Honorable Enemies (1994)

by Joe Weber

  Susan glanced at a nearby oil tanker and turned to Steve. "I'm wearing my walking shoes, so press on."

  "First"--he reached into his jacket pocket--"take a few of these to hand out."

  Susan studied the ordinary-looking business cards and smothered a saucy laugh. "Insurance agents?"

  "That's right," Steve answered with a slight grin. "We're representatives of Royal Continental Insurance Company, and we're looking for a ship that belongs to one of our clients. You're the seasoned pro, and I'm new to the company--just tagging along to gain experience."

  "Steve"--she held the card in front of his face--"these don't even have names on them. Just the company name."

  He gave her a knowing smile. "The company is changing its logo, so we won't have our personal cards for a while. You can sign a fictitious name if someone asks for it."

  "Working with the CIA," Susan confided while she pocketed the generic cards, "is definitely interesting to say the least."

  Steve glanced at a crew of men loading cargo onto what appeared to be a rusted tramp steamer.

  "If you flash a badge around here," he quietly cautioned her while they started walking toward the freight handlers, "the news will shoot through this place like a lightning bolt and we probably wouldn't get another peep out of anyone. Plus, we don't have any jurisdiction in Singapore."

  His statement made her realize that showing her credentials was routine in her profession, but Steve's world was very different.

  "Since you're the expert in clandestine operations," she respectfully replied, "I certainly defer to your judgment."

  "Don't get me wrong," he said as they approached the sweating men. "There are certain places, or situations, where we have to be . . . let's say, creative."

  "I can only imagine," she whispered and looked straight ahead at the wizened man who was obviously in charge of the dockhands. "He looks like a mixture of Chinese and Malaysian.

  "Just relax," Wickham said as they reached the small man.

  "Excuse me, sir," Susan began and casually handed him a business card. "We're insurance adjusters and we're looking for one of our client's ships--the Matsumi Maru number seven. Do you happen to know where it's docked?"

  A smile that revealed shiny gold teeth creased his round face. "It near big warehouse." He beamed and pointed down the busy terminal. "At end of dock."

  "Thank you," Susan happily replied while she and Steve hid their surprise, "We appreciate your help."

  The man looked Steve over a couple of times, then smiled at Susan. "I happy to help."

  Across the dock, Shigeki Okamoto slipped into the shadow of a warehouse and brushed the sweat from his crew cut. Even though he was very close to his prey, the athletic mercenary killer knew he had to be extremely cautious. The former British colony at the tip of the Malay Peninsula enjoyed the reputation of having no crime for a very good reason.

  The authoritarian politics of Singapore vigorously enforced severe penalties on violations ranging from drugs and pornography to eating on the subway or failing to flush a public toilet. If you murdered someone and got caught, the penalty was an automatic sentence of death.

  Okamoto would do anything for the millions of yen Mishima Takahashi had promised him for killing the agents, but the martial arts expert had no desire to die an agonizing death.

  THE JAPANESE EMBASSY, WASHINGTON, D. C.

  Unable to concentrate on the stack of messages in front of him, Koji Hagura reached for the remote-control unit to the television. He clicked it on and rapidly flipped through the channels until he reached CNN. A live news report from the Pentagon was in progress and a senior spokesman was fielding questions from a large crowd of journalists. He recognized the intelligent woman correspondent from NBC when the camera focused on her face.

  "Can you tell us," she asked evenly, "why the United States is operating three carrier task forces in such a confined area? Is the White House trying to intimidate Japan because of the friction between our countries?"

  The White House spokesman rested his hands on the sides of the podium and looked straight at the news reporter. "No, the President isn't trying to put any pressure on Japan, or anyone else, for that matter."

  A low, continuous buzz of disbelief spread throughout the crowded room.

  "Because of the current fears of instability in the Southeastern Asian region," the man went on with a placid look, "the Secretary of Defense and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs felt that it was prudent to lend a stabilizing hand in the area. The President endorsed the idea and the Secretary of State is visiting our allies to assure them that we don't expect any trouble in the southeastern sector."

  The spokesman pointed to a Washington Post reporter who was sitting on the front row.

  We have been told," the reporter began in his combative style, "that satellite-and aircraft-reconnaissance photos indicate a large number of Japanese warships and support vessels are in the South China Sea or on the way to join the rest of the fleet. Why aren't you and your cohorts at the White House leveling with the American people?"

  The reporter's voice suddenly rose. "They have a right to know what our military is doing sitting in the middle of some of the busiest shipping lanes in the world!"

  "The United States has a vested interest," the Pentagon official serenely continued, "in the security of the Pacific Rim region and in the safety of our allies in that area. We are simply taking the necessary precautions to ensure long-range stability in that part of the world."

  "That's a bald-faced lie," Koji Hagura muttered to himself. "The U. S. government is holding a guillotine in front of the Japanese people and daring them to put their heads on the chopping block."

  There was a loud commotion in the back of the briefing room and the camera panned to an agitated Japanese journalist. A moment later he was bathed in the glare of the bright television lights.

  Hagura quickly reached for the remote control and turned up the sound. He felt a deep sense of empathy for the angry feelings of the man.

  "This is what we think!" the Japanese reporter shouted while he held up an enlarged facsimile of the front page of Y omiuri Shimbun, Japan's largest newspaper.

  Hagura could clearly read the headline.

  UNITED STATES PREPARES

  TO ATTACK JAPAN

  "Why don't you tell the truth?" the man yelled while two security guards moved toward him. "America will pay for this! Mark my words, you bastards!" He spat contemptuously as they roughly escorted him from the room.

  The CNN Pentagon correspondent immediately seized the silence to address a question to the spokesman. "A reliable source informed me that our carriers in Southeast Asian waters are operating at a higher-than-normal defense-readiness condition. Will you confirm that statement?"

  The speaker paused a moment and looked at a briefing note he had scribbled earlier. "Our carriers are conducting routine training flights, and we consider that normal operations. Next." He gestured to a friendly face.

  "Wait a minute," the CNN reporter snapped. "One question--since you won't answer the last one--what about the reports that China and India have warships in the same area as our battle groups. Is that true?"

  The spokesman showed a trace of irritation as he answered the pugnacious correspondent. "There are some Chinese Ludaclass destroyers and Jianghu-class frigates currently conducting maneuvers near the Spratly Islands, and that isn't a new development.

  "As far as the Indian Navy is concerned, we are aware of only one Delhi-class destroyer in the vicinity, which we do not consider a problem."

  "So the basic problem," the reporter hurried on, "is clearly with the Japanese?"

  "Our situation," the Pentagon spokesman countered with a trace of exasperation in his voice, "is one of maintaining stability in a sensitive part of the world. We are there to enforce the rights of our Pacific Rim allies."

  A woman journalist who represented Newsweek rose from her chair. "Do you in all good conscience expect us to believe that, when ther
e is so much evidence pouring in about our preparations to confront the Japanese?"

  Her voice turned brittle. "Why won't you be forthright, when it's obvious to the world? Allow us to do our jobs in a responsible manner."

  The spokesman smiled wanly and squeezed the sides of the podium. "You can believe whatever you want, and, like the rest of you, I have a job to do."

  Feeling a sudden revulsion, Koji Hagura clicked the remote control unit and the picture went blank. We must never trust the Americans.

  Chapter 26.

  KEPPEL HARBOR

  As Steve and Susan neared the end of the congested dock, Susan spotted a colorful cable car suspended high above the ship channel. She pointed skyward. "Do you know where it goes?"

  Glancing up at the car, Steve followed the path of the cable system. "It connects Mount Faber and Sentosa Island, which has an amusement park, a fantastic golf course, and some really nice beaches and picnic areas."

  "It's too bad we aren't here on vacation," Susan complained and turned to examine one of the wide variety of merchant vessels in port.

  Steve directed his attention to her unexpected remark. "Let's plan one," he responded enthusiastically as they began to feel the first sprinkles from an afternoon shower.

  "You've got my vote."

  "We better go for it," Steve hastily suggested, "or we'll be soaked to the skin."

  She darted a glance at him. Let's plan a vacation. Interesting.

  They jogged the last hundred yards to the gangplank of the Matsumi Maru number seven. The dilapidated cargo ship was rusting and badly in need of paint.

  "I suppose if it's seaworthy," Steve reasoned as they started up the ramp, "it doesn't make any difference what it looks like from the outside."

  "Well," Susan protested, "I wouldn't want to go very far in something that--"

  "Hold it right there!" a loud voice boomed from the entrance to the main deck. "Sorry, folks. Ain't no visitors allowed aboard--company policy."

  "Wait a second," Steve quickly countered and displayed his calling card to the short, heavyset boatswain's mate. "We're with a subsidiary of the ship's insurance company, and your parent company may be eligible for additional funds stemming from the accident with the American destroyer . . . the collision back in ninety-two."

  Steve saw the look of surprise cross the man's beefy face. "Do you mind if we step in out of the rain until the shower passes?"

  Confused by the unexpected news, the crusty deck crewman waved them up the ramp.

  "C'mon in here," the sailor instructed while he opened a hatch to expose an unkempt, greasy working space.

  "Thanks," Susan and Steve said in unison as they stepped out of the light rain.

  She handed the grizzled man her business card and noticed the array of tattoos on his arms. "We're investigators with Royal Continental Insurance, and we need to know if there is anyone currently in the crew who was on board this ship when the accident happened."

  The grease-stained bos'n studied the card while he gave a size-up of the two insurance representatives.

  "Yeah," the salty veteran said at last, "we got one hand who was on the Whiskey Maru when the U. S.-goddamn-Navy run us plum over, but he ain't aboard just now."

  "Where is he?" Steve asked with a pleasant smile. "We need to interview him as quickly as possible, before the statute of maritime limitations expires, which would result in a loss of money to your company."

  The boatswain mate's eyes widened with suspicion. "When he's off duty--Grover Bodeker's his name, but everybody calls him Stinky--he generally hangs out at the Cat and Fiddle. If he ain't there, he'll be sleepin' it off next door at Chigger's stopand-flop."

  Susan turned on her enticing charm. "Would you be kind enough to give us a description of Mr. Bodeker?"

  The brusque seaman belly-laughed, then quickly stopped. "Sorry, ma'am, but I ain't never heard no one call Stinky that before, if ya know what I mean."

  She gave him an understanding look.

  "At any rate," the sailor innocently explained, "Stinky--he's 'bout average in height and weight, with reddish-blond hair and lots of freckles. Got him a scar 'cross his nose. Can't miss him, believe you me."

  "Just one more thing," Steve said as he tugged open the hatch and glanced at the passing rain shower. "Where is the Cat and Fiddle located?"

  "It's too hard to explain, man," the stocky sailor snorted. "Just ask a cabbie, 'cause most of 'em know all the harbor joints around here."

  "Thanks," Steve replied and followed Susan out the hatch. "Since the rain has stopped, it must be time to go."

  "It must be," Susan said and carefully surveyed the dock area.

  Shigeki Okamoto stepped back in the shadow of the warehouse and watched his prey walk past his hiding place. He pulled a dark-blue knit cap out of his pocket and snugged it over his head and ears. It was time to stop toying with the two agents.

  The Cat and Fiddle tavern, while not the ideal example of tidiness, was a hushed and reasonably clean bar with a distinct Oriental flavor. A replica of an old-fashioned Wurlitzer glowed in the back corner, waiting for another customer to plunk a token into the slot.

  Behind the well-stocked bar, a number of eye-catching neon display lights advertised various brands of beer and liquor. The afternoon customers in the long, narrow room were confined to the bar or to a row of small tables lined against the wall. The regular patrons at the Cat and Fiddle were perched on the same barstools they always occupied.

  Susan and Steve sat at a table near the entrance and waited for their eyes to adjust to the dim light. The drastic change from the bright tropical sunlight to the darkness of the tavern made them partially blind for a few moments. Slowly but surely, the people and objects in the bar began to take definite forms.

  "May I bring you something to drink?" Steve finally said as he rose from the wobbly chair.

  Susan grinned and looked down the bar, then turned to him. "In a place like this, I think a beer would do just fine."

  He winked. "Good choice."

  Wickham stepped over to the curved end of the polished counter and waited for the bartender to approach him. "What'll it be?"

  "Two Tigers," Steve replied and immediately recognized Grover Bodeker sitting near the middle of the bar. The man was right--you can't miss Stinky.

  "Here you go," the bartender cheerfully said and glanced at Susan. "You're new here, so the first one's on me."

  "Thanks. We sure appreciate it," Steve replied while he scrutinized the coarse-looking young man with the thatch of carrot-colored hair.

  He handed Susan a cold beer and sat down. "The guy we're looking for is sitting at the bar," he quietly informed her. "I'm going to go introduce myself and see if he'll join us for a short chat."

  "Okay," she said with a touch of reticence and reached for one of her business cards, "but you better be the seasoned insurance veteran, while I play the part of the new girl on the block."

  "Will do."

  A man with a navy blue knit cap tugged over his ears entered the bar and plopped in an empty booth near the entrance.

  "Enjoy the beer," Steve said lightly and rose from his seat, then walked up to the side of the seaman and waited until there was a slight pause in the conversation the sailor was having with a young Malaysian woman.

  "Excuse me, Mr. Bodeker." Wickham smiled like a Cheshire cat. "I'm with Royal Continental Insurance company, and we may have some good news for you and your company."

  The man swung his head around to reveal a pink gash across a nose surrounded by a sea of freckles. "What the hell you talkin' about?"

  "Don't get me wrong," Steve said while he kept the smile plastered on his face and extended his hand. "We're not here to sell you anything. We're here to see about refunding money that may be owed to your company."

  Bodeker looked bewildered. "Man, I think you got the wrong person here."

  "You are Grover Bodeker, right?" Steve queried while the merchant seaman mechanically shook hands. "You wer
e on the Matsumi Maru number seven when it collided with the American destroyer in ninety-two."

  "That's right," Bodeker cautiously admitted, "but what's that got to do with insurance?"

  "Relax," Steve said in a soothing tone and handed him a business card. "This is good news. Have you got a couple of minutes to talk with us?"

  Bodeker still looked skeptical. "Well, me an my ol' lady was just fixin' to go over to a friend's house."

  "All we need"--Steve beckoned the bartender to give the reluctant seaman and his girlfriend another beer--"is five or ten minutes of your time."

  "All right," Bodeker acquiesced and faced the young woman. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  Wickham threw some money on the bar and accompanied the sailor to where Susan was sitting. After introductions, Steve pulled up an extra chair while she smiled and gave Bodeker a business card.

  "Mr. Bodeker," Steve began slowly, "do you have any idea what insurance company covered your ship when the collision occurred with the Navy destroyer?"

  The seaman quickly lit a cigarette and gave Wickham a strange look. "The same one we've always had, 'cept for a couple a months after she was sold."

  Susan and Steve were taken aback by the unexpected revelation, but they managed to conceal their exuberance.

  "Our records about your ship," she earnestly confided, "are incomplete, and we certainly appreciate your cooperation." Susan opened her pen. "What is the name of your ship's insurance company?"

  "Tokio Marine and Fire," he answered and blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.

  "Are you positive about the name?" Steve asked in a friendly way and sipped his beer. "We have a lot of incomplete information in our records."

  "Yeah, I'm positive," the sailor countered with a surly look. "I 'member because they--them insurance guys--spelled Tokyo with an i. T-O-K-I-O."

  Steve decided to go for the grand slam. "Mr. Bodeker, do you know who owned your ship when the collision happened?"