“Fumiko, do you have anything new that might help to identify Jin’s guest?”
“Nothing,” Fumiko said. “We’re still monitoring comms, but they’ve gone down. I know that’s an ominous sign. But we’ve also been monitoring commercial and private flights from Japan to Taiwan, looking for someone who might fit our profile. And not just those from Narita and Osaka, but also the smaller airports that serve Taiwan. We’re also monitoring seaports south of Nagoya. But so far nothing. We’ve had a report that Wu Chow Fat was seen somewhere between Taiwan and China, but that’s all.”
“How was he seen?” Scott asked.
“Aboard his junk, the White Dragon. She puts to sea at least twice a week.”
“To pick up drugs from North Korean ships and deliver them to his customers?”
“We think so.”
Radford interrupted. “I’m meeting with the president. I’ve scheduled another briefing twelve hours before you commit. Perhaps by then we’ll know more. Any questions?”
Brodie waved a paw at Scott, who said, “General, we need an update on how many of Fat’s men are on that island. How about rechecking that for us.”
Radford’s image began to break up. “I stand by our numbers — there are not more than twenty men on Matsu Shan.”
Rolling diagonal black bars replaced Radford’s and Fumiko’s faces on the monitor as the RDT satellite connection faded. Scott heard Radford say, faintly, “What’s that, I can’t hear you…”
The monitor went to blue.
9
Engines spooling down, the yellow and white ToriAir Boeing 737 rolled to a stop in front of a ghostly cargo-sorting facility on the fringes of Taipei’s Chiang Kai-shek International Airport. Only a few service lights burned in empty hangars and around a solitary UPS 330 Air Bus waiting to be loaded.
Tokugawa disembarked into a muggy night spiced with the tang of burned jet fuel and the roar of passenger jets taking off and landing. A black Toyota Land Cruiser pulled up alongside the 737’s companionway. The driver got out, welcomed Tokugawa to Taiwan, then bowed him into the backseat. Tokugawa settled back in comfort as the big SUV swung out of the airport onto the motorway and sped toward Chi-lung.
Many things had to be accomplished, Tokugawa mused. Wu Chow Fat’s vulgar attempt to wrest control of heroin distribution from Ojima had to be addressed and tamped down. Likely Fat already knew Naito had been eliminated. Dozens of eyes and ears reported everything that happened in Tokyo, especially Kabukicho. It was said that one couldn’t step on a cat’s tail without Fat knowing about it. If so, it would demonstrate how seriously Tokugawa took such matters. Because the Chinese were unfailingly polite, Fat might feign ignorance and simply express shock over Naito’s misfortune. But Fat knew better than anyone that operators who freelanced in the billion-dollar Tokyo sex and drug business usually ended up dead.
Naito, Fat, and Ojima were insignificant compared to what the North Koreans had proposed. The deal Marshal Jin was eager to consummate was of another magnitude altogether. It was a deal, Tokugawa thought with pleasure, that would bring untold riches, and with it, his long-sought revenge on America.
He remembered what had happened as clearly as if it had occurred yesterday: A solitary silver B-29 seen through a break in the cloud cover over Nagasaki. The flash of light brighter than a million suns. The hard, angry shadow his body had cast on the ground. The unimaginable heat and the mushroom cloud turning everything black, ending his world.
The Toyota, its knobby tires thumping the length of a wooden pier lined on one side with godowns, drew up beside a waiting motor launch. The driver doused the lights, after which Tokugawa got out and, orienting himself, heard the incoming tide chuckling under the pier. He couldn’t see her, but he knew that the White Dragon, Wu’s Hainan-style four-masted junk, lay anchored in the roadstead.
Two Chinese in black BDUs and armed with Beretta submachine guns stepped from blocky shadows and approached. One of the men aimed a blue-lensed flashlight beam at Tokugawa. Satisfied, he bowed deeply.
The men escorted Tokugawa aboard the launch, where the captain, a leathery looking Chinese, made him comfortable in the cabin below decks. They cast off, and fifteen minutes later Tokugawa was welcomed aboard the White Dragon by Wu Chow Fat.
Fiber mat lugsails reefed, the White Dragon’s powerful twin diesels drove her into the Pacific, away from the twinkling lights of Chi-lung. Seated in heavy brocade armchairs brought topside for their meeting, Tokugawa and Fat faced each other.
“I hope you do not mind, Iseda-san, that we take the night air,” Fat said in excellent Japanese.
A warm offshore breeze lifted the lapels of Tokugawa’s suit jacket and ruffled his hair. He breathed deeply and savored the hiss and splash of water tumbling past the junk’s hull. Due west, he saw the fading glow of Chi-lung; due east, strings of milky colored lights at Pitouchiao. He didn’t need a compass to know that the White Dragon was on a northeasterly course toward Matsu Shan, a two-hour voyage.
The turbocharged diesels cleared their throats, and their throb deepened. The deck vibrated as the twin screws dug in hard and the White Dragon speeded up. A steward set out bottles of rice wine, pots of steaming green tea, and Taiwanese delicacies. Tokugawa and his host toasted with wine drunk from translucent cups dating from the Tsin Dynasty.
“Business has been good?” Tokugawa said, his gaze on Fat, whose face was illuminated by gently swaying lanterns hung from rigging.
“Very good, Iseda-san, very good,” Fat said.
When Fat spoke or moved, his flesh quivered like freshly kneaded bread dough. His enormous girth, spilling over the chair, threatened the seams of his hand-sewn black-and-red silk pajamas. It was said that Fat kept a pistol hidden in his rolls of flesh, and Tokugawa wondered if that was true.
“I owe my success and great, good fortune to you, Iseda-san.” He smoked a Marlboro to its filter, lit another from its ember. “I am pleased to offer you my humble services. I am always at your call.”
Tokugawa was not taken in by Fat’s obsequious manner and insipid mutterings. He knew that no Chinese ever conceded the upper hand to a foreigner, much less a Japanese. “I appreciate your kindness, Wu-san. Now, please allow me to speak frankly.”
“Yes, please, speak as you wish. We have no secrets from each other.”
Tokugawa knew better. “I have sad news. Ojima’s protégé, Naito, is dead. Murdered. So unfortunate.”
Fat said nothing as he puffed on his Marlboro, the smoke carried away by a sharp wind that made the halyards whistle.
“Apparently Naito wanted to do business on his own. I don’t know the details but was told he offended one of his customers and was… removed. Perhaps Naito failed to see that his link to the present was a bridge to the future. Failed to understand that trust, respect, fealty, openness never go out of style. Perhaps if he’d not forgotten that, he’d still be alive.”
Fat toyed with his Marlboro. With the rippling red-and-black silk pajamas plastered to his body by the wind, he mulled this over. “An unfortunate turn of events, Iseda-san. I didn’t know Naito personally but of course have heard his name. I believe he had connections to individuals wanting to invest in Kabukicho. Perhaps he offended one of them.”
“Perhaps.” Tokugawa shrugged.
“I don’t think this affair need have any effect on our relationship, do you? Naito, as you say, was an irritant and now a forgotten artifact. We have a fine arrangement, and nothing will change that. After all, we are businessmen and must look out for each others’ interests, and, if possible, advance them, is that not so?”