End of Enemies

19

Walter Oaken stared bleary-eyed at the stacks of reports and computer printouts on his desk. Had he been able to tell Beverly about the project, she would have accused him of obsessing. He couldn’t shake the feeling he’d missed something. What was it? There had to be good reason why Ohira had switched his attention to Takagi Maritime.

For Oaken, research was an adventure full of hidden facts, buried leads, and dead ends. As far as he was concerned, the Loch Ness Monster and Bigfoot were nothing compared to a fact that didn’t want to be found.

The more he dug into Takagi’s operations, the more he realized Toshogu and Tsumago were aberrations. Takagi had delivered on hundreds of contracts, and each one had been handled identically, from purchase agreement and blueprint design to owner’s acceptance trials. Until now.

He’d started with maritime insurance. With Toshogu and Tsumago’s price tags in the millions of dollars, he felt certain Takagi would have underwritten them against loss or damage. He found nothing.

Next he turned to customers. Tsumago’s warshiplike characteristics made the Japanese MSDF the most likely buyer, but Oaken could find no open marine contracts between Takagi and the Japanese government.

That left two options. One, Toshogu and Tsumago were not only Takagi-built, but Takagi-owned as well, which probably meant Takagi had either bonded them or underwritten them with Lloyd’s of London.

This theory also went nowhere. He found no listing in Lloyd’s Shipping Index, and none of Sumiko’s information indicated Takagi Industries was itself carrying the financial burden.

The second possibility was the ships had been commissioned for a foreign company, which again meant they would be bonded by the purchaser or underwritten by Lloyd’s. Another dead end.

And then, out of the blue, he got his break.

He ran across two entries in Lloyd’s Shipping Index, the first of which described a Belgian shipbuilder who, after conducting sea trials for a South African client, had delivered the ship to Capetown, at which point the client — a subsidiary of the Belgian shipbuilder — took possession. This was a simple and perfectly legal cost-saving device, in which the builder and purchaser — in truth the same entity — split the cost of underwriting the vessel. Could this be what Takagi had done?

The second Lloyd’s entry described an oil tanker, but gave only the company’s name, a synopsis of the contract, the vessel’s dimensions, and the method of delivery. There was no mention of the builder’s name. Oaken scanned for similar entries and found dozens.

This gave him a trail to follow. In less than an hour he found what he wanted.

Like most industrialists, Takagi had his fingers in hundreds of businesses around the world, either as a shareholder, an investor, or a board member. His interests ranged from textiles and mining to entertainment and auto parts. Most of these ventures were well-documented, but some were not. Among the dozens of boards on which Takagi secretly sat, Oaken found one, a Norwegian company named Skulafjord Limited, that dealt exclusively in marine salvage and mining.

Now in the tenth hour of his hunt, he logged onto to the Lloyd’s Shipping Index and the United Nations International Maritime Bureau’s databases, then ran a keyword search using the word Skulafjord. The response came back in less than a minute:

The dimensions seemed to match those of Toshogu. Oaken kept scrolling:

“Come on….” Oaken muttered, scrolling. “Gimme the delivery date…. Gotcha!” He glanced at the wall calendar, then back at the screen. “What the hell…?”

“So you lost them,” Hiromasa Takagi said.

“Yes, sir,” said Noboru.

Takagi now knew Tanner was more than a simple tourist. Nor was he working alone. Despite this, Noboru’s men could not pin down their activities, let alone maintain surveillance. The pair was wandering about Honshu and Shikoku, and no one could tell him what they were doing. That wasn’t quite true, though. While their activities were a mystery, the identity of one of their contacts was not. That would be settled soon enough.

“What did they do after leaving the ferry?” Takagi asked.

“We know they went south—”

Takagi shot forward in his chair. “Toward Anan? Toward the shipyard?”

“Yes, but past it, south toward Mugi. We lost them on the coast road.”

Takagi grunted. “Did they return the same way?”

“No. We’re not sure how, but they returned to the hotel just before sunrise.”

“And this is where Tanner met her?”

“Yes, sir. She had been waiting for him.”

His watchers recorded the name of the taxi company she’d used, Noboru explained. The rest had been simple. From the hotel she was taken to a neighborhood in Kobe and dropped off outside a shokudo owned by an elderly couple named Yokeisha, the maternal grandparents of one Sumiko Fujita.

This answered many questions for Takagi, first of which was: What had sparked Ohira’s interest in the shipyard? In her position, she certainly had access to the right kind of information, but thankfully, not enough to derail the transaction.

What should be done about Ms. Fujita and her partners in crime? Takagi wondered. They were the only remaining loose ends. So close to Tsumago’s departure, could he afford the complication? The Arabs were already skittish. Any hint of trouble, and they might pull out He could not allow that. He had invested too much, and the stakes were too high.

“Where is Toshogu now?” Takagi asked

“She should be nearing the Bering Strait.”

“Who did you send?”

“Yamora.”

“Good. From this point on, you will handle everything personally. You will see that Tsumago safely reaches the facility, you will make sure the transfer goes smoothly, and you will make sure all the loose ends are tied up.”

“And the woman?”

Takagi shrugged. “She is a traitor. See that she gets a traitor’s reward.”

Forty-six miles south of the Arctic circle, Toshogu sliced through the waves. Forty miles off the port beam lay the east coast of Siberia; to starboard, Alaska.

Skulafjord Limited’s representative, Hallvard Sogne, stood on Toshogu’s bridge wing, bundled in foul weather gear, and stared at the water hissing down the hull. God, even in his native Norway he’d never felt cold like this before. If not for the spectacular view of the night sky, he would never leave his cabin.

For the hundredth time Sogne cursed his luck. He was a marine engineer, not a sailor. But evidently Skulafjord thought he was the best man for the job. Three weeks at sea! The plan was to put the ship through its paces as it sailed west through the Arctic Circle, along Russia’s northern coast, into the Barents Sea, and finally to Skulafjord’s docks on Svalbard Island.

So far Toshogu’s captain and crew had been very accommodating, and the ship was performing as designed, which was fine with Sogne. Perhaps if they finished early, his boss would send a helicopter to pick him up.

The bridge hatch opened, and a seaman poked out his head. “Mr. Sogne, the captain asks if you would step inside.”

Sogne ducked inside.

The pilothouse was warm and illuminated only by the green-lighted helm console.

“Ah, Mr. Sogne,” said the captain. “Would you care for some hot chocolate?”

“Not tea?” These Japanese were fanatical about their tea.

Namura laughed. “For you, we have hot chocolate.”

“Thank you. Or should I say domo arigato.”

“Ah! Do itashimashite. Your Japanese is improving.”

“I hope so. You know, Captain, I’m amazed at how little crew Toshogu requires. Eight men aboard, correct?”

“That is correct. She is quite self-sufficient. Most of her functions are computer-controlled. Your company is receiving a fine vessel.”

“Indeed. Tell me, are the maneuvering trials still on for the morning?”

“Yes.” Namura checked his watch. “In fact, you would be wise to get some sleep. It promises to be a long day.”

“Good idea. In the morning, then.”

Four hours later, Toshogu was thirty miles north of the Arctic Circle in the Chuckchi Sea. Hallvard Sogne lay wide awake in his private cabin, listening to the ocean lap against the ship’s hull. Too late he remembered hot chocolate had caffeine, something he’d given up at his wife Ilga’s insistence. Perhaps a walk would do the trick.

Five minutes later, he was out the door. The passageway was deserted and lit only by those eerie red lamps all ships seemed equipped with. Why was that? Why not some nice, bright lighting? He looked down the passageway, hoping to see a crewman. He didn’t know the ship very well. He saw no one. Which way, then? The after hold area, he decided. That was one place they hadn’t yet shown him.

He headed to the nearest ladder and took it down. As he reached the next deck, he felt the ship’s motion change, rocking from side to side. The hum of the engines faded. They were slowing. Why? The fan blowers cut out. Sogne stood in the darkness, feeling dizzy. He had gotten so used to the ship’s motion and sounds, the sudden change was unnerving.

From below, there came a shout.

“Iye… Iye! Onegai shimas—”

The voice was cut off. Silence. Outside, the sea lapped at the hull. The ship’s rocking was more pronounced now. What was happening?

He leaned over the ladder rail. “Hello down there?”

Silence.

“Hello, is anybody down there?”

Sogne started down the ladder until he reached Sub-3, the lowermost level of the after hold area, a large, cavern-like space lined with catwalks and storage bays. He stepped through the hatch.

“Hello?”

Down the catwalk Sogne spotted a pile of twisted metal, half of which had spilled over onto the deck below. Walking closer, he saw it was debris of some sort, most of it covered in rust and algae. Sogne knelt down and picked up a few pieces, causing a small avalanche.

“What is this?” he whispered.

Behind him came a click-click sound. He spun around.

A shadowed figure stood on the catwalk.

“Oh, thank God!” Sogne said. “I’m glad you—” He stopped and peered closer at the man’s face. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you before.”