“I’m sorry to bring you here so unexpectedly,” Nakadate told him, “but there’s an urgent matter that I believe you can assist me with.” He gestured to a chair. “Please, sit.”
The captain sat. He had reason to be frightened, of course. Confused, at the very least. The two young men standing behind the captain had intercepted him on his regular early-morning jog, spirited him away in a waiting Mercedes-Benz, and driven him here, to a skyscraper in downtown Yokohama, a lavish corner office amid the clouds—and an audience with Katsuo Nakadate himself. The captain had been angry when he’d been brought into the office. That anger had changed to fear when he’d seen Nakadate, recognizing him from the newspapers, placing his face.
“What do you want from me?” the captain asked. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a good man. I’m not a—not a gangster.”
Nakadate smiled inwardly. He didn’t consider himself cruel by nature, but there was always some humor in observing the contortions people put themselves through to avoid causing him offense—as if the head of the Inagawa-kai syndicate would be so petty as to kill a man over an ill-chosen word. Regardless…
He opened a folder on the desk in front of him. Flipped through until he’d found the photograph he was looking for. Removed it, and slid it across the desk.
“Your family, Captain Ise,” he said. “Your beautiful wife, and two little boys.”
The captain went pale as he studied the picture. It was recent: taken the previous morning, in front of the boys’ school. A crude gesture, yes, but a point to be made.
The captain pushed the picture away. “This isn’t necessary,” he said. “Whatever you want to know, I’ll tell you as much as I can. Please—tell me what this is about?”
“Very well.” Nakadate found another photograph, a single man this time, removed it. “Have you seen this man before?”
The captain looked. Squinted. “No, I haven’t. Who—”
“That man is named Tomio Ishimaru. Until recently, he was a valued member of my staff of accountants. Until shortly before your ship sailed, in fact.”
Ise started to respond. Nakadate cut him off with the wave of his hand.
“The day of your departure, Captain Ise, Tomio Ishimaru murdered three of his colleagues and escaped with something very valuable to me.”
One more picture from the file folder. Nakadate held it out to the captain. The captain glanced at it, then looked away quickly.
“We’ve managed to trace Ishimaru to the docks,” Nakadate continued. “The man in the picture you’re holding is—was—a customs agent. After some encouragement, he admitted to us that he’d accepted a bribe from Ishimaru in exchange for access to a ship. Your ship, Captain Ise.”
Ise glanced at the photograph again. Looked like he might be physically ill. “I don’t know— I don’t have anything to do with this,” he said. “Please—you—this has nothing to do with me.”
“Someone allowed Tomio Ishimaru on board your ship, Captain. We’ve obtained security footage of a sailor meeting him at the gangway. Unfortunately, it’s too dark to make out the sailor’s face. But we know Ishimaru had help. And I need you to tell me who it was.”
Ise said nothing.
“Captain?”
“I told you,” Ise said, “I have no idea. I couldn’t be on the docks at the time you suggest. I was on the bridge with the harbor pilot. He can verify this.”
Nakadate leaned back in his chair. Turned slightly to gaze out the tall windows at the city and the harbor beyond. “Someone helped the smuggler,” he said. “One of your men, Captain.”
Ise still didn’t respond. Stared down at the picture, the customs agent’s ruined face. Nakadate gave him a moment, a long one. Then he looked past the captain to the young men by the door. Nodded to the older of the two, a man named Daishin Sato, who stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
Ise caught the gesture, the meaning. Sat straight in his chair. “Okura,” he said, realization dawning on his face. “Hiroki Okura, my second officer. He was on the bridge when the ship capsized. He refused to leave the wreck with the rest of us. The Coast Guard was forced to send a helicopter back to find him.”
Nakadate made a note. “And did they find him?”
“They found him, and they brought him back to Dutch Harbor with the rest of us. But…”
“Yes?”
“He escaped,” Ise said. “He disappeared from the community center in Dutch Harbor. Nobody could find him. He didn’t come home with the rest of the crew.”
Nakadate sat forward, tented his fingers. “Where could he have gone, Captain?”
“Nobody knows. The town was very small. But Okura simply disappeared.”
“Did he carry a briefcase, the last time you saw him?”
Ise didn’t have to think long. “No. None of us carried anything. I would have remembered.”
Nakadate studied Ise some more. The captain waited, emboldened enough now to return his gaze briefly before looking away.
“We are most appreciative of your help, Captain Ise,” Nakadate said finally. “My secretary will be happy to call you a taxi. Please, have a pleasant afternoon. and if you think of anything else I should know…”
“I will contact you,” Ise said quickly. “I swear it.”
Nakadate gathered the photographs, returned them to the file folder. Stood, and motioned to Sato to open the door.
“See that you do,” he said. “Good day, Captain.”
54
McKenna sat in the skipper’s chair in the wheelhouse of the Gale Force, monitoring the tug’s progress toward the Aleutian Islands. Night had finally fallen, the crew in their bunks or watching a movie in the galley.
It was good to be back on the tug. The wheelhouse was warm and quiet, the coffee fresh, the deck and the walls resting at the proper angles—the storm-tossed seas notwithstanding. Even Spike seemed marginally friendlier. The cat slept on the bench beside the skipper’s chair, closer to McKenna than his usual spot on the dash. Probably had more to do with the wave action than McKenna, but the skipper figured she’d take any victory she could get.
The Pacific Lion was under tow. The tug was making good time, running with the seas behind her, and her engines had held up thus far. She and the crew had deployed a sea anchor from the Lion’s bow—a massive, radio-deployed, high-tech parachute that Randall Rhodes had ordered custom-built for situations like this. The anchor would stabilize the Lion in a following sea, keep her parallel to the waves instead of turning broadside, prevent her from surfing down on the Gale Force as the waves passed beneath her.
With luck, the Gale Force would make Samalga Pass for tomorrow morning’s slack tide, bring the wreck through without incident. By evening, McKenna hoped to have found a nice, quiet spot behind one of the Aleutian Islands to shelter from the storm.
And then what?
The Coast Guard had updated McKenna on Court Harrington’s status. The architect had been airlifted to Dutch Harbor, and there were discussions about flying him on to Anchorage. Nobody on the other end of the radio had sounded anything better than cautiously optimistic, but Harrington was going to survive, anyway. He might or might not come back to the job, but in the short term, the crew of the Gale Force was going to have to work on saving the Lion without him.
McKenna mulled her options. Nelson Ridley was holding on to Harrington’s laptop, and Stacey Jonas had salvaged his notebook after the fall. McKenna and her crew had access to all of the fluid levels on the Lion, as well as the model Harrington was planning to use to right the ship. How hard could it be to plug in the numbers?