“I’m sorry,” said Miki.
“We’ll talk about it when I get home. My train’s arriving soon,” he said.
They disengaged the call and Gregg passed through the station’s electronic ticket gate and walked down the stairs to the subway platform. A popular J-pop song started playing and with accompanying flashing lights alerted passengers to the ten-second warning before departure. He squeezed into a car packed full of evening commuters as the doors shut and the train started in the direction of Yokohama. He sighed and removed a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Another day in paradise, he thought and rested his forehead against the train’s door window.
***
It was a warm spring day with enough clouds in the sky to take the edge off the glare as the DEA agent drove east on Virginia Street through Charleston. His rent-a-car company had upgraded him to a luxury SUV at Yeager Airport, and in spite of the gravity of his assignment, the man felt upbeat as he turned into the police department’s parking lot. After applying the emergency brake, he stepped out of the car and put on his suit jacket.
He caught the eye of a police officer walking with his partner to a squad car. “Can I help you?” asked the young officer.
“Would you kindly direct me to the office of Sergeant Davis?” replied the agent.
“You must be our guest from Springfield,” said the police officer.
“There are not too many secrets around here,” replied the agent.
He now had the attention of both of the patrolmen, and the second offered directions. “Ask for him at the second-floor reception desk. They won’t keep you waiting long,” suggested the policeman.
The agent thanked the policemen and made his way to the station. He took the stairs to the second floor where he was greeted politely by a receptionist and escorted to the sergeant’s office. After introductions, he found himself sitting across from a short, stocky man with light-colored hair cut short in military fashion. His dark navy uniform was pressed, and his name tag and badge were polished and in place on the front of his dress uniform.
“Thank you for taking the time to meet,” said the agent.
“We’re pleased to have you here and are encouraged by the DEA’s interest in observing the reality of the opioid crisis in West Virginia. Our state’s been stricken hard, and extremely few families here haven’t felt the pain of this crisis firsthand,” replied Sergeant Davis.
“I understand you average about two deaths by opioid-related overdoses daily in the state of Virginia,” said the agent.
“You’ve spent time on Google. Yes, the statistics are frightening. West Virginia had 833 opioid drug overdoses averaging about 50 deaths per 100,000 people in 2017. Working the streets is a nightmare, and you’ll soon be joining two of my best men to witness the situation.”
“When do I start?” asked the agent.
“Follow me,” ordered the first sergeant.
The sergeant led the agent down to the motor pool next to the public parking lot where two policemen waited by a patrol car. “This is Senior Patrolman Huies and Corporal Graham. They’re experienced policemen and will be able to answer your questions regarding the truth about synthetic opioid usage in Charleston.”
“I’m Special Agent Veazey, but please call me Beau,” said the agent. The men shook hands and offered the sergeant thanks and a polite farewell before starting on patrol. They’d been on the streets less than five minutes when a call came in over the radio. “Car 59, we’ve got a possible overdose near Sumter and Ashley. Will you respond?”
“We’ve locked in on the coordinates and are 10-17 with a 10-26 in less than five minutes,” said Huies.
“That didn’t take long,” said Veazey.
“We answered fifteen calls yesterday, and fourteen were drug-related. We were first on the scene at three of the calls and watched the paramedics work on the others,” replied Graham.
Huies pulled in front of a brown brick apartment block with a well-kept lawn and a freshly painted white picket fence. He waited for Graham and Veazey to get out of the vehicle before locking up and following the two men through the first floor of the apartment. They’d been met and let into the building by a girl in her early teens covered only in a T-shirt. “She’s upstairs on the bathroom floor. Please hurry,” she screamed.
Veazey followed the two men up the stairs to find a middle-aged woman lying facedown by her toilet. When they turned her over to check her airway, her long blond hair fell over her face. She was clothed only in panties, and her breathing was shallow and intermittent. “What did she take?” asked Graham while Huies threw a bath towel over the top of the victim’s body.
The girl responded from outside the bathroom. “I think it was heroin,” she said.
“It was probably laced with fentanyl,” said Graham. Both men pulled on protective gloves, and Graham removed his Narcan applicator from a pocket and squeezed a dosage into each of the woman’s nostrils. She jerked, blinked, and moaned but remained unconscious. Huies removed his Narcan from his pocket and repeated the procedure with better results. The woman came awake and stared at the policemen and slowly understood the situation. She remained on the floor but pulled the towel up higher on her sweat-chilled body.
Two paramedics announced their arrival from the first-floor entranceway and climbed the stairs to look in on the results of the policemen’s work. “Would you like us to take it from here,” asked one of the paramedics.
“It’s all yours,” said Graham, and the patrolmen and agent returned to their vehicle.
“You saved a life,” said Veazey.
“She got lucky,” replied Graham.
“So did we. Every time I go on one of these calls, I wonder if I’ll ingest a large enough dose of fentanyl to kill me. We lost an officer two weeks ago after he made a routine drug bust and searched a car,” said Huies.
“It doesn’t take much when you’re dealing with recreational fentanyl. Let’s head back to the office and get the paperwork completed,” said Graham.
“Do you think this is it for the day?” asked Veazey.
“Hell no. We have six more hours, and you’ll witness at least two more local tragedies before you go back to Springfield,” said Graham.
“I hope you Feds can do something soon. No one in Washington seems to give a shit. They’re comparing the task facing us to Hercules and his order to clean the Augean stables,” said Huies.
“I care,” said Veazey.
The two policemen turned and studied him until Veazey became uncomfortable. “Watch me,” he said.
Chapter 3
Yokota Air Base, Tokyo
The drive to the air base took Gregg ninety minutes. Yokota Air Base, in Tokyo’s Fussa District, was established in 1950 when the runways at the nearby Tachikawa Airfield were deemed too short for modern jet engine airplanes. It remains an essential and active hub for American and Japanese military operations in Asia.
The base is a small city built around the business of the United States Air Force. In addition to the air traffic control tower, runways, passenger terminal, and hangars, you’ll find the best of small-town USA. Yokota Air Base has office buildings, schools, playing fields, hospitals, shopping centers, convenience stores, community centers, and two clubs built around food and beverage services. One is designated for enlisted personnel and the other for officers. They are social centers for the Americans living on the secure military base.
The Yokota Officers’ Club has two restaurants and the Sumo Lounge. The lounge offers a long bar, several tables, a dance floor, slot machines, and pool tables. Pilots prefer to use the pool table for a fast and physical game known as “Crud.” The Officers’ Club bar is most often empty except on Fridays when crowds gather for the complimentary happy hour buffet and generous raffle prizes.
It was a Thursday evening, and a handful of Japanese guests and a few officers in uniform were seated at tables enjoying the air-conditioned relief from the August heat and humidity. Two
men wearing dark suits, white shirts, and conservative blue ties were engaged in conversation over the draft beer at the bar. They could be IBM executives or civilian employees, but most members of the Officers’ Club would be surprised to learn of their employment with an intelligence agency.
Their time was thought to be spent auditing accounts of various operations at Yokota Air Base. It was a great cover and Steve Brown and Jeff Ward encouraged the myth. The two men could intimidate the most courageous members of the military with a potential financial audit.
Today, they enjoyed a cold draft Asahi beer while standing at the bar. Both men stood around six feet tall and were fit. Jeff Ward was in his thirties and was described by the Japanese as a “half.” He had dark hair and brown eyes with subtle Japanese features courtesy of his mother. Ward wore a well-trimmed beard and mustache. Steve Brown was a decade older with a more substantial build than Ward. His hair was bright red, and Steve wore glasses over striking green eyes. They were brilliant with intelligence and darted around the lounge examining everything with precision.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Are you ready for another? It might be my round,” asked Gregg.
His offer to buy drinks was his practiced method of self-introduction. Gregg smiled at the Japanese bartender, ordered three draft beers, and placed American currency on the bar. He was dressed much like the two agents with one exception.
“Where’s the tie, the Officers’ Club isn’t slumming it,” said Ward, who seemed pleased to see Gregg.
“I’m trying to comply with the Japanese government’s ‘cool biz’ program,” said Gregg. As a guest in this country, I’ll do my best to cut down on air conditioning and save electrical energy. Not wearing a tie is a sacrifice, but it is for the right cause.”
“You’re a real environmentalist and selfless human being,” said Ward.
“Thank you. Here comes the beer; let’s toast to the ‘cool biz’ program,” replied Gregg.
Gregg was taller than both Ward and Brown, a few months shy of forty years old, and he carried himself well. He started as a linebacker for varsity football at his university in Vancouver and maintained the physique. His eyes were gray, and his most distinct feature was his hairline. Gregg was one of the unfortunate males whose hair began receding in his twenties. He was bald and without apology shaved any remaining hair close to the skin.
“Have you two met?” asked Ward.
“Steve Brown, nice to meet you. I’m Ward’s supervisor,” said Brown, and they shook hands.
This made Gregg smile. “OK, we’ll limit our conversation to sports and the weather,” he said.
“Prudent, but what will a Canadian talk about? The NHL ice hockey season doesn’t start until October,” said Brown.
“Ouch, be nice. Remember, I bought the drinks. Have you visited Canada?” asked Gregg.
“Yes. When I was at West Point, we’d take runs up to Toronto and Montreal. Nice cities with great bars and we took advantage of the weak Canadian dollar. It almost made your beer affordable,” said Brown.
The light conversation continued focusing on sports, beer, and current events. It was safe dialogue exchanged in watering holes all over the Western world. After a beer Gregg excused himself and got ready to head to his car. “One beer’s my limit, gentlemen. I’ve got to drive home,” said Gregg.
“Are you taking the river road?” asked Ward.
“Yes, most of the way home. It’s a scenic trip and it never gets old,” said Gregg, and he shook hands with the two men before thanking the Japanese bartender.
“Taisho, have a good one,” said Gregg.
After Gregg left, the two intelligence agents stood in silence for a few minutes. Steve stepped back from the bar and looked at Ward.
“What’s Gregg’s story?” asked Brown.
“I’ve known him a few years. He’s a medical representative working out of Tokyo,” replied Ward.
“What’s he doing at Yokota?” asked Brown.
“He has US base access in Japan and visits orthopedic departments at military hospitals to present and service products. Your ACL brace and orthopedic implants holding your skeleton together might be his company’s products,” replied Ward.
“He seems to have his shit together,” said Brown.
“I think so. He’s a family man, university educated, and handles Japanese well enough. Gregg studied karate and keeps in shape by running marathons now. His business career seems to be going well,” said Ward.
“Is he married to a Japanese woman?” asked Brown.
“Yes, Miki’s a top-level interpreter, skilled in the simultaneous technique used at conferences. Gregg mentioned that Miki’s contracted to assist government projects. She travels with corporate executives as their voice, facilitating presentations and negotiations. Gregg was excited about her recent work with the Japanese Olympic Committee,” said Ward.
“Interesting,” replied Brown.
Ward nodded, “Yes, she is. I met her at Gregg’s annual bonenkai party.” Brown’s look interrupted Ward. “I’m sorry, a bonenkai is a traditional Japanese party designed to help everyone forget the year gone by.”
“Fine. It sounds like Gregg’s wife is quite sharp,” said Brown.
“Yes, but Miki could have forgone intellectual pursuits for a career modeling for Victoria’s Secret,” said Ward.
Brown raised his eyebrows. “He’s done well,” he said and cleared his throat. “There might be an opportunity here. Let’s go for a walk and discuss things,” he said.
Steve Brown put down his beer and started for the door, and Ward grabbed his jacket and hurried after his boss. As they left the Officers’ Club, Brown removed a large pen from his briefcase and twisted it. The audio jammer gave a sharp whine as it warmed up and wound to a low hum. “You never know who’s listening on base,” said Brown.
Ward followed his boss to a Japanese garden located in front of the Yokota Officers’ Club. It was unique to the base as it incorporated stone monuments placed as a chronological memorial to war casualties. The stones were inscribed with figures denoting the dead, injured, and missing in action. The first stone commemorated the War of Independence. They walked to it and read the inscription, listing 4,435 battle deaths and 6,188 wounded in action.
The two men took a moment to survey the garden. It was a quiet night and they were alone. “Are you familiar with William Francis Buckley?” asked Brown.
“The Beirut station chief who died in Hezbollah captivity?” replied Ward without hesitation.
“Correct, he died on June 3, 1985, in horrid conditions after three months of torture,” said Brown.
The two men remained silent for a few moments. “Accounts from freed hostages incarcerated near him are graphic and tough to review. Buckley suffered from pneumonia and a fever during the last week of his life and was forced to stay in a coffin-sized cell. A video taken by Hezbollah shows him shaking, screaming, and drooling. It was not William’s or the CIA’s finest hour. When he died, two men pulled him down three flights of stairs by his legs. His head bounced off every step as they moved him to the basement. It was sick,” said Brown.
The men continued walking around the garden, stopping in front of the stone placed in memory of the Vietnam War casualties. Its bronze marker listed 59,000 Americans dead, 154,000 wounded, and 1,700 missing in action.
“The terrorist operations were run by the Hezbollah. The main perpetrator of the kidnappings in Lebanon was Imad Mughniyah. He is no longer a threat, but we located one of his ‘disciples.’ The man is a Hezbollah operative named Dalir Hamid. He was sixteen years old in 1985, but his youth did not prohibit him from participating in interrogations and kidnappings in Beirut. He was a classic bad actor. The bastard made a career out of murder, kidnapping, and torture.” Brown stopped a moment and seemed to consider his next statement.
“There are old boys in Fairfax who haven’t forgotten Beirut. They won’t let this one go, and we’ve been tagged to clean things up. This projec
t isn’t going to run through regular channels,” said Brown.
They both remained silent and let the weight of the last sentence linger. The humidity and evening heat caused both men to perspire.
“Are we doing our job or making good on a past favor?” asked Ward.
“A little bit of both. It’s actually become a question of who can reach Dalir Hamid first,” replied Brown.
“Let me guess, the power makers in sand land have also got a grudge against this guy,” replied Ward.
“A debt, actually. In the early 1990s there were a string of armed bank robberies in southern France. Strong evidence points to the Hezbollah fund-raising committees. The word on the street is Hamid walked off with the entire take from several of the scores and has lived as a wealthy man ever since. One of our analysts located a ten-million-dollar bounty on the dark web. They want Dalir Hamid dead or alive,” explained Brown.
“I’m assuming he’s stayed alive by living quietly with a new face,” said Ward.
“Too right, but he’s emerged in Bangkok and apparently talks in his sleep,” said Brown.
“Tell one other person and you no longer have a secret,” commented Ward.
“Correct, the word trickled down to an embassy secretary and she passed the intel to the right people. It all checked out with verifications down to the cellular level. Dalir Hamid is in Bangkok and the prick has lunch every Sunday on the patio of a restaurant called the Windmill in Patpong. The waiters are all young male models and dancers. He arrives and leaves like clockwork,” said Brown.
“You’ve got to be shitting me. The guy is on a schedule?” replied Ward.
“He follows a regular pattern,” replied Brown.
Ward held up his hand as if asking permission to speak. “What’s stopping us from taking the bastard out?” he asked.
“Ah, the million-dollar question. There were some procedural delays but they no longer exist. The boys in Virginia cleared the way and we have the green light,” replied Brown.
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