Pacific Poison

by David Liscio

  Carrington nodded to Mashima in the way strangers might acknowledge each other’s presence on a train or bus. The three other customers in the place were going about their business and seemed uninterested in anything else, but Carrington was trained to wait and observe. After an exchange of small talk, Carrington joined Mashima for a candid conversation that mostly focused on tourism possibilities for Saipan — the best hotels, quality restaurants, casinos, sandy beaches, reliable transportation services, small grocery stores and other details that might prove useful to an Argentine tourist – just in case anyone was listening.

  When the other customers were gone and the restaurant staff had retreated to the kitchen, Mashima breathed a sigh of relief that he no longer needed to play the game. He immediately relayed the information he felt Carrington should know.

  “I can tell you with certainty, Mr. Marson, that Yoshi Yamamoto’s life was ended with much cruelty, or what your CIA likes to call extreme prejudice.”

  “Are you saying the CIA killed this guy Yoshi?”

  “Not at all. I’m saying the yakuza are responsible.”

  “And how do you know this?”

  “I listened closely to what was being said when the yakuza held their party at The Lucky Carp. I was just outside the party. And what I heard was very disturbing.”

  “So tell me.”

  Mashima relayed the details of the gruesome video from Komodo Island. Carrington’s jaw hung open in disbelief, showing how repulsive he found the story. “Tanaka let Komodo dragons eat his business partner alive? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Mashima nodded and took a small bite of his pastry. “Tanaka also may have ordered the death of the local police sergeant for stealing the confiscated $36,000 from the police evidence locker. He did it to send a message. Unfortunately, it was not made clear to me who did the actual killing.”

  “And you learned this also through eavesdropping on the yakuza party?”

  A wry smile creased the detective’s face. “Loose lips sink ships. Isn’t that what the American people were told during the Second World War? You never know who might be listening, so keep your trap shut. Well, as you can see, sake loosens the lips.”

  “So what about the girl?”

  “Only rumors that she is being held at Tanaka’s rented home here on the island.”

  “Fuckin’ A. He’s got her in a fortress?”

  “That seems to be the situation.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “The honey-glazed.”

  “Fuck you, Mashima. I’m trying to be serious.”

  “As am I, Mr. Marson.”

  “What do you plan to do?”

  “We need to work together on this. Perhaps your Argentine travel company can assist with some overhead surveillance.”

  “I’ll request a bird, but not until we’re sure she’s being held at that location. Requesting a satellite isn’t like calling a fucking cab.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “How sure are you that she’s in Tanaka’s house?”

  Mashima took another small bite of his donut and delicately wiped his lips with a paper napkin. “I highly suggest you order one of these. They’re Winchell’s specialty.”

  “Why are you fucking with me?”

  “Because I want you to be as honest with me as I am being with you.”

  Carrington let loose an exasperated groan. “You weren’t fooled by Mariel and me from the moment we landed at the airport. But we had no idea who to trust. Still don’t. Strange island. Different customs. Lots of dead bodies turning up. We weren’t about to advertise our arrival like the FBI. As you might have noticed, we don’t have any agency letters stenciled on the backs of our clothing.”

  Mashima chuckled. “I suppose that’s wise. If you’ve been paying attention, then you’ve seen the pins the yakuza wear on their lapels that identify their membership in a specific organized crime family. Not much different than letters on a jacket.”

  Carrington appreciated the intel. He hadn’t had much time to prepare for this mission and certainly not enough opportunity to read The Ways of the Yakuza or whatever primer was available at Langley. He raised an arm to signal the waitress who had returned to her post near the cash register. She promptly appeared at their table, officiously clutching a pad and pencil.

  “I’ll have two honey-glazed,” he said, looking across the table at Mashima. “I believe this gentleman would like the second.”

  The waitress glanced at Mashima for confirmation.

  Mashima popped the last morsel into his mouth. “I’d like that very much. Winchell’s is the best.”

  After they’d both devoured their donuts in silence, Carrington stood and slid his chair beneath the table.

  Mashima smiled. “I know you are concerned that Tanaka might attempt to take advantage of Mariel, but I’m told he no longer possesses the ability to do so.”

  “And why is that?”

  “My colleagues in Tokyo say Tanaka is suspected of murdering a nurse who was part of the team that conducted his failed penis enhancement surgery last year.”

  Carrington raised his eyebrows as a smirk formed on his lips.

  “Apparently the operation went badly and left Tanaka in worse shape. The nurse was stabbed in the back and her throat was slashed. Although it happened on a side street after dark, two witnesses described the suspect as a large Japanese man wearing a tan trench coat. The victim was already dead when one of the witnesses rushed to where the body collapsed on the sidewalk. She indicated a black Mercedes sedan raced along the street at high speed moments later but she was unable to read the entire license plate.”

  “What about the doctors?”

  “They have agreed to police protection, though I’m not sure how successful it will be if Tanaka decides they, too, must pay for the error.”

  Carrington couldn’t suppress his grin. “Thanks for being a stand-up guy, Mashima. That’s the best short story I’ve heard in a while, no pun intended. I’m looking forward to our partnership.”

  Mashima slightly bowed his head, his lips glued in a close-lipped smile. “I, too, look forward to a strong alliance.”

  34

  You’re Guilty Even if You’re Not

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Boonie dogs were barking and roosters crowing as the black Nissan Pathfinder pulled into the hamlet of Tanapag.

  Tanaka’s two most trusted kobun – Kira with the shaved head and lightning bolt tattoo on his face, and Yuki with the long braid of black hair nearly reaching his waist – hopped out of the front seat and cradled their Uzi machine pistols. They jogged toward the small house, kicked open the wood door and shouted for anyone inside to come out with their hands up.

  Moments later, two Saipanese farmers were ushered out into the scorching sun and ordered to kneel in the dirt yard, the guns aimed at their heads. Orochi Tanaka opened the rear door of the SUV and slowly approached them. He was an imposing figure in his black, American-style suit, starched white shirt and polished shoes.

  The men were trembling, suspecting this moment would be their last. They were told at the courthouse that Tanaka had posted their bail.

  “In case you don’t know, my name is Orochi Tanaka, and Saipan is my territory. My money that was in your care is now gone. You did not protect it. You did not bring it to the casino as you were instructed. Instead, you were sloppy and lazy.”

  The men glanced up at Tanaka as though awaiting their fate – a bullet to the brain.

  “I am not here to punish you. In fact, I am here to save your lives. We all know you did not kill Mikito Asaki. But if you wish to remain on this earth, you must confess to doing just that.”

  The two men spoke hurriedly in Chamorro.

  Tanaka was suddenly enraged. “Stop talking. If you have something to say, talk in Japanese or English. I know both of you have Japanese blood.”

  The smaller man raised a
bandaged hand as though answering a question posed by an elementary school teacher. “English.”

  Tanaka towered over them. “If you do not agree to this, we can kill you here and now, dispose of your bodies, and then do the same with your families. My men may even decide to rape your wives and daughters before slitting their throats and tossing their bodies off Banzai Cliff.”

  The men again broke into Chamorro.

  “Stop.”

  The taller farmer with long gray hair and a goatee spoke first in English. “We will do what you say. Please do not harm our families.”

  “I don’t expect you to do this simply out of fear for yourselves and your families. You each will be paid — more than you can earn here in ten years.”

  The men’s spirits seemed to rise with the prospect of staying alive, reaping sudden riches, and the removal of threats to their families.

  “Here’s what I need you to do. You will surrender to the authorities at the courthouse in Garapan and tell them you mistakenly murdered Mikito Asaki during a robbery attempt in the late evening, during which time you stole the $36,000 he was carrying from the casino to an unknown destination. You will say you followed Asaki as he left The Lucky Carp and ambushed him. When you realized he was dead, you panicked and threw his body off Banzai Cliff. You then took the money and buried it in a goat shed in Tanapag. You will confirm it was this money that was later discovered by the police.”

  35

  A Bit of Black Magic

  Saipan

  Northern Mariana Islands

  April 1990

  Ray Donley, the pistol-packing government prosecutor, seemed out of sorts as he once again stood before the judge in the Commonwealth Trial Court. Mashima noticed it immediately because Donley typically was not at a loss for words. He was normally articulate, opinionated and fiery. But now he was distracted, deflated and lacking his usual firebrand.

  During the recess, the prosecutor shared aloud with Mashima and Lt. Brick what he had observed. He looked down at the floor as though ashamed by what he was about to reveal.

  “I know. I can’t think straight today. It’s my wife, Cheryl. This place has her scared out of her wits. We went out to dinner last night in Garapan and when we came home, the wedding photo of the two of us in a glass frame beside the bed was missing. Or, more accurately, the frame was still there but the photograph was gone.”

  Lt. Brick tried to calm the prosecutor. “From what Mashima has been telling me, housebreaks are very common on Saipan. I’m not surprised. A few hundred years ago it was known as Islas de los Ladrones — the island of thieves. Maybe not much has changed.”

  Mashima quickly joined Lt. Brick’s effort to assuage their colleague’s anxiety. “True enough. We don’t have a problem with car thefts because there’s nowhere to go with a stolen vehicle, just round and round the island. Unfortunately, the locals do break into homes from time to time, especially those of visitors. Usually it’s cash-and-carry, as the Americans say – jewelry, wallets, money left lying about, small-sized electronics, cameras, binoculars, radios, credit cards, anything that might have quick turnover value.”

  “But whoever broke in didn’t take anything else. Only the photo.”

  Mashima did his best to explain. “It could be because they are superstitious and fear the power which they can see you possess. Some of the natives believe in black magic. The native Chamorro and Carolinian populations are mostly Catholic, courtesy of the Spanish soldiers and priests who arrived on our shores in the 1600s, but they also worship the old deities.”

  “What does that have to do with stealing my personal photo?”

  “Whoever took it is no doubt convinced the image of a person holds power and, as such, if they are in possession of the image, the power will be theirs. Perhaps they cannot control you directly, but they can keep you from doing what they perceive as harm.”

  “And meanwhile, what am I supposed to do? We already lock all the doors and windows, but obviously that isn’t enough. When I was offered the opportunity to come here, I told my wife this was going to be like working in Paradise. Saipan was supposed to be Paradise – sand beaches, piña coladas, happy natives. Like the movie South Pacific, only we’d be the stars.”

  Mashima wondered about such expectations. “I’ll ask around. Voodoo is still practiced in some of the smaller settlements like Tanapag and San Antonio, but the young don’t seem to put much faith in it.”

  Donley tossed his pistol into the maw of his over-stuffed briefcase. “I’d appreciate that. Any and all advice is welcome.”

  “I think you’ll find only the elders still talk of the Taotaomona Legends. They believe the spirit of an ancient Chamorro lurks at night among jungle burial sites, in the Banyan trees and around the latte stones. Apparently over 300 years of Catholic teaching here in Saipan hasn’t wiped out those beliefs.”

  Donley’s face turned pale. “Was there ever any truth to the legend? God, I can’t believe I’m actually asking you that.”

  Mashima smiled knowingly. “Such truths exist only for those who feel affected by the spirit of Taotaomona or another kami. For them, if a relative or friend seems possessed, a witch doctor must be consulted, sometimes a female witch, who at great expense can provide secret cures made from coconut bark and various herbs.”

  “I take it you were never a believer.”

  “No, not me, but rumors about such things often circulate at the Sunday night cockfights in San Antonio. I’ll plan to attend this weekend. Perhaps you’d like to come along. The fights can seem brutal to the uninitiated, but they’re also enlightening.”

  “No thanks,” said Donley, pressing down on his briefcase lid until he heard the buckles snap closed. “I need to finish here and then pick up my wife at the hospital where she’s volunteering part time.”

  Mashima pursed his lips. “I suggest you not give the missing photograph another thought. Stealing it was most likely an act of simple-mindedness and nothing will come of it.”

  “Thank you for that, but I’m not certain my wife would agree. She’s about ready to buy a ticket and fly home to Boston. She enjoys helping out at the hospital, but I think this place is too much for her. She doesn’t like surprises.”

  Back in the courtroom, two police officers were wrestling a middle-aged man with long gray hair and a goatee, who attempted to slash his own throat with a razor blade. The man had been quietly observing the court proceedings from a seat at the rear of the room. The razor had been hidden inside one of his rubber boots.

  Donley and Mashima heard the ruckus and rushed into the room to investigate. The prosecutor immediately recognized the man as one of the two who had pleaded not guilty to being accessories in the murder of Mikito Asaki.

  Blood trickled from the man’s neck as the burly guards pressed him to the floor. The wound didn’t look fatal, but those in the courtroom squeamish about the sight of blood were obviously ruffled.

  The judge entered the courtroom through the side door to his chambers. He frowned and banged his gavel several times, attempting to understand what was happening, but the pandemonium continued.

  “What’s going on? Who is that man?”

  One of the court officers hurriedly approached the judge. “Your Honor, he’s one of the men charged in the Asaki murder case. He was released on bail.”

  The judge fished for his eyeglasses in a drawer behind the bench. “Why is he here? We continued that case to provide Mr. Donley more time to impanel a jury.”

  “Apparently he’s here to confess to the murder of Mikito Asaki.”

  The judge furrowed his eyebrows. “Nonsense! I don’t believe it. He’s clearly not yakuza. He’s a poor farmer, not an assassin.”

  The court officer shrugged. “Right before he slashed himself, he stood up and shouted, ‘I killed him. I didn’t mean to do it. But I killed Asaki.’ That’s when everything went kind of crazy.”

  More trial court officers arrived. The two policemen lifted the injured man by his a
rms until he was upright and gave him a gauze pad to stymie the bleeding. The wound was superficial.

  The judge stood behind his bench. “If that man needs medical attention, get it for him and then bring him back in here so that we can hear what he has to say.”

  Donley literally jogged to the front of the room until he was before the judge. “Did I just hear the court officer say this man has confessed to the murder of Mikito Asaki?”

  “That’s right. But I have no idea why he would do that. And personally, I doubt if it’s true.”

  Donley appeared bewildered. “So this man surrendered himself?”

  “That appears to be the situation. He’s the second man today to claim he had a role in the murder of Mikito Asaki.”

  Donley’s mouth hung open, stunned by the news. “Who was the first one?”

  “The other defendant charged in connection with the murder. He also confessed, but only to being an accomplice by driving the car used to transport Mr. Asaki’s body to Banzai Cliff.”

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “I’ll schedule a hearing and listen to what these men have to say. If the man who has stated he drove the car is willing to testify against the defendant who claims he killed Asaki, we can move forward and resolve this matter. In return for his cooperation, he’ll receive a reduced prison term.”

  The judge nodded toward the rear of the courtroom where FBI Special Agents Brent Palmer and Sean O’Reilly were standing. “The federal agents investigating this case should be equally pleased. Now they can go home.”

  The judge turned to Donley, whose face was flushed red. “Do you have any objections, Mr. Donley?”