Honorable Enemies (1994) (16 page)

Tidwell took a deep breath and began speaking in his diplomatic voice. "Sir, if we wade in with both barrels blazing, they may revert to kaizen, or, worse yet, sever diplomatic relations with us. Then we're dead in the water."

"Bullshit," the President snapped. "They've been practicing kaizen since the last pieces of debris stopped raining down on Nagasaki, and," he said venomously, "they can't afford to sever ties with us."

The Japanese business principles of kaizen called for slow movement and painstaking analysis. It was a great ploy to buy precious time to study the opposition and then take the most advantageous position.

"On the other hand," the Secretary of State calmly continued, "there are a number of indicators pointing to an inevitable showdown with Japan if we pursue this course. I think it would be better to keep our relationship with Japan as cooperative as possible, and quietly settle the issues in a peaceful manner."

Bud Tidwell watched for a reaction, but the President appeared to be impassive.

"The Japanese," Tidwell warned, "don't respond well when they're being threatened."

The President sat motionless while the seconds ticked away, then propped his chin on his balled fist. "Bud, we're not talking about Armageddon."

The President studied the surprised men for a brief moment. "There aren't going to be any nuclear weapons landing on the White House lawn."

"Sir," Bryce Mellongard finally said, "why don't we give it some thought before you make your final decision."

"Bryce, I've made my final decision," the President declared with a trace of sarcasm. "The Prime Minister has said that he'll make the decision when and where he will discuss the issue
s w
ith me. That sure as hell doesn't indicate any respect for the United States."

"Mr. President," Bud Tidwell persisted, well aware of the President's fragile ego. "Why don't I initiate some dialogue, then we can discuss this in more detail when I have a better feeling for their position?"

"Bud, hear me out, okay?"

"Yes, sir."

"I respect the Japanese people on the whole, and I don't underestimate them. My bone of contention is not with the people."

There was a growing level of anger and impatience in the President's tone of voice. "It's a very simple concept. I want assurances from the Japanese government, in writing, that Japan will take immediate measures to ensure the safety of our military personnel who are in Japan to defend their country. That, in my opinion, is not too much to ask."

Tidwell showed no emotion. "Sir, I'll contact the Foreign Minister and relay your request; however, I want to go on record about my concerns."

"Speak freely."

"I think we're setting ourselves up for some very difficult problems in the near future."

The President didn't try to conceal his irritation. "Bud, let me allay your concerns. You can have all the money in the world, but if you've got a gun barrel jammed against your head, you get into compliance posthaste."

Tidwell darted a glance at the Secretary of Defense before he answered. "Yes, I see your point."

After an early-morning jog in the drizzling rain, Steve Wickham showered and dressed in slacks and a sport coat, then went down to the restaurant to meet Susan and Marcus. He found them having coffee and gazing out at the miserable weather.

"Good morning," Steve said and slid the packet of photographs on the table.

"You're bright and cheery," Marcus observed and automatically turned to look at the large envelope.

"Theresa had these developed last night," Wickham informed them and pulled a vacant chair toward the table. "After looking at them, I discovered another interesting anomaly about the home with the camouflage wind sock."

Callaway opened the envelope and spread the enlarged photos in front of him while Steve sat down and ordered his usual hot tea.

Susan leaned over for a closer look. "Considering the weather, these turned out a lot better than I expected."

"Look at these two prints," Steve said excitedly and shoved them directly in front of Susan and Marcus. "Have you ever seen a tennis court without a fence around it?"

The Bureau agents carefully examined the photographs and then exchanged glances. The tall, imported trees that surrounded the court were bunched together, but the trunks were too far apart to stop a misguided basketball, let alone a tennis ball.

"You're right," Callaway finally agreed, "but you would never know it from the road. The trees block everything except the view from higher up on the ridgeline."

"And no one lives up there as far as we know," Susan Nakamura added, remembering the terrain that sloped upward behind the isolated home.

"That's right," Steve commented and turned the photo around for a better view. "The tennis court is a perfect helipad, and it's totally concealed except from above."

Marcus had a sudden thought. "Think about all of the fly-in communities from California to Florida. Many of the homes have attached hangars that are cleverly disguised as part of the main structure."

Susan and Steve nodded in silent agreement.

"I remember one case in particular," Callaway went on enthusiastically. "A guy we finally put away, who happened to b
e i
nvolved in an elaborate counterfeiting operation, owned a gigantic home at a fly-in subdivision in Florida. The place had a hangar that appeared to be part of the home. The hangar doors--one on the front and one at the back--were operated by remote control from the airplane. He could taxi in the back after he landed, then taxi out the front when he was ready t
o f
ly."

Thinking back to the arrest of the eccentric forger, Marcus grinned. "The front door--the doors were the bifold type--had windows that matched the ones at the other end of the home. That hangar was really elaborate."

Steve tilted one of the photos upward and then looked at Callaway. "Do you think there's a hangar concealed in this home?"

"I wouldn't bet against it."

Susan carefully inspected the photographs and sat back in her seat. "Why would someone have two jackhammers near the pool area? The house appears to be finished as far as I can tell."

"To mask the sounds of a helicopter's rotor blades," Marcus casually offered without looking up. "Throw in the screech of a power saw, or something equally loud, and it sounds like you're still building the house. The racket might not conceal the sounds of a big military chopper, but it sure would disperse the noise from a JetRanger."

Steve paused to look at the prints and form a mental image of the view from the highway. "You can't tell what's happening from the lower terrain, so who would question the sounds of a construction crew?"

Susan glanced at Wickham and gave him a lazy smile. "It does look suspicious, doesn't it?"

"Yes," he answered and hesitated while a customer walked past their table. "When you put everything together, including the guy you saw carrying a rifle, the oddities do raise a few questions."

She studied him with wondering curiosity. "More than a few questions, in my view."

"I may be wrong," Steve conceded, "but we won't know until we investigate."

"Let's take both cars," Susan suggested while she pointed to the tennis court, "and begin with this place. If we don't find anything there--or at the other two homes with heliports--we can split up and start canvassing the area."

"I'm ready," Steve declared while he finished the last sip of his tea and shoved the photographs into the packet.

After the trio walked out of the airy restaurant, a slight, nondescript Japanese diner who had been sitting with his back to the agents slowly adjusted his bow tie and reached for his check.

Chapter
13.

Steve and Marcus slowed to a stop along Highway 83, north of Punaluu Beach Park, and examined the dog-eared aerial chart Theresa had given Wickham.

Susan followed them to the side of the road, then raised her binoculars and carefully studied the steeply rising terrain. The monotonous rain had finally stopped and the clouds were dissipating, leaving only the top of the slopes obscured. She examined the general area they had previously flown over, but was disappointed when she couldn't find a trace of the grand estate.

"I'm sure this is the right spot," Steve said confidently, pointing to the circled area on the map. "I guess we're going to have to do some reconnoitering to find the road up to the house."

Callaway studied the chart at length and then looked up toward the distant ridgeline. "If we're at the right place, which I'm sure we are, that house is definitely well concealed."

"This is the right place," Wickham said quietly. "I remember that point of land that juts out into the ocean, and I know the lot for the homesite had been leveled by a bulldozer."

"Okay," Marcus said. He placed the car in gear. "Let's go take a look."

Susan fell in trail while Steve and Marcus tried two differen
t r
oads that went in the general direction of the hilltop home. Each promising avenue eventually turned into a narrow, muddy path that abruptly ended.

Wickham listened to the constant chatter over the FBI radio frequency. Susan and Marcus had agreed not to add to the communications problems unless it became a necessity.

"Dammit," Steve swore to himself. "I wish I'd paid closer attention when we flew over the place."

"Don't worry about it." Callaway gave him a cheerful look. "We'll find it in a few minutes."

Steve was about to suggest they call Theresa and see if she could fly to the house, then trace the road to its origin, when he noticed a secondary road leading into a thick forest. Many of the trees had been cut and were piled along the side of the road.

"Marcus, let's try that one."

Callaway cast a cautious look at the muddy trail. "I hope we don't get stuck in that mess."

"Have faith."

"Right."

With Susan close behind, Marcus negotiated the steeply rising drive for three quarters of a mile. At that point the soft surface widened into a paved roadway.

"It looks like we're onto something," Callaway suggested and glanced in the rearview mirror. Susan was right on their bumper.

A half mile farther they spotted the elegant home after the winding road suddenly turned into a long, stone and brick driveway.

"This is it," Wickham announced. He reached into his battered canvas bag and extracted a 9-millimeter M9 Beretta.

Callaway casually glanced at the handgun. "Let's hope we don't need any weapons."

"Yeah," Steve said while he checked the fifteen-shot magazine and slid the pistol into a specially made holster that attached to the back of his belt.

With the Beretta resting snugly against the small of his back, Steve straightened his sport coat. "Marcus, since this is you
r b
ailiwick, why don't you and Susan go to the door and I'll provide backup?"

"Actually," Callaway answered while he stopped the car, "I think it would be better if you and Susan go to the door." Steve gave him a curious look. "How's that?"

"If they're Japanese," Marcus explained, "Susan can deal with them. If there's any hesitation or resistance, the initials CIA generally have more of an impact than FBI."

Wickham gave him a skeptical glance. "Whatever you think."

Steve and Marcus got out of the car and looked around the lushly landscaped grounds while Susan walked to the front of the sedan. From their vantage point, there didn't seem to be anything that appeared suspicious or any indication that a helicopter had operated from the premises.

After they discussed what Marcus would do in the event something went wrong, Steve and Susan approached the huge home. Their adrenaline levels were elevated, but they didn't let it show. In their professions, image was almost as important as experience and training.

Wickham saw a small surveillance camera mounted near the apex of the wooden roof, then spotted the microwave sensors hidden in the shrubbery on each side of the wide yard. The monostatic sensors transmitted and received radar signals to detect intruders.

"They've got a fairly sophisticated security system," he said under his breath as they approached the ornate mahogany double front doors.

"I suppose I would too," she replied without moving her lips, "if I lived in a palace like this."

They stepped on the porch and Steve rang the doorbell. Then they noticed the small square of tinted glass recessed in the irregularly colored marble wall. "Another camera."

"They're everywhere."

A few seconds later the intercom speaker came to life. "How may I help you?" the hollow voice asked in clear, unaccented English.

"Susan Nakamura, Federal Bureau of Investigation," she stated evenly and pressed her identification badge near the camera port.

Steve flashed his credentials and announced his name and position with the CIA.

"Are you the owner of the home?" Susan politely asked. "No," came the quick response. "I am house-sitting while the owners are traveling."