Gaijin Cowgirl (21): Takahashi's proposition
“Your day’s about to get a whole lot worse.”
(Previous chapter, or start at the beginning.)
BANGKOK
OCTOBER, 1969
Jeb Maxwell took a cyclo from his bungalow to the Asia Hotel, just down the street from Silom Square. The water from this afternoon’s downpour still glistened off windshields and puddles. Above the palms silhouetted against an orange sky loomed the hotel, whose main bar served as a hangout for Air America pilots. Maxwell sauntered in like a man who had nothing to hide.
He approached a group of garrulous Americans swapping tall tales. Today’s Bangkok Post lay between half-empty bottles of booze. Although the story was buried somewhere inside, the pilots had probably read it.
Maxwell wavered, wondering whether he should let things cool off before pleading his case. But one of the pilots spied him and waved him over. “Max,” he called, “come in and have a drink, man.”
He joined the group, which had launched a bender a few hours ago. Someone poured Jim Beam into a glass and Maxwell drank it.
“You boys are mighty friendly today,” Maxwell said.
“Yeah, well, we was wondering if any of it was true.” The man’s name was Heyerdal and his blue eyes held Maxwell steadily.
Maxwell shrugged. “Fuckin reporters.”
A helicopter pilot on leave from Udorn wasn’t following. “What’s true? What happened?”
Heyerdal said, “Max here’s a customer.” The chopper pilot nodded. “He was the customer for the Gooney that got shot down by the VC yesterday.”
“Bruce’s customer,” said another pilot, a Texan named Philips.
The chopper pilot nodded again, now understanding. This handler was responsible for getting their buddies into a Red prison. The chopper pilot said to Maxwell, “You bastards never give a shit what happens to us, do you?”
“Hey, it ain’t my fault that the VC shot a plane over the Ho Chi Minh Trail,” Maxwell said.
“That flight wasn’t supposed to be there,” Heyerdal said, “and it sure as shit wasn’t supposed to be moving heroin. How much you pay Bruce to make an unscheduled stop?”
The Central Intelligence Agency was the main customer for all the Air America pilots. The CIA owned the entire fleet – the largest commercial airline in the world – and paid its staff to fly anywhere, take any cargo, at any time, no questions asked. Maybe it meant flying food and supplies to friendlies in Laos or Vietnam, maybe it involved ferrying CIA operatives or VIPs here and there. When Meo, Hmong or Montagnard allies were overrun by Vietcong or Pathet Lao, it was usually Air America planes and choppers that evacuated refugees, entire villages. ‘Anything, anywhere, anytime’ was the company’s motto.
Philips, the Texan, narrowed his gaze at Maxwell. “I know Bruce. He’s a good man. Nice wife too.”
“Now don’t you fellas worry about those pilots,” Maxwell said. “We’ll get ‘em out of there.”
“Were they really carrying horse?” Heyerdal asked.
“How should I know?” Maxwell asked. “It wasn’t my cargo. It was one of them AID flights, evacuating Montagnard people out of Buon Ma Thuot. Vietcong got ‘em. That’s all I know.”
“Come on, Max, Bruce ran all kinds of missions for you,” said Philips.
Heyerdal added, “And you’re pretty cozy with General Pau, ain’tcha?”
Maxwell winced. “I don’t deal with that crazy Lao bastard no more.”
“Well,” said Heyerdal, waving the newspaper, “says here they’re taking our guys north to find out just why an Air America Gooney was shot down over the Nam highlands carrying enough white gold to get—”
“There a Jeb Maxwell here?” called the bartender, a burly American who was friends with most of the pilots who were his regulars. He had a phone receiver in one hand.
Maxwell raised his hand, startled. Who the hell was calling him?
The chopper pilot smirked. “Guess your day’s about to get a whole lot worse.”
Maxwell left the table with relief and trepidation, went inside to the bar, and took the phone. “Yeah,” he said.
“Mr. Maxwell?” The voice was foreign. It wasn’t Thai, or Vietnamese, or Lao. Maxwell couldn’t place it.
“Yeah, who’s this?”
“My name is Shigeru Takahashi. I’ve got a business proposition I would like to discuss with you.”
Maxwell rubbed his brow. “Listen, buddy, I don’t know what the hell kind of joke this is….”
“No joke, Mr. Maxwell. I have a proposition that could make both of us very rich men.”
On a normal day, Jeb Maxwell would have hung up on some goddamn Jap calling him like this. But few days in Southeast Asia counted as normal. Besides, the public nature of this latest disaster meant his job was in the can. He could see the pilots trading conspiratorial whispers on the balcony; Heyerdal fixed him with a blue-eyed stare, said something and the others laughed. So Maxwell said, “How did you know I was here?”
“Because I am sitting at the other end of the bar.”
Maxwell looked into the depths of the dimly lit bar and saw a middle-aged Japanese man erect on a barstool, speaking into the bar’s other house phone. Despite the tropical heat, he wore a dark suit and tie. Little of the man’s features could be made out except for his round eyeglasses, which reflected the red lights along the shelves of whiskey.
Christ, he thought, what is this all about? Maxwell handed the phone back to the bartender and faced the Japanese man. The stranger was also reading today’s Bangkok Post. Great.
“A real cloak and dagger man,” Maxwell said to the man in the men’s room. He had to take a piss anyway.
“Just like you, Mr. Maxwell. Sorry for the mystery, it’s just I didn’t want those other men to notice us speaking.”
They walked to the pool bar, which was more families than colleagues. Shouty kids jumping in the pool, wives the soldiers had lost interest in.
“What’s your name again?”
“Takahashi. Buy you a drink?”
“Sure, Tojo, I’ll take a double bourbon straight up.”
Takahashi signaled the bartender and ordered the drink, along with another Scotch whiskey for himself. “So,” he said, “looks like you face some, ah, complications with your employer.”
Maxwell gazed nervously at the newspaper. “I don’t see why it’s any of your goddamn business.”
“Logistics has always been my business,” Takahashi said. “Just like you.”
Maxwell snorted. “Never thought of it that way. Probably don’t matter anyhow. If you’re lookin’ for an Air America employee, you’re S.O.L.”
“S.O.L.?”
“Shit outta luck.” Maxwell downed his drink and stood up. “Thanks for the bourbon, Tojo. But I don’t think I’m of any use no more.”
“On the contrary, Mr. Maxwell, I think we can help each other. I know you’re not employed by AA. You work for First Exports Limited, right?”
Maxwell nodded dumbly.
“And First Exports Limited is a front for the CIA?”
“You’re dreaming, pal.”
“I’ve had the…pleasure of working with many people from your organization. I was an interpreter following the Pacific war and made many friends in the Office of Strategic Services. Your military occupied my country and I represented many of our interests. Not always public ones, you understand, but private ones, for very important private people. The people I represent and your American government, we’ve assisted each other in certain, ah, sensitive operations.”
“Great. So why talk to me?”
“This drug running business of yours is now out in the open, Mr. Maxwell. You’re going to be fired and maybe arrested. But I am prepared to help you keep your job, because I need assistance with air logistics, the kind of which can only be provided by an airline such as Air America. You see, I need a large airplane, and pilots. I need multiple trips made to locations around this region. And I need this done…discreetly.”
“You tellin’ me that you can pull strings within my shop and get this heat off my back?”
“I can even get you a promotion.”
“And in turn I help you out with this, uh, operation.”
“That’s it, yes. I can save your job, clear your reputation. You provide the support I require, you take some risks. This should be nothing new for a man who takes payoffs from corrupt Lao generals to smuggle heroin on AA flights. But just remember, if you put my operation in jeopardy, Mr. Maxwell, everything that I give to you, I can take away.”
“You threatening me, Tojo?”
“The name is Takahashi, and I am your superior. You will respect me, Maxwell. Now listen. You will be well paid if this operation is successful. You will become a rich man.”
“Yeah? How rich?”
“It comes with six zeros.”
“That’s American dollars we’re talking here?”
“Most assuredly. Do you accept?”
“What, here and now? Like hell. I don’t know who you are or what this is. If you think I’m gonna agree to some deal without knowing nothing, you’re nuts.”
Takahashi nodded. “I understand. You’re right to say so. I’ve arranged a day trip for tomorrow. If after tomorrow you decide not to agree to my proposition, then you go home and I never bother you again, and you can face your government alone. Or we will become business partners. I will have a car pick you up at your residence at five a.m. sharp.”
“Five, you kidding? I don’t get up before noon when I ain’t working.”
“Five, Maxwell.” He stood up from the bar as a gaggle of kids ran past. “I suggest, how do you say it, you lay off the booze tonight.”
* * *
The little Toyota pulled up in front of Maxwell’s bungalow at exactly five o’clock. The street was quiet. Maxwell was glad no one would witness the indignity of his climbing into the back of a tiny Japanese car.
Takahashi waited inside. One word to the driver in Japanese and the Toyota moved on.
“This better be good,” Maxwell said, failing to suppress a yawn. He eyed Takahashi’s somber suit and tie. “Somebody die?”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.”
To his surprise, the car arrived at the airport. Takahashi led him to a waiting helicopter with a Japanese pilot. The doors were marked with a logo and the words ‘Shoryo Corporation’.
“Whose chopper?”
“It belongs to our company,” Takahashi said. “Shoryo translates into English as ‘imperial’. I’m in many businesses: construction, engineering, logistics, not just in Japan but throughout the Asia-Pacific. We’re listed on the Osaka Stock Exchange. I’m the president.”
“Congratulations.” The rotor blades began to rotate as the unmistakable whine of a helicopter engine growled to life. “So, Prez, we gonna fly into any firefights?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Takahashi said. “There are no Vietcong where we’re going.” He pulled out a fabric sash from his breast pocket. “Put this on.”
“What? I ain’t wearing a blindfold.”
“Please, Maxwell. You can appreciate our measures taken to maintain discretion.”
“Look, Tojo, either we’re partners or we ain’t.”
“And currently we are not. You may either address me as Mr. Takahashi and wear this blindfold, or you can explain yourself to your superiors.”
“Fine. Fuck it.” Maxwell let Takahashi tie the blindfold on.
The chopper gained altitude and Maxwell could picture a land of emerald rice paddies and meandering rivers.
The blindfold was not removed when they touched down. Takahashi apologized several times as Maxwell was led out to a waiting car. Maxwell began to swear in protest, but someone, Takahashi he guessed, gripped his shoulder and applied a firm squeeze that left him in breathless pain. “Please calm down,” Takahashi said, and Maxwell nodded. The pressure eased, and Maxwell resigned himself to silence.
The jeep ride was bumpy and winding. Maxwell guessed they were in mountainous terrain, but that could mean they were anywhere outside of the Chao Phraya basin. The flight had been long – were they even still in Thailand?
Eventually he was herded out of the jeep and placed onto a – a boat, goddamn it! Now where the hell were they taking him? It didn’t smell like the sea, so he assumed it was a river. Still that told him nothing about where he could be. Most of Southeast Asia was mountains and rivers.
Finally he was taken off the boat. He heard voices, Japanese and a language he couldn’t place. And something he identified as Thai, although he couldn’t follow it. There seemed to be five or six people beside Takahashi. They walked for a good ten minutes before fingers lifted the blindfold. He scrunched his eyes against the shock of brilliant light.
“You have no appetite for suffering, Maxwell,” Takahashi said. “Like all Americans. But on this mission, comfort is irrelevant.”
“Shit,” Maxwell croaked in his drawn-out drawl as he squinted between his fingers. They stood on a jungle trail. There were two Japanese men besides Takahashi: one in grubby overalls and a yellow hardhat, the other younger, about Maxwell’s age, also dressed in a dark suit like Takahashi’s, hair cropped to a fuzz. There were several Southeast Asian men in sarongs or dirty Western garb, probably tribesmen from the hills.
“You see this trail?” Takahashi said. “Shoryo Corporation is in the process of turning it into a road, so that the local villagers may have access to the economy.”
A round of artillery fire interrupted him. The thuds echoed dully among the mountains. “I thought there weren’t any VC around here,” Maxwell said.
Takahashi shrugged. “This is a dangerous region, Maxwell. But those guns aren’t pointed our way. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“What’s to stop me from figuring out where this place is? You’ve already told me your company’s doing development work here. I can put two and two together.”
“Development work is our excuse to the local villagers, but this particular project is off the books. You’re welcome to search all you like.”
They came to a section where the trail turned into a paved road that wandered toward a cliff stabbing upward into the cloudless sky. Another jeep waited there. The younger Japanese man wearing a suit took the wheel while Takahashi and Maxwell climbed into the back. Takahashi gave the driver a command in Japanese, then said, “This is my son, Yasuo.”
Maxwell gave an indifferent grunt as Yasuo started the jeep’s ignition and ambled down the newly paved road.
Takahashi continued, “He was born in December 1941, right after Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor. I was a military officer and had enjoyed my final leave of absence before he had been born. Duty required my absence, and I didn’t see him until after the war’s end.”
“I’m touched,” Maxwell growled.
“My son has been with me since. He is one the only person I can trust. He is overseeing our current excavation here.”
“Excavation?”
“Yes. You see, Maxwell, we are fulfilling the promise of the Pacific war.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You are an American, and to you, the war began in 1941 as a cowardly act by a militarist nation, and ended in 1945 with the great victory of the democracies with their weapons of mass murder. But Americans have never been good at history. Pearl Harbor was a pre-emptive defensive strike, part of our overall strategy of hakko ichiu, all eight corners of the world under one roof – meaning securing the resources necessary to ensure Japan’s industrialization and protect our society. We had lived with the threat of racist American aggression for decades; we were fighting for our civilization in China; we had to assert our right to survive.”
“Whatever you say.”
“The war was not just the list of battles that American schoolchildren learn – Midway, Guadalcanal, Iwo Jima, Okinawa. No, Maxwell, there was always an economic and a financial aspect to our war for survival. And as the visible war – the aircraft battles, the island hopping, the fight for the Philippines – as that war inevitably turned in America’s favor, we hastened our efforts to win the other war, the war to safeguard our wealth even in the face of military defeat.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, Takahashi.”
“Of course not. What I’m talking about has always been a carefully guarded secret. I only tell you now because I have no choice. The other war, Mr. Maxwell, was an operation Emperor Hirohito named Golden Lily. His brother, Prince Chichibu, was its chief of operations. My family has always been loyal to the Imperial household and, despite my young age, I was made an officer and assigned to the Prince’s inner circle. The early years in China I was merely an assistant. But toward the end of the war, as Golden Lily became more important, I was placed in charge of Southeast Asia. And I made Golden Lily’s greatest discovery.”
“You telling me you were plundering?”
“We were safeguarding the viability of an advanced civilization, one carefully nurtured over a thousand years! How do you think Japan has been able to recover so quickly after its devastation by two atom bombs? Golden Lily ensured our survival. And from the start, your government assisted us. It recognized the wisdom, even during the Pacific war, of requiring our support in your fight against the Soviets. Nearly all the finances acquired by Golden Lily were waylaid in the Philippines or sunk in submarines between there and Japan. Much of it was never recovered. But our two governments, together, did uncover some of it. Public figures whom your government initially branded as war criminals were suddenly embraced as allies and allowed to share in Golden Lily’s spoils.”
“You’re bullshitting me.”
“Look with your own eyes.”
Maxwell got out of the jeep and followed Takahashi and his son Yasuo toward the cliff face.
Takahashi pulled out a piece of wax paper. “In the summer of 1944, Mr. Maxwell, I was able to transport this incredible discovery as far as this point, until I was sabotaged by a traitor. I marked the site and returned. Time was short; partisan groups were closing in as Japanese rule crumbled. The enemy was only days away from overrunning my position. What we had was the largest golden Buddha in the world, a treasure of immeasurable value. My team was able to saw off about a third of the statue and carve it into bars that could be transported. But we lacked time. A cave was discovered nearby. The treasure was buried, along with anyone who had come into contact with it. Safeguards were installed. The site was covered up. I drew this map, and barely escaped with my life. It was all I could do – to vow to one day reclaim this prize for my Emperor.”
“It’s kinda late, ain’t it?”
“Not at all. I returned home and with several associates founded Shoryo Corporation, which has always been dedicated to rebuilding Japan. Yasuo shares my passion. He has risen to become a vice president in our company. Our country is still catching up to the Western industrial powers. This single operation, the last mission of Golden Lily, is the culmination of my career.”
Takahashi folded the map and put it in his jacket pocket. “So, Maxwell, under the guise of development contracts, I have returned to Southeast Asia. I am now building this road to the treasure site to move in our excavation equipment. But I still need to airlift this out. There is no other way – this region is too remote, and too unstable, to risk any other method.”
Another round of distant artillery boomed, as if to underline Takahashi’s point.
“I guess that’s where I come in,” Maxwell said.
“Exactly. Help arrange the airlift to a destination I choose – arrange the pilots, the fuel, the clearance – and come with me. I will make you rich beyond your imagination. Only Air America can do this mission. Only it has the planes and the pilots, and a culture where no one asks questions. You are going to be skewered for smuggling heroin on behalf of a Lao general, Mr. Maxwell, but my connections can make that allegation disappear. Let’s help each other.”
“And if I say no, or mention our chat to my superiors?”
Takahashi smiled thinly. “Your body will be found by the local fishermen, with your intestines around your throat and your genitals in your mouth.”
Maxwell thrust out a hand. “Hell, then I guess we’re partners.”