Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Hannah would never forget the sight of her angel-faced sister in the back of an ambulance, IV fluids flowing into her bloodstream, oxygen mask pushing enriched air into her lungs, ice packs strategically placed to help reduce her body temperature, the two paramedics working furiously to keep her alive, monitoring her vital signs, hoping to ward off a seizure, stroke, or heart attack. There was no magic prescription drug to counteract a cocaine overdose. It was more a matter of trying to keep the patient stable until the drug ran its course.

  Hannah wondered whether her sister had snorted a full gram of cocaine, perhaps two, or had been given a speedball – a dangerous mix of cocaine and heroin made further toxic by the substances used to cut it. She’d read horror stories about dealers cutting cocaine with everything from laundry detergent, talcum powder, and laxatives, to painkillers like Lidocaine, and even Strychnine, an ingredient commonly found in rat poison.

  While waiting for the ambulance to arrive, Hannah had demanded her sister tell her the truth. The girl swore she hadn’t ever used cocaine and never would. Hannah knew it was bullshit but saw no advantage in getting her sister to admit it. The blood tests at the hospital would do that. She felt grateful that her older sister, Molly, was away at college, because the woman usually became emotionally unstable in a crisis and caused more harm than good.

  Hannah remembered seeing her parents standing at the curb, their faces surreally bathed in the red and blue flashing emergency lights. They looked confused and defeated. She felt sorry for them, and for herself as well. Her thoughts had been more focused on the upcoming senior prom than scoring a ball of coke from some sleazy dude in the parking lot behind the shopping mall. She detested the local drug dealers, but more so the kingpins who set the supply in motion. She also blamed herself for not noticing Rachel’s frequent nosebleeds, sniffles, dilated pupils, and her increased aggression. It was a lesson on the need to think about others.

  4

  A History Lesson

  CIA Headquarters

  Langley, Virginia

  March 1990

  Stu Ashwood’s voice had returned, distant at first, but now was back to normal volume and apparently being directed at Hannah and Carrington. Hannah realized she had spaced out thinking about her sister. She felt embarrassed and hoped her momentary lapse of attention had gone unnoticed, though she doubted it. Ashwood hadn’t been promoted to deputy director of operations at the CIA because he was obtuse.

  Ashwood was saying, “What the President purposely didn’t mention during his broadcast is the heroin smuggling that’s going on in the Pacific Rim. There’s a lot more to the drug epidemic here in the U.S. It’s not all about cocaine. The influx of heroin is just as bad, if not worse. But the President didn’t want to spread panic. Instead, he called me, and I called you.”

  Hannah and Carrington automatically morphed into models of concern, sitting erect on the edge of their chairs.

  Ashwood unrolled a large map of the Pacific Ocean that nearly covered his desk. Saipan Island was marked with a red dot near the center. The map extended northwest to include Japan and the Philippine Sea, northeast to the Hawaiian Islands and the West Coast of the United States, and south to Papau New Guinea and Australia. He lit a cigarette, keeping his eyes on Hannah, a formidable expression on his face. Old School in his methods, he preferred paper maps to images shone on a projection screen.

  “This is strictly black ops. We’ll have all the funding and resources we need, some satellite coverage, and even a Navy sub at our disposal in the Western Pacific. But as always, we need boots on the ground.”

  Hannah felt a chill run through her — black ops, Navy subs, satellites, unlimited resources. Whatever Ashwood was about to unveil was big.

  Ashwood’s intense blue eyes seemed somehow too small for his face behind tortoise-framed eyeglasses but they bored into the two CIA officers seated before him. “We need to find out how tons of heroin are making their way from the Golden Triangle — namely Thailand — to secret drug labs in the Philippines for conversion to white powder, and eventually to Hawaii and the streets of San Francisco.”

  Carrington stood and stretched uncomfortably, as though he needed to move in order to digest what Ashwood was saying. “That’s a tall order.”

  “So it is. But we need to destroy or at least plug the pipeline because it’s flooding the United States with heroin and it’s affecting our national security. Most people think the illegal drugs are coming only from Colombia. But the yakuza are doing their share.”

  Hannah stood and moved closer to Ashwood’s desk where she could get a better look at the map.

  “I’m all for cracking down on drug trafficking, whether it’s in Colombia or Japan. But honestly, how do we tackle something this big? Where do we even begin?”

  Ashwood leaned across the map and touched the city of Tokyo with the index finger of his right hand. “That’s the power center. But if our latest intel is accurate, most likely the answers we need will be found on Saipan,” he said, referring to one of the fourteen volcanic dots that comprise the Northern Mariana Islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and due east of the Philippines. “You’ll need to tap into the pipeline and find out where it goes from there.”

  Ashwood was well liked at Langley and most of those working in the operation’s sector were thrilled Barlow had been forced out. Ashwood was fair-minded and less motivated by politics than his predecessor. He cared foremost about the safety of the field operatives under his command.

  “Japan sounds good to me. I like sushi,” said Carrington, attempting to inject a bit of levity.

  Known informally at Langley as Wild Bill, Carrington at forty-five was handsome, fit, and one of the CIA’s top operatives. He exuded a boyish charm most people found attractive, especially women. With ash-blond hair that extended nearly to his shoulders but tamed by a short ponytail, he was dressed in tattered tan carpenter pants, a black t-shirt with paint flecks across the front, and ratty boat shoes. He might have been mistaken for a deckhand on some billionaire’s yacht.

  Carrington’s vibrant blue eyes glanced over at Hannah who, though appearing sheik and sophisticated in her navy Ann Taylor V-neck sheath dress, was grinning inside like a schoolgirl. Hannah was thrilled by the prospect of another international assignment, especially in a region of the world she’d never visited. Chasing mobsters and mercenaries in Cuba had left her with a taste for this kind of adventure. At thirty-one, she was in excellent physical condition, her 5-foot-7 frame kept taut and trim by a daily run and visits to the gym.

  Ashwood frowned. “Any more helpful comments before we continue?”

  Hannah’s gray-green eyes came alive with their usual playfulness. “Well, I’ve heard March is a spectacular time to visit Japan,” she said, the tiny scar at the right corner of her mouth twitching slightly, as it did whenever she was anxious. “We can actually see the cherry blossoms blooming in their native land instead of waiting for their transplanted relatives to show off their petals in DC. Oh, and by the way, I don’t own a kimono. Can I put one on my expense account?”

  Ashwood took a long pull from his cigarette, sending the smoke out his nostrils in a powerful plume. He liked both operatives and was well acquainted with their spycraft abilities. Besides, he didn’t trust the more obsequious CIA officers at Langley, the ass kissers who agreed with everything he suggested just to stay on his good side and help assure their ascension through the ranks.

  Ashwood stared at Carrington, paused a moment, then fixed his eyes on Hannah, his lips formed into a twisted grin. “I’m glad you both find this amusing. Hannah, I’ll see what I can do about the kimono. If I recall correctly from your file, your favorite color is green. But right now we’ve got a few more important matters to consider.”

  Ashwood tossed a glossy, 8-by-10, black-and-white photograph on his desk where Hannah and Carrington could see it and sat back in his chair. “For the past couple of months, a yakuza underboss named Mikito Asaki has been stiffening up in
the morgue out there in Saipan, unless he has been cremated against the instructions of our Justice Department and his charred bones are already in Japan, picked from the ashes with chop sticks and spread across the family table like some spiritual board game. From what our sources tell us, his murder could be linked directly to the heroin smuggling.”

  Hannah picked up the photo, which showed Asaki walking along a Tokyo street in suit and sunglasses, a tan trench coat casually tossed over one arm.

  “When was this taken?”

  “Some time last year. I assume people in the Asian underworld are talking. Let’s see if Asaki’s untimely death can lead us to what happened to Dan and Candace in Tokyo. They went dark the second week of January and we have little reason to suspect they’re still alive.”

  That was the bomb Ashwood had waited to unleash. The mood in the room shifted instantly from light-hearted and playful to dark and ominous.

  Hannah and Carrington were silent, their somber faces reflecting surprise and deep concern. Until that moment, they were unaware that CIA officers Dan Stevens and Candace Cahill were unaccounted for. The pair made an enviable team in the spy world — attractive, seasoned and savvy. It would have taken professionals of the highest order to get the best of them — or a traitor.

  Carrington had worked with both agents on various assignments and knew them well. He wondered where and when they’d made a fatal mistake. Stevens was always so careful. He’d made his bones at the FBI and later the CIA as an “electrician”. Although his commercial work vans advertised Dan Stevens Electric — Residential and Commercial — his forte lay in installing electronic surveillance systems, particularly “bugs” hidden in offices, homes, and hotel rooms. He was a pro at eavesdropping and a savvy field agent.

  Ashwood rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “We found the last vehicle they drove abandoned in the Ginza. It was wiped clean. No blood. No fingerprints. No sign of a struggle. The vehicle had been reported stolen from Narita Airport on New Year’s Eve. The steering column was pried open and the ignition hot-wired. We believe Stevens and Cahill stole the vehicle and drove it into the city. We don’t know what happened after that. Obviously we’d like to find out who is responsible for their disappearance and get a little payback.”

  “I say let’s do it,” said Carrington, forcefully slapping the corner of Ashwood’s desk before thrusting the fingers of both hands through his blond hair, combing it straight back from his forehead. It was more a gesture of exasperation than vanity. “I’m ready. When do we leave?”

  “Later this week.”

  Hannah seemed puzzled, her mouth slightly open in surprise. “Why wait? Why not leave today?”

  “You won’t be going in on a black insert. We need you visible, on a commercial flight. Personally I’d like to send you both on your way this afternoon because we’re already a month behind on this. The FBI sent two of its people to Saipan last week. Since the island is a U.S. protectorate the Feebies assume they have jurisdiction. I’m sure the local police were not pleased to see them. They don’t like being told how to run their own island. You two, on the other hand, will be flying to Tokyo and taking connecting flights to Guam and Saipan where you’ll be visiting as beach-loving tourists. Hannah, you’ll be representing an Argentine travel company interested in setting up Saipan flight and hotel packages that focus on surfing and parasailing, scuba diving and beach volleyball. You know the drill. And Billybong, you’ll be tagging along as her business associate.”

  Hannah’s eyes swirled open, radiating disbelief and amusement. “Did you just call him Billybong?”

  “I did. Forgive me. It goes back to our days in Vietnam. He often mingled with the locals to get intel on VC movements and the political climate, and in doing so was forced to partake in smoking a few bowls.”

  Carrington was smirking. “All in the line of duty. It was an insult if you didn’t take a hit or two from the bong or hookah if it got passed your way. Same with the Thai sticks.”

  “I see,” said Hannah, a wry smile plastered to her face. “Nothing like first-hand knowledge.”

  “Well, let’s make sure we keep it at that level,” said Ashwood, chuckling. “Heroin is a different ballgame, especially with these people. And who knows, we may learn something about how all this white powder is getting from Thailand to Saipan, and how it manages to leave the island without a trace. That’s what Stevens and Cahill were trying to find out.”

  Hannah shifted in her seat. “Were they able to get any intel?”

  “Some, but not all. Cahill spoke fluent Japanese. She lived in Tokyo for a year while in college, and she was comfortable traveling throughout Asia. Over the past four years, she’s built a trusted network of sources.”

  “So what went wrong?”

  “I wish I knew. They’d made contact with a celebrated tattoo artist in Tokyo, a businessman named Yoshi Yamamoto with ties to the yakuza and apparently some financial interest in a casino and hotel resort on Saipan. Cahill begged him to create a dragon tattoo on her wrist, which is how she eventually got him to start talking. The guy was unhappy and afraid that his life was spiraling out of control. He was willing to tell them all he knew about the drug trafficking, gunrunning, and a few other activities in return for starting life over in the U.S. under new identities for him and his niece. We had a witness-protection plan ready to go.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He’s also gone dark.”

  “And the niece?”

  “Her name is Hiraku and, unfortunately, she has also disappeared. From what we know, she may very well be key to bringing down their operation. Based on our last report from Cahill, a powerful yakuza boss named Orochi Tanaka had taken a liking to the girl. Her uncle feared Tanaka might kidnap her. Not so unusual when the yakuza are involved. So it looks like the girl may have gone into hiding. Stevens was scheduled to file a follow-up report with more details, but he never did.”

  Ashwood pulled another black-and-white photograph from his desk. “Orochi Tanaka. His nickname is Big Snake. A foul human being if ever there was one. Right now he’s in position to become shogun of heroin smuggling throughout the entire Pacific Rim. If that happens, it’ll be almost impossible to bring that situation under control. He’ll be unstoppable. So the stakes are high.”

  Hannah fiddled with a few strands of her wavy blonde hair. “And the girl, the tattoo artist’s niece, why is she so important?

  “Because there’s a good probability that she, just like her uncle, has the information we’re looking for – the names of the players, the smuggling routes, the contacts in each location, and how the money is being laundered. According to Cahill, the girl is an important key to the puzzle, but she never got to explain precisely why. It’s my gut feeling that Yoshi Yamamoto is dead, but if we find Hiraku, we can still win this war. If we don’t, America’s streets become a heroin shooting gallery and we can watch as the fabric of our society unravels. We’ve got to find her and get her back here in one piece. Hopefully we’re not too late.”

  Hannah was still struggling with the news about her two colleagues. Her throat was dry and swallowing difficult. She immediately recalled Candace Cahill’s zany sense of humor that usually made her colleagues double over with laughter. Cahill was young and good looking, with four years of field experience, and now she apparently was dead.

  “And you think this Asaki might have had direct involvement in the heroin trafficking? Why would…”

  Ashwood palmed up his right hand to halt Hannah’s next question. “I didn’t say that. Right now all we know for certain is that Asaki had some sort of business interest in the same Saipan casino and hotel where Yoshi Yamamoto worked as a manager. Shortly before Christmas, a Japanese tour group spotted Asaki’s body bobbing face up in the surf at the foot of Banzai Cliff. The Saipan police weren’t exactly shocked. Apparently suicides are common there.”

  Carrington nodded, as though familiar with the location and the custom. “I recall reading about the
Battle of Saipan in a course at the war college. If I remember correctly, during World War II, entire Japanese families living on the island flung themselves over the edge of the cliffs to their deaths rather than face what they imagined would be torture by the thousands of U.S. Marines storming ashore.”

  “You’ve got a good memory,” said Ashwood. “Mostly it was Japanese soldiers who died at Banzai Cliff. There’s also Suicide Cliff nearby, where about six hundred other Japanese jumped to their deaths – men, women, old, young, some going over the side with babies in their arms, whole families holding hands as they headed for the afterlife.”

  Hannah pursed her lips and glanced at Carrington, who had folded his arms on his chest while Ashwood continued the briefing.

  “The landing zone at the bottom of Suicide Cliff is craggy rock, as equally unforgiving as the pounding waves at Banzai. During the Battle of Saipan, or I guess you might say in its aftermath, the Army Signal Corps recorded these suicides on film — countless horrible images. Loudspeakers were set up on land and aboard Navy ships anchored just offshore, and translators were hired to tell the people they wouldn’t be harmed if they surrendered to our Marines, but it didn’t do much good. They jumped anyway. Honored to commit suicide for the emperor. At least most of them did. The survivors surrendered or were found hiding in the caves. Saipan has no shortage of caves.”

  Hannah moved uneasily in her seat. “Jesus,” she said. “I’d better catch up on my history.”

  “I’ll be glad to fill you in,” said Carrington. “We’ll probably have to start with the attack on Pearl Harbor.”

  “I know about Pearl Harbor, you idiot,” she said, playfully kicking him in the shin. “Dec. 7, 1941. The Japanese sank our fleet in Hawaii. Tora! Tora! Tora! FDR on the radio. The Day of Infamy. America declares war on Japan.”

  “Hannah, you obviously saw the movie and, well, not all of our fleet…”