Honorable Enemies

Chapter 21

Tadashi Matsukawa looked down at the Babasaki Moat from his imposing office in the Mitsubishi Building. He turned and walked back to his glass desk and sat down in his custom-made chair, which was covered in mink fur.

Mishima Takahashi, the man who had been in charge of the Pearl Harbor and JAL operations, sat in front of the large desk, nervously smoking a Camel. Through Matsukawa's mole at Langley, they knew that the U. S. investigators were gaining ground in their search for Takahashi and his accomplice.

Takahashi was furious that his protector had not killed Wickham and Susan Nakamura, even though the CIA snitch was providing information concerning their whereabouts.

"I have to be patient and have faith," the senior executive told himself over and over. What the crew-cut, barrel-chested bodyguard lacked in intelligence and innovation, he made up for by being fearless and aggressive. Takahashi was confident that his stooge would kill the government agents, eventually.

Matsukawa studied the small, bespectacled man for a moment. Takahashi looked haggard, and his eyes were red and puffy from smoking and from drinking vodka the previous night. He was slowly succumbing to the overpowering fear of being exposed as the ringleader of the brutal attack at Pearl Harbor.

"Mishima," the billionaire said at last, "you've got to pull yourself together. Everything is going to be fine, honestly. We've covered our trail — so relax."

Takahashi knew better after hearing the report from the Langley informant who was keeping Wickham and Nakamura under constant surveillance.

Matsukawa thought about sending the executive on a vacation aboard his yacht, but changed his mind. He wanted to keep a close eye on the troubled man.

"We were within minutes of flying the helicopter out," Takahashi said glumly and lit another unfiltered cigarette, "when they came to the door."

Matsukawa had never seen the usually urbane man break down and become emotional. "You've got to calm down and think in positive terms."

Takahashi's hands shook and ashes drifted to the carpet. "It is my fault for not making them work faster. We would never have been discovered if I had pushed harder."

"Mishima, listen closely to me…" the industrialist said, with most of his thoughts on the upcoming meeting with the corporate groups.

Matsukawa waited until the worried executive finally looked at him. "I'm going to be extremely busy with the keiretsu and the Prime Minister the next few days."

Takahashi absently acknowledged the statement but couldn't stop thinking about the consequences if his involvement in the attacks were discovered. It would be a scandal that would rock the entire world. The more he thought about the assaults, the more he couldn't believe that Matsukawa had convinced him that it would be foolproof. Shigeki must find and kill the two agents who could recognize us. Takahashi had promised the Japanese mercenary 7 million yen for proof of the agents' deaths.

"I want you to study the projects that we have on our schedule," Matsukawa said, "and prioritize the best eight. Also, we've got to shift some of our focus to our aerospace and defense efforts. I've got a strong feeling they're going to be producing more products very shortly."

Takahashi gave his boss a blank look and rose from his chair. "I will do the best I can." He ground his cigarette in the crystal ashtray on the desk and quietly walked out of the elegant office.

Matsukawa swiveled his fur-covered chair around and gazed toward the Imperial Palace. He knew what he would eventually have to do with Mishima Takahashi. An accident while cruising aboard Gochi Nyorai was a relatively safe way for him to sever his ties to the Pearl Harbor attack.

Susan and Steve studied the unique interior of the Japanese specialty restaurant and smelled the simmering food being prepared in the tiny kitchen. Though small and crowded, the tidy restaurant provided a pleasantly cozy atmosphere while they waited for their connecting flight to Singapore.

When Steve raised his glass of cold beer to take a sip, he noticed that many of the Japanese patrons were staring at him. Not one of them had even the hint of a smile, and some were openly scowling at him.

Always keenly alert to her surroundings, Susan noticed the antagonistic looks, but attempted to ignore them. She glanced at the beer Steve was sampling. "How do you like it?"

He raised the glass and mused for a moment. "When I was stationed here, my friends and I always drank Kirin, but the Sapporo is good, too."

Susan knew she had to acknowledge the unfriendly situation. She felt badly about having suggested the restaurant. "Steve, if you'd like to go somewhere else, I understand. I didn't expect this kind of treatment."

"It's okay, really," he replied with an encouraging smile. "From the looks I'm getting, they must think I'm theguy who invented taxes."

"No." She allowed a tiny smile. "The looks you're getting are worse."

"Thanks a lot," Steve said and let his gaze linger on her pleasant features. "We're going to have a nice meal and mind our own business."

She gently lifted her glass of plum wine in an impromptu toast. "I admire your spirit," she said firmly and clinked her glass against his. "To our success."

He noticed a couple of Japanese customers frowning in disgust, but he forced himself to ignore them.

"What did you manage to find out" — she smiled and leaned slightly toward him—"from the mysterious depths of the legendary CIA?"

He had been in contact with the Intelligence Directorate at Langley to have the analysts work on researching the ownership of the Matsumi Maru number three.

"Not much for the moment, but I'm hoping they'll have something for us by the time we get to Singapore."

She could see that he was ill-at-ease. "Do you know what you want to order or would you like me to select one of my favorites for you?"

"I'll defer to you." He quietly laughed. "I have absolute faith in your judgment."

After Susan ordered mizutaki for both of them, she looked at him for a long moment. "May I ask you a personal question?"

He gave her a slow glance. "You want to know if I'm married, right?"

She blushed slightly, embarrassed that Steve had anticipated her question. "Well, your file indicates that you're married, but you don't wear a wedding ring. I was just curious, since I've never heard you say anything about your wife or family."

"I was married," he said matter-of-factly, "but my divorce was final about five weeks ago."

Susan felt a strange sense of relief sweep over her.

He gave her a friendly smile. "You'll have to bring your files up-to-date," he teased and sipped his beer.

"If you don't mind telling me," she asked delicately, "what happened?"

"I'll make a long story short." He chuckled and slid his empty glass to the edge of the table. "She was a flight attendant for Pan American, and when the airline went under, Becky had a hard time dealing with the loss of her job.

"She finally managed to get another flight attendant position with TWA, but she had to start at the bottom of the seniority list. After she had become adjusted to starting from the bottom again, the airline started downsizing and she was laid off."

"That would be tough on anyone," Susan commented with a concerned expression. "Is that when the problems began?"

"Yes, basically. She never liked my career choice, so when she left TWA, she wanted me to quit my job and move out west with her. I didn't want to do that, so things escalated to the point where we decided to go our separate ways."

"Do you have any children?" Susan asked as their meals arrived at the small table.

"None that I'm aware of," he replied in an attempt to lighten the conversation.

Susan gave him a look of mock disgust. "I'd kick you in the shin" — she laughed softly—"if we weren't in a public place."

"This crowd would love that," Steve responded, then stopped dead cold when he saw the familiar Oriental man with the crew-cut hair and mutilated ear. The tall, ruggedly built hit man was standing about 150 feet down the concourse, pretending to read a magazine.

"Susan, look at me," Steve insisted, "and don't make any sudden moves."

She went rigid as the color suddenly drained from her face. "He's stalking us, isn't he?"

"Yes," Steve uttered under his breath and observed the small kitchen at the back of the restaurant. "Go into the kitchen and see if someone can contact security."

"Okay, but please be careful."

"Susan," Steve quietly went on, "stay in there and cover me if something goes down."

"You can count on it." She reached for her purse, gracefully rose from her seat, and walked in the direction of the kitchen.

When Susan reached the back of the restaurant, Steve looked away from the hit man but kept him in his periphery.

What's that bastard going to do? he had just asked himself when the man tossed his magazine to the side, pulled a handgun from his jacket pocket, and headed toward the restaurant.

Steve glanced around. I can't wait for security. The place is crammed with people.

He was reaching for his Beretta when Susan yelled a warning. "Steve, watch out!"

He jumped to his feet and aimed his Beretta at the hit man. "Freeze! Drop to your knees and put your hands over your head!"

The man stopped and raised his gun.

"Now, goddammit!" Wickham ordered and fired a round over his attacker's head. "Drop your weapon!"

People started screaming and running in every direction while others dropped flat on the floor and scrambled for any cover they could find.

The hit man turned and raced down the concourse, knocking down passengers and visitors like bowling pins.

Steve started after him and then stopped. It was too dangerous to get boxed into a position where he might have to exchange gunfire in the middle of a crowd.

He returned the Beretta to the small of his back and walked over to Susan. "This guy is crazy."

"Or very stupid," she said as she watched the airport security personnel hurrying toward the restaurant.

"If he's this overt in public," Steve said as he reached for his identification, "he isn't going to give up. Anyone who would try to kill someone in a busy airport is either a complete mental case or really desperate."

"Or both." Susan frowned. "That's what concerns me."

"Same here," he openly confessed. "It's like someone is telegraphing him our every move."

Susan couldn't conceal her ire. "You're right. We're traveling under assumed names, and only a few people know where we're going."

"And even fewer" — Steve paused to slow his breathing—"had access to our flight itinerary."

"Someone," Susan fumed, "is setting us up. There's something bigger going on than what we see on the surface."

"If we're careful," Steve said with a look of concern, "we might be able to trap this nutcase — which could possibly lead us to the person behind the attack at Pearl."

"And to the person who is selling us out," Susan added bitterly.

"That's right," he agreed. "We've got to set a trap for this psycho."

She reached for her badge as the airport security team surrounded the front of the now-empty restaurant. "Which one of us is going to be the bait?"