Fumiko’s long, tapered fingers flew over the keys of her laptop. As she bent close to Scott to retrieve a CD from her kit, he caught a whiff of her scent. She knew he was looking at her and seemed to realize the effect she was having on him.
“Are you based in Washington?” Scott asked.
“No, Tokyo. In fact I’m flying back tonight.”
“Thirteen hours. That’s a long flight.”
“I’m used to it. I’m away from home a lot.”
“Must be rough on your family.”
“I have no family. The JDIH is my family.”
Scott knew that Fumiko represented the new breed of liberated Japanese woman. Freed from the traditional roles of homemaker and dutiful wife of a salaryman, Japanese women were now free to pursue careers that had formerly been considered appropriate only for Japanese men. And she’d obviously made the most of it.
“How long have you been with them?”
“Ten years.”
“You must be good.”
She turned her lovely almond-shaped eyes on him, the intensity of her gaze penetrating to his core. She smiled and said, “Yes, I’m very good.”
He’d seen the same intensity in other women he’d known — and loved. Tracy. If only she could have channeled her intensity, like Fumiko had, into something that wasn’t destructive. How different could two women be, he wondered? Suddenly he remembered: Tracy was in Tokyo with her toy, Rick Sterling, the navy attaché…. He pulled back from the edge just when Fumiko announced, “Ready when you are.”
An aerial photo of the northeastern portion of Taiwan came up on the screen.
“As you can see, we have excellent satellite coverage of Matsu Shan.” Fumiko spoke as she uploaded images from the laptop to the video screen.
The still photo went into motion, and they were propelled, as if in free fall, onto a small kidney-shaped island off the northeast tip of Taiwan. Scott saw rifts of narrow inlets sawtoothed into sheer rocky bluffs, and coastal waters peppered with outcroppings of volcanic rock capable of ripping open the hulls of ships and, he thought, submarines.
“Matsu Shan is about seventy-five square acres,” Fumiko said after halting the free fall.
She moved a white arrowhead pointer across the island, which was covered with dense jungle and stands of palm. A sumptuous villa squatted at the summit of a high bluff overlooking the sea.
“On the Taiwan side of the island,” Fumiko continued, “is a narrow channel from the Pacific Ocean. It terminates at a beach below the villa.” She pointed with the arrow to docking facilities and a thirty-foot motor launch.
She moved on, saying, “As you’ll see, the villa is well guarded and virtually impregnable from assault by sea and air.”
“Who did you say owns this island?” Scott asked.
“Wu Chow Fat,” said Jefferson. “He’s a druglord, pirate, and hired killer. He runs North Korean — produced drugs for the Chinese Triads in Mainland China and Taiwan. And for the yakuza in Japan. Fat is the main conduit for North Korean heroin and methamphetamine — ice — into Taiwan. The Mainland Chinese know the NKs need hard currency and that drugs are their biggest cash crop. They produce more than half the illegal drugs the world consumes.”
“How much territory does Fat control?” Scott asked.
“All of the southern East China Sea between Ningpo and Hong Kong.”
“The Chinese crack down hard on drug smuggling into Mainland China,” Fumiko said, “but when it comes to Taiwan, they let it go through on the principle that drug use by the Taiwanese will eventually undermine their resistance to unification with China.”
“So Fat has an understanding with Beijing,” said Scott.
“Yes. Fat is Cantonese. At one time he did business simultaneously with Chiang Kai-shek in Taiwan and with the Reds in Beijing, worked both sides of the street. China’s General Administration of Customs — GAC — officials are in his pocket. They see to it that small amounts of heroin and ice get through to the Mainland, while the rest gets funneled into Taiwan.”
“And everybody makes money, tons of it,” Scott observed.
“Billions and billions,” said Jefferson.
“Just like the Colombian cartels,” Ellsworth said. “Our subs have monitored and helped interdict drug shipments from Peru and Colombia. Still, some of it always gets through. We’ve never monitored Asian drug trafficking because we naively trusted the Chinese to police themselves. Now we know better.”
“But now,” Radford added, “smugglers like Fat are joining forces with the Russian Mafiya. They’re both flush with cash and are buying weapons to sell to Middle Eastern terrorists. Hell, Fat tried to get his hands on a Russian diesel sub and helicopter gunship, as well as shoulder-fired surface-to-air missiles. That’s why we’re concerned about this meeting on Matsu Shan.”
“Got anything stronger to drink than Coke?” Scott asked.
“In the sideboard,” Radford said. “Make mine a Scotch. Anyone else?”
There were no takers. Ellsworth, a teetotaler, said, “Now you see why we need your expertise, Scott.”
“And Fat is no cowboy,” Jefferson added. “He’s smart and well protected.”
Scott handed Radford an iced Scotch and had one himself. His gaze fell on Jefferson, who didn’t look away. Scott felt certain Jefferson was measuring his resolve, probing for any weaknesses.
“What kind of hydrographic data do you have on Matsu Shan?” Scott asked.
“Tides, soundings, approaches, the usual,” Fumiko said.
“How recent?”
“Ninety-eight.”
“Christ.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve seen what they have,” Ellsworth said. “It’s good. Very detailed.”
“Sir, as I recall,” Scott said, “the Ryukyu Trench kisses Taiwan. We’d have six or seven thousand feet of water east of Taiwan, but mostly shallow water inshore.”
“True, but it’s nothing you can’t handle,” Radford said.
Scott considered: A sub designed to deliver SEALs needed water deep enough to cover her approach inshore. He didn’t like having to hug the bottom to make an insertion with hardly any water to cover his ass.
He pointed to the monitor. “Let’s see this villa.”
Fumiko zoomed in on an L-shaped structure photographed at a 45-degree angle from an orbiting KH-12 satellite. Crisp moving images crept diagonally across manicured grounds and stepped terraces. Details stood out with amazing clarity.
The villa, with its arched galleries, ceramic tile roof, and spacious veranda, sat on a bluff, surrounded by a low masonry wall. All around were hardwoods, palm, and camphor. At the foot of the bluff was the beach, where the narrow channel from the sea ended.
“Whoa, what’s this?” Scott said.
A swimming pool and cabana with diving boards and striped awnings inched across the screen. An Asian woman in dark glasses was sunbathing naked beside the pool on an inflatable mattress, surrounded by beach chairs and colorful umbrellas.
“Looks better than Club Med,” Jefferson said.
Ellsworth coughed into a fist.
The KH-12’s cameras picked out more details — a paved parking area with SUVs and trucks, which could also double as a helicopter landing pad. A dark-skinned man in jungle fatigues and stripped to the waist changed a tire on a green Toyota Land Cruiser.
Scott also saw that aside from a long, steep set of stairs hewn from living rock that faced the beach, the only other way to gain access to the villa was up a twisting service road cut into the back side of the bluff.
Fumiko said, “As you’ll see, the villa is heavily guarded.”
Scott saw armed men moving about the grounds on foot and in vehicles. “What kind of weapons are they carrying?”