Honorable Enemies (1994) (5 page)

"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 th
e g
enerosity 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 th
e g
roup 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 th
e e
ccentric-looking man, "I understand that we're going to b
e w
orking 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.

Chapter
5.

WASHINGTON, D
. C
.

The President, followed by his Secretary of State, Bud Tidwell, walked ramrod-straight into the renovated Oval Office and sat down behind his well-organized desk.

The stark difference between weekday and weekend Washington was clearly evident this morning. The cars and buses that choked the avenues were in sharp contrast to the empty parking lots and deserted streets of the weekend. The working citizenry of the nation's capital were flooding into the heart of the metropolitan area from all their widely scattered suburban homes.

"Okay," the portly Commander in Chief declared, "we've got to get a handle on this situation. The Japanese people need reassurances that we'll find and prosecute the person, or persons, responsible for attacking the tour boat at Pearl."

Tidwell nodded his agreement.

"By the same token," the President went on, "we expect them to show a sense of urgency in pursuing the sonsabitches who killed the retirees in Osaka. It's hard to believe that the Chukaku-Ha is still operating after they launched incendiary projectiles at the Imperial Palace and fired rocket bombs at the Narita Airport.

"What kind of idiots run their police force?" the President blurted. "They should have cleaned out the terrorists years ago."

Tidwell sat down in one of the three chairs that had been arranged in front of the cherrywood desk. The Japanese Ambassador and a special envoy, who normally dealt with the U
. S
. Ambassador to Japan and the Under Secretary of State, were waiting to meet with the President and his Secretary of State.

The American Ambassador, who was considered a has-been figurehead by many members of the Administration, had suddenly fallen ill and was recuperating during an extended leave of absence.

"I agree about taking a strong stance where the terrorist group is concerned," Tidwell replied in his usual confident tone, "but I would like to cover a few unrelated issues before we speak with the Ambassador."

"This ongoing flap about the trade issues?" the President shot back with a disgusted look.

"I'm afraid so," Tidwell lamented, "and the continuing plutonium shipments from France."