Honorable Enemies

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."

"Toss every American out of Japan," Marcus declared with a concerned look. "If you count all the organizations in the New Left, which we believe consists of twenty-four factions, you'll find approximately forty thousand radicals, including their sympathizers. They are definitely a growing threat — a deadly threat, as we've just witnessed."

Wickham glanced at the wingtip for a brief moment before he turned to Callaway. "So you think the Chukaku-Ha decided on swift retaliation for the attack at Pearl Harbor, even though no one knows who was flying the helicopter."

"They hate Americans," Marcus quietly explained while the pilot stopped behind the other airliners waiting for clearance to take off. "They are convinced that it had to be an American, especially after all the witnesses agreed that the pilot appeared to be a Caucasian."

Steve cast a look at Callaway, noting the fire in his eyes and the anger in his voice.

"This was vintage Chukaku-Ha tactics," Marcus stated harshly. "They've used front-mounted flamethrowers on trucks to attack everything from the political party headquarters to the Israeli Embassy to the Kansai International Airport in Osaka. It's one of their favorite weapons."

"Marcus, how do you stop a bunch of fanatics who have an irrational attachment to a terrorist group?"

"It's very simple. You can't stop them."

Wickham shook his head. "Terrorism is replacing Communism as the world's greatest threat."

"True," Callaway continued sadly. "And here's another example of how they use their technical proficiency to obliterate a busful of retired couples from California and the poor Japanese tour guides."

"It's just the beginning," Steve added.

"I'm afraid so," Marcus admitted with a touch of irritation. "The Chukaku-Ha is well funded, well organized, and they have continued to concentrate on overthrowing the political system and philosophy they abhor."

"Dedicated, they are," Steve agreed blandly. "Some of our people believe that the Chukaku-Ha has ties to major players in the Japanese political hierarchy."

"I've heard the same thing," Callaway confided and leaned closer. "We have firsthand information linking the group to the internal rebellion and the corruption scandals that tore the Liberal Democrats apart."

Both men remained quiet while the flight attendant chatted with a nearby passenger.

"The Chukaku-Ha," Steve said at last, "is deeply embarrassed by Japan's political strife and lack of leadership and accountability at the top. They're tired of the bowing-down, hand-wringing image that is symptomatic of Japan's sensitivity about its stature and future."

"And they have the means to do something about it," Marcus insisted with a sudden frown. "The tactical skills of the group are imaginative and they use mortarlike weapons and timed incendiary devices to augment the flamethrower trucks. These people are receiving clandestine training from some of the sharpest young officers in the Self-Defense Forces."

"Have the Japanese authorities had any success in stopping the group?"

Callaway tried to conceal his contempt, but the effort failed. "Are you kidding? The police are afraid of the Chukaku-Ha, and they have a right to be concerned."

"You mess with the boys," Steve suggested, "and you find yourself at the bottom of Tokyo Bay?"

"Close. Floating in the bay has more impact. They like to send a visual reminder to those individuals who might be contemplating messing with them."

"Marcus," Wickham began slowly while his mind shifted to the helicopter attack in Hawaii, "have you received an update from the CIA — about the incident at Pearl Harbor?"

"I haven't heard a word from your people," Callaway replied while the aircraft inched forward, "but I can tell you the latest from my people."

Steve suppressed his irritation at the lack of critical communications from the Agency. The unwieldy and inflexible CIA bureaucracy collected data so rapidly that the analyzers had information overload. Situations and events changed so quickly that real-time information occasionally tended to get shuffled aside.

"We've got over two hundred agents," Callaway said matter-of-factly, "converging on the islands. Our people have been told to get on board with the CIA and find the sonuvabitch who was flying the chopper."

"Yeah," Wickham said lightly, "I got the same message last night, straight from the head honcho."

Steve suddenly noticed that the elderly Japanese passenger was staring ata page of his newspaper, but something seemed amiss. Wickham observed that he never turned a page and wondered how slowly did the man read?

"Marcus," Wickham began while he kept an eye on the eccentric-looking man, "I understand that we're going to be working with another specialist from the Criminal Division."

"That's right." Marcus grinned. "And she is something else, believe me."

Puzzled by the remark, Steve thought he detected a hint of pride in Callaway's voice. He studied the smiling FBI agent for a few seconds. "She? What do you know about her?"

Marcus laughed and shook his head. "Her name is Susan Nakamura, and she's a Japanese-American who was born in Oakland. Susan's one of our best agents. She specializes in criminal cases involving Japanese."

Steve was impressed so far. "Interesting."

"She sure is," Callaway answered with a chuckle. "Susan is serious minded and intelligent, but in a quiet, almost shy way. She has a dogged determination and the patience of Job — traits which have been noted by all of her supervisors."

Wickham gave him a quizzical glance. "If she's assigned to the San Francisco office, why is she working on the Pearl Harbor case?"

"The same reason they assigned me to the case. The director handpicked certain agents who specialize in particular areas."

Wickham covertly studied the quiet Japanese man across the aisle. "I assume that Susan is familiar with the islands."

"Hawaii," Marcus confided while the airplane swung onto the runway, "has been Susan's second home since she was a young girl. Her favorite aunt — her father's sister — lived in Honolulu, and Susan spent her summers with her from the time she was a small child until she graduated from college, so she knows the islands like the back of her hand."

"Not a bad place to spend your vacations."

"No kidding," Callaway continued as the captain jockeyed the throttles forward and released the brakes. "Her aunt died three or four years ago and left Susan the home, so she lives there when she's in Honolulu."

Steve nodded and looked out the window while the heavily laden jet accelerated to rotation speed, then lifted gracefully into the smoggy sky.

Across the aisle, the rumpled Japanese passenger appeared to be absorbed in his Chicago Tribune. From his relaxed pretense, it wasn't apparent that his pulse was racing from the tidbits of information he had overheard.