Chapter 4
The small air-conditioned bus followed Shinsaibashi-suji Boulevard across the river into Higashi ward, then turned toward Osaka Castle.
An attractive, quietly gracious young Japanese woman gripped the handrail at the front of the cabin and continued her running commentary. "The original castle was built in 1586 by the Grand Chancellor — Dajo-daijin — Toyotomi Hideyoshi and was then the largest castle in Japan. Chancellor Hideyoshi, who paved the way for the feudal age, required his military commanders to contribute stones during the three-and-a-half-year construction effort."
The group of elderly couples paid close attention to the polite guide as the bus slowed near Osaka Castle.
"The largest rock" — her delicate mouth smiled—"is known as Higo-ishi and was brought here by the celebrated General Kato Kiyomasa from the island of Shodo. The rock is almost six meters high and fourteen and a half meters in length."
The driver brought the vehicle to an imperceptible halt while the lady finished her narration. "After Toyotomi Hideyoshi's son, Hideyori, was defeated at the Battle of Osaka by the forces of Tokugawa Ieyasu, the besieged castle was destroyed.
Hideyori, the last of the Toyotomi, committed suicide while the castle was being plundered."
She glanced at the historic building, then continued the commentary. "Later, for reasons of prestige, the Tokugawa Shoguns rebuilt the castle. When the Meiji Restoration forced the Shogunate to abdicate in 1867, the castle was burned down by the retreating Tokugawa forces. The present castle is made out of reinforced concrete and was constructed in 1931."
She placed the microphone on its hook. "If you'll please follow me."
The quiet passengers, some of whom were helping each other to their feet, suddenly heard an engine rev to a high-pitched scream. They turned to see an oncoming truck racing toward their compact bus. What shocked them most was the large flamethrower that was protruding from the top of the van behind the cab.
A split second after the driver leaped from the truck, the flamethrower shot a high-pressure stream of blazing incendiary fuel straight into the side of the small tour bus.
The American passengers and their Japanese guides screamed in panic and backed toward the far side of the vehicle. Their desperate efforts were in vain. Three seconds later, the large delivery truck plowed into the bus and exploded in a thunderous fireball. A huge pall of gloomy black smoke rose into the overcast sky while the melting tires exploded like shotgun blasts.
Steve Wickham gratefully accepted a steaming cup of tea and looked around the crowded hotel restaurant. Most of the early-morning travelers were dressed for business, with a sprinkling of vacationers clad in a wide variety of casual attire. A steady stream of jets roared overhead as the air traffic began to build toward maximum capacity of the system.
Steve methodically stirred his tea while he patiently waited for his breakfast to be served. The harried waitress finally arrived with his ham and eggs at the same time the special agent from the FBI approached the table.
Wickham guessed the man's height at six feet even and his weight at 190 pounds. He looked like he was in his early forties, but he had the solid, muscular appearance of a collegiate running back. There was little doubt that he had been an athlete in his younger years.
"Marcus Callaway," the agent announced and motioned for Steve to remain seated. "Don't let me interrupt."
Steve thanked the waitress and offered his hand. "Steve Wickham."
"A pleasure," Callaway replied good-naturedly and shook hands before he seated himself. "I didn't even need your picture.
"Do I look that obvious?" Steve grinned and plunged his fork into his scrambled eggs. He looked ordinary enough to blend in with most of the crowd, but his cautious eyes never stopped surveying everything and everyone around him.
Marcus chuckled and ordered coffee. "Sitting with your back against the wall is a dead giveaway."
"That's an old habit I picked up from a gunnery sergeant," Steve admitted and cut into his ham. "Aren't you going to have any breakfast?"
Callaway leaned over and talked in a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't tell anyone that I told you this, but I honestly like airline food."
Steve laughed aloud and almost choked. "You must have spent some time in the Marine Corps."
"Close. I was an Army platoon commander."
A black man from Baltimore's inner-city projects, Callaway had been a member of a neighborhood street gang until a concerned teacher rescued him from the streets. Mrs. Schapiro used her considerable influence and various contacts to help a gifted youngster reach his full potential.
Marcus became one of the beneficiaries of a scholarship fund established for minorities with special aptitudes. Thanks to the generosity of a wealthy philanthropist, who had known adversity and poverty before making his fortune, Callaway was able to finish high school at a private institution and thengraduated with honors from the University of Maryland.
He faithfully corresponded with the frail white woman who had intervened to give him and other deserving youngsters a fresh start in life. The few times he had tried to thank Mrs. Schapiro, she had given him the same advice. "Thank me by helping someone else."
A nineteen-year veteran of the Bureau, Callaway's experience with international terrorism had been invaluable during the lengthy investigation of the Pan Am crash near Lockerbie, Scotland. He also spent many years assisting numerous foreign officials to better understand the terrorist phenomenon.
Wickham and Callaway were anxious to discuss the tragedy at Pearl Harbor, but they knew from experience that it was impossible to carry on an in-depth conversation amid the constant interruptions in a restaurant.
Steve paid their tab and they grabbed their luggage, then caught the courtesy van to the airport terminal. When they reached the entrance to their concourse, Callaway held up his identification folder, identifying himself as a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
The stodgy female attendant at the metal detector closely scrutinized his credentials and looked at the slight bulge under his jacket next to his left biceps, then reluctantly waved him around the metal detector and into the concourse. The security people always got nervous when anyone carried a sidearm onboard an airliner, even if the passenger was an FBI special agent.
Wickham, who flashed his identification and stated that he too was carrying a concealed weapon, also went around the metal detector, then rejoined Callaway in the concourse. They boarded the United Airlines jet and went to the last row of first-class seats that were reserved for them. No one was assigned to the two seats directly in front of the agents or across the aisle from them., Steve and Marcus opened their magazines and began to leaf through the pages. A minute later they gave their beverage orders to the flight attendant and then noticed a last-minute passenger ease into the seat across from them. The scrawny Japanese senior citizen was wearing a wrinkled suit and his bow tie hung askew. Wickham thought he looked like a retired civil servant traveling on a mileage-plus upgrade certificate.
Callaway waited until the aircraft taxied from the gate before he leaned closer to Wickham. "Steve, have you been briefed about the terrorist attack in Osaka?"
"Not by the Agency," he explained and paused while the flight attendant checked to see if their seat belts were fastened. "I caught the gist of what happened while I was packing my bags this morning."
"The Chukaku-Ha has taken credit for the attack," Callaway announced. "Are you familiar with the Chukaku-Ha?"
Steve nodded and lowered his voice. "Oh, yeah. They're the most powerful terrorist faction of the Japanese New Left. From what I know, they have worked hard to abolish the constitutional democracy and do away with the monarchy, then scrap the U. S.-Japan Security Treaty and toss the American military out of Japan."