Hannah remembered seeing her parents standing at the curb, their faces surreally bathed in the red and blue flashing emergency lights. They looked confused and defeated. She felt sorry for them, and for herself as well. Her thoughts had been more focused on the upcoming senior prom than scoring a ball of coke from some sleazy dude in the parking lot behind the shopping mall. She detested the local drug dealers, but more so the kingpins who set the supply in motion. She also blamed herself for not noticing Rachel’s frequent nosebleeds, sniffles, dilated pupils, and her increased aggression. It was a lesson on the need to think about others.
4
A History Lesson
CIA Headquarters
Langley, Virginia
March 1990
Stu Ashwood’s voice had returned, distant at first, but now was back to normal volume and apparently being directed at Hannah and Carrington. Hannah realized she had spaced out thinking about her sister. She felt embarrassed and hoped her momentary lapse of attention had gone unnoticed, though she doubted it. Ashwood hadn’t been promoted to deputy director of operations at the CIA because he was obtuse.
Ashwood was saying, “What the President purposely didn’t mention during his broadcast is the heroin smuggling that’s going on in the Pacific Rim. There’s a lot more to the drug epidemic here in the U.S. It’s not all about cocaine. The influx of heroin is just as bad, if not worse. But the President didn’t want to spread panic. Instead, he called me, and I called you.”
Hannah and Carrington automatically morphed into models of concern, sitting erect on the edge of their chairs.
Ashwood unrolled a large map of the Pacific Ocean that nearly covered his desk. Saipan Island was marked with a red dot near the center. The map extended northwest to include Japan and the Philippine Sea, northeast to the Hawaiian Islands and the West Coast of the United States, and south to Papau New Guinea and Australia. He lit a cigarette, keeping his eyes on Hannah, a formidable expression on his face. Old School in his methods, he preferred paper maps to images shone on a projection screen.
“This is strictly black ops. We’ll have all the funding and resources we need, some satellite coverage, and even a Navy sub at our disposal in the Western Pacific. But as always, we need boots on the ground.”
Hannah felt a chill run through her — black ops, Navy subs, satellites, unlimited resources. Whatever Ashwood was about to unveil was big.
Ashwood’s intense blue eyes seemed somehow too small for his face behind tortoise-framed eyeglasses but they bored into the two CIA officers seated before him. “We need to find out how tons of heroin are making their way from the Golden Triangle — namely Thailand — to secret drug labs in the Philippines for conversion to white powder, and eventually to Hawaii and the streets of San Francisco.”
Carrington stood and stretched uncomfortably, as though he needed to move in order to digest what Ashwood was saying. “That’s a tall order.”
“So it is. But we need to destroy or at least plug the pipeline because it’s flooding the United States with heroin and it’s affecting our national security. Most people think the illegal drugs are coming only from Colombia. But the yakuza are doing their share.”
Hannah stood and moved closer to Ashwood’s desk where she could get a better look at the map.
“I’m all for cracking down on drug trafficking, whether it’s in Colombia or Japan. But honestly, how do we tackle something this big? Where do we even begin?”
Ashwood leaned across the map and touched the city of Tokyo with the index finger of his right hand. “That’s the power center. But if our latest intel is accurate, most likely the answers we need will be found on Saipan,” he said, referring to one of the fourteen volcanic dots that comprise the Northern Mariana Islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and due east of the Philippines. “You’ll need to tap into the pipeline and find out where it goes from there.”
Ashwood was well liked at Langley and most of those working in the operation’s sector were thrilled Barlow had been forced out. Ashwood was fair-minded and less motivated by politics than his predecessor. He cared foremost about the safety of the field operatives under his command.
“Japan sounds good to me. I like sushi,” said Carrington, attempting to inject a bit of levity.
Known informally at Langley as Wild Bill, Carrington at forty-five was handsome, fit, and one of the CIA’s top operatives. He exuded a boyish charm most people found attractive, especially women. With ash-blond hair that extended nearly to his shoulders but tamed by a short ponytail, he was dressed in tattered tan carpenter pants, a black t-shirt with paint flecks across the front, and ratty boat shoes. He might have been mistaken for a deckhand on some billionaire’s yacht.
Carrington’s vibrant blue eyes glanced over at Hannah who, though appearing sheik and sophisticated in her navy Ann Taylor V-neck sheath dress, was grinning inside like a schoolgirl. Hannah was thrilled by the prospect of another international assignment, especially in a region of the world she’d never visited. Chasing mobsters and mercenaries in Cuba had left her with a taste for this kind of adventure. At thirty-one, she was in excellent physical condition, her 5-foot-7 frame kept taut and trim by a daily run and visits to the gym.
Ashwood frowned. “Any more helpful comments before we continue?”
Hannah’s gray-green eyes came alive with their usual playfulness. “Well, I’ve heard March is a spectacular time to visit Japan,” she said, the tiny scar at the right corner of her mouth twitching slightly, as it did whenever she was anxious. “We can actually see the cherry blossoms blooming in their native land instead of waiting for their transplanted relatives to show off their petals in DC. Oh, and by the way, I don’t own a kimono. Can I put one on my expense account?”
Ashwood took a long pull from his cigarette, sending the smoke out his nostrils in a powerful plume. He liked both operatives and was well acquainted with their spycraft abilities. Besides, he didn’t trust the more obsequious CIA officers at Langley, the ass kissers who agreed with everything he suggested just to stay on his good side and help assure their ascension through the ranks.
Ashwood stared at Carrington, paused a moment, then fixed his eyes on Hannah, his lips formed into a twisted grin. “I’m glad you both find this amusing. Hannah, I’ll see what I can do about the kimono. If I recall correctly from your file, your favorite color is green. But right now we’ve got a few more important matters to consider.”
Ashwood tossed a glossy, 8-by-10, black-and-white photograph on his desk where Hannah and Carrington could see it and sat back in his chair. “For the past couple of months, a yakuza underboss named Mikito Asaki has been stiffening up in the morgue out there in Saipan, unless he has been cremated against the instructions of our Justice Department and his charred bones are already in Japan, picked from the ashes with chop sticks and spread across the family table like some spiritual board game. From what our sources tell us, his murder could be linked directly to the heroin smuggling.”
Hannah picked up the photo, which showed Asaki walking along a Tokyo street in suit and sunglasses, a tan trench coat casually tossed over one arm.