The rustling continued as two front legs with sharp claws appeared, followed by the rear legs and long tail. The dragon, part of the family of monitor lizards, was at least eight feet long.
“No, Orochi. No!”
The dragon moved cautiously toward the sweating prey. The bodyguards, guns drawn, formed a protective flank in front of Tanaka but he ordered them to step aside.
“Please do not obstruct my view of this beautiful moment,” he said, sipping from his coconut drink.
As the guards stepped aside, Tanaka leaned toward the tripod and switched on the video camera.
Yoshi began to recite Buddhist prayers aloud. The dragon moved closer, sniffed the prey with its tongue and without warning sunk its serrated, razor-sharp teeth into the man’s left leg. A horrific scream sent the nearest birds flying in all directions and again Tanaka chuckled.
The dragon’s jaws glistened with saliva as it ripped away a chunk of flesh and swallowed with little effort. Blood spilled into the sand. Yoshi wailed in pain, which was followed by a remorseful moan that Tanaka knew affected his bodyguards who were trying hard to show no emotion. Tanaka was convinced his men would remember this day and, at some point in the near future, tell others about it. As a result, his reputation would grow and many more would fear him.
The reptile stood on its hind legs and bit into Yoshi’s right arm, again tearing away flesh. Another woeful scream burst from the throat of the dying man. Tanaka ordered one of the bodyguards to freshen his drink with a rum double. The bodyguard hustled to the Igloo cooler that rested in the shade of a palm tree where he nervously added more rum and ice to Tanaka’s coconut and inserted a new plastic straw.
A second lizard, smaller than the first, skittered toward the wooden pole and attempted to join the feast. The larger animal hissed but didn’t attack his competitor, content to chomp into Yoshi’s stomach, spilling and devouring his intestines, the blood soaking into the white loincloth so that it turned red. Yoshi’s last thoughts were of his adoptive niece Hiraku, the beautiful young woman he had nicknamed Little Peacock. The moaning soon stopped.
Tanaka switched off the camera and returned to fine-sanding his fingernails. Before boarding the helicopter he made certain the park rangers would dispose of Yoshi’s body in a place where it would never be found, presuming the Komodo dragons didn’t gnaw it to the bone.
6
Watchful Eyes
Saipan
Northern Mariana Islands
March 1990
Hannah and Carrington casually walked from the commercial airliner parked on the tarmac to the Customs office where they joined the line of tourists, residents and other visitors headed inside the small concrete building. They appeared an unhurried couple on vacation with plans to relax. The flight from Tokyo’s Narita International Airport to Guam and finally to Saipan had taken several hours during which they napped, read and chatted about matters unrelated to their profession.
Hannah was wearing a red, flower-patterned, wide-leg jumpsuit and leather sandals. Her hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun. Carrington had donned khaki surfer shorts, a Pearl Jam band t-shirt and well-worn Topsiders. His Wayfarer sunglasses rested atop his head, nestled into his ash-blond hair. Both he and Hannah had checked suitcases in addition to their carry-on bags. They’d done this purposefully, filling the suitcases with bathing suits, paperback books and tubes of sunscreen. If Customs agents sifted through the contents, they’d most likely surmise these two were tourists headed for the resort town of Garapan and popular Micro Beach.
Hideyo Mashima, a detective with the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands (CNMI) police, leaned his lanky frame against an exterior wall of the Customs building and studied each arriving passenger. He was primarily looking for yakuza. If a male passenger was missing a pinky finger, or a portion of it, very likely this was the result of yubitsume, the practice of severing one’s own smallest digit as a way of self-inflicting punishment for having made a poor decision or having engaged in behavior unacceptable to his underworld boss. The amputated finger was usually wrapped in clean white cloth or preserved in a small glass vial until it could be personally delivered to the offended person.
Although yubitsume was a solid clue to yakuza membership, Mashima found the severed pinky fingers difficult to spot from a distance. He knew the yakuza were a wily bunch, and wasn’t surprised when a cottage industry sprang up to provide fake pinky-finger extensions for those attempting to evade detection by police or customs officers.
Tattoos were far easier to spot, especially since many yakuza were proud of them and so left the artwork exposed when at the beach. The tattoos often depicted snakes, dragons, carp, or peacocks. Traditionally, most yakuza left a bare strip in the center of their chest, running from neck to stomach and void of tattoos. This allowed them to wear shirts or sport jackets unbuttoned without revealing their ink.
Mashima moved closer to the counter as a Customs officer began questioning two yakuza who had strutted toward the arrival building as though they did not intend to stop at the gate. The men spoke abruptly and disrespectfully to the Customs officer who had asked them to open their suitcases. Mashima could tell they were yakuza by their stride, so unlike the average Japanese tourist whose gait was more humble. Voices were getting louder and it seemed a confrontation would erupt as Mashima approached.
With a slight bow, he greeted the two visitors. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. Although this may seem an inconvenience, this officer is merely doing as he has been instructed. I’m sure you would do the same if your superior had spoken.”
In a show of great annoyance, the men unzipped their suitcases and flung the lids open. Folded clothing shared space with cartons of cigarettes and bottles of scotch, far exceeding the import tax limit. Mashima pretended not to notice. He was more interested in the possibility of finding weapons and drugs.
“Are you here to spend days lounging at our beautiful beaches, or is this a business trip?”
Both yakuza ignored his question. Mashima didn’t anticipate an answer. He knew the yakuza had a penchant for rudeness and disdain for authority.
The Customs officer held up a box containing dozens of condoms and inspected it with a wry grin. He opened one flap and peered inside as though the box might contain a surprise. The two yakuza shared a personal joke that apparently referred to the need for so many prophylactics. The Customs officer tossed the box atop the other items in the suitcase, closed the lid and nodded for the next passenger in line to come forward. Both yakuza grunted and headed for the counter where their passports were stamped. Mashima wondered if they were the first wave of a rumored large-scale yakuza meeting among the various families. He was well aware the yakuza bragged a membership of nearly 80,000 spread over about twenty organized families or clans. If so, other representatives would likely arrive within the next day or two, perhaps one or two per family. That’s how it typically worked.
The detective prepared to brace himself for the brash gaggle of younger yakuza or sons – known as kobun. These were often the troublesome tourists whose primary responsibility was to cater to their oyabun, or father, ensuring his every whim was satisfied — carrying his bags, lighting his cigarette, or answering questions with exaggerated politeness.