"Exactly," Susan answered and caught Steve's tense, restless look. "They were mighty anxious to get that helicopter off the premises."
"So anxious that they were willing to take major risks to get it out of here because they somehow knew that we had them nailed to the wall."
"Someone" — she let her suspicions rise to the surface—"has been feeding them information about us… "
Wickham took a moment to review his thoughts about the strange turn of events. "That's a distinct possibility. We're going to have to be very cautious about everything we do from now on."
Susan offered him a vague smile. "And not trust anyone until we know if our suspicions are correct."
Steve nodded in agreement. "It looks like our basic logic has been on track, for the most part, so I think we have to continue following our instincts."
"True," she remarked quietly and tilted her head to the side. "Where does your instinct think the pilot was headed?"
"Well, someone threw a hell of a lot of money and effort into setting up the assault, so nothing is beyond the realm of possibility."
Steve walked over to the window and looked out to sea. "I'd have to guess that the pilot was heading offshore…" "Headed for a ship or barge?"
"That, or maybe he planned to dump the helo in the drink after he was out of sight of land."
"With someone standing by to pick him up," Susan replied coolly.
"Or kill him." Steve looked at his watch. "Dead men don't tell tales."
"True."
"Right after the crash, my ops coordinator asked the military to search the ocean around the island. I want to know the name and origin of everything big enough to land a helo aboard."
"How soon will you have the information?"
"They've promised to do a thorough job — low flybys for photos, et cetera — so I'm not sure when I'll get the final results. Probably sometime tomorrow."
Susan gave Wickham a questioning look. "How'd you get so much influence with the Pentagon? You're the only person I know who can get the military to jump through hoops with a simple request."
"Well," Steve replied with a faint grin, "I got lucky on a couple of difficult field assignments, then unlucky enough to get some notoriety in high places."
"Amazing," she responded with a shake of her head. "You make it look easy."
"Trust me, it isn't as easy as it seems. Getting the military to move on a moment's notice takes a lot of groundwork and a few persuasive words from the White House don't hurt."
"Clean," a laboratory technician announced as he entered the room. "This place is antiseptically clean. They were well organized and didn't leave much to go on when they split."
"The only glitch in their plan," Steve offered with obvious satisfaction, "was that we stumbled across their hiding place before the helicopter was gone."
"That's true," the technician chimed in and looked around the unique hangar. "Once this place was restored to the guest house facade, you'd never know, with just a casual look, that it was once used as a hangar."
Steve nodded in agreement and looked around the interior of the hangar. "They may have had plans for more airborne attacks — under the cover of darkness or in military camouflage — until someone tipped them off that we were on the trail."
"Yeah, you're probably right." The man smiled and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Somebody has been dreamin' in Technicolor, big time."
"The thing that just doesn't fit," Susan began slowly and looked at Steve, "is why would these Japanese be involved in shooting innocent Japanese? Who would go to all this trouble and risk this expensive home to kill their own people?"
Steve watched her law muscles tighten. "If you're right, and I think you are, they used a Caucasian to actually commit the attack. So I think—"
"They did it," Susan interrupted with anger in her voice, "to set the Japanese people against the Americans."
Wickham saw the anger in her eyes.
"Susan," he said compassionately, "we should know who owns this place fairly soon. I expect the pieces will start falling into place in a couple of days."
"I sure as hell hope so," she said with a trace of skepticism. "Because we don't have much to go on. We have the remains of the helicopter that we believe was used in the attack, we have the body of the pilot we think flew the attack, the other guy in the helo shot at us, this place looks suspicious as hell, and it wouldn't surprise me if we never see the 'house-sitter' again."
"Relax," Steve said lightly and looked around the room. "He'll turn up."
She ignored the comment and walked to a window overlooking the tennis court.
"With what we have right now," Susan complained, "a good lawyer could shoot holes through the whole scenario."
"You may be right," he reluctantly admitted, "but we've got to focus on the loose ends and pursue them until we get some straight answers."
"You're right," she asserted with renewed enthusiasm. "Why don't you follow up on the air search while I see what I can uncover through the island grapevine?"
Steve saw that special gleam return to her eyes. "What have you got in mind?"
"I want to locate the son of—" Susan paused to select a more ladylike response. "I want to locate the individual who rammed my car and find out who owns this place."
Chapter 17
Tadashi Matsukawa awakened with a start, then closed his eyes and let the events of the previous evening slowly drift through his aching head. After the exhausting eleven-and-a-half-hour flight from Los Angeles, he had been totally inebriated when he lurched out of the first-class section and made his way to his limousine.
His chauffeur, who had learned not to attempt a conversation with Matsukawa when he was drunk, silently drove him to the hotel. A second car would bring his luggage while his driver left to fetch Matsukawa's usual lover.
He clearly remembered the sensuous and attractive hosutessu from the exclusive and very private kara oke bar. Michiko was a lithe and sexually stimulating hostess who always made herself available for Matsukawa. He had tried to persuade her to be his only sexual partner by offering her an expensive apartment to live in and a generous allowance, but Michiko, who thoroughly enjoyed the wild nightlife and her wealthy boyfriends, had repeatedly turned down the industrialist's offers.
Although Michiko knew Matsukawa was a selfish lover who sometimes manhandled her, she always returned to his bed in the lavish suite he maintained at the Imperial Hotel. Spending a night with the wealthy businessman provided her more income than she could earn in a week at the exclusive club.
He looked at the lighted clock on the nightstand and rubbed his aching temples while the memories and sensations slowly returned. Michiko had left a few minutes before sunrise and Matsukawa's weary chauffeur had driven her home.
Between the jet lag, Michiko's boundless sexual energy, and the endless sips of warm sake, Matsukawa had slept longer than usual. There was much to accomplish today, and he was getting off to a late start.
In less than a week he would be entertaining some of the most powerful and affluent businessmen in Japan. A quartet of young, carefully selected geishas would relax Matsukawa's guests with songs, dances, and conversations ranging from history to contemporary gossip. Geisha means "art person," and training for the unique profession, which has been a part of the Japanese culture since the 18th century, begins early with a demanding apprenticeship.
The attractive women also play a string instrument known as a shamisen, and they serve rice wine to help the men unwind. After an appropriate period of time, the geishas would quietly slip away, and the power brokers would be free to discuss the future of Japan.