by Joe Weber
"Where have you two been?" Callaway asked with a straight face.
Susan chuckled dryly. "We've had an exciting afternoon--one I won't soon forget."
"Any news?" Steve asked.
"Nothing very significant," Marcus admitted and lowered his voice. "I went to inspect the tour ship and then talked to some eyewitnesses and the lab people. The ballistics guys showed me some of the 5.56-millimeter projectiles they dug out of a seating area. The cartridges are the standard NATO brass-jacketed rounds used by a number of countries, so we're reasonably sure the weapons were assault rifles that were probably bolted to the side of the chopper."
"Like an M-16?" Susan asked.
"Yes," Callaway answered quietly, "but they could have been Belgian FNCs, German G41s, or British L85A1s. We may never know unless we find the helo or the pilot."
"Speaking of pilots," Steve said quietly, "did you find out anything about the drug runner?"
"The pilots--including the former drug smuggler--have solid alibis from credible witnesses."
"What's the story," Susan asked, "on the pilot who was supposedly fishing when the attack took place?"
"There were several people," Marcus explained, slipping into his professional role with ease, "including a police officer who saw the pilot repairing a flat tire at a gas station at the time of the assault. He claimed that he had been camping on the beach overnight and noticed the flat tire when he was fixing breakfast. The guy has bright-red hair, and all the witnesses are positive that it was him."
"It sounds like a tight alibi," Wickham agreed, concealing the skepticism he suddenly felt. "However, let's keep him under surveillance and see what develops."
"I've already arranged it," Callaway said.
The subtle message was crystal clear to Wickham and he wisely nodded.
"Well, I've got to get off a report," Susan announced and turned to Marcus. "Steve can fill you in on our interesting day."
"Okay," he said and flashed his friendly smile at Steve. "I'm anxious to hear about it."
Susan handed Wickham a business card. "My home phone number is on the back if you need to call me. Otherwise why don't we meet here at seven in the morning."
"That sounds fine to me." Steve put her card in his shirt pocket. "I think we should investigate the homes we saw today."
"I agree." She smiled with anticipation. "And you need to tell Marcus about the car that followed us to lunch."
"Would someone clue me in?" Marcus asked with a blank look. "Who was tailing you?"
"I don't know," Steve informed him with a measured quiet to his voice, "but someone followed us to lunch this afternoon--and it rang a bell."
"And?" Callaway prompted.
Steve hesitated while he tried to reconstruct the picture in his mind. "Do you recall the elderly Japanese man sitting across from us during the flight from Chicago?"
"Vaguely," Marcus admitted. "Wasn't he wearing a bow tie?"
"Yes," Wickham stated emphatically, "and there was something about him that seemed unnatural, don't you think?"
"Not really." Callaway shrugged. "Other than the fact that he never moved."
"Never moved," Steve remarked in a flatly serious tone. "And, if I recall correctly, never turned a page of his paper the entire time he was supposedly reading it."
Marcus paused and a weary sigh came from him. "Now that I think about it, you're right."
Steve glanced at Susan and noticed the question on her face. "I think the guy was listening to our conversation and gleaning every scrap of information he could absorb. Whether he was following us today, or it was one of his associates, the fact remains that someone knows who we are and what we're doing."
"Then we've got a leak somewhere," Marcus grumbled, "because only a handful of people know about our assignment."
"That's what bothers me the most," Susan cautioned with a look of uncertainty. "We don't know who to trust, and we're obviously being watched. Not what I would call a good sign."
Steve suddenly felt uncomfortable with the conversation. "Susan, would you like for one of us to drive you home?"
"No." She laughed unconvincingly. "But thanks anyway. See you in the morning."
"Good night," Callaway and Wickham said in unison.
They watched Susan walk away before Steve turned to Marcus. "I've got some beer on ice in my room, unless you want something stronger."
Marcus grinned. "A cold beer would hit the spot."
After they settled on the lanai, Steve recounted the story about the car that had followed them and what Susan and he had discovered during their airborne search. Both agreed that it would be wise to reconnoiter the house where a man with a rifle had been spotted.
When Marcus retired to his room, Steve called the Army liaison officer and canceled the helicopter he had reserved for the following morning, then opened a fresh beer and stepped out to the lanai. He sat in one of the chairs and watched the rain fall at a steady pace while he thought about the car that had tailed them to lunch.
There was something else in the back of his mind that was haunting him, but he couldn't quite identify what it was. He listened to the steady splash of the waves and tried to relax.
A knock on the door brought him back to the moment. When Steve answered the door, he was pleasantly surprised to see the Sky Nine pilot.
"Hi, Theresa." He noticed that she had changed clothes and brushed her hair.
"Hi. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
"No, not at all."
"I had your photographs developed and I thought you might want them as soon as possible."
"Thanks. What do I owe you for this?"
"They're complimentary," she countered with a radiant smile. "The lady who handles our station's photo needs was happy to rush these through."
"That's great." He put the pictures on a counter. "I really appreciate your efforts."
"No problem."
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"Would you care to come in?" Steve said at last.
"Are you sure I'm not intruding?"
"Not at all. May I fix you something to drink?"
"That sounds good. White wine, if you have any."
"I think I have a couple of bottles in the bar. Have a seat. I'll only be a minute."
Theresa walked to the open sliding-glass door leading to the lanai. "Do you mind if we sit outside?"
"Make yourself at home."
When Steve finished pouring a glass of wine, he joined her on the covered deck.
"Thanks," Theresa warmly responded as she accepted the Sauvignon Blanc. "I don't know about you, but the sound of the waves helps me wind down."
He let his gaze take in her lips and eyes. "Yeah, like watching a flickering fire in a snow-covered cabin."
"Exactly." She sipped her wine and turned to face him. "Steve, I really apologize for the rough ride this afternoon. It was an unusual situation, but I'm not going to make any excuses."
"Forget it. You were just trying to cover the most ground in the short time we had available. Don't worry about--" He stopped in midsentence when the elusive thought that had escaped him all evening flashed into his mind.
"Steve--what is it?"
"Excuse me, Theresa--I'll be right back."
He hurriedly opened the packet of photographs and flipped through them until he reached the one he wanted. He studied it for a long moment, then reviewed a similar snapshot from a different angle.
How could I have missed that unless I was concentrating on the wind sock?
Chapter 12.
THE WHITE HOUSE
When the Secretary of State entered the private dining room, he could see the President was in a foul mood. The curt response from the Japanese Foreign Minister had cast an ominous cloud over the relations between the two countries. The tenuous situation was further exacerbated by the increasingly violent anti-American demonstrations throughout Japan and many other countries opposed to U. S. foreign policies.
All the major television networks were providing blow-by-blow coverage of the growing unrest, while many members of the international news media were howling for answers to their myriad questions. The White House Press Secretary was fielding the mostly confrontational questions by promising to respond when the Administration had a better grasp on the situation.
"Mr. President," Bud Tidwell began slowly as he seated himself at the dining table, "Secretary Mellongard will be here in a couple of minutes."
"That's fine, Bud. Go ahead and dig in."
The tall man with the lined, once-handsome face dabbled with his salad and remained quiet. He had learned early in his long association with the President that the Commander in Chief didn't like to repeat himself. He never began a meeting until everyone was in place and paying attention.
After his first year and a half in office, the restless President had become an elusive mystery to most of the members of his staff. The warm smile and folksy comportment that was prescribed by political necessity during the presidential campaign disappeared almost overnight.
A constant frown had replaced the smile, and he had developed a tendency to change his mind impulsively. Sometimes witty and charming, his personality could suddenly become brittle and aloof. However, there was one trait about the President that remained a constant: he didn't suffer fools well.
When the Secretary of Defense entered the room, the President noticed the somber look that always signaled a problem. Although he was a shrewdly expedient politician, Bryce Mellongard was incapable of camouflaging his feelings.
"Give it to me straight," the President said while Mellongard sat down and unfolded his napkin.
Bud Tidwell looked at Mellongard, then quietly placed his fork on his plate. After years of diplomatic service, he knew when trouble was brewing.
When the President heard Mellongard's report on the attack at Misawa, he became livid. "What kind of missile are we talking about?" he hissed.
"A Soviet SA-7."
"You're positive?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sonuvabitch," the President swore under his breath and tapped a button on the leg of the dining table. "When did you talk to Biddle and Dunwall?"
Mellongard had dreaded this moment since his conversation with the two officers. "Late last night."
"Why the hell didn't you immediately contact me?" the President exclaimed and tossed his napkin on the table.
Mellongard winced inside. "Sir, I wanted to confirm a few details before I discussed the situation with you."
"For Christ's sake, Bryce--I want to know about these things when they happen! Not the next day."
Mellongard's reply was interrupted by a military aide who entered the dining room.
"Sam, cancel my appointments until three o'clock," the President ordered, "and call the Director of the CIA. I want him in my office as quickly as he can get here."
The young officer acknowledged the instructions and quickly left the room.
"Bud," the President continued briskly, "you do whatever you have to do to get their attention in Tokyo. I want you to confront them with this. If they can't ensure the safety of our military personnel at Japanese bases, then I'm damn-sure not going to let them use our people as clay pigeons. Make goddamn sure they understand that point!"
"Yes, sir," Tidwell responded in an expressionless voice. "But I suggest we proceed cautiously."
Tidwell was thinking about the ramifications if the Japanese took umbrage and used the issue to force a confrontation. "We've got over half a million Americans who collect paychecks from over two thousand Japanese companies in this country."
"I understand that," the President countered, "but what is it going to take to get them off high center? We've been patient with them on almost every issue, from business and trade relations to the questions about their mushrooming military power. In fact, we've been too patient and too easygoing for too long--and that's why we're sitting here having this conversation while they continue with their business-as-usual routine."
Tidwell sipped his water. "If it appears that we're threatening them--forcing their hand--they may pull the plug, which is going to have staggering consequences."
The President sat quietly for a long moment, trying to calm himself. "Bud, we've known each other for a long time." "Yes, sir."
"In all that time I've never heard you suggest that another country could hold us hostage. Is that what you're telling me?"
Bryce Mellongard's heart sank. He knew he was witnessing the start of a confrontation that could only end in a face-off between the United States and Japan.
Tidwell took a deep breath and began speaking in his diplomatic voice. "Sir, if we wade in with both barrels blazing, they may revert to kaizen, or, worse yet, sever diplomatic relations with us. Then we're dead in the water."
"Bullshit," the President snapped. "They've been practicing kaizen since the last pieces of debris stopped raining down on Nagasaki, and," he said venomously, "they can't afford to sever ties with us."
The Japanese business principles of kaizen called for slow movement and painstaking analysis. It was a great ploy to buy precious time to study the opposition and then take the most advantageous position.
"On the other hand," the Secretary of State calmly continued, "there are a number of indicators pointing to an inevitable showdown with Japan if we pursue this course. I think it would be better to keep our relationship with Japan as cooperative as possible, and quietly settle the issues in a peaceful manner."
Bud Tidwell watched for a reaction, but the President appeared to be impassive.
"The Japanese," Tidwell warned, "don't respond well when they're being threatened."
The President sat motionless while the seconds ticked away, then propped his chin on his balled fist. "Bud, we're not talking about Armageddon."
The President studied the surprised men for a brief moment. "There aren't going to be any nuclear weapons landing on the White House lawn."
"Sir," Bryce Mellongard finally said, "why don't we give it some thought before you make your final decision."
"Bryce, I've made my final decision," the President declared with a trace of sarcasm. "The Prime Minister has said that he'll make the decision when and where he will discuss the issues with me. That sure as hell doesn't indicate any respect for the United States."
"Mr. President," Bud Tidwell persisted, well aware of the President's fragile ego. "Why don't I initiate some dialogue, then we can discuss this in more detail when I have a better feeling for their position?"
"Bud, hear me out, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"I respect the Japanese people on the whole, and I don't underestimate them. My bone of contention is not with the people."
There was a growing level of anger and impatience in the President's tone of voice. "It's a very simple concept. I want assurances from the Japanese government, in writing, that Japan will take immediate measures to ensure the safety of our military personnel who are in Japan to defend their country. That, in my opinion, is not too much to ask."
Tidwell showed no emotion. "Sir, I'll contact the Foreign Minister and relay your request; however, I want to go on record about my concerns."
"Speak freely."
"I think we're setting ourselves up for some very difficult problems in the near future."
The President didn't try to conceal his irritation. "Bud, let me allay your concerns. You can have all the money in the world, but if you've got a gun barrel jammed against your head, you get into compliance posthaste."
Tidwell darted a glance at the Secretary of Defense before he answered. "Yes, I see your point."
HONOLULU
After an early-morning jog in the drizzling rain, Steve Wickham showered and dressed in slacks and a sport coat, then went down to the restaurant to meet Susan and Marcus. He found them having coffee and gazing out at the miserable weather.
"Good morning," Steve said and slid the packet of photographs on the table
.
"You're bright and cheery," Marcus observed and automatically turned to look at the large envelope.
"Theresa had these developed last night," Wickham informed them and pulled a vacant chair toward the table. "After looking at them, I discovered another interesting anomaly about the home with the camouflage wind sock."
Callaway opened the envelope and spread the enlarged photos in front of him while Steve sat down and ordered his usual hot tea.
Susan leaned over for a closer look. "Considering the weather, these turned out a lot better than I expected."
"Look at these two prints," Steve said excitedly and shoved them directly in front of Susan and Marcus. "Have you ever seen a tennis court without a fence around it?"
The Bureau agents carefully examined the photographs and then exchanged glances. The tall, imported trees that surrounded the court were bunched together, but the trunks were too far apart to stop a misguided basketball, let alone a tennis ball.
"You're right," Callaway finally agreed, "but you would never know it from the road. The trees block everything except the view from higher up on the ridgeline."
"And no one lives up there as far as we know," Susan Nakamura added, remembering the terrain that sloped upward behind the isolated home.
"That's right," Steve commented and turned the photo around for a better view. "The tennis court is a perfect helipad, and it's totally concealed except from above."
Marcus had a sudden thought. "Think about all of the fly-in communities from California to Florida. Many of the homes have attached hangars that are cleverly disguised as part of the main structure."
Susan and Steve nodded in silent agreement.
"I remember one case in particular," Callaway went on enthusiastically. "A guy we finally put away, who happened to be involved in an elaborate counterfeiting operation, owned a gigantic home at a fly-in subdivision in Florida. The place had a hangar that appeared to be part of the home. The hangar doors--one on the front and one at the back--were operated by remote control from the airplane. He could taxi in the back after he landed, then taxi out the front when he was ready to fly."