In addition to his vast holdings and international influence in the business world, Tadashi Matsukawa was most pleased that he had access to the innermost chambers of the Central Intelligence Agency. His mole was a highly respected senior administrator in the Agency, but the American was afflicted with the common weakness of man — greed.
The career spook desperately wanted to retire and enjoy the largesse Matsukawa had provided, but the Japanese businessman kept upping the ante and the pressure. Now the billionaire wanted every thread of evidence the CIA gathered in connection with the assault on the cruise ship at Pearl Harbor. The worst fears of the lifelong bureaucrat were beginning to come true; he would never be able to retire while the ruthless Japanese executive held his future just out of grasp.
Rising from the water, Matsukawa paused to look at the pristine meadow at the base of the heavily wooded mountains. He watched a deer stop and cautiously drink from the stream running through the meadow. He glanced at his watch lying on the wooden bench, then sloshed out of the Jacuzzi and reached for a towel. The time had arrived to shove the good Senator's feet to the fire.
Chapter 3
Stephen Wickham sprinted the last seventy-five yards of his nightly four-mile run. Finally, with his lungs heaving for air, the former college track and field star slowed to a trot, then to an easy walk, and looked up at the star-studded sky.
The night was so flooded with moonlight that the attractive homes in the quiet subdivision looked like props from an old movie; the ones that had been filmed during the day, then filtered to look like it was dark. The shadows always stood out like neon signs blinking in the night.
The sweltering heat of the late afternoon had rapidly dissipated, and a slight breeze stirred the trees when the former Marine Corps captain reached his driveway.
A graduate of North Carolina State University, Steve Wickham had attended the Marine officer candidate school at Quantico, Virginia.
Commissioned a second lieutenant in the Reserve of the United States Marine Corps, Wickham completed the basic school, then reported to Camp Pendleton Marine Corps Base, near San Clemente, California.
During his tours of duty in Southern California, Okinawa, and Iwakuni, Japan, he constantly studied foreign languages and became fluent in German and French. Like his father, who had served with distinction in the wartime Office of Strategic Services (OSS) and then later with the CIA, Steve wanted a career in the national intelligence organization.
Shortly after he left Japan and reported to Camp Lejeune, he distinguished himself as a combat leader and became a highly decorated veteran of the Grenada invasion.
With a chestful of ribbons and a personnel jacket full of excellent fitness reports, Steve vacillated about leaving the Marine Corps. Sure, he told himself over and over, staying in the service offered a certain amount of security, but he knew that he would always wonder if he could have been a good intelligence agent. Besides, long-range security had always taken a backseat to Steve's desire for adventure.
Wickham made his decision after talking with two senior officers who had elected to make their careers in the Corps. Quite simply, they had explained over beers at the Lejeune 0 Club, they stayed in the service because they had families to support and the civilian job market was too uncertain.
After seeing the longing in their eyes, Steve knew what he had to do; what he was able and suited to do. Although he thoroughly enjoyed the Marines, he had always dreamed of a career in the CIA.
He was a bachelor who banked most of his paychecks in long-term savings, so in his mind he had nothing to lose and everything to gain.
Less than three months later, attired in a freshly pressed conservative gray suit and perfectly shined black shoes, he reported for work at Langley, Virginia.
Over a decade later, Steve Wickham was still handsome, with shallow furrows in his brow, sea-green eyes that exuded charm, and a square jaw which showcased his even teeth. At six feet one inch, trim and dark-haired, the senior operations officer for the Central Intelligence Agency looked younger than his age.
He was well liked and had established a solid reputation for successfully completing the most complex and hazardous assignments. Some members of the White House staff, along with a number of his associates, considered Steve a hero.
Wickham had recently returned from an extended period of service with the world-renowned British Secret Intelligence Service, known by the World War II designation of MI-6. The coveted assignment was reserved for the rising stars in the intelligence community.
During his fourteen-month stay in England, Steve enjoyed the opportunity to step away from the operations aspect of his profession. The Director of the SIS, an anonymous figure known as "C" in British governmental circles, had personally approved Wickham's request to work in the intelligence sector.
After years of being involved in various clandestine operations, Steve finally got the chance to hone his skills in gathering global intelligence and producing finished reports for his superiors.
Now that he was back at Langley, and still attached to the operations directorate, Steve was contributing to the definitive reports known in the Agency as National Intelligence Estimates.
The NIEs were closely reviewed by the Agency's Intelligence Board and then presented to the President of the United States. They represented the culmination of the CIA's work in tracking and forecasting world events.
When Steve reached his front porch, he grabbed the clean towel he had thrown across the railing and wiped the perspiration off his face. He entered his spotless home and went straight to the refrigerator for a cold beer.
After he popped the top off a chilled bottle of Miller Lite, he took a long drink and checked his answering machine. The blinking green light beckoned him to push the playback button.
Simultaneously, Steve clicked on the television and stabbed the play message button. He absently listened to a message from his former wife while he tuned the television. Steve stared at the screen while he listened to a second call, a short message from the Director of the CIA.
Mesmerized by the video he was seeing, Steve ignored the call from the ranking man in the Agency as he watched the riveting drama unfold on the screen. The amateur video, which was being replayed in slow motion, had recorded a scene of devastation that shocked Wickham.
He stared at the helicopter while two automatic weapons sprayed a barrage of fire straight at the camera. A second later, the picture tilted down and Steve could hear a tremendous commotion in the background. The picture became a series of blurs as he listened to a multitude of screams interspersed with gunfire, shouts, and yelling.
"Christ Almighty…" he said quietly while he turned up the volume. "This is unbelievable."
A different video camera recorded the departure of the helicopter as it turned and gathered speed. Wickham looked at the distinctive identifying symbol of a television station on the side of the JetRanger.
"What the hell is going on?" he said to himself.
The usual smile on the face of the familiar anchorwoman had been replaced with a grim set to her jaw.
"Tensions in Honolulu continue to escalate as authorities attempt to locate the pilot of the helicopter that opened fire on the Pearl Harbor tour ship.
"As word spread of the tragic attack on the Japanese-chartered tour ship, hundreds of outraged Japanese tourists protested at police headquarters, demanding protection. Another large group gathered at the Halekulani Hotel for an organized public demonstration.