"Thanks a lot," Steve said and let his gaze linger on her pleasant features. "We're going to have a nice meal and mind our own business."
She gently lifted her glass of plum wine in an impromptu toast. "I admire your spirit," she said firmly and clinked her glass against his. "To our success."
He noticed a couple of Japanese customers frowning in disgust, but he forced himself to ignore them.
"What did you manage to find out" — she smiled and leaned slightly toward him—"from the mysterious depths of the legendary CIA?"
He had been in contact with the Intelligence Directorate at Langley to have the analysts work on researching the ownership of the Matsumi Maru number three.
"Not much for the moment, but I'm hoping they'll have something for us by the time we get to Singapore."
She could see that he was ill-at-ease. "Do you know what you want to order or would you like me to select one of my favorites for you?"
"I'll defer to you." He quietly laughed. "I have absolute faith in your judgment."
After Susan ordered mizutaki for both of them, she looked at him for a long moment. "May I ask you a personal question?"
He gave her a slow glance. "You want to know if I'm married, right?"
She blushed slightly, embarrassed that Steve had anticipated her question. "Well, your file indicates that you're married, but you don't wear a wedding ring. I was just curious, since I've never heard you say anything about your wife or family."
"I was married," he said matter-of-factly, "but my divorce was final about five weeks ago."
Susan felt a strange sense of relief sweep over her.
He gave her a friendly smile. "You'll have to bring your files up-to-date," he teased and sipped his beer.
"If you don't mind telling me," she asked delicately, "what happened?"
"I'll make a long story short." He chuckled and slid his empty glass to the edge of the table. "She was a flight attendant for Pan American, and when the airline went under, Becky had a hard time dealing with the loss of her job.
"She finally managed to get another flight attendant position with TWA, but she had to start at the bottom of the seniority list. After she had become adjusted to starting from the bottom again, the airline started downsizing and she was laid off."
"That would be tough on anyone," Susan commented with a concerned expression. "Is that when the problems began?"
"Yes, basically. She never liked my career choice, so when she left TWA, she wanted me to quit my job and move out west with her. I didn't want to do that, so things escalated to the point where we decided to go our separate ways."
"Do you have any children?" Susan asked as their meals arrived at the small table.
"None that I'm aware of," he replied in an attempt to lighten the conversation.
Susan gave him a look of mock disgust. "I'd kick you in the shin" — she laughed softly—"if we weren't in a public place."
"This crowd would love that," Steve responded, then stopped dead cold when he saw the familiar Oriental man with the crew-cut hair and mutilated ear. The tall, ruggedly built hit man was standing about 150 feet down the concourse, pretending to read a magazine.
"Susan, look at me," Steve insisted, "and don't make any sudden moves."
She went rigid as the color suddenly drained from her face. "He's stalking us, isn't he?"
"Yes," Steve uttered under his breath and observed the small kitchen at the back of the restaurant. "Go into the kitchen and see if someone can contact security."
"Okay, but please be careful."
"Susan," Steve quietly went on, "stay in there and cover me if something goes down."
"You can count on it." She reached for her purse, gracefully rose from her seat, and walked in the direction of the kitchen.
When Susan reached the back of the restaurant, Steve looked away from the hit man but kept him in his periphery.
What's that bastard going to do? he had just asked himself when the man tossed his magazine to the side, pulled a handgun from his jacket pocket, and headed toward the restaurant.
Steve glanced around. I can't wait for security. The place is crammed with people.
He was reaching for his Beretta when Susan yelled a warning. "Steve, watch out!"
He jumped to his feet and aimed his Beretta at the hit man. "Freeze! Drop to your knees and put your hands over your head!"
The man stopped and raised his gun.
"Now, goddammit!" Wickham ordered and fired a round over his attacker's head. "Drop your weapon!"
People started screaming and running in every direction while others dropped flat on the floor and scrambled for any cover they could find.
The hit man turned and raced down the concourse, knocking down passengers and visitors like bowling pins.
Steve started after him and then stopped. It was too dangerous to get boxed into a position where he might have to exchange gunfire in the middle of a crowd.
He returned the Beretta to the small of his back and walked over to Susan. "This guy is crazy."
"Or very stupid," she said as she watched the airport security personnel hurrying toward the restaurant.
"If he's this overt in public," Steve said as he reached for his identification, "he isn't going to give up. Anyone who would try to kill someone in a busy airport is either a complete mental case or really desperate."
"Or both." Susan frowned. "That's what concerns me."
"Same here," he openly confessed. "It's like someone is telegraphing him our every move."
Susan couldn't conceal her ire. "You're right. We're traveling under assumed names, and only a few people know where we're going."
"And even fewer" — Steve paused to slow his breathing—"had access to our flight itinerary."
"Someone," Susan fumed, "is setting us up. There's something bigger going on than what we see on the surface."
"If we're careful," Steve said with a look of concern, "we might be able to trap this nutcase — which could possibly lead us to the person behind the attack at Pearl."
"And to the person who is selling us out," Susan added bitterly.
"That's right," he agreed. "We've got to set a trap for this psycho."
She reached for her badge as the airport security team surrounded the front of the now-empty restaurant. "Which one of us is going to be the bait?"
Chapter 22
USS Kitty Hawk and her carrier battle group slowed to a leisurely pace and entered their assigned patrol area southeast of the Nicobar Islands, near the northern mouth of the Strait of Malacca.
This hazardous strait, 550 miles long, varies in width from 155 miles in the northern section to 40 miles in the south. Named after the port of Malacca on the Malayan coast, the crowded strait provides the shortest sea route between the Persian Gulf and Japan.
Located between Malaysia and the Indonesian island of Sumatra, the strategic waterway connects the Andaman Sea in the Indian Ocean to the South China Sea. The shallow, pirate-infested bottleneck, which is the main shipping route connecting Europe and the Mideast to Eastern Asia, narrows tightly near the port city of Singapore.
Along with the English Channel, the Bosporus Strait in Turkey, and the Strait of Gibraltar, the Strait of Malacca shares the infamous reputation of being one of the most dangerous, collision-prone channels in the world, and the congested channel is a natural chokepoint to stem the constant flow of raw goods and petroleum that Japan so desperately needs.
A constant stream of giant petroleum tankers traverses the waterway during around-the-clock operations between the Middle Eastern oil fields and ports in eastern Asia. The twentyone-hour journey through the main section of the strait is difficult to navigate and features tricky tides, unpredictable local traffic, and the ever-present gangs of modern-day pirates who board ships to rob and sometimes kill the crews.