sanctions against Japanese air carriers had forced Japan back to the negotiating table. Fearing the backlash of an aviation trade war with the U. S., Japan Air Lines had suddenly canceled many of their most popular and profitable flights to Los Angeles and San Francisco.
Caught in the middle of the dispute, Matsukawa had been forced to fly to Tokyo in the coach section of a Continental Airlines flight. The flight was a humiliating experience that he remembered with great contempt.
When he received confirmation of his seating assignment, Matsukawa finished his drink, then tilted his seat back and stared at the ceiling of the jet. He, along with the Prime Minister and the leaders of the gurupu, would have to proceed cautiously and not let nationalist sentiments cloud their judgment.
Matsukawa let his mind drift back to the attacks on the Pearl Harbor tour ship and the Japan Air Lines 747. He smiled to himself and thought about his close ties to the Chukaku-Ha terrorist group.
A Matsukawa lieutenant had infiltrated the Kakumaru-Ha faction and helped plan the confrontation and subsequent split that had resulted in the Chukaku-Ha. Since 1983, when the leaders of the new terrorist organization instigated a mass struggle to change Japan's constitutional democracy, Matsukawa had had his finger on the pulse of the group.
Using his loyal aide, the wealthy businessman continued to funnel money to the terrorist group to support anti-American demonstrations and periodic attacks on U. S. installations. Matsukawa thought about the tour-bus explosion in Osaka and the downed American F-16 fighter at Misawa; every attack — anything that heightened tensions — was sweet music to his ears.
He snapped back to the present when the corporate jet flew through an area of moderate turbulence. Matsukawa sat up and cleared his mind.
Regardless of how they approached the Americans, he thought while he leaned back and closed his eyes, the days of sumiwake — the peaceful sharing with others — were coming to an end.
Steve Wickham shielded his eyes when the brightly colored JetRanger slowed to a hover, then gently landed on the heliport by the beach.
"What a coincidence," Steve said to Theresa while the main rotor blades wound down.
She cupped her ear. "I couldn't hear you."