Three and a half hours later, after everyone who wanted to make a statement had had the opportunity to do so, the majority of the cartel leaders elected to back the Prime Minister in restructuring Japan.
Genshiro Koyama stepped behind the podium and donned his simple, wire-framed spectacles. In spite of all his associates and friends, the Prime Minister was by nature a loner. This was a bold step for the man who rarely demonstrated any emotion in public.
"I know that some of you are hesitant," he began in his gravelly voice, "about the course of action that we have decided to follow, but I strongly encourage you to stand by the decision of the majority. This is an extremely important period for Japan, and I thank each and every one of you for taking the time to convene on such short notice."
His eyes glistened as his thoughts turned to the future of Japan and her people.
"It may be painful in the near future" — he paused to look around the conference room—"and we may have a fairly hostile reaction from Washington, but we can't put off the inevitable any longer."
The Prime Minister let an enthusiastic smile crease his lined face. "History will record" — he paused to allow the words to register—"when we again became our own masters."
Chapter 23
"We're finally here," Steve observed when the captain smoothly stopped the jet and the engines began to spool down.
"That we are," Susan replied in a tired voice. She gathered her personal belongings and closed her thin attache case. "When do you think crew cut will get here?" she asked in a conversational tone.
"I don't know," Wickham admitted and released his seat belt. "He's got the book on us, so he's probably on his way here as we speak."
"No doubt."
Steve checked his watch. "It's almost midnight. Why don't we check into the hotel and order a late dinner from the room service menu?"
"Do you think they're still serving?"
Steve reached for the overhead storage locker. "Sure. Most of the hotels here have twenty-four-hour room service."
"That sounds good to me," she replied with an exhausted yawn. "I've been on guard the entire flight, waiting for crew cut to leap out of an overhead bin or something."
"I know."
Susan noticed how tired Steve looked. "I don't know about you, but I just want to kick off my shoes, fix a drink, and relax for a while."
"I'm with you," he said in a voice laced with fatigue, then slung his carry-on bag over his shoulder.
After they cleared customs, retrieved their luggage, and exchanged American dollars for Singapore currency, Steve hailed a taxi and they arrived at the Westin Stamford twenty minutes later.
The spotless skyscraper, the world's tallest hotel, stands out handsomely from the British colonial architecture and the Chinese shophouses. Located at the crossroads of Singapore's tourist and business districts, the Stamford is famous for its high tea on the 70th floor, where guests have a spectacular view of the lush greenery of the "Garden City" and its vast deepwater harbor.
Susan went to her room to change clothes while Steve ordered dinner for them and called an Agency analyst at Langley. He was still on the phone when Susan tapped their private code on the door. Steve stretched the phone cord to let her in, then quickly concluded his conversation while she closed the door and locked it.
"Any news?" she asked while she sat down on the couch and placed her Smith & Wesson on the table.
"Not really," he confessed uneasily, "but they're tracking a number of leads. I'll tell you about it over dinner."
"Okay," she said at the same time she saw the glass of wine on the table. "Is this for me?"
"Yes. I noticed that you ordered white wine on our flights, so I took a chance on the Chablis."
"Perfect." Susan sighed. "Thanks."
"You're welcome."
Susan looked at him for a long moment, prompting Steve to turn and face her.
"You're staring," he said with a curious smile.
She covered her mouth and softly laughed. "I'm sorry. I know it's very impolite."
A knock on the door interrupted his response. He cautiously opened it while Susan concealed her Smith & Wesson behind her back. Steve signed the check while the young Malaysian woman carefully removed the plates of food from the warmer.
Susan stuck her handgun under a throw pillow and stared at the tantalizing array of delicacies on the room service cart. "There's enough food here to feed a professional football team."
"You told me to use my imagination," Steve teased while he opened the door for the woman to leave, then locked it behind her. "I think the best way to do this is buffet-style, then we can sit by the balcony and look at the lights of the city."
"Sounds good."
After they rearranged the furniture to accommodate the coffee table between them, Steve proposed a toast and they started sampling the specialties of Singapore.
Susan finished a few bites and reached for her wineglass. "What's your hunch? Do you think the owner of the freighter is the person behind the attack at Pearl Harbor?"
"I don't know," he said thoughtfully, "but there's something we're missing in this whole equation."
"What do you mean?"
He placed his fork on his plate. "That's what I was going to tell you. Our people at Langley are basically stumped about this deal, but they did come up with some information."
"Oh?"
"A few years ago a U. S. Navy destroyer, the USS Ingersoll, had a minor collision with a merchant vessel while it was returning home from a deployment in the Persian Gulf."
She stopped eating and quietly placed her utensils on the plate. "The Matsumi Maru number three?"
"No," he answered and reached for his wineglass. "The Matsumi Maru number seven, which is also registered in Singapore."
Susan felt that special tingle of excitement. "Do you think they're owned by the same person?"
"They aren't now."
He stared out the window for a moment, conscious of the speculative look she was giving him. "That's the problem. Our folks at the Agency discovered that six of the original eight Matsumi Maru freighters have been sold to various companies during the past eleven months."
"Including the one that we have a question about?"
"No," Steve answered, "which doesn't come as a surprise to me. Number three was sent to a salvage yard and then sold at auction when the owner didn't pay the bill to refurbish it."
He watched her closely. "They — our analysts at Langley — tried to track down the former owner of the ship, and there's no trace of the company. It dissolved — vanished into thin air the same as the bank accounts and holding companies associated with the mansion in Hawaii."
Susan's eyes narrowed. "The same pattern."
"That's the way I see it."
"What about the other ship? The one that isn't accounted for?"
"Number five went down during a typhoon about two years ago. That's the angle I want to pursue."
"You want to go after the insurance company."
"Exactly. If the ship was insured."
Susan looked bewildered. "Steve, think about the liability factor. It would be crazy to operate on the high seas without some form of insurance."
He refilled their glasses. "Maritime law, or admiralty law as some refer to it, has a characteristic feature that allows a shipowner to limit liability in most cases to the actual value of the ship."