Honorable Enemies (1994) (11 page)

"Yes," he hesitated, "I'm sure the Agency isn't involved."

"That's good." Marcus's relief was clearly evident as he looked at his watch. "We better get going if we're going to be on time."

Wickham and Callaway were driven to the headquarters of the Federal Bureau of Investigation by a personable young agent who then gave them the keys to the four-door sedan.

When they entered the building at 300 Ala Moana, the plac
e w
as crawling with senior Bureau agents and local authorities who were attempting to coordinate their activities amid the chaos. Maps had hastily been taped on the walls, and radio chatter squawked above the din of noise in the crowded building.

Marcus looked through the open door to the main office and recognized Bureau friends from San Diego, Los Angeles, Seattle, Portland, and a number of other West Coast cities. He poked Steve with his elbow. "I've never seen this type of reaction before. If I didn't know better, I'd think the President had been shot."

"Well, no one can accuse the FBI of being lackadaisical," Steve commented while Callaway shook hands and exchanged greetings with two of his colleagues who were discussing the crash landing in Los Angeles.

Marcus introduced Steve to his associates as the two men moved toward the center of the office.

They spotted Susan Nakamura at the same time and worked their way through the throng of people.

"Good morning," she said briskly and motioned toward the open door. "Let's get out of the line of fire, then I'll explain what's going on."

Steve cast a glance at Marcus and shrugged. They followed her out of the main office and down the hallway to a storage room where a phone and two small desks had been hastily put in place.

"We can have some privacy in here," Susan said as she closed the door. "The Attorney General has issued a top-priority mandate to the Bureau. She wants us to get this case resolved as quickly as possible, and, as you have seen, she has pulled every available person."

Steve noticed that Susan had a moment of eye contact with Callaway. They were acutely aware of the tough reputation the hardworking Attorney General enjoyed.

"Basically," she confided with a trace of annoyance, "the Bureau is expected to solve these cases quickly or heads are going to roll . . . as they did after the Waco disaster."

She was clearly troubled by the implied threat from the Attorney General. "That's why this investigation has become a circus."

"Susan," Wickham said with conviction, "forget about the politics of the Bureau. What kind of leads do we have?"

"You're right," she acknowledged without any sign of irritation. "Since I have a number of contacts throughout the islands, I did some digging last night and found a few interesting bits of information."

Callaway was intrigued. "And?"

"There are two pilots--helicopter pilots--living on Oahu who have very checkered histories." She let her gaze linger on Steve. "Why they're still flying is beyond me."

Wickham started to ask a question, then decided it was best to hear her out.

"They both have DUI convictions," she continued evenly, "along with a string of violations and reprimands from the FAA. One of them even has a record of drug smuggling when he lived in Miami. He plea-bargained his way out of one charge, then got caught again and turned state's evidence against his co-conspirators."

"Have they been questioned?" Callaway asked, shifting into his role as a professional Bureau agent.

"Yes. One of them has an alibi for his whereabouts when the attack took place."

Susan sat on the edge of one of the desks. "We're checking his story, but the other pilot--the drug smuggler--says that he was on an overnight fishing and camping trip."

"By himself?" Steve asked, distracted by the glimpse of her legs.

"That's right," she answered serenely. "He's divorced and lives by himself. He's dual rated in helos and airplanes, but says that he hasn't flown helicopters in over a year. He makes a living as an interisland cargo pilot."

Steve looked at the phone. "I need to call Langley." "Before you call, I'd like to add one other thing." Callaway and Wickham gave her their attention.

"The pilot of the helicopter from the television station returned my call late last night and left a message. I just happened to walk in this morning when they were replaying the tape."

Steve's instincts told him the pilot's call was a positive aspect in the investigation. "What'd she have to say?"

"She was very guarded. I'm familiar with her personality--her on-the-air personality--since I occasionally watch her."

Susan placed her palms on the edge of the desk. "This side of Theresa Garney was very subdued. She started to explain something, then suddenly stopped. She left her home and business phone numbers and said it was urgent."

Marcus looked puzzled. "When was her initial interview?"

"I don't know, but she's been interrogated four or five times. I want to talk to her as soon as possible, so let's give her a call. She's probably at work."

While Susan placed the call to the television studio, Callaway and Wickham lowered their voices and stepped across the tiny room.

"I'm going to call Langley," Steve suggested, "and have a military helicopter assigned to us. I want to talk to everyone who watched the helo depart after the attack, then trace the exact route."

"You're convinced the chopper is still on the island?"

"Not completely," Steve admitted while he caught one side of the telephone conversation. "This was a well-planned, well-executed attack and disappearing act. Susan talked to me about her theory in San Francisco, and I think her reasoning has merit."

Steve lowered his voice to a whisper when Susan glanced at him. "The key to getting away with something like this is reducing the amount of time you spend in the air after the attack. The more time in the air, the higher the risk of being intercepted or seen."

"You don't think the pilot flew to another island or landed on a boat offshore? That seems probable to me."

Steve gave the options a moment of thought. "We have t
o a
ssume the pilot's highest priorities--after the strafing attack--revolved around not crashing and not getting caught."

Callaway wrinkled his brow. "I'd say that's a valid assumption, especially when the guy knows there's a boatful of people who wouldn't hesitate to kill him."

Wickham paused and studied his friend for a long moment. "You're convinced the pilot was a male?"

"No," Marcus responded smoothly, "but you know as well as I do that the probability of the pilot being female is almost nil. Besides, every witness has confirmed that he--the pilot--was a Caucasian male."

Wickham hesitated while Susan placed the phone receiver in its cradle. "For the moment let's just say that we don't know who was piloting the helo."

"Fair enough," Callaway replied evenly.

"She's flying at the moment," Susan announced and underlined the television station's phone number. "They expect her back in about an hour and fifteen minutes. I'll see if I can speak with her when she lands."

Callaway ran a finger through the dust on one of the desks. "I want to check out the drug smuggler. and then go over the reports from the eyewitnesses."

Steve's glance slid to Susan. "I need to make arrangements for a military helicopter, then I'd like to sit in on your discussion with the--"

"Sky Nine pilot," she said easily. "Theresa Garney."

Chapter
9.

NEAR MARCO ISLAND, FLORIDA

Tadashi Matsukawa stood on the afterdeck of the Gochi Nyorai, his new 204-foot Feadship named after the five Buddhas of Wisdom and Contemplation. The gleaming white ship with the polished brass fittings and golden teak decks was considered the Rolls-Royce of superyachts.

Built in the Dutch seafaring tradition and hailed as a world-cruising masterpiece, Gochi Nyorai had been designed and equipped for any sea conditions, any season of the year. She could easily negotiate Drake Passage while rounding Cape Horn in the worst of storms.

Matsukawa was especially pleased with the absence of noise and vibration in the sturdy hull. With 38,000 gallons of fuel and 14,600 gallons of water in her bowels, the stately yacht had the ability to take the captain of Japanese industry anywhere in the world.

While Tadashi Matsukawa mingled with the 170 guests aboard Gochi Nyorai for the afternoon cruise, three chefs manned the huge barbecue on the afterdeck. The men slathered various sauces on the wide variety of meats while a second vessel trailed the yacht with freshly butchered livestock for the sizzling grill.

The CEOs of Fortune 500 companies chatted easily with members of Congress and professional influence peddlers. The core of lobbyists especially enjoyed the assemblage of female celebrities, well-known models, and highly paid call girls who were attending the extravagant party.

The primary topic of conversation centered around the ongoing investigation into the crash landing of the JAL flight at Los Angeles. A videotape taken by an amateur photographer near the airport clearly showed the highly visible tracer rounds impacting the airplane. Although the quality of the picture was poor, the frantic dive for the deck and subsequent hard landing and explosion had been captured on film.

Matsukawa was about to have another glass of champagne when Yoshio Okura, his aide for eleven years, stepped close to him and silently signaled to him. Okura never appeared in the midst of a social gathering unless the reason was extremely important.

Smiling and chatting cordially, Matsukawa slipped into a wide passageway and followed his assistant to the master suite. The lavish stateroom was connected to a private, state-of-the-art communications center.

"What is it, Yoshio?"

The chunky man backed toward the door for a quick exit. More than a dozen times, Yoshio Okura had borne Matsukawa's violent anger when the businessman had received bad news.

"The Ambassador is on your private line."

"Hagura?"

The nervous man nodded and inched backward.

Matsukawa thanked his aide and waited until Okura left the suite, then sat down in a leather chair by the phone with the blinking yellow light.

The billionaire had nurtured a friendship with Ambassador Koji Hagura in order to have another direct line of communication to the U
. S
. government. Considered a plodder by many, Hagura was much more than a dull functionary. Under th
e t
utelage of Tadashi Matsukawa, the Ambassador had developed excellent politico-business instincts.

"Konnichi wa, Hagura-san." Good afternoon, Mr. Hagura. Matsukawa never used the word "ambassador" when he talked with Hagura. "Ogenki desu ka?" How are you?

"Genki desu. Arigatoo gozaimasu." Very well, thank you.

Matsukawa drummed his stubby fingers on the edge of the Chippendale desk. "What can I do for you, Hagura-san?"

"The President has requested a private meeting with the Prime Minister, due to our mutually strained relations."

Genuinely surprised, Tadashi Matsukawa switched the phone to his other ear. "Yukkuri hanashite kudasai." Speak slowly.

Hagura paused, unsure if he had made a mistake by calling the leader of one of the strongest financial cartels in Japan. The Ambassador was deeply concerned about the deteriorating U
. S
.-Japanese relationship, and he knew that Matsukawa and the Prime Minister were close friends. Hagura fervently hoped that he had not overstepped his bounds.

"I forwarded the invitation to Tokyo . . . and moments ago, I received a curt message from Foreign Minister Katsumoto."

"Go on," Matsukawa prodded impatiently.

Hagura took a deep breath. "He instructed me to inform the President that Prime Minister Koyama will set the date and place of any formal meetings."

Matsukawa wanted Genshiro Koyama to take a strong stand against the Americans, but he knew the Prime Minister and the financial cartel members needed to proceed cautiously.

The opportune moment was rapidly approaching for an equal partnership between the two countries. Matsukawa and many other Japanese leaders firmly believed that it was past time to void all restrictions placed on Japan, including the size of its expanding military. They also believed that Japan would thrive like never before if it didn't have to placate the lazy Americans.

"I will make a call, Hagura-san." Matsukawa's mind wa
s r
acing. "You did the right thing, and I appreciate the information."

The warm sun was high in the sky when Susan parked the Bureau's sedan near the First Hawaiian Bank. She and Steve locked the doors and walked down Kapiolani Boulevard to the studios of KGMB Television. After they entered the building and identified themselves, the startled receptionist escorted them to a conference room.

"Let's take her to lunch," Susan suggested while they waited, "so she won't feel so intimidated."

"I was about to suggest lunch," Steve said with an innocent smile. "Honestly."