Page 141 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

“Anything else tie him to the island?” Juan asked.

“Turns out, the Imperial Japanese Navy operated out of there during the war. An Australian Army unit was sent there in early ’46 to search for holdouts, but all they found was a few abandoned bunkers and a burned-out fishing village. The Aussies wrote it off as a worthless rock. A Japanese family reclaimed ownership in 1947. In 2009, thefamily sold it to a private real estate investment firm for tourist development.”

“Please tell me that Hashimoto’s name pulls up in all of this.”

“No such luck. The name of the family that originally owned the island is Onizuka. The real estate outfit they sold it to is a shell corporation. Hashimoto’s name hasn’t turned up in any of the documents, but it’s a pretty good bet he’s connected to it somehow.”

Juan studied the map, his chin perched in his clenched hands.

“You’re right, Stoney. It’s all circumstantial. But it’s the best we’ve got. Good work.”

“Thanks.”

Juan stood. “Unless someone has a better idea, we’ll set a course for Pau Rangi—flank speed.”

72

Washington, D.C.

Erin Banfield downed her scotch in a single slug to calm her nerves. She was afraid to act, and afraid not to. She was afraid that no matter what she did, she would die.

Unless she was very, very careful.

The Vendor’s phone call was a surprise unto itself. The secretive arms merchant had only ever communicated with her by text, no doubt to hide his voice, which revealed so much about a person—nationality, class, education, age. For a time, she imagined the Vendor might be a woman. After all, why not? Women could be as ruthless and cunning as men.

But the second he opened his mouth and vomited out his tirade, she knew it was an older man with an Asian accent, and a current or former heavy smoker.

And he was out of control.

Today she had to lower the volume on her phone to mitigate the screaming rage pouring out of her receiver. He was positively unhinged.

Banfield was long used to her inferiors insulting or dismissing her with subtle gestures, carefully couched words, and imperious attitudes. But she had never been yelled at before. It shook her to the core.

It was clear that Mendoza and theOregonhad prompted theVendor’s near psychotic break. He ranted about “another miraculous escape” and swore undying vengeance. He no longer knew where the ship was.

As far as Banfield was concerned, Mendoza washisproblem. But Mendoza and theOregon—or theNoregoor whatever name it was sailing under—suddenly becameherproblem.

“I’m sending you a team of trained assassins to capture Overholt and torture him. I must know where that damnable ship is. And I want Mendoza’s head on a pike. Make the arrangements immediately!”

She tried to explain the near impossibility of the feat, especially if she hoped to avoid suspicion and maintain her cover.

Undeterred, he suddenly softened his tone and offered her a king’s ransom for her assistance in the Overholt kidnapping.

The offer gave her pause. Overholt had never done her any favors. Not really. He was nice enough, and respectful of her intelligence. But he never used his influence to help advance her career. He seemed indifferent, at best. When she was young she had once offered herself to him, but feigning a gentlemanly regard for his deceased wife’s honor and his own, he gently declined her offer. He became aloof after that. She always assumed he undermined her career without her knowledge after that faux pas.

But all of that was water under the bridge. What concerned her now was the fact the venerable Overholt enjoyed excellent federal security protection. Worse, the old man had a reputation for cold vengeance—one that extended even beyond the grave thanks to a coterie of fiercely loyal colleagues who would wreak savage retribution on anyone who touched him.

What to do?

In the heat of the moment of the phone call, all she could think of was to defer the Vendor’s outrageous request. She promised him she’d pull together all the information he would need for the assassin squad in the next three days. Overholt was incommunicado at the moment anyway, she assured him.

He mumbled his thanks and told her he would contact her again in seventy-two hours, and when he did he wanted the necessary details.He tried but failed to hide the murderous menace in his voice before killing the call.

She stood there nursing another drink and weighing her harrowing options.

If she betrayed the Vendor, he would no doubt kill her. If she arranged for Overholt’s murder, her sleepless life would eventually end on a terrifying note in a moldering, unmarked grave.

Beyond those fears, she also faced the possibility of either a life of relative poverty or a life of wealth, cavorting in the Algarve with her Portuguese Lothario.