Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Although he’d occasionally seen her with Yoshi after that, it wasn’t until her eighteenth birthday party at a Tokyo restaurant that he first noticed the peacock feather tattoo on her foot. The tattoo details were exquisite. Perfect artistry.

  Tanaka knew by the design quality that Yoshi had created it. He had been so taken by the tattoo that he’d asked Hiraku to remove her sandal so that he might fully admire it. Hiraku had blushed. The moment was awkward, but Tanaka was a powerful yakuza boss. His requests were really orders in disguise. So Hiraku slipped her foot from the sandal and gently twirled her ankle. Tanaka had to stop himself from reaching out and kissing it.

  Yoshi had invited five of Hiraku’s girlfriends to celebrate her birthday in the Ginza. The mood at the table was festive, all of them drinking plum wine, sake and beer, and nibbling on trays laden with sashimi, yakitori, tempura, sukiyaki, and even a stack of cheeseburgers with French fries – the latter a special request from Hiraku.

  Tanaka had brought along two younger yakuza — handsome fun seekers, unlike other kobun in his crime family who practiced looking stern and fierce but offered little joy. He was infatuated with Hiraku and hoped to share some moments with her alone. As such, he had pre-arranged to receive a phone call during the birthday celebration regarding an emergency at The Lucky Carp casino and hotel on Saipan. The caller was instructed to say it was a delicate matter involving a prostitute seriously injured by a customer and a situation that only Yoshi, as the most-recognized co-owner of the establishment, could handle. According to Tanaka, the Saipan police were already threatening to shut down The Lucky Carp. Hundreds of thousands of dollars potentially would be lost from nightly gambling proceeds, prostitution, and routine money laundering until the problem was resolved.

  Tanaka assured Yoshi he would transport Hiraku and her companions to their respective homes when the party was over. Yoshi was grateful his boss and business partner was also a trusted friend. He bowed respectfully and departed for the airport.

  Bellies filled with food and drink, Hiraku insisted they all go dancing at an American-style discotheque. She wanted to dance and sing the latest from Madonna, Janet Jackson, and the Pet Shop Boys. It was well past three in the morning when the nightclub closed its doors. Tanaka suggested they continue the party at his penthouse apartment and everyone thought it was a great idea since it was only a 15-minute limo drive from the nightclub. Once at the penthouse, the girls chatted, sipped more plum wine and danced with the two kobun. They soon fell asleep on the couches in the spacious living room with its panoramic view of the glittering city.

  At mid-morning, the kobun drove Hiraku’s friends to their homes. Tanaka convinced Hiraku to stay and wait for Yoshi rather than return immediately to the tiny apartment she shared with her uncle in a far less opulent quarter of the sprawling city. The yakuza boss knew the phony business to which Yoshi had been dispatched would keep him occupied for at least two days. The flights each way between Tokyo and Saipan would consume many hours. More time would be spent discussing the incident with the casino night manager and the police, who would be confused by Yoshi’s concerns since no such assault had occurred. When it came time to report his findings to Tanaka, Yoshi would be told a rumor apparently had gotten out of control and led them all astray at The Lucky Carp.

  Hiraku agreed to remain until nightfall, when she would take a cab back to her apartment. She was not afraid to stay there alone. She’d done so many times when Yoshi was in Saipan. Besides, she was enjoying the luxurious surroundings, the fashionable furniture and artwork, a kitchen made for a gourmet chef, and a master bathroom with sauna, steam room, and a glass-enclosed shower where faucets sprayed water from six nozzles.

  She read magazines, watched TV and tried to relax, but the sound of Tanaka’s agitated voice as he paced the room while conducting business on the phone disturbed her mood. She decided to take a shower, helping herself to two of the white, fluffy, oversized towels that were among dozens neatly stacked on a teak shelf. She was shocked when Tanaka entered the shower where the gush of warm water was working wonders to wash away the previous night of partying. She screamed. She knew she had locked the door. “What are you doing in here? Get out!”

  Tanaka was naked and erect. “Hiraku is a beautiful name. It means radiance, and you are truly radiant,” he said, stepping into the shower and wrapping his strong arms around her.

  “Please let me go.” She tried to wriggle from his embrace but he held her tightly, pushing himself between her legs.

  “No. Stop!”

  Tanaka persisted. He had imagined this moment many times – although in his mind it occurred on a bed of rose petals, not in the shower. And in his vision, Hiraku was willing – perhaps the initiator, possessing innate charms he did not have the words to describe.

  Hiraku felt an excruciating pain that pulsed across her abdomen as Tanaka pushed inside her. She screamed loudly, scratching Tanaka’s face and shoulders, causing him to momentarily thrust deeper before he released his grip and withdrew.

  Thin streaks of blood were swirling toward the floor drain. Hiraku began to cry.

  Tanaka stepped out of the shower and turned to face Hiraku. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’ll have someone take you home.”

  Hiraku couldn’t stop crying. She was in disbelief. She wrapped herself in a towel and ran to the bedroom where she and two of her friends had slept the previous night. She closed and locked the door and sank to the floor. “My uncle will kill you,” she shouted. “Do you hear me? He’ll find a way to kill you.”

  Tanaka put his lips close to the door. “Listen to me carefully, Hiraku. If you mention any of this to Yoshi, he may try to do something foolish and you will never see him again. That I can assure you.”

  Three years had passed since then, though to Tanaka it seemed only yesterday. But he felt no remorse for having raped the young woman.

  Tanaka’s reverie was abruptly shaken when Hiraku slapped him hard in the face, leaving the imprint of her delicate fingers and claw marks from her long fingernails.

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said you’re a pig, a fat disgusting pig. And a rapist,” she shouted. “I want to talk to my Uncle Yoshi, now. And I want to leave here of my own free will.” She poked a threatening finger into his barrel chest and again her shrill voice filled the room. “I’m going to call the police.”

  When Hiraku attempted to slap him a second time, he grabbed her wrist, twisted it as though breaking a tree branch and pushed her down on the floor. Staring at her with his chilling snake eyes, he said, “Enough games, Hiraku. I want to know what you told the CIA.”

  8

  The Rise of Hideyo Mashima

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  March 1990

  Hannah contacted the local tourism office to introduce herself as an Argentine travel company representative. She was prepared to set up discount packages for hotel and beach vacations with water sports and resort-based gourmet dining. She even suggested a Sunday cock-fighting event in the remote village of San Antonio that might appeal to adventurous tourists with cultural interests, looking for more than paddling a kayak over the reefs of the atoll or taking a nature walk along a trail clogged with a plethora of large lizards.

  The woman who answered the phone at the tourism office didn’t seem interested in what Hannah had to say, but promised she’d leave a message for her supervisor. Hannah paid no mind to the lax response. She was more concerned should anyone later follow up, they’d confirm Mariel Becker made a phone call that supported her travel company cover. It was part of her establishing a paper trail. It was also the way things worked on Saipan.

  In an effort to remain low profile, Carrington rented a dun-colored, sub-compact Nissan that they drove to Micro Beach in Garapan, posing as tourists while doing a recon of the village layout and its main attractions. Once on the white sand beach they spread two beach towels beneath a palm-thatched umbrella. They tossed their books and water bottles atop the
towels and jogged into the warm surf.

  Hannah wore a two-piece polka-dot bikini that Carrington found so distracting he forced himself to take a solo walk to the far end of the beach. He knew his married days were numbered, but until a judge signed the still-to-be-drafted divorce papers, the wet blanket of guilt hung heavy on his shoulders.

  Hannah’s feelings for Carrington were a jumble. She loved his boyishness. And then there were the little things that made her smile, like his enthusiasm for high-quality knives, flashlights, backpacks, climbing rope, antique spyglasses, state-of-the-art binoculars, night-vision scopes, portable radiation detectors, top-notch hiking boots and polarized sunglasses. All these items she referred to collectively as his Boy Scout arsenal. She often razzed him about the number of backpacks he owned, and each time he’d assured her the packs were quite different from one another and designed with special purposes in mind.

  While some people might have accused Carrington of being an equipment junkie, Hannah appreciated the fact that he actually used these possessions as a CIA officer. Those at Langley who had worked with Carrington trusted him implicitly because in the world of dark ops, he ranked among the best. It was well known he spent more hours in the agency’s innovation lab than most other officers, discussing field scenarios and possibilities with the agency’s top craftsmen, scientists and engineers.

  Looking out at Carrington jumping and splashing in the waves, Hannah couldn’t stop smiling. Carrington looked like a joyous ten-year-old, immersed in a magical world as he dove into the crests. Her heart swelled, which made her wonder if what she was feeling was mere amusement and attraction, or some form of love, something deeper and scarier. She was filled with a sense, and more than a little afraid, that it might be the latter.

  Carrington certainly came with baggage – namely a wife and two children — but he was cool, intelligent, and would do everything possible to protect her when the bullets started flying.

  And then there was Decker, who also claimed a piece of her heart. Hannah knew he was off on another mission to some unfriendly land and probably taking far too many risks. She feared one of these days he’d come home in a body bag. And since he was CIA, it would all be hush-hush, no shiny coffin draped with an American flag and the major television networks with cameras rolling to record a hero’s return.

  It was during moments like these that she second-guessed her decision to join the CIA. The organization didn’t leave much room for a normal life, yet there were times she wanted nothing more than a husband, a house, and a baby. But how, after becoming romantically involved with anyone in the spy business, could she possibly bring him home to the folks in Kansas City, Missouri?

  Hi Mom and Dad, this is Decker. He’s a spy and so am I. We go on missions together and sometimes we have to kill people. He’s not a vegetarian, so Dad can grill up the biggest steaks!

  Or Carrington. Yes, he’s married. Yes, he has two kids. No, he barely sees them or his wife. They’re estranged. He’s a spy, too, like Decker. But nobody calls us spies. We’re agency operatives. CIA officers. And if the people in charge at Langley want to push the distance between them and us even farther, then we’re simply known as contractors, like plumbers or electricians.

  The same dilemma played out when at twenty-five she met and began dating the renowned Boston surgeon Chandler Hughes – two decades older, highly intelligent, often obnoxious and belittling. No way would she ever introduce him to her parents. They certainly wouldn’t deserve it and her father would bristle at the doctor’s age and arrogance. Looking back, she seriously questioned her judgment and prided herself on never introducing him to her family or friends.

  Hannah knew if she told her girlfriends from high school or college what she was doing they’d be in awe, envisioning a high-stakes life of glamour, adventure, intrigue, and international travel, never giving a second thought to how it might prevent her from finding Mr. Right, settling down, and maybe having a baby! A BABY! And why not? At thirty-one the chimes of her biological clock were clanging deep down. Reproduce! Go forth and procreate! Become a mom! Imagine, a mom!

  When she last saw those friends over the Christmas holiday nearly two years ago, the youngest was pregnant and bursting with anticipation, while two others were gushing about their lives as new moms. This was life among the Missouri middle-class. The young women talked non-stop about diapers, strollers, and visits to the babyGap store “because they have these really cute outfits, like little farmer jeans and crewneck sweaters and even babyGap workboots.”

  Hannah had sat and listened, conscious of her tendency to roll her eyes at vacuous statements, and tried to be excited for them without showing any trace of envy.

  Though the friends still treated her like the prom queen she’d been back in 1977, she couldn’t help feeling a sea change had occurred and now they were the lucky ones, even if their daily challenges didn’t measure up to what was heaped on her plate at Langley.

  Later that day, the women’s words still fresh in her mind, Hannah envisioned submitting a letter of resignation to the CIA, not knowing whether such a thing was allowed. The possibility made her smile, but the joy ended when she received a priority beeper message hours later from Preston Barlow, then deputy director of operations at Langley.

  Hannah telephoned the encrypted number. Barlow was terse. Another unforeseen mission was about to get under way. She was needed back at the operations center – ASAP – in other words, immediately. No apology from Barlow was included. A private jet would be standing by at Kansas City International.

  Hannah knew the danger of allowing her mind to roam. She had been graced with steely logic and it played against any whim upon which she might act. She adjusted her sunglasses and stared out at the turquoise sea. Carrington was paddling a surfboard.

  A question recycled through Hannah’s head: How did things get so complicated? It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

  Mashima saw his opportunity to approach the blonde woman while she was alone. He felt awkward traipsing through the soft sand in his brown, leather wingtip shoes, but going barefoot seemed too unofficial.

  “I hope you are enjoying your stay on Saipan,” he said, standing off to Hannah’s right, hands clasped in front of him.

  Hannah flinched. Over the sounds of the surf she hadn’t heard him approach. “Do you always sneak up on people?”

  “Forgive me. I thought it more impolite to shout.”

  “You’re forgiven. We saw you at the airport. Customs?”

  “No. CNMI police. I’m Detective Mashima.”

  “Well, hello detective. What can I do for you?”

  Feeling self-conscious and bashful, Mashima turned his head so that Hannah wouldn’t see the raised scars on the left side of his face. “Please don’t take offense, but I have the feeling you are not truly the representatives of an adventure travel company.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “If you have come to learn more about certain activities on my island, perhaps I can be of assistance. Your accent sounds American, as does your companion’s. I know it well from my college days. I was educated in the States.”

  “And what sort of activities are you referring to?”

  “Two representatives from your FBI are already here on Saipan, looking into an unfortunate murder which occurred in late December.”

  Hannah pulled a gauzy cover-up over her bathing suit that seemingly had made the detective uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t know anything about that. I sell travel packages.”

  “If that’s so, I wish you supreme success in your business. If not, then my offer of assistance still stands.”

  “Have you helped the FBI agents who are here?”

  “The two special agents made it clear they did not want my assistance, even though I speak Japanese and am an island native. My father is Japanese, but my mother is Chamorro. She was born and raised here on Saipan. I, too, was born here. I understand the people and the culture, which at times can seem confusing
to outsiders.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because everyone here on the island is related, in one way or another. And that can make learning truthful information very difficult.”

  Carrington picked up his pace when he spotted the stranger talking to Hannah. As he neared the blanket, he affected the tone of a stoned-out surfer dude.

  “Jake,” he said, thrusting a hand toward Mashima who reluctantly shook it in bro fashion. “Is everything cool?”

  “Why would everything not be cool?”

  “Well, we’re new here. We don’t know anybody, so I figured you might be a cop. And then I thought, well, if that’s the case, we might have broken a local law without knowing it. I’m pretty sure our rental car is properly registered.”

  “You’re correct in one way. I am a police officer, a detective. But I’m not here to interrogate you, nor do I suspect you of engaging in any illegal activities. I was merely offering my services to Miss Becker.”

  “Services?”

  “He thinks we’re American spies.”

  Carrington burst out laughing. “That’s me, all right. 007.” He swirled into a crouching position and feigned holding a handgun, his arm outstretched and pointing toward the water’s edge. “Bam bam! Take that you evil doers.”

  Mashima’s calm facial expression revealed nothing. He remained convinced these were no regular tourists. The man’s surfer-dude act didn’t ring true, nor did the woman’s faintly Spanish accent, which he presumed was faked.