Deadly Coast (13 page)

Imamura hobbled to a covered patio at the back of the house, with Ward in tow. They were met by a large black woman who looked to be in her sixties. She set a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on a lawn table and fixed Ward with an inquisitive, none-too-friendly stare.

“Ahh … thank you, Mrs. Lomax,” Imamura said. “Agent Ward, this is Mrs. Lomax. She does all the work around here and frees me to putter about in the garden. Mrs. Lomax, this is Agent Ward.”

“Nice to meet you,” Ward said. The woman nodded and turned to leave.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Ward said, as the back door closed.

Imamura chuckled. “Mrs. Lomax is quite reserved, but she is my rock. She’s worked here for over twenty-five years, and her continued presence allows me my independence. My wife and I weren’t blessed with children, so …” He shrugged. “I’ve enjoyed a full life, Agent Ward. I hope one day in the not-too-distant future Mrs. Lomax finds me in the garden, resting peacefully with a smile on my face.”

Ward found himself warming to the little Japanese, despite what he suspected of the man’s past. He nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

Imamura gestured Ward to a chair beside the lawn table as he took off his hat and placed it in another chair. He poured two glasses of lemonade, his hands shaking with the palsy of age, before taking a seat himself. “So tell me, Agent Ward. How may I help you?”

Ward scratched his head. “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. Perhaps we can start with your own background and how you came to the US.”

Imamura looked puzzled. “I hardly see how events of over sixty years ago can … oh, all right, I suppose it makes no difference. I was a doctor in Japan after the war, and I was offered the opportunity to come to the US in 1946. I was a young man, just married, and times in postwar Japan were extremely difficult. We were quite apprehensive because we did not know how
Japs
would be received in the US.” He paused. “And it was hard at first. But we worked very hard at perfecting our English and fitting in. My new colleagues were very supportive, and my wife and I became citizens in 1955. We never returned to Japan.”

“And by your ‘new colleagues,’ I assume you’re referring to your co-workers at USAMRIID?” Ward asked, pronouncing it “U-sam-rid,” the acronym for the US Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases.

“Yes,” said Imamura, “though it was called the Biological Warfare Laboratories when I first joined it.”

“One thing—no, make that several things puzzle me,” Ward said. “War refugees were clamoring to enter the US at the time, but we were taking very few from Japan. Yet you were picked from the crowd, and as best I can tell from existing records—and there are damn few of those, by the way—you were fast-tracked straight to a good job in the US. Why is that?”

“Let us say that I had skills which were in demand.”

“Such as?”

Imamura avoided eye contact, and lifted his glass to sip at the lemonade. The glass shook in his hand from a bit more than his normal palsy and ice cubes clinked in a steady rattle. “Agent Ward,” Imamura said, “all details of my employment at USAMRIID and its predecessor are classified. You, of all people, should know that.”

“You’re right, Doctor. Forget I asked. My interest has nothing to do with USAMRIID, or your time here in the US.”

“What interest is that?” Imamura asked over the rim of his glass.

“What were you doing on a German U-boat in the Arabian Sea in 1944?”

The sound of the glass shattering on the flagstone patio was like a gunshot. Lemonade splashed on both men’s shoes and bits of glass and ice skittered across the patio, but neither man moved.

“Ho … how did you know that?”

“British war records,” Ward replied. “Everything’s being digitized now for historical purposes, and it’s a lot easier than it used to be to make connections. Your name showed up as a POW with details of your capture and repatriation to Japan. It wasn’t in the US records, and I doubt anyone would have thought to ask in 1946, or if they’d have even cared if they knew. But let’s just say I’ve developed an interest. Now. What can you tell me?”

“It … it was long ago. Another world. I … I don’t remember things well—”

“A sub sinks and you’re the only survivor, and you don’t even remember why you were there?” Ward fixed Imamura with a level gaze. “Somehow that seems unlikely.”

Imamura had almost visibly shrunk as he slumped in his chair. He spoke not to Ward but to his own feet. “Please. Agent Ward. I … I am an old man—”

Ward cut him off. “Look, Doctor. Anything that happened is history. I’m not trying to root up bad memories, but I need—”

“I think you better go now!”

Ward looked up to see Mrs. Lomax standing in the back door. As he watched, she came out on the patio and started toward him.

“I just have to ask the doctor a few more questions.”

“You’re upsetting the doctor, Agent Ward. Please leave.”

Ward ignored her. “Dr. Imamura, something’s up with that sub, and I think lives may be at stake. I just need—”

“Now!” Mrs. Lomax said. “Or I’m calling the police.”

Ward sighed and rose, dropping his card on the table before he turned to go. “Call me if you’d like to continue, Doctor.”

“Go!” said Mrs. Lomax, pointing to his car.

Ward started for his car, trailed closely by the woman. She stood watching, arms folded, as he got in his car and pulled out of the drive.

Mrs. Lomax fussed about the patio, sweeping up the glass, the lemonade, and bits of melting ice, leaving wet streaks in the wake of her broom. She looked up, surprised, as Imamura leaned on his cane and struggled to his feet.

“Now don’t you overdo it, Doctor,” she said. “Just sit yourself back down. As soon as I get this cleaned up, I’ll fix you some lunch. I got some of that soup you like simmerin’ on the stove.”

The doctor gave her a wan smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Lomax, but I’m not hungry. I think I’ll finish my weeding.”

“Now, you know the doctors said—”

Imamura waved a frail hand to cut her off. “I know, I know,” he said. “But indulge me if you will. I have some thinking to do, and it’s peaceful in the garden.”

She opened her mouth to object further, then seemed to think better of it, and nodded. Imamura hobbled toward the garden, leaning on the cane. In a few minutes he was on his knees again, weeding around a row of tomato plants. The mindless work cast its usual spell, and he was soon moving more or less automatically, lost in his own thoughts. But much less-pleasant thoughts than usual.

Had it come to this after all these years? After working so hard to become thoroughly American? He’d been terrified at first that his role in the plan would be discovered. A plan so horrific that, even though never carried out, knowledge of his association would be sufficient to condemn him in the eyes of the world. Gradually he’d relaxed, increasingly sure that the past was buried and forgotten. And now this man Ward appeared from nowhere, asking questions. To what end? What did he want?
U-859
and its horrible cargo lay on the sea floor, over a mile deep, no threat to anyone. Imamura closed his eyes and his mind flashed back to a simple file folder, hand-lettered
Operation Minogame
.

What if it was true? What if, as impossible as it seemed, someone had found the secret and was going after the sub? Drops fell on Imamura’s hands as he worked in the dirt. At first he thought it had begun to rain, despite the cloudless sky, but then he realized tears were rolling down his sunken cheeks. But the tears were not enough to relieve the stress of harboring a horrible secret for decades, and when the chest pain came, it was almost welcome—a sign that he could put down his burden at last and move on to whatever place in Heaven or Hell had been allotted him. He didn’t cry out, but toppled over almost gently into the tomato plants, his last conscious thoughts of his wife and whether or not he would meet her.

Chapter Thirteen

M/T Pacific Endurance
Arabian Sea

Dugan stood on the main deck, braced against the slight motion of the ship as she drifted in a gentle swell, watching the M/T
Marie Floyd
drifting nearby. He turned his eyes from the ship to an inflatable roaring toward
Pacific Endurance
, a seaman at the outboard and carrying a single passenger. In minutes the roar died as the seaman cut power and expertly maneuvered the boat alongside the Jacob’s ladder hanging down the side of
Pacific Endurance
. The passenger leaped onto the rope ladder and began to climb. Dugan met the man at the top.

“Welcome aboard, Vince. Glad you could make it,” he said, extending his hand.

“Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Blake replied, shaking the offered hand. “Everything all ready?”

Dugan nodded as he led Blake across the deck. “Borgdanov’s got them all lined up on the port side. He’s going to flush out some translators first—all the gangs have English speakers to communicate with captive crews. After that, he’ll go to work on confessions and clan connections.”

“And what’re we supposed to do?” Blake asked.

“Nothing,” Dugan said. “It’ll be more effective if they think it’s a Russian operation. We just keep our mouths shut and try to look Russian.”

“One thing I don’t quite understand,” Blake said. “Shouldn’t we wait until we get more captives? Otherwise, we’ll just have to do this all over again.”

“Maybe not,” said Dugan. “We’ve got thirty-four and you’ve got twenty-eight on
Marie Floyd
. If the Russians can convince these guys we mean business, we’ll just toss any new captives we take in with them for a few days before we interrogate them. That may do the trick. I don’t want to have to stop and go through this every few days unless we have to.”

Blake nodded as the pair rounded the corner of the deckhouse and stopped to survey the scene on the port side of the main deck. The captive pirates were lined up with their backs against the deckhouse, their bare feet bound at the ankles with plastic ties and their wrists similarly restrained in front of them. All had duct tape across their mouths, and some were leaning back against the deckhouse to balance again the slight movement of the ship. Major Borgdanov and five of his black-clad Russians faced the prisoners, looking very much like the elite
spetsnaz
troops they formerly were. Each had a Russian tricolor flag patch on his shoulder. The major glanced over as the Americans arrived, and gave the briefest of nods before beginning to stalk up and down in front of the prisoners.

“I will need translator,” the major yelled. “I am sure none of you savages is smart enough to speak
culturnyi
language like Russian. So! I think we must use English,
da
? So. If you speak English, raise hands. Now!”

His speech was met with a combination of uncomprehending stares and sullen glares, to which he responded with an exaggerated shrug.

“So. No translator? Is too bad. Without translator you are all useless to me.” He spoke to Sergeant Ilya Denosovitch in Russian, who grinned and motioned to another Russian. The two men grabbed the first captive in line, carried him the few steps to the rail, and heaved him over, as effortlessly as if he were a feather. He fell out of sight and there was the sound of a splash. The sergeant unslung his automatic weapon and fired two three-round bursts down toward the water before turning back and saying something that caused the other Russians to convulse in laughter.

The major studied the remaining captives.

“Is too bad none of you speak English or Russian, so you cannot appreciate sergeant’s little joke,” said the major. “He said you savages are so skinny, you sink so fast he hardly has time to shoot you. But I am thinking about this. Maybe you are not useless after all. Maybe we have shooting competition and I give bottle of very good vodka to man who shoots most savages before they sink.” He shrugged. “Not what I planned, but we should never pass up training opportunity,
da
?”

The major nodded toward the sergeant, who approached the next man in line. A dozen pairs of bound hands shot into the air.

The major held up his hand to stop the sergeant.

“What is this?” the major asked. “Could it be miracle? Some mysterious power that gives gift of tongues? Can I be so fortunate?” He walked to the first man with his hands raised and ripped the tape from his mouth. “Lower your hands and answer questions,” he said, and the man nodded.

“What is your name?”

“Abukar.”

“Abukar what?”

“Just Abukar.”

“What is your clan?” the major asked.

“Ali Saleeban,” the man replied.

“How long have you been a pirate?”

“I … I am not a pirate. I am a fisherman.”

“Silence!” the major screamed, and the terrified Somali snapped his mouth shut.

The major re-taped the man’s mouth with exaggerated gentleness, then patted his cheek as he stepped back and looked down the line at the other prisoners.

“Forgive me,” said the Russian, “for not making myself clear. Is not quite enough to speak English, you must speak
truth
in English.”

The major nodded to his men, who grabbed the would-be translator and tossed him over the side, followed by another burst of automatic fire.

The major moved to the next English speaker in line and untaped his mouth. “Maybe is more efficient if we start with hard question,
da
? How long have you been pirate?”

“Four years and three months,” said the man without hesitation.

The Russian smiled and patted the man’s cheek.

“Good! Very good! I think we have good translator,
da
?”

Joshua Woodley sat in the inflatable and cursed under his breath as the Somali plunged into the water ten feet away and soaked him with the splash. He looked up just in time to see the Russian sergeant step to the ship’s rail and fire two short bursts down into the water, a good twenty feet from where the bound pirate struggled in the cargo net suspended loosely underwater between the inflatable and one of the ship’s lifeboats. He had to admit, the commies were puttin’ on a damn good show.

Woody gestured to Junior West, his companion in the inflatable, who reached out with a long boat hook and snagged the back of the struggling pirate’s shirt to drag him to the boat. Together, they pulled the man onboard. The pirate flopped about in the bottom of the boat, his bare heels making a dull thump on the plywood floorboards, and Woody unholstered a Glock and dropped down beside him. He held the pistol to the man’s head and put his finger to his own lips, the message clear. Wide-eyed, the pirate nodded enthusiastically and stopped making noise. Together, Woody and Junior dragged the pirate forward, out of the way.

They hardly had time to resume their positions before the second pirate splashed down. Junior pulled the man to the boat side, and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

“Woody,” he whispered. “This one’s done shit himself!”

“Jeees-us Christ,” muttered Woody, as he unsheathed a Buck knife. “Here,” he whispered, handing Junior the knife. “I’ll hold the boat hook and you reach down and cut his pants off. Then we’ll dunk him up and down until he’s clean. Ain’t nothin’ in this deal about ridin’ around in a boat fulla pirate shit.”

He waited while Junior sawed through the pirate’s belt. A man had to have standards, after all.

Dugan and Blake watched as one of the Russians put the video camera back in its case as the others taped the prisoners’ eyes and cut their ankle restraints, so they could move back to the jury-rigged holding cells under their own power. Dugan looked down at the clipboard in his hand, and nodded.

“It’s a damn good start,” he said. “Of thirty-four prisoners, we’ve got good representation from ten of the twelve pirate clans, complete with video confessions. Hopefully, when we complete the same drill on your bunch, we’ll pick up some members of the other two clans. If we can pick up at least that many more between here and Harardheere, we’ll have made a real dent in their operation and be in a pretty good negotiating position.”

“What about the ‘dead’ pirates?” Blake asked.

Dugan shrugged. “We’ll keep them isolated from the rest. I doubt we’ll have many more from
Marie Floyd
after Borgdanov finishes his little act.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not real sure the Russians were acting,” Blake said. “I suspect they’d do it for real in a heartbeat, and that’s what made it convincing. And speaking of convincing, what about these confessions? I mean, we nailed them in the act, so there’s no question of their guilt, but I doubt these confessions would hold up in court. It’s pretty obvious they were coerced.”

“Maybe not a US or UK court,” he said, “but I don’t think we’ll have any problem in Liberia.” He shrugged. “But it won’t come to that. The confessions are just window-dressing for negotiations.”

Blake nodded, then stared off in the distance with a troubled look on his face.

“What’s up, Vince?” Dugan asked. “Things couldn’t be going any better, and you look like someone just killed your puppy.”

Blake looked back at Dugan with a wan smile. “Sorry. Just engaging in the time-honored tradition among captains of worrying about what’s over the horizon. It’s been easy so far. We’ve been at this less than a week and snapped up over sixty pirates. Sooner or later, the rest of them have to start worrying about all their buddies just disappearing. Then they may start getting cagey.”

Dugan shrugged. “Maybe, but remember, these guys are pretty decentralized. I think realization is going to dawn gradually.”

Blake looked doubtful. “I don’t know, we may be pushing our luck. What happens if they stop sending out far-ranging scout-attack boats and keep operations closer to the mother ships? We might find ourselves up to our asses in more pirates than we can handle. If we lose the element of surprise, we’re not in real good shape.”

“Well, pal,” Dugan said, “I guess we just have to hope that doesn’t happen.”

M/T Phoenix Lynx
At anchor
Harardheere, Somalia

“Silver? You’re sure?” Zahra asked.

Omar nodded. “Great piles of it on deck, according to our man. At least a million of the old silver Saudi riyals. Worth much more than face value now.”

“A fortune, no doubt,” Zahra said. “But it still doesn’t seem the sort of operation one would expect from the fanatics. And why hasn’t Mukhtar looted the treasure and withdrawn? Surely he knows it’s only a matter of time before he has company from the Omanis.”

“I don’t know, Zahra, but apparently he’s promised the whole treasure will be divided among the men, and he’s moved the ship to go after something else. Our man doesn’t know what. Mukhtar allows no one but hard-core al-Shabaab followers in the control and operations areas. The speculation onboard is that he’s going after an even richer treasure of gold or diamonds.”

Zahra scoffed. “The speculation of fools. If there were such riches in the offing, the salvage operation would have brought those up first.” He considered that a moment. “But still, Mukhtar is a fanatic, not a fool. If he’s ignoring the treasure at hand to continue a search, then he’s after something of immense value.”

“What’ll we do?” Omar asked.

“Nothing, for the moment. Have our man notify us the instant he discovers what Mukhtar’s after. Then we’ll decide.”

“It will be done,” Omar said, then hesitated.

“What is it, Omar?”

“These disappearances. Do you think they’re somehow linked to Mukhtar?”

Zahra nodded. “It’s crossed my mind. We’ve lost two boats and twelve men. The other bands are reporting similar strange disappearances, not so far from Mukhtar’s drillship.”

“A coincidence?”

“A bit too much of a coincidence,” Zahra said. “I suspect he may have hunter boats of his own out to establish a perimeter.”

“But surely, if he destroyed so many boats, some few of them would have gotten off a warning to their mother ships,” Omar said.

Zahra shrugged. “Perhaps not. The turncoats that defected to al-Shabaab have no strong clan ties, and the lure of treasure is great. If they approached one of our boats, they’d be greeted as brothers. They could kill everyone in the boat before anyone got off a warning.”

Omar nodded. “I suppose that explanation might fit.”

“It’s the only one that does,” Zahra replied. “Warn our boats to be suspicious of any launches that approach them. I’ll alert the other bands to the possibility.”

Omar turned to go, but Zahra stopped him with an upraised hand.

“And Omar, I’ve been discussing the hostage executions with the other groups. It’s clear they’re having little impact. We’ve executed three so far, and still no owner has paid a ransom. We’re going increase the rate of executions to one a day. Tomorrow’s our turn to contribute a hostage. Pick one of the sick ones that might die anyway.”

“It will be done,” said Omar.