by David Liscio
Akumu was smiling. “I should have made popcorn. I just love watching movies with popcorn.” She was relishing the discomfort she’d caused her captive. “I hope you understand now why I say your uncle will not be coming to your rescue. He was unable to rescue himself. So are you now ready to talk?”
31
Justice in Garapan
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
April 1990
Inside the small courthouse in Garapan, Assistant Attorney General Ray Donley handed a sheaf of legal documents to the informally dressed and disinterested judge seated at a large wooden desk on a dais.
Donley wiped his sweaty brow with a blue bandana and stuffed it into his back pocket. The building’s air-conditioning system had quit more than a week ago. The ceiling fans were turning, but their blades hadn’t cooled the courtroom.
The prosecutor stood before the bench and waited while the judge sifted through the documents. The judge didn’t look up after examining the last page. Donley plowed ahead. “A lot has happened in the past few days since we were here before you, Your Honor. So thank you for agreeing to hear what the government has to say today.”
Donley glanced at the judge, convinced the man wasn’t listening to a word. “I’ve spoken to the attorney for two of the four defendants. As you know, it’s the government’s contention that two of the men charged in the case are marijuana growers and nothing more. Although their crime of harvesting an illegal substance is serious, we believe it should be handled separately from the homicide case. That is the intent of our motion here today.”
The judge leisurely munched from a plate of local fried banana donuts on his desk. He eventually looked up. “I agree, Mr. Donley. Let’s dispense with the marijuana-growing issue this morning and get on with the murder case.”
Six armed trial officers brought the pair of handcuffed pot farmers before the judge.
“How do you plead?”
The court-appointed defense attorney, a waifish man who introduced himself only as Charlie B, objected to the suggestion his clients render a plea without further judicial review, but the judge motioned to remain silent.
“I’m talking to these two men, not to you, Charlie B.” The judge narrowed his eyes as he focused on the two defendants. “Do you two understand what is being discussed here in this courtroom?”
Both men nodded unconvincingly.
“If you plead guilty here and now, your marijuana crop will be destroyed by the police and you will be sentenced to two years imprisonment, suspended, pending your completion of a drug-education course and dependent upon your following the strict rules of probation for two years.”
The defendants looked relieved, especially the taller, wiry one, who was related by blood to the judge’s wife.
“Do you agree?”
More vigorous nodding followed the question, the brothers conversing in Chamorro.
The defense lawyer again raised a hand but the judge ignored him and rapped his gavel. “Plea accepted. Probation. Two years. Don’t plant any more pot on your land. And while you’re at it, try to find yourselves some honest work. Let’s move on. Next case.”
Donley stood before the bench with the distinct feeling the judge wasn’t sympathetic to his situation. “The government is having some difficulty in impaneling a jury for the other two defendants, those we assert were Asaki’s bodyguards and also his alleged killers.”
The judge quickly replied. “That’s not my problem. Get some people in here who want to listen to the case and decide whether these two men should go to jail for the murder of Mikito Asaki. You’ve got a budget, Mr. Donley. Offer the jurors some money for showing up. That usually helps get their attention.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Donley, requesting a one-week postponement in order to call more prospective jurors.
“Motion granted. See you next week.”
Donley appreciated the homicide case was simplified by the elimination of the two pot-growing brothers. It would make it easier for the jury to concentrate on only one issue – who killed Mikito Asaki and whether the two men accused were guilty or innocent of participating in that crime. Donley heard Mashima’s words as they played repeatedly in the back of his mind and left him with a pounding headache. These poor farmers did not kill Mikito Asaki.
Donley still faced another legal hurdle, the ongoing investigation into the murder of Sgt. Torres. Somebody had killed a cop on U.S. soil, albeit thousands of miles from the shores of California, and the FBI wasn’t happy about it. Pressure was being ramped up back in Washington to send in a special team of federal investigators and maybe even a replacement prosecutor. Donley didn’t want any of that to happen because it would likely undermine his authority and derail his career.
To complicate matters, when Donley arrived in Saipan to assume the role of assistant attorney general months earlier, he inherited the double Lover’s Lane homicide that was as yet unsolved. So far, there were no suspects, a situation Donley might have found hard to believe back in the States, but in Saipan anything was possible.
To further add to what had become an ongoing crime wave, a Japanese fashion model was raped at the island’s newly-opened Hotel Nikko, but security cameras didn’t provide any clues and, except for the black-masked rapist described by the victim, there were no witnesses. The beautiful young woman had spent the day doing a magazine photo shoot with an established photographer and his two assistants at a picturesque beach, then returned to the hotel feeling exhausted, ordered dinner from room service and gone to sleep. She was assaulted in her bed sometime after midnight.
“Your Honor, if you please, one last matter.”
The judge puffed his cheeks and let out a burst of air, exasperated by the prosecutor’s persistence.
“I’d like to submit a government statement contending that Mikito Asaki was a yakuza underboss and that his rank in that criminal organization may have caused him to be murdered by one or more of his own men.”
The judge squinted at Donley. “Motive?”
“Revenge, sir. We believe that approximately one year ago, Mr. Asaki had an unanticipated bowel movement upon landing in a plane here on Saipan and after being driven to his hotel ordered one of his bodyguards to launder his underwear. This directive angered and dishonored the bodyguard, and when the opportunity arose in December, he used it to extract revenge by torturing and murdering Mr. Asaki. The government also contends that the opportunity to murder Mr. Asaki was sanctioned by the yakuza chain of command as a result of a disagreement Mr. Asaki had with his yakuza associates over gambling and drug-smuggling profits.”
“That’s a lot of contends, Mr. Donley.”
“It is, Your Honor. But we believe they are accurate and provable. I’m unable at this time to name the person in the yakuza organization who gave the authorization to murder Mr. Asaki, but we hope to do so shortly.”
The judge seemed half-convinced. “No evidence, no case. If you attended law school, you know that.”
“The prosecutor is in full agreement with the court.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Donley Though you are a busy man, there’s still a dead police officer in our morgue and nobody in custody for his murder. Oh, and let’s not forget about the two innocent lovers slain by God only knows while in their truck. Perhaps when you stop chasing the yakuza and all the press coverage that goes with it, you can focus your resources on who murdered that lovely couple. In case you haven’t looked into the case, the woman murdered was a native of Saipan and beloved throughout the island. The people here want justice. They also want to feel safe. I’ll see you at the next hearing.”
The judge stood and reached for the knob on the private door behind the bench.
Donley simply nodded and swallowed the reprimand. “Yes, Your Honor.”
32
Where is Hiraku?
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
April 1990
Within hours of Dec
ker and Reb’s arrival, Hannah had arranged with the hotel management to rent a second room, the smallest in the building, but it would be all hers. She was not going to put herself in an uncomfortable position with two rivals, at least no more than had already become apparent. She also arranged for the three men to share an adjacent room, which had two double beds. Two of them would have to share a rack, but it was the best she could do.
When Decker learned Hannah was involved in a honey-trap operation with a violent yakuza boss named Tanaka, he lashed out at Carrington for allowing it to happen.
“Why the fuck would you let her go off alone with that animal? From what I’ve heard, he’s as crazy as the yakuza get and more powerful than most.”
“She set it up herself.”
“And you did nothing to stop it? Aren’t you her field supervisor? Aren’t you supposed to be looking out for her? You’ve been doing this most of your adult life. She’s brand fucking new at this game.”
Carrington didn’t appreciate the interrogation or the insubordination, particularly since he outranked Decker. But he let the man spew, figuring of all people Decker probably knew better than most how stubborn Hannah could be.
“I put a tracker on Tanaka’s vehicle, courtesy of Detective Mashima.”
“A tracker isn’t good enough. They’re new technology and not always reliable. You should have had eyes on her the whole time.”
Hannah had given Decker and Reb a rundown on what was happening on the island and how they were attempting to obtain as much information as possible about the yakuza’s heroin smuggling operation. She told them about the diligent Detective Hideyo Mashima, Krill the funky casino night manager, Donley the newly-appointed government prosecutor, and Alfred Torres, the local police sergeant allegedly murdered because he stole thousands of dollars from the police department’s evidence locker and blew it on electronic poker machines.
Hannah also filled them in on the four men arrested during the Tanapag drug raid where the cash was seized, noting two of the four suspects were charged with murdering a yakuza underboss on Saipan in December, though evidence linking them to the crime was scant. But she had purposefully neglected to mention her outings with Orochi Tanaka, sensing Decker wouldn’t approve. Besides, she’d made it clear to both Carrington and Decker that she didn’t expect or want special treatment simply because she was a woman. She was a CIA officer, just like them, and equally capable of defending herself.
The day after his arrival in Saipan, Decker found a written note from Hannah slid under the door to the room he was sharing with Reb and Carrington, saying she was meeting with Tanaka who promised to show her the best panoramic views and beaches on the island, locations Argentine travelers were sure to enjoy.
Decker felt his anger rise up. He was fuming. If he had been awake when the note arrived, he would have stopped Hannah from going. He cursed himself for requiring sleep, but the mission in Afghanistan had taken its toll on his endurance. Reb had already exhibited his resilience by rising early and renting a surfboard. The Navy SEAL was comfortable in just about any body of water and had done plenty of surfing in California.
Decker kicked the plastic wastebasket near the room desk, sending it flying into a framed photo of a Saipan sunset. Glass exploded into shards that glittered on the carpet, adding to his sense of frustration.
Carrington was whistling as he jiggled the key into the doorknob. The first punch hit him in the stomach and he doubled over. The second was an open-hand chop to the back of the neck that knocked him to the floor.
Stunned but tuned for survival, Carrington blocked the kick that was aimed at his head. He locked onto Decker’s bare foot and twisted it until both men were wrestling wildly and rolling in shards of glass.
Within seconds they were on their feet, poised in martial arts stances. “Did you just drive her to meet Tanaka?”
“Yes.”
Decker bared his teeth and lunged at his opponent but Carrington quickly sidestepped the attack and picked up the wooden desk chair. “That’s enough, Decker,” he shouted. “You’re out of your fuckin’ mind.”
Decker let out a war cry and charged. Carrington swung the chair, which struck Decker’s left arm and shoulder. One of the wooden legs broke off and bounced across the rug. Carrington quickly grabbed it and brought it down on Decker’s head, putting an end to the fight.
Carrington was sitting in an upholstered side chair, sipping a low-ball glass of bourbon when Decker regained consciousness.
Decker pawed the lump on his skull. “Did you really need to do that?”
“Have you come back to your senses?”
“Sorry. Too long in the desert, I guess.”
“You’ve got to get yourself under control. And beyond that, you’ve got to flow with the plan if you’re to accomplish anything here. We work as a team.”
“I just don’t like Hannah being alone with that asshole. Aren’t you worried about her?”
Carrington bristled. “Of course I am.”
“Of course you are. If anything happens to her, it’s your ass in a sling back at Langley. But I want her safe for a different reason.”
“That can make a mission a lot more complicated.”
“Maybe so. But I need to protect her.”
Carrington sipped his bourbon, swirling the glass though it contained no ice. “You’ve made that very clear. So far, Tanaka has taken her sightseeing and on a picnic, always accompanied by his bodyguards. From what we can tell, he’s dazzled by her looks and charm and starting to open up with personal information. We just need him to lead us to Hiraku. She could be the key to the puzzle.”
As it turned out, Hannah and Tanaka decided to forgo the vacation paradise tour and instead went to the movies in Chalan Kanoa, within walking distance of her hotel. The featured films were several months behind what was playing in the continental United States, but the selections included the Italian drama Cinema Paradiso, Stephen King’s spooky Pet Sematary, and the domestic comedy Honey, I Shrunk the Kids. Hannah picked Pet Sematary because she didn’t want to foster any post-film conversation about love or family — better a story about bringing a road-killed tomcat back to life.
Although Tanaka spoke English, he wasn’t fluent, yet he seemed to grasp the concept of using an ancient rite to bring back the dead – even if in this case it was a cat. When the movie ended, Tanaka walked Hannah back to her hotel, flanked by two bodyguards who followed behind at a discrete distance.
Decker was waiting in the hotel lobby when Hannah returned. Tanaka had bowed and bid her goodnight at the front entrance where he repeated his promise to give her a private tour that would benefit her travel company and clients.
Hannah locked eyes with Decker. It was a silent battle of wills and Decker lost because he was first to speak.
“Are you doing this just to piss me off, or to prove you can take the lead on this mission?”
“You don’t even know what this mission is about. You haven’t been here long enough.”
“I’ve been at this business a lot longer than you have.”
“Sometimes that doesn’t make any difference, and this is one of those times.”
“So now you’re the expert?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just pointing out that William and I have gotten to know many of the players here and we’re trying to take the right steps to get the intel we came for.”
“And that includes dating some pompous Japanese mobster?”
“We’re not dating. It’s a honey trap and you know it. You just want to start trouble where there isn’t any.”
“And Carrington agrees with everything you’re doing?”
“I don’t know if he agrees. But he knows we need to find out where the girl with the secrets is being held so that we can find a way to get her out of there and back into our hands. She’s the key to the mission’s success.”
Decker seemed momentarily defeated. He stared down at his calloused and blistered feet encased in Te
va sandals. “I still don’t like it. And I don’t think Carrington should have allowed it.”
“Well, you’d better get used to it because Tanaka is picking me up tomorrow for an island tour of places my wealthy, fictitious clients from Buenos Aires are just going to love when they vacation here. And by the way, how did you get that bruise on your head?”
Reb came through the door just as Decker was about to answer. He, too, noticed the bruise but made no comment. Sensing the tension, he and kept on moving toward the corridor where his room was located. Hannah followed him with her eyes until he was out of sight.
“You were about to tell me about the bruise.”
“Some other time.”
33
Donuts and Secrets
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
April 1990
Detective Mashima sat alone sipping coffee and nibbling on a honey-glazed donut in Winchell’s Donuts House in Garapan when Carrington pushed open the glass front door to the air-conditioned restaurant.
Carrington ordered a coffee and noisily slumped into a chair at a table directly across the aisle from Mashima. He picked up a newspaper and scanned the headlines. There was a story about the Tanapag drug raid and a self-serving quote from FBI Special Agent Brent Palmer.
According to Palmer, the FBI was able to match car tire tracks at the scene of Mikito Asaki’s apparent death at Banzai Cliff to those from the tires of a car parked at the Tanapag pot-growing farm. Nothing in the story suggested CNMI police had in any way contributed to the investigation.
Carrington nursed his coffee and pretended to read. Every few moments he stopped to habitually run his hands over his ash-blond hair to keep the strands from falling in front of his eyes as he scanned the news. The locals were concerned about the U.S. Navy bringing large ships into the region from which military operations could be staged. Two letters to the editor expressed grief about the unsolved and apparently senseless murder of a local schoolteacher and the rape and slaying of his girlfriend along a secluded lover’s lane.