Carrington nodded, as though familiar with the location and the custom. “I recall reading about the Battle of Saipan in a course at the war college. If I remember correctly, during World War II, entire Japanese families living on the island flung themselves over the edge of the cliffs to their deaths rather than face what they imagined would be torture by the thousands of U.S. Marines storming ashore.”
“You’ve got a good memory,” said Ashwood. “Mostly it was Japanese soldiers who died at Banzai Cliff. There’s also Suicide Cliff nearby, where about six hundred other Japanese jumped to their deaths – men, women, old, young, some going over the side with babies in their arms, whole families holding hands as they headed for the afterlife.”
Hannah pursed her lips and glanced at Carrington, who had folded his arms on his chest while Ashwood continued the briefing.
“The landing zone at the bottom of Suicide Cliff is craggy rock, as equally unforgiving as the pounding waves at Banzai. During the Battle of Saipan, or I guess you might say in its aftermath, the Army Signal Corps recorded these suicides on film — countless horrible images. Loudspeakers were set up on land and aboard Navy ships anchored just offshore, and translators were hired to tell the people they wouldn’t be harmed if they surrendered to our Marines, but it didn’t do much good. They jumped anyway. Honored to commit suicide for the emperor. At least most of them did. The survivors surrendered or were found hiding in the caves. Saipan has no shortage of caves.”
Hannah moved uneasily in her seat. “Jesus,” she said. “I’d better catch up on my history.”
“I’ll be glad to fill you in,” said Carrington. “We’ll probably have to start with the attack on Pearl Harbor.”
“I know about Pearl Harbor, you idiot,” she said, playfully kicking him in the shin. “Dec. 7, 1941. The Japanese sank our fleet in Hawaii. Tora! Tora! Tora! FDR on the radio. The Day of Infamy. America declares war on Japan.”
“Hannah, you obviously saw the movie and, well, not all of our fleet…”
Ashwood stopped him mid-sentence. “I’ll let you two get back to your history and cinema studies later. And when you return from Saipan, if you pass the first quiz, you’ll get little silver stars stuck to your foreheads, or glued into your personnel files, whichever you prefer.”
“That’s really sweet, Stuart, but I’d prefer a silk kimono.”
Ashwood laughed aloud for the first time as he lit another cigarette. “I’ll sign off on your kimono, Hannah. But let me give you both a word of caution: the Japanese, especially the yakuza, play by different rules and they typically don’t pull any punches. So learn their game quickly and don’t let your guard down. I don’t want two more of my people missing.”
5
A Dragon’s Delight
Komodo Island
Republic of Indonesia
March 1990
Orochi Tanaka sat beneath a palm tree in a folding lawn chair and thoughtfully sipped a fruity rum cocktail from a fresh coconut while watching his underworld partner struggle against the ropes that lashed his hands and feet to a thick wooden pole pounded deeply into the sand.
Tanaka, whose first name translated roughly to Big Snake, was amused by the fear in the eyes of the man who, he was convinced, had betrayed him. As far as Tanaka was concerned, betrayal was the biggest of unforgivable sins and this man had committed it.
“Orochi, please. Don’t do this,” pleaded the man tied to the pole who wore only a white loincloth like those favored by sumo wrestlers. “I didn’t betray you. I honor you. I respect you. I would never do such a thing. We have been friends for years.”
The captive man was taller than the average Japanese, strongly built, with a head shaved close to the scalp and a mosaic of tattoos on his arms and legs. He tugged at his hemp-rope bonds but they were securely fastened. Rivulets of sweat spilled down his face but he was helpless to wipe them. The sand was hot but the sun was waning, the tree branches casting long shadows on the idyllic beach.
Tanaka, a barrel-chested man in his late forties, was despite the heat clad formally in a black, western-style, two-piece suit. He wore a long-sleeve, white linen dress shirt, wide purple necktie, and aviator sunglasses. If it were not for his bare feet and tiny toes methodically curling into the coarse sand, he might have been headed to a corporate board meeting.
“Yoshi, you and I were like brothers. How many years did we work side by side? Twenty? I’m saddened it has come to this,” said Tanaka, loosening his silk tie and taking another sip of rum. “You knew Saipan was mine and still you tried to take it, you and Mikito. Look where it got him, and now you’re no better off. When you’re gone, the world will have lost a master tattoo artist, maybe the best ever. That is the biggest shame.”
“I did nothing. People offered me gifts in return for information about you, but I always turned them away.”
Yoshi tugged against the bonds, his body glistening with sweat. “Please believe me, Orochi. I’ve told you a hundred times. I didn’t take your money. Someone has miscounted, or they have fixed the ledgers to make it look like I’m a thief.”
“If only I could believe you. If only you and Mikito had not run off with what belongs not just to me but also to other yakuza families. How do you think that makes me look in their eyes? I’m disgraced by your actions.”
Tanaka twice pounded the arm of his chair, a signal to two men dressed in baggy shorts, t-shirts and sandals, M16 automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. Normally the men worked as park rangers on Komodo Island but had agreed to turn a blind eye to Tanaka’s activities in return for what amounted to a year’s pay for each. The park rangers, who wore their t-shirts inside out to hide their government unit shoulder patches, casually walked in opposite directions into the underbrush. Tanaka’s four armed bodyguards checked their Uzi machine pistols and nervously glanced at their surroundings, not quite knowing what to expect. Like the others, they were still jetlagged by the seven-hour flight from Saipan to Bali and then to the small fishing village of Labuan Bajo on Flores Island, all aboard Tanaka’s Gulfstream III jet. A chartered helicopter had ferried the group on the final leg to Komodo Island. The pilot and co-pilot didn’t ask why one of the passengers was drugged or sick and barely able to walk. They had been paid handsomely to fly and remain with the helicopter once they landed on the island.
Nobody spoke as Tanaka rested in the chair and calmly buffed his fingernails with a sandpaper file. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The two-way radio in the pocket of Tanaka’s suit jacket beeped four times. Tanaka held it up so all could hear as the speaker crackled with an excited voice. “Ready. Coming your way.”
The bodyguards drew their machine pistols and braced for the unknown. Tanaka, a handsome man who many people said resembled a Japanese version of the 1950s American movie star Clark Gable, flashed a full set of oversized white teeth. His high cheekbones were flushed pink, his eyes, with their long lashes, alive with excitement.
One of the bodyguards frantically pointed to a rustling in the underbrush less than a hundred feet from where Tanaka was seated. Tanaka raised an arm, signaling his bodyguard not to open fire. A Komodo dragon exposed its reptilian head through a break in the tall grass and repeatedly flicked its divided tongue as though sensing nearby prey, more like a snake than a lizard. Yoshi gasped in horror, which caused Tanaka to grin until his lips were stretched to the fullest.