Patriot, M.A. Rothman [reading like a writer TXT] 📗

“Why not?”

“Eh, alcohol, women, a little of both. Just kind of got carried away with trying to balance my partying and studying, and before I knew it, school was over.” Tanaka slowed the four-door Honda, turned left and accelerated again. “All worked out though. I’ve got another six months here. Maybe I’ll ask for an extension, who knows? It’s kind of growing on me.”

Connor knew that by “growing on me” Tanaka meant that he was building up quite the little empire in southern Japan. His fancy clothes weren’t purchased on his CIA salary, that was for sure. Connor had heard rumors that the field agent had interests in several side businesses run through relatives of his, including a personal security consulting firm that was making him at least double what he made working for the agency. And because Tanaka stayed at his uncle’s home, he didn’t have to pay rent or utilities, so all of that money went straight into his pocket.

Or his clothes, Connor thought.

He’d never worked with Tanaka directly before, but he knew the name, and he’d done some homework on his in-country contact. This man was living the life Connor had envisioned for himself when he’d first joined the agency—which Connor found irritating. Tanaka had made a niche here, and was doing extremely well for himself. More to the point, he wasn’t stuck behind a desk at Langley for ten hours a day.

I wonder how long Pennington is going to let you get away with it before he recalls you, Connor thought.

As if reading Connor’s mind, the operator asked, “So what’s up with the op, anyway? Didn’t come through regular distro channels. That means that Boss Man didn’t see the order.”

“It’s an exploratory mission,” Connor said.

Tanaka shot him a sidelong glance. “Uh-huh. I know I’ve only been here a year or so, but generally when the paperwork doesn’t come down from the Man’s office, the Man don’t know about it. Which means this op ain’t, strictly speaking, kosher.”

Connor tried to work out from the man’s curious expression whether or not his completely accurate assessment of the situation left a bad taste in his mouth. But even if he was on the fence, Connor knew that, with just the right amount of motivation, Tanaka could be persuaded to see reason.

“It’s off the books for now,” Connor said.

Tanaka sniffed and turned his eyes back to the road. After a moment, his pearly whites flashed again, and he smacked the steering wheel. “Ha! I like it. Any chance to get one over on that pencil-neck son of a bitch.”

Connor let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Don’t like Pennington either, huh?”

“Like? That bastard hasn’t approved a single expense form since I’ve been on station. I mean, how the hell does he think I’m going to blend in with the locals if I’m forced to wear some bland, Americanized slacks and polo? Come on, man!” He pulled at his stiff collar. “And these things aren’t cheap, let me tell you.”

Connor considered letting the man know that everyone back at the office was on to his little scheme out here, which was likely why the deputy director denied the operative’s requests for additional wardrobe expenses. But he decided against it. If Connor’s direct plan of action didn’t work, he would need Tanaka’s connections. And if Connor was honest with himself, having local connections was almost more important than having a good relationship with the home office.

“Here we are,” Tanaka said, pulling off the main road onto a narrow single lane street that weaved back and forth down a slight hill to the Port of Makurasaki.

Makurasaki was the southernmost port on Japan proper, located thirty-five miles south of Kagoshima, where the deep-sea research and salvage company was headquartered. Christina had been able to track down the specific ship used in the operation mentioned in the memo, which had been docked at Makurasaki since it had completed its assignment.

Tanaka slowed to a stop beside a small guard shack, and an older man, sporting a patchy beard and long salt-and-pepper hair, stepped out.

“Where you going?” the man muttered in Japanese.

Tanaka pointed through the windshield and answered him in perfect Japanese. “There’s a boat docked here. I’m going to see her captain.” He pulled a card from the inside pocket of his navy-blue sport jacket. “Insurance.”

The old man frowned, leaned forward, and squinted to inspect the card. His eyes flicked back and forth between the card and Tanaka for several seconds before he finally straightened and waved a dismissive hand. “Go.” He turned and hobbled slowly back into the shack.

Tanaka gave the old man’s back a two-fingered salute and accelerated forward, shaking his head. “You’ve got to love the extreme security measures around this place.”

“Insurance?” Connor asked, more than a little bit curious.

Tanaka laughed. “All these boats have ridiculous insurance premiums—it’s the way of life here, right? On the coast, if you don’t have a boat, you don’t have anything. And this entire damn country is an island, so boats are more important than homes, much less cars. They’re inspected randomly by the insurance companies to make sure they’re keeping them up to code. Believe it or not, there’s a ton of insurance fraud that goes on here.”

Tanaka pulled into a spot along the upper edge of the dock, and he and Connor climbed out. They made their way through the loading area, dodging workers in overalls and hard hats and the occasional beeping forklift. From the road, it hadn’t looked that busy, but as they crossed to the main area, it became apparent that there was a lot of work happening in this small port.

Or maybe I just don’t know what to look for, Connor thought.

“It should be right over there,” Tanaka said, consulting his notepad and pointing to the end of the dock.

A barge sat anchored at the end of the main dock, tethered to clamps above the walkway. Two massive cranes sprouted from the ship’s deck, one near the