The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  “Is this why you asked Marron to remain in Bangkok?” asked Ward.

  Brown answered by remaining silent and looking him in the eyes. Both men nodded. “The project took on a greater sense of urgency when a North Korean operative was identified at a hotel bar in Bangkok,” said Brown.

  “Shit. I guess ten million dollars buys a ton of spicy kimchi or about eighty thousand AK-47 assault rifles. Never ask if a situation can get worse,” said Ward.

  Brown nodded. “There’s one other reason for this evening stroll. I’m looking ahead a few moves on the chessboard and we might need someone who’s off the radar. Do you think your Canadian friend might fit?” asked Brown.

  “He’s an amateur,” replied Ward.

  “Gregg has no experience, making him perfect for some tasks necessary to deployment. He’s your everyday run-of-the-mill tourist carrying a Canadian passport. It will work,” said Brown.

  “I’m not convinced of the benefits,” said Ward.

  “You’re not listening. We’ve been compromised in the past and sometimes we need to keep the details of our business exclusive and within our nuclear family. Desperate times often require desperate measures,” replied Brown.

  “Do we send him for six months training at the Farm?” asked Ward.

  Brown adjusted his glasses. “Let’s get him on the payroll. Send him to Bangkok as a courier as a test mission. Rush him into the program, and don’t leave him time for self-analysis or the development of misconceived ethical inhibitions.”

  “What kind of cargo did you have in mind? Radioactive isotopes, armed biological weaponry, or maybe a letter written with invisible ink?” asked Ward.

  “Cute,” replied Brown, and the change of his facial expression caused Ward to shudder.

  “I’m sorry,” said Ward.

  “Do you remember the bearer bonds confiscated from the Russian Learjet?”

  “Yes, are they legitimate?” asked Ward.

  “They are rare and authentic. The ones found on the oligarch’s private jet were printed by Uncle Sam in 1981 and are ready to liquidate. They no longer collect added value but continue to offer anonymity. Our asset waiting in Bangkok will be pleased to receive the untraceable payment,” said Brown.

  “I’ll call Gregg and meet him tomorrow. We’ll try to get him on a plane by Sunday,” said Ward. After reading something in his boss’s face, Ward stepped back and away from Steve Brown.

  “I’m not interested in you trying,” Brown looked at Ward to drive home his position. “Your mission is to deliver a man capable of staying off the radar. Contact Gregg Westwood and make a proposal. I need you to do your job and deliver.”

  Steve walked out of the garden and to his car. Ward shook his head as the engine roared from Brown’s excessive pressure on the gas pedal.

  The senior agent drove up to Ward, who remained standing in front of the small Vietnam War monument. The car window was open. “Be sure to complete the proper due diligence on Gregg. Support staff will be notified of the priority and will rush the research. Anything you uncover will give you some leverage. He might be your friend but don’t hesitate to use it,” ordered Brown.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Ward.

  Steve Brown waved good night and drove off, and Jeff Ward began his fifteen-minute hike to his bachelor quarters on base. He sang, “Don’t worry be happy,” as he walked.

  Chapter 4

  Tama River, Tokyo and Kawasaki

  The Tama River runs eighty-six miles to the sea and separates Tokyo from the cities of Yokohama and Kawasaki. Several of Jimmy Doolittle’s raiders used it as a directional landmark during their famous daylight bombing raid on Japan in the spring of 1942. Today it remains scenic in many parts and the green space on the Kawasaki side of the river is precious and well used. The grass and dirt fields are used for sports of all description and as far ranging and diverse as fly fishing and competitive Ultimate Frisbee.

  Gregg rounded a bend in his Honda minivan and caught sight of a handful of Japanese and Irish students practicing hurling. Unique to this land, he thought.

  It was the end of a beautiful day. The fading sun reflected off the long grass and trees accenting the greenery along the river. Traffic could be challenging in Tokyo, but today it was flowing and Gregg’s mood was upbeat when his cell phone rang. He touched the earpiece, “Gregg Westwood speaking.” His voice was enhanced by habitual enthusiasm.

  “It’s Jeff Ward. Thank you for the beer.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but is something bothering you? I hope I didn’t say anything wrong in front of your boss,” said Gregg.

  “You’re fine, in fact you made quite the impression on Mr. Brown. I’m going to be in Tokyo tomorrow and wonder if you’d have time for lunch?” asked Ward.

  “Sounds good. I’m working in Tokyo tomorrow afternoon. Were you thinking of the New Sanno Hotel in Hiroo?” replied Gregg.

  “No, let’s take a break from government facilities and meet in Shinjuku. Shall we rendezvous at the west exit police box at eleven thirty? I’ll make a reservation at a place near the station,” said Ward.

  “A million people travel in and out of Shinjuku Station on workdays. Will you be able to find me at the west exit police koban?” asked Gregg.

  “I’ll pick you out of the lineup of tall bald-headed Caucasians. See you at eleven thirty, and lunch will be my treat,” said Ward.

  “One moment, is this a social meeting or do you want something?”

  “Don’t spoil the surprise, we’ll see you tomorrow,” said Ward.

  Gregg touched the screen with his left hand to sign off from the call while watching the traffic in front of him slowly come to a halt. He’d become part of a vehicle lineup stretching for miles along the river. He used the time to ponder recent events and the ramifications for his future.

  ***

  Kawasaki

  Gregg reached Shukugawara and backed his Honda minivan down the narrow street past his neighbor’s apartment block and cranked the wheel to steer into the parking spot in front of his house. It was starting to get dark but the streetlights and full moon lit up the road and the empty children’s playground across from his home. He lived in a normally quiet Japanese suburb developed from rice paddies fifty years earlier. The atmosphere changed during the summer when hundreds of cicadas covered nearby trees and buzzed loudly to attract their mates.

  A middle-aged couple walked by with their poodle and recognized him with slight bows and shared a greeting. “Good evening,” replied Gregg, feeling better after finishing his day without further incident or interaction with private equity executives. He glanced at the road and watched a cluster of middle school students dressed in powder-blue tracksuits on their route home after a workout. Gregg opened the back hatch of his van and inventoried his vehicle’s contents. His sales literature, samples, and promotional items were all in order for the next day’s business.

  “Excuse me,” said someone from behind him.

  Gregg turned to see his teenage daughter in the doorway. She was on her knees and bowed low to the ground. The traditional welcome hadn’t been practiced since the Meiji Restoration a century ago.

  “Everybody’s a comedian,” Gregg said and walked over to Kou. She bounced to her feet laughing and gave him a hug.

  “What did you do today?” asked Kou, who was a foot shorter than her father and looked up with a smile.

  “I visited clients at Yokota Air Base,” he replied.

  Kou’s eyes sparkled, and Gregg knew what was coming next. “Did you bring back some takeout from Chili’s?” she asked.

  “I did. Can you wait until about eight o’clock for dinner? You know your mother comes home tonight,” he said.

  “She might not be hungry after her trip, and I’m starved now. Please pass me the bags and I’ll set the table. You got some ribs and quesadillas, right?” asked Kou.

  Gregg laughed as Kou behaved as a textbook example of an only child. “We never fail to deliver,” said
Gregg, and he passed Kou the large brown bag with their dinner.

  Chapter 5

  Shinjuku

  Gregg could have driven to Shinjuku, but a combination of trains, subways, and a short taxi ride was preferable. Tokyo morning traffic was at best a challenge. Traffic lights were never in sync, and parking spots were rare and expensive. The journey on the Odakyu train line took twenty minutes. He got off the overcrowded train car, piling out into Shinjuku Station to join thousands of people. He followed the commuter’s parade and broke away with the crowd streaming toward the west exit. The walk took him along corridors, up and down stairs, passing department store entrances, numerous shops, and kiosks. He arrived at the west exit police box, which the Japanese called a koban. The clock mounted on the station’s window flashed 11:13, allowing him time to settle and prepare mentally for his 11:30 meeting. Gregg was ready to leave by the time the digital clock indicated 11:45. He checked his cell phone for messages, email, and missed calls but found none. Gregg assumed Ward had stood him up. He started walking back to the Odakyu gate when someone touched his arm from behind.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I missed my connection,” said Ward.

  Gregg nodded acceptance of the apology.

  “Let’s catch a cab, lunch is on my boss,” said Ward as he moved toward a nearby taxi stand.

  A taxi with a white license plate denoting it as shirotaku, or independently owned, pulled up.

  “Did you know the shirotaku requires ten years’ experience with a flawless driving record? The Japanese system rewards excellence with the right to self-employment,” said Ward.

  Gregg stepped into the back of the taxi and waited for the automatic door to close before replying, “Yes, it seems to allow for a more expensive starting fare as well,” replied Gregg.

  The minimum listed on the window was 780 yen. Ward greeted the driver and gave the address of the Fungo Dining restaurant in flawless Japanese. “I’m sorry to be late. I left early, but some clown jumped in front of the train and delayed us for forty minutes. My phone was in my briefcase on the rack, and the friggin’ train was crowded. I couldn’t get to it to text you,” said Ward.

  “Your delay is understandable, but it’s a little late in the year for a train jumper. Most seem to do the dive during the spring when corporate reporting and taxes come due. It’s hard to prove intent, and life insurance companies are forced to make the payout,” said Gregg.

  The taxi took a corner faster than necessary, and both men gripped the armrests on the car doors.

  “So much for safety. What’s this Fungo Dining?” asked Gregg.

  “It’s a little Italian restaurant, you’ll find it noisy and busy with office people at lunch. It has excellent food, and they always give me the booth by the window,” replied Ward.

  They pulled in front of the restaurant after a short ten-minute ride through afternoon traffic. Ward paid the driver and got the receipt for his government expense report. They entered the restaurant and were seated.

  “It’s crowded as promised, but why is it 99 percent full of women?” asked Gregg.

  Ward looked around the room as if noticing the phenomena for the first time. He gestured to the wall behind Gregg. “I come to enjoy the Italian paraphernalia decorating this hole in the wall,” he said.

  There were several photos of Rome, masks from Venice, and framed Italian advertisements positioned around the restaurant. “You are a man of serious taste,” commented Gregg.

  A young lady arrived at the table to take their order. “Good afternoon. How are classes at Sophia University?” asked Ward.

  “Just fine. Nice to see you again. Will you both have the lunch special? The lamb is excellent,” she said.

  “Sold,” said Gregg.

  “That will be two,” Ward said. He waited for the waitress to take their menus and depart before continuing his conversation. “We’ve known each other for four years, and our conversations have never touched on our work.”

  “Are you interested in moving into the private sector? You’re a natural salesman and would do well,” replied Gregg.

  Ward laughed. “Thank you, but no, my friend, please listen. Steve asked me about your background after our short conversation at the Yokota O-Club. He came up with an idea we want to share with you,” said Ward.

  “Is this my chance to get into your fantasy football league?” asked Gregg.

  The question seemed to irritate Ward, and Gregg was relieved when the waitress came and filled their water glasses. “Please remember, nothing we discuss today can be repeated, and I will deny anything coming back to me. This conversation never happened,” said Ward.

  “I’m a forty-year-old Canadian medical representative living in Japan. How in any way could I be of interest to the US government’s finance and accounting group?” asked Gregg.

  Ward took a sip of water. “Fair enough, let me take a different approach. Opportunities exist for nonmilitary types to perform mutually beneficial tasks. The work might not be glamorous or exciting, but it’s necessary for our mission. Steve Brown feels you could help us,” said Ward.

  Gregg remained silent.

  “Would you be interested in working on projects requiring no training beyond your current skill set? You’d be well paid and wouldn’t compromise your current career,” said Ward.

  “I’ve got a great job, my marriage and family life are just fine, and we thank God for our good health. I’m not looking for a change,” replied Gregg.

  “Let me give you an example of the kind of work we offer. Some items and messages are best delivered in person by courier. We would deploy you to courier a package or a verbal message from our offices in Japan to a destination and contact in a foreign country. Call it a temporary consulting project. The work would be limited to short runs, you’d travel business class, and lodging accommodations would be five stars. It’s a simple contract with great perks and a nice check at the end. Would this interest you?” asked Ward.

  “Thank you, but my father used to say, if it sounds too good to be true, it usually is too good to be true. I’ll take a pass.”

  Ward nodded understanding. “Let’s not make any decisions today. In the light of this discussion, would you mind if I clarified a few things related to your bio?” asked Ward.

  “My bio? You didn’t receive a curriculum vitae from me,” said Gregg.

  “You are under contract with a British company to market orthopedic products in Japan and Korea. Your most urgent project is the launch of a new intertrochanteric antegrade nail, used during surgery on hip fractures. Is this report accurate?” asked Ward.

  “Yes, it is. You’ve done your homework and it’s disturbing. Please carry on,” replied Gregg.

  “Have you opened business operations in Korea, Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand, the Philippines, and Hong Kong?” asked Ward.

  “Your research is impressive, but I’ve also established some sales channels in Indonesia,” replied Gregg.

  Ward reviewed his notes. “Yes, you spent three weeks in Jakarta last year. My apologies. May I continue?” asked Ward.

  “Please, go ahead,” said Gregg.

  “You attended university on a football scholarship and spent a year after graduation studying karate,” said Ward.

  “Correct, I lived in a dormitory full of foreigners and trained at a dojo in Ebisu. Where do you get this data?”

  Ward adjusted his notes. “We are thorough and have great resources. You’re a big man, how can you be any good at marathons?”

  Gregg placed both hands on the table and bowed with mocking formality. “I think you know the answer. Every record will remain safe when I run a race. I was proud to take my 220 pounds across a half marathon finish line in under two hours. Football and karate were interesting, but my level was never close to professional,” said Gregg.

  “Please forgive the seriousness of these inquiries. They are a necessary formality and important to our future relationship. The core of our business
is information; my office isn’t interested in playing games or trifling with your feelings. We intend to learn more about you with the goal of working together. Shall we continue with just a few more questions?” asked Ward.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” replied Gregg, and he relaxed the death grip on his ice water glass.

  “Do you remember a violent event occurring on a Friday night twelve years ago? The altercation took place at the center of the busiest intersection in the Roppongi entertainment district. Some guy fitting your description had a physical altercation with a few local tough guys.”

  Chapter 6

  Roppongi, about twelve years earlier

  It wasn’t clear what ignited the violence. The September night was hot and humid in the restaurant and bar district. Crowds jammed the sidewalks, spilling onto the road at the intersection. When the light changed, hundreds crossed the busy street. Traffic was backed up for several city blocks, and horns blared from vehicles stuck in the weekend evening rush. A black Mercedes with tinted windows refused to stop for pedestrians as it crawled along. The walkers crossing the street late on the green light ignored the red signal in mass. One middle-aged businessman extended a middle finger and placed it against the window of the Mercedes. Several inebriated young men screamed abuse at the occupants of the luxury vehicle.

  Gregg watched the interaction from the sidewalk until the Mercedes nicked the knee of a young woman. The drunk Waseda University coed had stepped in front of the slow-moving vehicle, and the bumper caught her square on the knee. Call it chivalry or margarita-enhanced stupidity. Gregg’s instinctive reaction was to kick the Mercedes, and he witnessed immediate effect.

  Several young men leaped out of the luxury sedan as if the doors were spring-loaded. They were identifiable to everyone present as yakuza. The Japanese gangsters dressed in dark pants and long-sleeve shirts to cover Japanese tattoos. Every one of the chimpira wore sunglasses in spite of the late hour. One gangster yelled an obscenity and charged at a Japanese businessman in the middle of the street.