The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  “Just lovely,” she replied. She looked around the park and down the beach. “So, this is Japan,” she said.

  “Everything you need is in the trunk of the blue RAV4 in the parking lot,” he said.

  She turned and identified the SUV, and he handed her a tote bag. “The keys are in the bag as well as a yoga cover-up similar to thousands of others worn by the locals around here. There’s a bottle of water and some snacks in there too,” he said.

  She reviewed the contents of the tote bag and pulled the yoga pants and jacket out to wear over her swimsuit. “You’ve been generous and thoughtful. Thank you,” she said. She reached out and touched his cheek before turning and walking toward her new vehicle in the parking lot.

  “Keep our great nation safe,” he said. His voice was too soft for anyone to hear.

  ***

  Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department, Kasumigaseki, Tokyo

  The tall thin man walked into the office of the assistant chief of the Tokyo Police Department without knocking, and the assistant chief looked up from behind his computer screen with unveiled hostility. “What do you want?” asked the assistant chief.

  “May I take a seat?” asked the intruder.

  “I don’t think you’ll be staying long,” replied the assistant chief as he picked up the phone.

  “You’ve received two and half million yen wrapped in a black silk cloth on the second Friday of every month since you became number two. Do you want to discuss your corruption or what I came here to do?” The tall man took a seat, and the assistant chief slowly lowered the phone.

  “You worms from the Naicho are nothing better than the Kenpeitai,” said the Assistant Chief.

  “The wartime secret police shot dogs and harassed housewives. I’m here to make sure a filthy and corrupt police bureaucrat does his job. Please glance over this letter from the commissioner general’s office. It seems our prime minister’s golfing partner has called in a favor,” said the tall man. He pulled the letter from his pocket and handed it to the assistant chief.

  The assistant chief took it, and the color of his face paled as he read through the paragraphs. He dropped the document onto his desk. “This is going to be difficult,” he said.

  “Are you refusing the direction from this land’s highest authority?” asked the tall man.

  “No, I’ll take action immediately,” said the assistant chief.

  “Good,” said the tall man. He pulled out his cigarettes and a lighter from his suit pocket and lit up.

  “This is a nonsmoking building,” said the assistant chief.

  “Call the police,” replied the tall man.

  Chapter 34

  International Christian University, Tokyo

  Gerry Levy’s phone didn’t display a number, but he answered the call with his last name.

  “It’s Jeff Ward. Are you at a secure location?” he asked.

  “Why would I be working in a secure location? My class left five minutes ago after absorbing a lecture on the 1789 storming of the Bastille. I don’t need a safe room to teach French history,” replied Levy.

  “Fair enough, but I’m calling my former brother in arms to call in a favor,” said Ward.

  Levy sighed. “Eight weeks of Ranger training together and you think you’ve earned a lifetime supply of favors? Go ahead and talk, as I’m alone in my office with nothing better to do.”

  “A fourteen-year-old Japanese girl was kidnapped, and we would be grateful for your expertise to assist with determining the girl’s location,” replied Ward.

  “Why is this your business?” asked Levy.

  “The girl’s father did a one-off for us and we owe him. It’s a righteous operation and we need your help.”

  “Can you tell me a little more about the one-off?” asked Levy.

  “Have you seen the news from Southeast Asia?” replied Ward.

  “It’s been busy in Bangkok,” said Levy.

  “We need your help,” replied Ward.

  “Where and when do we meet?” asked Levy.

  “I’m at the Starbucks at Mitaka Station,” said Ward.

  “Shit. We’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” said Levy. The former special forces operator hung up the phone and slid his laptop into his leather backpack. He left his office at almost a full sprint.

  ***

  Mitaka, Starbucks Coffee Shop

  Ward waived at Levy from the back of the room as he came into the coffee shop. “I took the liberty of ordering you today’s special served black without sugar,” said Ward.

  “Fine,” said Levy and moved a chair to the side of the table to better position his view of the door.

  “May I ask what a member of your religious persuasion is doing teaching at the International Christian University?” asked Ward.

  “Don’t be an ass. Do you think any of the students are Christian?” replied Levy.

  “Good point. The Japanese are religiously indifferent,” said Ward.

  “It’s a recent phenomenon, but you didn’t ask me here to discuss Japanese sociology and religious tolerance,” said Levy. He took a sip of his coffee. “This is good.”

  “What do you need to know?” asked Ward.

  “Can you answer who, where, when, and how much?” asked Levy.

  “The kidnapped victim’s name is Kou Westwood and her parents are Gregg and Miki. She’s held by a yakuza group headed by Minoru Sato. Gregg was attacked upon returning from a mission and, with some help from a friend, knocked around six of Sato’s chimpira and left them somewhat dismantled.”

  “You said this Gregg Westwood is stand-up?” asked Levy.

  “Westwood got caught in the blender but has come through for us,” answered Ward. Levy nodded and remained quiet, allowing Ward to continue. “The yakuza pulled the kid and left her mother lying beaten and unconscious on the street near Kawasaki Station. The yakuza are entertaining Leo Morello, and I ask if his name rings a bell?” asked Ward.

  “Why not call the Japanese police?” asked Levy.

  Ward shrugged. “The situation is complicated. Gregg isn’t around to file a missing person report, and we have concerns about leaks and the Japanese police’s speed to action. We have agents on the ready but feel Kou is in serious jeopardy.”

  “Where do you think she’s being kept?” asked Levy.

  Ward’s left eye twitched. “We don’t know exactly. We want to interrogate one of Sato’s senior employees and elicit the intel.”

  “You aren’t giving me much to work with,” said Levy.

  “We don’t have much. It’s time to make something happen,” said Ward.

  “You mentioned a senior employee?” asked Levy.

  “We’ve targeted one of Sato’s confidants but are hesitant to approach him. Sato’s not adverse to violent solutions and would eliminate the girl if he gets spooked,” said Ward.

  “When does Leo Morello leave town?” asked Levy.

  “Good question. He’s booked on a JAL flight leaving in three days,” replied Ward.

  Levy leaned forward to bring his face closer to Ward. “Did you arrange backup and equipment?” he asked.

  Ward nodded. “You know we have. We contracted two specialists to join the party, but you’re the man who gets all the answers. Everything we need is sitting in the van across the street.”

  Levy didn’t need to turn and check out the vehicle. “The navy Toyota Estima with license plate Kanagawa 11-29,” he said.

  “If you say so,” replied Ward, and the two men left the store.

  ***

  Tokyo, Hamura Station

  Keiko Tanaka ran up the stairs and reached the top step of the station platform on time to watch her local commuter train’s doors slide closed. She sighed and checked her cell phone app for departure schedules on Tokyo’s Ome Line as the commuter cars’ metal wheels ground on the steel tracks. She kicked the ground with her sensible shoes selected for work and looked around to find the platform mostly empty. No one seemed to witness her
short temper tantrum.

  She frowned when she read her app’s listings of the trains leaving Hamura Station over the next hour. A local commuter train wouldn’t stop and take her to her home station for twenty minutes, while two express trains would speed by full of men and women dressed for casual “cool” business in Tokyo’s office buildings. Nothing seemed to be going well for Keiko.

  It had been another hellish day of grilling from representatives of the Public Security Intelligence Agency. Keiko thought about the same questions asked repeatedly but sometimes in subtly different ways. She’d answered them all honestly from the first day of questioning. “Why don’t they believe me? I told them about the North Korean lies and my grandmother’s terrible predicament,” she asked herself.

  She looked behind her to see an old Japanese woman dressed in a gray skirt and a long navy sweater sitting on a bench. Keiko looked over the old woman’s large paper bag decorated with a London department store’s logo and the cheap umbrella she clutched with her right hand. Her face was covered by a floppy hat, and the old woman wore large sunglasses. Those glasses might have been popular when you were in high school, thought Keiko.

  She ignored the woman when she heard the roar of the approaching express train and stepped back two steps from the edge of the platform to watch it fly by at ninety miles an hour. Her hair and skirt blew in the wake of the electric-powered transport system, and she wrapped her arms around herself defensively. Keiko looked up at the electronic signboard announcing the next express train’s scheduled pass through the station in three minutes. It listed her local train’s scheduled arrival in thirteen minutes.

  Her legs began to feel fatigued, and she looked back at the bench to find the old woman had placed the umbrella and bag on the chair next to her. She didn’t have the energy to engage the rude lady nor the initiative to leave her place by the tracks. I can’t be bothered, she thought and glanced at the signboard. “One minute before another train blasts through here,” she said softly to herself. Keiko stepped back to prepare for the express train’s arrival and stiffened as she backed into someone.

  “Don’t turn around,” said a woman’s voice. “I’ll drive this razor up your ass and into your liver if you make any noise or try to move.”

  “Who are you?” asked Keiko.

  “Someone who wants to know what you’ve told the Japanese authorities,” said the woman.

  “Nothing. I wouldn’t say anything,” said Keiko.

  “Now you are telling lies,” said the woman.

  Keiko felt the prick of cold steel poke into the flesh of her upper back. “Ouch, don’t hurt me,” said Keiko. Panic was leaking into her voice, and sweat ran from her forehead down her face and into her eyes. She felt her heart race as adrenaline rushed through her system.

  “Did you identify your contacts?” asked the woman.

  Keiko remained silent and the growing rumbling sounds and blast from the horn of the oncoming express train soon made any verbal communication impossible. She tried to step back but was immediately held in place by something slammed across her back. She glanced behind her to see the old woman had punched her with the umbrella using the same technique as an ice hockey player delivering a cross-check to an opponent.

  The old woman leaned forward and screamed, “Your grandmother will die slowly of starvation.” It was the last conscious thought Keiko Tanaka would ever process. The woman drove her forward with incredible strength and tossed her like a rag doll in front of the train. The impact on the front window of the train’s glass designed for durability, noise reduction, and thermal insulation was much like a car hitting an insect on the autobahn—and with similar gruesome results. It took the train five hundred meters to stop and thirty seconds for its conductor to initiate emergency procedures.

  The old woman walked out of the station and into the washroom of a nearby fast-food restaurant where she changed. The old woman’s hat, sunglasses, skirt, and sweater were tossed into the toilet’s garbage bin, disposing the disguise. A young and vibrant office lady emerged from the public bathroom wearing designer reading glasses, a white blouse, and a navy-blue skirt.

  The North Korean assassin’s mission was accomplished without immediate or aggressive detection. The killer stopped at the counter to order an iced coffee to go. She received the beverage with one hand and took the time to wave with her free hand to all three of the security cameras placed around the restaurant. She smiled, pulled a handkerchief from her purse, and dabbed at her face before almost skipping out of the crowded venue.

  Chapter 35

  Pink Kangaroo Soapland, Shinjuku

  Things were falling apart for Ezura, and nothing defined his recent decline better than Sato’s order for his retro and brutal punishment. He was recovering from the self-amputation of his fourth digit and required strong pharmaceuticals to get him through each day. After a single day’s reprieve for recuperation, he’d been sent back to work and burdened with the mind-numbing task of managing the Pink Kangaroo.

  Ezura monitored general activities requiring his supervision of labor and the enforcement of house rules when rowdy customers stepped out of line. He sat in his office glancing over the multiple screens displaying most angles of the reception area, while others recorded and offered unobstructed views of the activities in the showers and bedrooms. There wasn’t much action to concern him until a small group of men entered the lobby.

  It wasn’t unusual for groups of businessmen to visit the establishment, but these guys alarmed him. They dressed like bankers, wearing dark suits and well-polished shoes. “You’re a bunch of four-eyed desk jockeys,” mumbled Ezura.

  They were average-sized men but walked with confidence and stepped with smooth strides like athletes in tune with their bodies. “Why aren’t you taking off your sunglasses?” asked Ezura. He spoke out loud to the display screen, “Something isn’t right.” He turned up the audio on the observation devices and readied to listen in on the “bankers” and his employees in the front lobby.

  The front desk was operated by a muscular enforcer and the proud recipient of a full-contact karate championship ring. He had a reputation for ruthlessness and the twenty-five-year-old’s chiseled physique and confidence were enough to intimidate most people. He worked with a hostess whose job was to greet guests, run credit cards, and collect cash. The men in suits didn’t approach the front desk but spread out around the lobby. They looked like a reconnaissance patrol arriving to observe and learn.

  One looked dead straight into the camera and his face filled the screen, causing goose bumps to rise on Ezura’s flesh. The enforcer moved around the counter and walked toward the businessmen. “Gentlemen, please sign in at the front desk and my colleague will get you fixed up. This isn’t a tourist attraction and we don’t offer tours or welcome loiterers in this lobby,” he said. The men ignored him, and the enforcer’s face went scarlet.

  “Didn’t you hear me? Sign in or get out,” he screamed. The enforcer reached for the arm of the closest man, and Ezura’s jaw dropped as he watched his bouncer get torn apart. The fourth-degree black belt was disabled in less than two seconds. The short, stocky man in the navy suit twisted his bouncer’s wrist and punched him in the throat. The reaction and counter was as smooth and accurate as a Las Vegas magician’s sleight-of-hand trick. Ezura’s tough guy lay on the floor unconscious while his limbs and face muscles spasmed.

  Standard protocol for extreme situations was to pull the alarm and lockdown switch and escape out the back door. Ezura knew the situation required evasive action, but he sat back in his chair while resting his eyes. He was in constant pain and the drugs made him lethargic. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a snub-nosed New Nambu M60 revolver and turned it in the air as if looking at the weapon for the first time. He checked the firearm’s load and, after finding it full, placed the weapon on his desk.

  He took a sip of the remaining iced coffee from a souvenir mug he had brought back from New York and got up to secure th
e locks on his office’s steel door. He was reaching for the bolt when a blast tossed him against the far wall. Explosives breaching the door’s hinges launched most of the structure with frame into the room at detonation.

  He was dazed and deafened by the blast, rendering him unaware of the sounds of the men entering the room. He didn’t hear the order in a deep, commanding tone to “dust the guy off and get him ready to have a chat.”

  ***

  Ezura awoke when ice-cold water sprayed in his face from a shower head held by Jeff Ward. He looked around the room’s floor and walls made with thick polished wooden panels and recognized a simple shower system built into the wall. It was being utilized by his tormentor and was an essential piece of equipment in one of the many soapland activity rooms in the Pink Kangaroo. The dispenser near the shower controls was full of edible body lotion, which was yet another indispensable component of the services provided by the soapland hostesses.

  He pushed off the floor with both hands in an attempt to stand up, but a second man kicked him in the sternum to knock him back to the wet floor. “We can do this one of several ways, but please don’t make it the hard way,” said Ward.

  A third man stepped forward. “You’re Ezura, right?” asked Gerry Levy.

  “Fuck you,” replied Ezura.

  “We’ll consider your reply a yes, and my associate will translate everything I say because we have little time or patience for misunderstanding. Our sense of urgency requires us to use techniques inspired by the Romans, who were, ironically, your ancestors here in Japan. Are you familiar with the Suzugamori execution grounds and its history of crucifixion?” asked Levy.