The Seventh Samurai

by Doug Walker

  "That's right. He's a member of a group. As far as we can learn it has no name. That's for security purposes. It's also split into small units, like cells. No one knows who anyone else is, but they're right wing. I mean way out. I think they think they've figured someway to start WWIII and have Israel come out on top."

  "But where in hell are the warheads?" Baker demanded, slapping his desk so hard it made his hand burn.

  "I don't know, but we have a lead on a ship - an old freighter called the Pride of Dakar. It arrived from Italy, apparently with no cargo. The crew, mixed nationalities, was dismissed and given tickets back to Naples. Fortunately, three Italians got involved with some girls here and hung around. Our boys talked to them and they told a strange tale. In Naples the ship was refitted so the entire cargo deck could be removed. In just a few hours time these large bolts or nuts could be unscrewed and the entire deck removed. None of them had ever seen anything like it before. They could figure out no reason for it. The cargo hatches are large enough to handle anything stored in the hold."

  Mordechai Baker shook his head in fatigue and frustration. He had missed entire nights of sleep lately. "I can see no reason for it either. But the trick is to find the ship. Where is it?"

  "Let me finish. Our experts believe the removal of the cargo deck would facilitate unloading a delicate cargo, particularly under difficult circumstances. Say the ship didn't come into a regular port for some reason, or had to unload at night with little light."

  "I see," said the prime minister, "and where's the ship now? I assume it's already sailed."

  "Oh, yes, days ago. It's supposedly bound for Madras, India, and then to Jakarta. This type of vessel, a tramp if you will, doesn't plan too far ahead. Its owners are continually cabling instructions."

  "And the owners in this case?"

  "Some blind office in Spain. It's really a secretarial service. They agreed recently to receive mail and phone calls for a man, presumably the owner, a Se?or Garc?a, who cannot be located, of course."

  "Of course. And what else?" Baker was coming alive. Kotcher seemed to be onto something.

  "Two of the Italian seamen saw the new crew arrive on board. They all appeared to be Israeli and a cut above your standard seadog. Probably all college grads dressed up in what they fancied as sailor's togs. Some carried computers. No yo ho ho, or kegs of rum. Of course the master, the mate, the radioman and the engine crew all had papers. But a couple of these had come out of retirement, and the others were accustomed to far better vessels."

  "And the papers on the crew?"

  "All lost or misplaced. We've been over the offices and sifted through the files time after time. There are no explanations. The papers are missing. We don't have a list of the crew. But the vessel was seen in the Gulf of Aden. I can only presume it's in the Indian Ocean now."

  "We are in full pursuit?"

  "As full as we can be under full secrecy. Every Israeli vessel has been advised to look for it. The U.S. Navy, which keeps a fleet in the area, has an alert. Apparently a member of the Knesset pulled some strings to get his son on board at the last minute. We don't think he knew anything about what was going on, but the captain was forced to take the boy along. So we've told our allies that the son of a very important Israeli citizen who has fallen terminally ill is aboard. Missions of mercy are always popular."

  "That sounds good, Eli. But still, it's not like a military alert. If the U.S. Navy was really scouring the seas?"

  "This should work, Chief. We've got to play it cozy."

  "I suppose. Do anything you can. What if we do spot this ship? And we certainly must."

  "We have our commando units ready to go at a moment's notice. We're trying to position them on the scene and have asked permission of the U.S. Navy to place them on the fleet carrier."

  "Very good. I suppose we'll have to tell the Americans something at some point. But at a very high level. Don't skimp on commandos, or equipment. The life of Israel. Or better yet, the world, may be at stake."

  "No problem, Chief. We've got enough force to take over three freighters. When Israel strikes, it strikes hard!"

  Baker rolled his eyes. "You'd best find something to strike before getting carried away. If we ever resolve this thing, I want to see some housecleaning done in your department. Someone in there must be in league with these people. I'll want lie detector tests, starting with you."

  "I understand."

  "Over the years we've had some unusual gone-missings in Israel. Of course there are the usual unsolved killings, runaway husbands and so forth, but engineers and scientists have dropped out of sight, like off the face of the earth."

  "I'm aware of that."

  "One common thread among these professional people, Eli. They were all either ultra-conservative, you might even say fanatical about our religion, or they were members of extreme right-wing groups. Whatever is going on took considerable long-range planning. You make up a list of those good people who have gone missing, some with their wives, and explore the possibility of a link."

  "I'll get someone on it, Chief."

  "Now tell me this, to where is the Pride of Dakar bound?"

  "I don't know."

  "Then maybe it's already there."

  "That could be."

  "And what about these hordes of the faithful who continue to attempt to storm Temple Mount thus tying up a significant portion of our military. Are any of them involved in this plot?"

  "I think, yes," Kotcher replied. "It may be that the leaders of those religious militants who want the third temple might be in on it in some way, not that they're totally informed. But they have been told enough to keep up the pressure as a diversion."

  "Tell me this, Eli. Do you think Israel will survive until 2050 under the present circumstance?"

  Kotcher shook his head grimly. "I don't know, Chief. We should have taken Uganda."

  "I'm tempted to agree. But we must do the best we can with what we have. If we master this crisis we might want to move with alacrity on several other fronts. There are things that we haven't done that we should have done."

  ***

  On board the Pride of Dakar the hour was just past midnight. Nat had been busy. He had taken the key to the locker where Sam was imprisoned from a board on the bridge. He had determined the ship's position, then smuggled extra gear on board one of the life rafts. The ship was asleep and making good time through five-foot swells. Two men were on the bridge.

  Nat moved stealthily along the railing, paused to make certain he was at the right locker, then tapped softly. Sam, his eyes red from tears, thought his captors had come to trail him over the side, then abandon his body at sea when they were certain he was dead. He had lost all track of time and could not even struggle. He was tied hand and foot.

  Nat unlocked the padlock, opened the hatch a crack and said, "It's me, Nat. I'll get you out of here. Are you there?"

  "Yes. Oh, yes. Thank God you've come, Nat. You can't imagine. They planned to kill me."

  "Shveig! (quiet). Can you walk?"

  "No. I'm tied. Did you hear? They were going to kill me. Are we going to take over the ship?"

  "No. Now be quiet." He moved inside the locker and, by feeling his way, cut the ropes from Sam's hands and feet. "Now get up and follow me on deck. For God's sake be quiet, or we'll both be dead." The boy stood on shaky legs and managed to follow Nat on deck. The locker was relocked and the key tossed over the side. Nat led Sam to a nearby life raft set at an angle in order to easily slide into the water. He handed the boy a life jacket. "Put this on. We'll have to get out of here on a raft."

  "A raft?" Sam whispered with amazement. "We're hundreds of miles from shore. We could die on a raft. If we could go to the radio room and send a message to my father?"

  "For the love of God, Sam. You're lucky to be alive. This is our only hope. The moment I cut the raft free and you see it slide toward the water, jump. If you're separated from the raft by only a few feet the currents or the wind cou
ld carry it away. Get on the raft. There's a loose line. Whoever gets on first, make sure the other one gets on. You ready?"

  "I guess so." The boy sounded uncertain.

  "A moment's hesitation and you're either dead on board, or dead in the water. Take your choice. I'll jump with the raft, anyway."

  "OK, I'm ready." He crouched at the railing as Nat sawed through the line. The raft slipped over the side and the two went over just behind it. First the raft, then the two hit the water with a dull splash, too small a sound to be heard from the enclosed bridge. The hull of the Pride of Dakar slipped by them, steaming south, far from the nearest shipping lane.

  Nat and Sam, clambering aboard from opposite sides, were left in the phosphorescent wake of the old freighter. They were alone in a small raft on a very large ocean. Nat wondered if he had done the right thing. He had followed his heart.

  ***

  An hour before dawn Captain Silverman was awakened by a heavy hammering on his cabin door. It was the mate, Meir Jacobson, with the bad news. "The boy's gone."

  "That stupid little wimp?"

  "Yes, Sir. He and a life raft. And, I think, Nat Lowe. We've been searching for the better part of an hour. The locker was locked, but empty. The key is gone. It had been on the bridge keyboard. Nat must have freed the boy, and the two of them left on the raft. Do you want to search for them, Captain?"

  Silverman attempted to shake the sleep from his head. He was a night person, an owl, not a lark. "Ask somebody to bring me a cup of coffee, Meir."

  "Right away, Sir."

  The captain was halfway through a heavy crockery mug of steaming black coffee when a crewman came to the cabin with an envelope. "A letter for the captain. We found it near the bottom of Nat Lowe's duffel." The man passed the envelope to the mate who in turn passed it to the captain.

  The captain pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and spread it on the table.

  "To Captain Silverman: It is with deep regret, but not dishonor, that I have aided Sam to escape from the ship. As you probably know by now, the two of us have taken a raft and gone over the side. We may die on the sea, I don't know. Got vaist (God knows). But I couldn't let the boy be executed, nor could I publicly defend him. We love each other. In Sam I thought I might have found a permanent relationship. This is just to explain why I have done what I have done. I am still 100 percent loyal to our cause. On the raft, I will try to talk sense to the boy, make absolutely sure that his lips are sealed. If I am not convinced of this fact, I will seal them myself. I have hidden a revolver away on the raft for this purpose. I hope you will trust me. Meir Jacobson is fully equipped to handle the project for which I was brought along. Yours in love of Israel and love of justice. Nat Lowe."

  Silverman wearily flipped the letter to Jacobson then silently sipped his coffee, now grown cold, until the other man had finished reading. "Can you handle the scuttling job, Meir?"

  "I think so, Captain. This letter clears things up. Nat approached me last night and talked about scuttling the ship at some length. He told me how it should be done and left a sheaf of written instructions. Said he wanted to be sure there was backup if anything happened to him."

  "And you can do it?" He looked the mate squarely in the eye.

  "I'm certain I can. The people who meet us, the Japanese, will have the place marked out. They'll tell me exactly where to drop the two anchors. Then it's a matter of opening the port and starboard sea cocks at the same time. Most of the crew will be off the ship by that time. The superstructure will have been sealed to serve as sort of a flotation device to keep the ship more or less erect. But it's best we do have some list when we hit the bottom. Makes offloading easier. I can do it."

  "So, Nat Lowe was gay. I never suspected. They're supposed to be poor security risks."

  "I've heard that," Jacobson replied. "We've got one foot in the academic and intellectual world in this project. None of these guys act like seamen."

  The captain smiled. "There are two guys out there on deck now wearing phylactery." He referred to small leather boxes containing scripture quotes that are strapped to the left arm and forehead of the devoutly faithful for morning worship.

  "It's been a headache to feed the kosher boys," Jacobson said. "Keeping a kosher galley on an old tub like this is next to impossible. And those rules are so damn silly. You know the food's not particularly wholesome."

  "I know that. I read somewhere that more than 200,000 products, including their many ingredients in more than 5,500 factories in almost seventy countries have been certified kosher by the Orthodox Union. It's a big business, and like many big businesses, there's money to be made. But you talk wholesome fitness food. Oreo cookies and all the ingredients. Read the ingredient list on some of these products. A blue zillion. There's a rabbinic administrator who oversees the certification. A single flavor might have fifteen ingredients, each of them has to be certified kosher."

  "It's idiotic," the mate replied.

  "Idiotic, perhaps, but a test of faith. I mean, you believe the Passover story, you believe the creation tale. It's our religion. In the final analysis, we're all Jews, kosher or not. Three Cheese Pizza Bagels, Ice Cream Classic Cake Log, Snickers bar - those are three of the kosher items my kids love even though we're not a kosher family."

  "I've heard that getting an item certified kosher can add an economic growth spurt."

  The captain agreed. "To a large company like General Mills or Nabisco the kosher certificate on a single product can translate into not thousands, but millions of dollars. Consider this -- Seventh Day Adventists, Muslims, vegetarians, the lactose intolerant, health nuts and maybe a few others believe in kosher for better or for worse."

  "So be it. That's what makes the world go round. So I eat treif (non-kosher), me, a fanatic Israelite. Then you don't want to search for Nat and the boy?"

  "No. For one thing, I believe Nat. Also, they're off the shipping lanes. They could easily die. Another thing, we don't have time. There might already be a search, at least informally, for the Pride of Dakar. So ? we'll change her into the Glory as we go south. We go to work at sunset. Toss the false superstructure in the stern overboard to alter her silhouette, paint the decks a pristine white, trim in blue, hang a platform over the stern and have the new plate welded over the old. The Glory will be a Panamanian registered ship with all papers properly filed in Bristol."

  "Bristol, U.K.?"

  "Sure. The morning sun will find us out of our cocoon for the glory of Israel."

  "And the glory of our Japanese friends."

  "Of course. Our partners in global destruction. I pray for those millions who are about to die. You should too."

  "It's troubling, Captain. We've talked and talked, pondered and talked again. We can save Israel, or we can let Israel die. Maybe we should have taken Uganda, but it's too late now."

  "We are bashert (fated). Pass the word for the men to get as much sleep as possible before sundown."

  CHAPTER 19: Watanabe's Press Conference

  The night before Taro Watanabe was to hold his press conference he had a call at home. A male voice said, "G'dye Myte."

  There was immediate recognition: an Australian known in Osaka pub circles as simply "Digger," who Watanabe was certain ran the Kansai CIA desk. The two had worked together in the past, although Digger had never revealed his true occupation. He thought it too clever by half for the CIA to place a non-American, unassociated with its local consulate, in charge of the station.

  The Kansai, the giant industrial center in western Japan, of which Osaka is the hub, is often overlooked in favor of bustling, glitzy, government-centered Tokyo. But the Kansai holds the industrial muscle plus the cultural wellspring of Japan.

  Digger asked Watanabe to meet him early the next morning on the large downtown island across from the Yodoyabashi subway station near city hall. Watanabe agreed.

  By the look of the wet patches on his sweats, Digger had been jogging when Watanabe showed up. "You look perfect,
a gaijin running along the river bank. No one would look twice," Watanabe said.

  "Thanks, myte. It's a bit of a quest to blend into the Orient, but with a few big hotels and a handful of western businessmen, not impossible."

  "What's the occasion?"

  "I wish I knew, Watanabe. Something's happening and I thought I'd take the odd shot in your direction, you with the Flying Squad and the foreign connections. It's coming mostly from Mossad, the Israel spy types, but they've managed to stir up a few other possums. Everyone of their stations around the globe seems to be buzzing with activity looking for something, but no one seems to know what. Maybe they don't even know! A bit maddening. And they won't share, the greedy lot." Digger was in his usual good humor.

  Watanabe shook his head. "Can't help you, Digger. I'm working on something maybe equally mysterious, but I see no connection with Mossad. And by nightfall, I'm hoping my thing isn't a secret anymore. I'm so frustrated, I'm planning to hold a press conference at the Nikko this afternoon and spill my guts."

  "You're joking? A Japanese cop going public?"

  "Seeking the public's help. Somebody out there knows more than I do and I'd like to talk to them."

  "I'll have an eye on the tube," Digger said. "Just wanted to put the Mossad bug in your ear in case something turns up." The tall Aussie wheeled and jogged off along the river path. He was big, Digger was. Of course everything's bigger in Oz.

  Watanabe started on his way, then paused when his eye caught a well-dressed man leaning against the wall of the river levee. The man, who pretended to be reading a day-old paper, was watching him, of that Watanabe was certain. No time for that now. He hurried off to call a long list of news media and invite them to the Nikko at two. His message would be: Osaka Detective Taro Watanabe, now on leave of absence, has an announcement that could involve a national scandal.

  By noon Watanabe had completed his calling. He had a bowl of noodles in a stand-and-eat, then hurried to Shibata's office, his sheaf of press releases under his arm.

  The secretary waved Watanabe in immediately. The old policeman was seated behind his desk and two other men, middle-aged and expensively dressed, were seated nearby. "These men are here on an urgent mission from Tokyo, Watanabe-san," Shibata said formally. "You might introduce yourself."