The Courier

by Gordon J Campbell

  “Thank you. I’m glad to see you,” said Gregg.

  “You hurt?” asked Ward.

  “I don’t think so,” Gregg replied.

  “Need a ride?” asked Ward.

  “If it wouldn’t be a burden,” replied Gregg. He climbed into the back seat and they departed. After several minutes of travel in silence, Gregg realized he was crying and wiped tears off his face with the back of his gloved hand.

  “Damn fine job,” said Ward.

  Chapter 42

  Yokohama

  Sato contemplated his position in the world as his Bentley rushed away from the family estate he treasured. He served the Inuzawa-kai’s oyabun and would one day replace him as the head of the family. He enjoyed the power and the reality of owning the local law enforcement officials, politicians, and business leaders. The common man feared him, and Minoru Sato had no one to please but himself, but it felt like the life he had built was deteriorating around him. He cleared his throat, and Suga san glanced his way. “All these problems started with a phone call from that stupid art dealer, but I ask you, was his request out of line?” asked Sato.

  Suga stared at his boss’s reflection in the rearview mirror, returned his focus to the road, and spoke. “That’s an interesting question. His request might have been ill-conceived and somewhat audacious, but it was within our capabilities. The men we sent were experienced in the execution of such tasks. It was their specialty, and assignments should have been easy to accomplish. Shimano’s request came with unforeseen hooks and barbs, like a computer virus. Our association with Shimano seems to have corrupted our organization.”

  Suga swerved the luxury automobile, avoiding a collision with a large truck. “What the hell was a petrol container truck doing in our neighborhood?” asked Sato.

  “They must be lost. I’ve never seen one on the mountain,” replied Suga.

  “I hope they don’t try to drive up the Hakushika’s driveway, it’ll take the idiots forever to back out. Anyway, how long will it take to get to Shimano’s art gallery in Hiroo?” asked Sato.

  “The navigation system says forty minutes, but I’m sure we can be there sooner.”

  “Fine. You’ve heard all the reports and rumors. What is your take on the Ezura assassination, and have you heard of anything like it?” asked Sato.

  “The men who tortured and executed Ezura were different. I don’t think they were yakuza. Our rival yakuza clans contacted us with regrets, and none were making threats nor have any of our associated business partners claimed responsibility. Ezura’s killers were vicious and probably sociopaths, but they were also highly trained professionals. The police didn’t collect one clue—not a hair, a fingerprint, or anything worthwhile on the security footage,” replied Suga.

  “Why do you think it wasn’t another yakuza family?” asked Sato.

  Suga took a moment to consider before replying. “It doesn’t smell right. You know my history. I worked supporting elite special forces in Vietnam. The enemy called the Navy Seals the ‘men with green faces,’ and their actions were ruthless and terrifying. The Seals worked like ghosts, leaving enemy bodies trailing behind them. I haven’t felt this vulnerable since the war.”

  “I won’t be intimidated,” said Sato.

  His driver bowed his head slightly to demonstrate agreement. “No, we won’t be intimidated,” he said.

  “It all leads back to Shimano and his damn request for a favor. It’s brought a river of shit down on us,” said Sato.

  The driver signaled and started moving toward the toll highway entrance.

  “Did you hear about the results of the meetings with our friends from Manhattan?” said Sato.

  “I understand it ended abruptly when word of Nic Fabbro’s death and the confiscation of half the payload reached Morello,” said Suga.

  “Yes, and Morello refuses to pay anything more than his down payment now that the shipment’s been reduced by half. He’s at Narita or heading back to NYC as we speak,” said Sato.

  “His position is understandable. He lost a man, and it’s never good to be involved with the American government, or any government, for that matter,” said Suga.

  Sato threw up his hands. “No, it isn’t, but possession is more than nine-tenths of the law. It is everything, and we have Gregg Westwood’s daughter. The little bitch is getting an education courtesy of Nakada, and our little pervert is earning his money,” said Sato.

  “We’ll be at Shimano’s in less than twenty minutes,” replied Suga.

  “Thanks,” said Sato while picking up his cell and dialing Nori Nakada. He listened to the phone ring ten times before he gave up on the call.

  ***

  United Airlines Flight 78, First Class Seating,

  Narita to Newark Liberty International Airport

  Leo Morello was enjoying the service of two lovely young female flight attendants on his trip home to New York. Their charm and the excellent single-malt scotch was helping him get over the shock of losing his right-hand man. He was the only passenger in his section of the first class seating area and was finishing his third double scotch when he noticed the approach of a male flight attendant.

  The man was blond and handsome and of average height but carried himself with an air of confidence. Leo put down his empty glass and adjusted his chair to an erect sitting position. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Mr. Morello, I’m going to be quick and to the point. You are now considered an enemy of the state, and we have proof of your collusion with North Korea to profit from the smuggling and distribution of fentanyl,” said the flight attendant.

  “Fuck you. Get away from me,” ordered Morello. He rang the bell for service, but it was ignored.

  “My colleagues won’t be coming here for a while. Your last drink was spiked with a lethal dose of fentanyl. I imagine you’re starting to feel dizzy and confused,” said the flight attendant.

  “Fuck you,” said Morello, but his words were slurred.

  “Sleepiness followed by hypoventilation are common symptoms. You’ll become unconscious, and without the administration of naloxone you’re going to die,” said the flight attendant.

  “What do you want?” asked Morello. His eyes were blinking, and he was slumping limply to his side.

  “Name the ship coming to America with your five hundred kilos of fentanyl,” said the flight attendant.

  Leo tried to lift his arms but the effort was beyond his drugged stamina. “The Hyogo Maru. It’s going to Seattle,” said Morello as he passed out.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful, as the Hyogo Maru was on our short list. Now, where is my emergency package of naloxone? It must be in my briefcase. I’ll be back with it when we land in New York,” said the male flight attendant. He left the first class section and joined the pilots at the front of the plane.

  Chapter 43

  Tokyo

  Minoru Sato’s phone rang, his cell phone screen identifying Shigeyuki Suzuki, the saiko-komon. He was the senior advisor to the yakuza family’s godfather, and his calls demanded attention. Sato needed Suzuki’s political support, since the senior advisor was crucial to the transition of power at the Inuzawa-kai. Suzuki san and the godfather were the family’s management team. Both were aging and ready to retire—but they could not be taken for granted.

  “Good afternoon. To what do I owe this honor? Let’s hope the oyabun is healthy and in good spirits,” said Sato.

  “I’d prefer to meet you in person, but there are some urgent concerns to review,” said Suzuki, his voice coming through the car speakers.

  “You have my full attention,” said Sato.

  “We are a secret organization, and the trash newspapers and magazines publish ridiculous and unsubstantiated stories about us. We normally consider them rubbish and ignore them. The Inuzawa-kai prefers to remain quiet and in the shadows, but your recent actions are contrary to our core beliefs. The oyabun fears you are suffering a crisis and the importance of prudence is los
t with you.”

  “Would you mind being more specific?” asked Sato.

  Suzuki sucked his teeth before replying, “Certainly, I will be frank. Several of your soldiers were injured and hospitalized after brawling near Narita Airport and by the river in Meguro. One of your lieutenants was left with nothing but his manhood intact at your brothel in Shinjuku. A business under your watch in Miurakaigan was destroyed, and several employees were shot dead. The police and news media are crawling over the Midori building like flies on horse manure. Is this specific enough to meet your expectations?”

  The news was gut-wrenching, and Sato used every personal resource to remain calm and respond. “Please express my sincere apologies to the oyabun. These incidents are isolated and will be minimalized and handled with utmost discretion.”

  “We’ll pass your message to the oyabun. Thank you for taking my call despite your busy schedule. Sayonara,” said Suzuki.

  “Sayonara,” said Sato, and he began punching the car door. His fists pounded into the bulletproof windows and the roof and he lay on his back and kicked the door while screaming obscenities. The tantrum continued until he was exhausted and gasping for breath while staring at the ceiling. After several minutes, he said, “Let’s get to Shimano and find out why the dirty son of a whore set us up.”

  ***

  The Shimano Gallery in Hiroo, Tokyo

  Minoru Sato and Suga marched into the Gallery Shimano. They were greeted at the front door by two young receptionists wearing identical black pantsuits and short-sleeved silk blouses. Their hair was pinned up and off their necks, accentuating pearl necklaces and earrings. “Welcome,” they said.

  “Where’s Shimano?” Sato asked.

  “Our company president awaits you in the guest lounge. Please follow me,” said one receptionist. The gallery maximized space with paintings displayed on the four walls of the main gallery room.

  Suga pointed at paintings as they walked. “That’s a Claude Monet, and there’s a Foujita. This is quite a gallery,” he said.

  They entered the reception area in the back of the building. It was stylishly decorated and featured statues and paintings for sale. Shimano’s face was ashen, and he remained sitting on the sofa when his guests walked up to him. “Did you see a ghost, Shimano?” asked Sato.

  Shimano stood up with difficulty and his legs were visibly shaking. The television was turned to the All-Nippon news network covering a fast-breaking story.

  “Good afternoon,” said Suga.

  Shimano didn’t speak a word and avoided eye contact while his lips trembled. Sato turned his attention to the television and studied the news broadcast. “Where’s the fire?” he asked.

  A photogenic middle-aged Japanese anchorwoman started her report. “Witnesses and police report the fire broke out at the Hakushika Estate, a Japanese National Heritage Site, just after 6:00 p.m. this evening. A mountain of flames and extreme heat from the blaze prevent helicopters from flying near the site, but our satellite’s telephoto images show the remains of a large tanker truck in the front yard of the estate. The cause of the fire has yet to be determined. Insiders offered the possibilities of an industrial accident, urban terrorism, or retribution involving a possible gang turf war.”

  The news station displayed a photo. “Minoru Sato, the owner of the Hakushika Estate, is associated with the Inuzawa-kai crime family. Is the destruction of his estate the result of a criminal gang war or a terrible accident? We will report findings and available details as the police and fire departments’ investigation results are released.”

  The television moved back to live footage of firefighters spraying water on the estate. “In the meantime, we’re witnessing one of the worst fires in Yokohama since the bombings of the Pacific War. It’s a terrible loss and a burden on the neighborhood. Thousands of Naka-ku residents were evacuated for fear of toxic chemicals spread by the smoke and further explosions. The latest reports from the Yokohama Fire Department indicated the fire will be contained to the Hakushika Estate. Heavy rains have been fortuitous and are considered essential to limiting the fire to the grounds of the Hakushika Estate. Please tune in for further news about this catastrophe when we broadcast from 9:00 p.m. tonight.”

  The report ended as the two receptionists stepped into the room with trays full of beverages and snacks and placed them down on the table between the three men. The women bowed while excusing themselves, and the men stood waiting for the receptionists to depart. Sato picked up a glass of iced coffee and took a sip. “Are your affairs in order?” he asked.

  Shimano sat down on his sofa and held his head in his hands as his shoulders began to shake. He sobbed like a child and wept through his cold fingers. “Suga, make arrangements for Shimano’s paintings to be transferred to one of our storage areas. The three of us are going for a drive when you’re finished,” ordered Sato.

  ***

  The Port of Seattle

  The trucker followed Terminal 18’s lane number 7 through the container distribution center of the Port of Seattle and stopped to receive his load. The crane lowered the forty-foot container on to his flatbed and released its grip, and the large metal box with its valuable contents set down firmly on the back of the truck. The driver put the machine into gear and drove carefully out of the terminal to turn east on Spokane Street. He soon reached West Seattle and turned down a commercial boulevard. The truck passed a wholesale paint supplier, a microbrewery, and a screen-printing workshop before turning into the driveway of a two-story warehouse building built with steel framework and concrete.

  A large front entrance door waited fully open, and the heavy road vehicle passed through with room to spare on each side and above the cabin’s roof. Motors whined, and a heavy steel door lowered behind the rig. The room was well lit by powerful lamps positioned around the facility and some natural light shining through a large skylight on the warehouse’s roof. The vehicle hadn’t come to a stop before men moved in behind it to cut off the lock and remove the seal to release the back doors of the container. The metal doors slammed open and the group gazed at the load while murmuring with excitement. “The damn thing’s full,” yelled one man.

  “Aren’t you the observant idiot,” said a dark-haired man. He spoke with a strong Chilango accent common to Mexico City and delivered his words cold. The commentator’s first reaction was the universal expression of red-faced embarrassment, but his features soon morphed into unguarded fear. The men were silenced, and some diverted their gaze downward and away from the dark-haired man. Sun shone down through the warehouse, and dust particles drifted through the room while calls of seagulls sounded from nearby.

  Three dozen men were gathered in the sorting center of which fourteen were heavily armed and positioned around the space. Some carried twelve-gauge shotguns and others held AK-47 machine guns in addition to handguns and knives holstered on their belts. A second-floor metal walkway accessible by metal ladders ran around the room, allowing two men to watch the group from above like guards in a watchtower.

  “Get the forklifts moving. You’ve got two hours to sort this shit out before pickup,” said the dark-haired man. The order initiated immediate activity, and the rough group of men started unloading the cargo. They moved the pallets around the room, spacing them and lowering the boxes to allow laborers to cut off their plastic wrapping and sort the boxes full of fentanyl. Two broke off from the group and conferred with the dark-haired man, who pointed at the second pallet. They nodded and put on surgical masks and gloves before walking over with mobile test equipment to examine a portion of the fentanyl delivery. The technicians’ work was interrupted by the sound of a wooden pallet slamming down onto the concrete floor.

  The crash reverberated through the expansive room, and everyone’s attention turned to the foolish commentator’s forklift and its spilled load. The dark-haired man burst into profanities in Spanish and walked quickly to observe the damage. “Take this loud-mouthed imbecile and string him up like a piñata,” he sc
reamed. The man was grabbed, and his hands were tied with his own belt. Three of the armed thugs dragged the laborer over to a corner of the facility where a chain-and-hook system designed to lift heavy equipment was used to pull the man by his locked wrists up ten feet above the floor. The laborer screamed and cried for mercy as tears streamed down his face.

  The dark-haired man looked around the room and selected one of the guards. “Put down the shotgun and strap on the M2 double tanks. We’ll see if a little fire will brighten up this fool.” The guard walked to the side of the room where boxes of ammunition and an armory of weapons were stored. He picked up the seventy-pound flamethrower and strapped it to his back and continued his weapon preparations with adjustments to the firing and igniting safeties on the control lever. The dark-haired man pointed at one of the laborers and yelled, “Get a fire extinguisher and be ready to use it.”

  “You shitheads over there, pile up the extra pallets against the wall in the back of the room. Let’s show our clumsy ignoramus how the flamethrower works. Don’t get too close to the wall with the equipment or you’ll roast your own ass,” said the dark-haired man.

  Three wooden pallets were piled against the concrete wall, and the guard approached them with his heavy weapon. He stopped about fifty feet from the target and pulled the firing trigger, initiating a discharge for a full two seconds. The stream of napalm-fueled flame reached the wood, sending a wave of heat through the room while disintegrating the structures. The concrete wall turned bright orange like the back of a pizza oven. “Excellent. Now let’s see how it works on our defective employee,” said the dark-haired man.

  The laborer screamed and kicked his feet in the air, and his efforts spun him around, encouraging several of the thugs to laugh. The room was silenced once again when strobe lights flashed, and a siren sounded for several seconds. The dark-haired man grabbed his phone and answered a call. “What?” he asked.