“Doctor Hassan Nassiri,” the doctor stammered. “Ship’s surgeon.”
Nodding, the mob boss muttered something in Japanese. “He wants to know why you have so many ailments that you require a full-time doctor,” the slim Japanese translator said.
“We get our share of stubbed toes and paper cuts,” Jonah said. “So how about we get down to business? You didn’t bring us all the way out here for introductions and pleasantries.”
The gangster just nodded and gestured to the translator to continue while he leaned against the hood of his car.
“Sorry I couldn’t tell you more before you made the trip, as I didn’t even have all the details myself,” said Marissa. “Apparently they want you as their new cruise line service. Not a lot of foreigners know this, but there’s a long-standing community of Koreans in Japan, some of whom have become quite wealthy. They’re also well represented in gangland, and the yakuza do a fair bit of business with them. When the armistice was signed in 1954, there were many families trapped in North Korea. Even after more than sixty years, family ties remain strong, even stronger now that illegal Chinese cellphones have found their way into the border towns. Families are reconnecting, and there are many who want out at any cost. Japanese Koreans are willing to pay top dollar to make it happen.”
“You’re talking about human smuggling,” Hassan gasped.
“More or less,” said Marissa. “Our friends here need a new route and reliable handlers. I told them I didn’t know any reliable handlers, but you were the next best thing.”
“What happened to the last travel agency?” asked Dalmar.
“Last route was overland, through China. North Korean border guards caught on. They say their men were executed on the spot, the escaping families placed in prison camps. If they’re not already dead, they probably wish they were.”
“Mole in the yakuza?” asked Jonah. “I doubt it,” Marissa said. “More likely, just unlucky. But they’re not willing to risk a Chinese route for the foreseeable future, not until they know for certain.”
“So what are we going to be moving? Girls?”
Behind Jonah’s flippant tone, Hassan could detect the real motives. Jonah wasn’t going to accept some bullshit cover for sex trafficking.
“Fuck you for asking.” Marissa’s eyes flashed with anger. “I’m not going to pretend they do this out of the goodness of their hearts — or that they don’t have interests in the red-light districts, for that matter. But they’re not in the business of turning out North Korean girls — and neither am I, that is for goddamned certain.”
“Good.” Jonah glared right back at her. “But you know I had to ask.”
Marissa reached over and pulled a map out of the breast pocket of her jacket before slapping it into Jonah’s chest. “Rendezvous is past the Siberian seamount of the Sea of Japan, near the North Korean port of Rason. Can you accommodate ten families?”
“It’ll be tight quarters, three to a bunk or more,” said Jonah, sticking the map in his back pocket. “But we can do it. I have to ask — why not a ship? Why the Scorpion?”
“The port is completely frozen over this time of year. Can’t get a ship in without an icebreaker. Need something that can punch up through the ice — you think the Scorpion can handle it?”
“Sure,” Jonah said, but Hassan suspected the American hadn’t necessarily considered the logistics of such an operation.
“They’re offering five thousand dollars a head,” said Marissa. “A hundred and fifty large for less than a week’s work. They think there is enough volume to do the run monthly, switch it up to a hidden cove when the ice melts. If things work out, maybe even twice a month.”
“A hundred and fifty? That will barely cover Hassan’s skin creams,” joked Jonah as he reached over to pinch Hassan’s cheek. The doctor swatted his hand away. “Just look at this lustrous olive tone. Ten thousand a head, minimum.”
“Done,” interjected the boss’s translator, leaving Hassan to wonder if Jonah should have asked for more — but he knew they needed the money. It’d be enough to refuel and re-provision the Scorpion from her long trip across the ocean. If a few runs went well, there might even be enough money left over to start a new life on a distant, non-extradition island nation.
“Great!” said Jonah, rubbing his palms together. “Let’s see the cash.”
Pushing Marissa aside, the boss’s translator laughed as he stepped up to Jonah and shook his head.
“Yeah, so here’s the thing …” began Marissa. “They appreciate my referral, but say you have zero reputation in Japan. They want to pay you upon receipt.”
It was Jonah’s turn to laugh. “Not happening,” he said. “We don’t work on spec.”
“We insist,” said the translator, hissing through clenched teeth. “A show of good faith.”
“Half up front,” interjected Dalmar, resting a hand on the butt of his pistol. “Or no deal.”
In a flash, the glasses-wearing translator whipped around and grabbed Hassan from behind, throwing him into a vicious reverse chokehold, a small, razor-sharp silver knife pressed deep against his carotid artery. The doctor barely had time to yelp as Marissa scurried away behind the Cadillac, her bulky radiation suit relegating her swift escape to an awkward waddle. With a sudden clattering of metal, every yakuza gangster had produced an armory of previously unseen weapons, a dozen pistols held at eye level with total commitment. Hassan had no doubt they would not hesitate to pull triggers, though the knife at his throat remained his more immediate concern. The only unarmed man was the boss himself, who stared steely death at Jonah, Hassan, and the pirate, Dalmar Abdi.
“Remove your hands from your firearms,” ordered the Japanese translator, twisting the knife against Hassan’s neck. “We learned you have sold tattoos cut from the bodies of dead yakuza. Many wanted to skin you on sight… or if a deal could not be reached. Do not test our patience.”
“Jonah!” exclaimed Marissa as she peeked from behind the parked car. “Stop fucking around; make the deal already!”
“I think we can live with those terms,” said Jonah with an apologetic grin, letting his hand slip from the handle of his nickel-plated Colt 1911. “Let’s not complicate this further.”
The boss nodded and cocked his head towards the back seats of the nearest car.
“Good,” said the young translator, releasing Hassan. “We will pay half of your fee up front as your pirate requested. But you had better deliver. The world is too small to steal from yakuza.”
The doctor gulped and rubbed the corner of his neck where the knife had left a bright red divot. The mob boss reached through his open window and removed a black duffel bag, opened the zipper, and threw it at Jonah’s feet. It was loosely loaded with bricks of American cash, several blocks of which spilled out before him. Jonah reached down, packed the money away, and slung the duffel over his shoulder.
Everyone turned as flashing red and yellow lights shone from the approaching highway, the police approaching from the distance. Marissa gingerly emerged from behind the trunk and spoke in low, rapid tones with the yakuza boss and his translator, ending the exchange with a hurried handshake.
“Sirens are generally our cue to leave,” said Jonah, already starting to back away into the darkness of the night, Dalmar and Hassan at this side. “Anything else we should discuss?”
“Yeah,” said Marissa, walking a few steps across the small courtyard to join him as they turned to walk back towards the docks. “My cabin accommodations — because I’m coming with you. Our friends can talk their way past the police so long as they don’t have to explain an American woman. Besides, I have to make sure you don’t fuck up my twenty-five percent any further.”