The Mandate

By Steve Bradford

Internet trading, a lucrative but dangerously secretive business, offers a possible solution for Josh Wagner, a securities dealer with a weakness for wagering on practically anything. But the promise of a lottery-like payoff becomes much more than a game of life and death when he witnesses a murder and becomes the primary suspect.
Josh teams up with an experienced internet trader from Chicago, and together they begin a deadly search around the globe to connect the mandate, or representative, of a super-affluent but inaccessible prince from Dubai, with that of an aging fisherman in the Philippines. The Filipino claims to have knowledge of Yamashita’s treasure, a hidden cache of WWII gold, now valued at billions.
The strength of internet trading is governed by the weakest link or participant in a deal, as the unscrupulous Louis Barouche surfaces, not satisfied with remaining in his side-line position as an intermediary. Josh is forced to masquerade as the buyer’s mandate, when he travels to Manila where the chain is broken. Even the special military unit of the US Army Department of Reclamation has a deep-seated interest as the chase is on for Yamashita’s Gold.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steve Bradford
• Release date: Jun 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310801952

Steve Bradford

Author’s BiographyBorn and raised in North Carolina, Steve Bradford pursued a broadcasting and advertising career at NBC-TV where he was Assistant Manager of Program Merchandise. After four years he formed his own merchandising agency servicing television game shows and various motion picture projects. Eight years later, he returned to North Carolina to manage the family printing business, but transitioned into retail banking from which he recently retired.Steve is also a professional musician with five CDs of solo piano, (www.steve-bradford.com), a musical director and composer, and is a versatile actor with screen credits in Crazy People, The Lookalike, and Forest Gump.Steve and his wife, Anne, live in Lewisville, North Carolina.

Book preview

(Spring, 1944)

The stern face of Commander Takedo Hiyashi rarely displayed emotion. His narrow eyes were riveted on the dozens of islands and land masses that jutted skyward in the South China Sea west of the Philippines. His vessel, the Torimatsu, led as the two Japanese supply ships cautiously maneuvered through the gray morning fog, tacking between the uninhabited islands that appeared and vanished in the morning rainfall.

From the breast pocket inside his uniform Commander Hiyashi retrieved a hand-drawn map and unfolded it carefully. He compared the rice paper drawing against the seascape and the moving outline of the horizon. It had been over five months since he had traveled these waters and he wanted to arrive with no surprises, no distractions. Far too much rode on his accuracy. The trailing ship, the Diawatsushita, some 2000 meters behind, copied precisely the movements of the Torimatsu.

Again consulting his map and peering at the horizon, Hiyashi barked, Bearing 190 degrees, Captain. As the yielding curtain of rain opened, he raised his binoculars and pointed off the leeward side to a semicircular island, higher than it was wide, and appearing to float in the fog. There, he grunted. Make for that island. The smallest smile of recognition found its way to his face.

The mist burned off and visibility increased as the two ships entered a natural channel from the open sea. He spied a hidden lagoon with a beach area at the foot of a towering cliff. As the lagoon bottom rose to meet the hull of the Torimatsu, he directed the ship to proceed slowly, then anchor about fifty meters off shore. The Diawatsushita slowly eased itself beside the Commander’s vessel, and cast off its anchor. He was glad the rain had stopped. The birds, screeching and cawing, evacuated the beach and flew inland, ceding their island to the noisy intruders. The crews of both vessels set to work, beginning the task of transferring the cargo to the island.

Commander Hiyashi, the first to land on the beach area, stepped out of the small boat with six officers as he began the trek inland, up the slippery hillside. Low hanging leaves drenched them with the remnants of the rain. There was no existing trail to follow, just the general directions, landmarks, and remembered distances, displayed in his head. The Commander entered a small field, paused to scan the terrain, and then climbed around a cluster of shiny boulders, shimmering wet in the bright morning sunshine. He grunted in approval, and steered his small group to the uppermost part of the island in a series of switchbacks. A solid rock wall loomed ahead, the base of a cliff eighty feet high, sheltered by the palm trees and overgrown with heavy brush and undergrowth. To one side of this wall was a collection of tree limbs, brush, dried palm fronds, and small rocks. The Commander motioned for his men to clear away the debris, revealing an opening in the basalt wall, the entrance to a cave.

I will stay here. Return to the ship, but leave one of you behind on the trail about two hundred meters from point to point, as a visual reference. Once the cargo and the carriers are ready, have the Captain begin the convoy right away.

The men did as ordered. Once they were out of sight, the Commander formed a torch from some dried palms and lit it with a match from his pocket. He bent down, entered the cave through the close and narrow passageway, and stumbled into the interior. The stale air quickly dissipated with the draft from opening the cave. He took a few steps into the cavernous room and stopped, looking at the sight before him. It was exactly as he had left it. His smile turned into a grin.

The soldiers returned to the beach where the Captain had created a single line formation of native Philippine bearers mixed with Australian, Dutch, English, American and French prisoners of war. The procession of prisoners all struggled to carry their loads along the trail from one officer to the next. The column crept slowly up the steep hillside, through the jungle growth, under the constant prodding from the Japanese soldiers.

One pair of carriers, their wet feet sliding on the muddy slope, but trying to maneuver with a shoulder rod supporting a modest-sized wooden crate between them, stumbled. The box crashed to the ground and the revealed contents glistened in the mud and muck. The two bearers’ eyes opened wide in surprise then instantly averted, looking away from the contents, now fearing for their lives. They quickly attempted to reassemble their splintered crate, but abandoned that as an impossible task. They wound up carrying the contents in their aching arms, cradled against their chests.

The line continued winding its way through the overgrowth and heavy foliage leading up to the cave entrance where Hiyashi himself met them. He led the first prisoners with their cargo into the cave. The Commander had placed torches on the walls using crevasses where a millennium had separated the layers of stone. The flames from the torches gave the room a tribal, dream-like appearance, the resulting sheen glittered and rippled like a moving painting lit by fire. Hiyashi found it beautiful and powerful.

Another pair of carriers struggled with a large leather case, more like a chest, different from the rest of the cargo. Put that over here, Hiyashi said, indicating an area off to the side. There were several additional wooden containers stacked with the leather case. Each of these boxes contained explosives, generally sticks of dynamite and rolls of wire as fuses. The Commander would use these to seal and protect the cave and its contents.

As each crate arrived, the carriers returned to the staging area at the beach to pick up another. This seemingly-endless procession continued until late in the afternoon, when the prisoners were allowed to rest as best they could, falling in exhausted groups around the cave. The Commander called his ranking officers together.

It is all here? he asked. Receiving an affirmative response, he simply said, Then it is time.

The officers and guards began to roust the prisoners and herded them through the adjacent narrow tunnel, leading to another portion of the cave, one of the anterooms. Hiyashi followed his troops into the chamber and immediately wrinkled his nose at the sickly stench in the air. The prisoners were herded to a large pit in front of them, half-full of dead and decaying bodies staring with un-seeing eyes. The pleading and whimpering began immediately as they cried and begged for their lives. Their moaning grew as they struggled to shrink away from the advancing guards, and were pushed backwards closer to the trench. The cave echoed with terror. And death.

The Commander told his Lieutenant to carry out his orders, then left the chamber to double check the treasure. The sound of the gunfire grew to a deafening roar in the confines of the cave. Commander Hiyashi could no longer hear the screams, but only the staccato bursts from the rifles as he strode, hands clasped behind his back, assessing his mission and the contents of the cave.

In the anteroom, the silence following the massacre was nearly as loud; a few soldiers snickered, the rest saying nothing. They tentatively poked and jabbed at the pile of bodies in front of them. Satisfied, the Lieutenant corralled his men and left the anteroom.

Hiyashi turned to the Lieutenant. Complete?

They are dead, was the report.

The Commander returned the salute and waved the Lieutenant and his men towards the exit. He stayed behind briefly and was the last to leave, taking a final look around, again grunting his satisfaction at the sight.

Outside the cave, the controlled explosion sealed the entrance, creating a small rain of dust and dirt. Under the watchful eye of Hiyashi, the troops heaped the area with the stones, fronds, limbs, trees, and debris all piled near the opening. Everyone returned to the beachfront and the ships.

Once onboard, the commander ordered the captain of the Diawatsushita to scuttle his ship on the rocks at the entrance creating a partial blockage of the inlet to the lagoon. After the troops from both ships gathered on the Torimatsu, they prepared for departure in the morning.

The sounds of a celebration of a mission accomplished filled the evening. Shouts of "Bonsai" resounded throughout the vessel, both at the successful performance of the crew and the lifted ration limit for tonight’s sake. Darkness enveloped the bay as Commander Hiyashi addressed the crew with congratulations, excused himself, and quietly made his way up on deck.

You will miss out on the celebration, he said affably to the three crew members on duty, now brought to attention by the presence of the Commander. Look around you, his short arm swept a wide arc, indicating their isolation in the lagoon and the starry night. We’re completely alone. I’ll stand watch. Go join your friends. They muttered thanks and departed happily, leaving the Commander alone above decks.

Hiyashi strode around the ship, having cautiously checked previously hidden packets of explosives. Next he went to a storage compartment near the stairs that led from the bridge and retrieved the oilskin-wrapped package he had placed there earlier. Hurriedly, he removed his uniform coat and cap and pitched them overboard. Donning a life jacket, he quietly slipped into the lapping water with the retrieved package tied to his waist. Within a few minutes of swimming from the ship, Hiyashi staggered onto the sand and collapsed, momentarily out of breath. He pulled on the rope around his waist and slowly hauled in the large oilskin package that contained a small inflatable raft, a foot pump, a compass, a battery, and a radio operated detonator. The Commander made the connections between the detonator and the poles of the battery, and took a position of safety behind a large boulder. He then pressed the red button on the remote switch.

A blinding flash and a series of fiery explosions filled the sky, making it brighter than day. The roar of the explosion broke the silence of the night. The ship went up in flames amid the yells and screams from those on board, hurling plumes of water and chunks of metal thrown in all directions. Along with the bowels of the ship, body parts rained down from the sky, catapulting into the water and along the beach. His Commander’s cap and remnants of his uniform jacket floated in the center of this inferno.

The explosions threw Hiyashi to the rocky ground, shredding his knees. Rocks from above his position near the beach dislodged from the overhanging cliffs, narrowly missed him as he raced for the water’s edge. Several landslides on parts of the island caused the overall silhouette of the island to shift and change.

Once the debris had settled and the stillness penetrated the night, Commander Hiyashi surveyed his results and mentally reviewed his orders. He would now report the success of the secret mission and provide its detailed location to his commanding officer, General Tomoyuki Yamashita. After a last look around the lagoon, he pocketed his maps, satisfied with the scene in front of him. He grabbed the foot pump, inflated the raft, and began paddling his long solo journey to a neighboring harbor to await an arranged pickup. He was now the only person alive who knew the secret of this deserted island and the location of the cave of gold, a major part of Yamashita’s Treasure.

* * *

Inside the cave, in the depths of the trench among the rubble of bodies, the dying flicker of the remaining torch reflected its way across the walls and shone off the golden metal, around to the adjacent grotto, the rays barely illuminating the sweat and blood on the arms, limbs, torsos, heads, and bodies of the executed. The explosion in the entry way had created engulfing clouds of dust and dirt that all but snuffed out the single flame. Quietly, through the swirling and slowly soaring particles of sand, a hand suddenly flinched and stretched its fingers. Cautiously and painfully, climbing from beneath the bodies, the hand reached upward, wrenching in circles toward the ceiling, toward life. Here in this pile of death, a man, a survivor, attempted to dig his way to freedom as the torch finally extinguished.

Chapter One

Unbelievable! He could blame it on that hail-Mary pass with six seconds left that lost the game for the Colts. That shouldn’t have happened. Or the fact that he had bet it all, trying to recover the $62,000 he was down. And the only place he could touch that kind of money was in his investment firm’s trust account for his clients. Josh Wagner knew he had dug himself a hole, but his financiers were demanding and very persuasive. Regrettably, he completed a number of transactions across banks, made notations of buys and sales to fictitious individuals, and transferred the results into his checking personal account. He withdrew the cash and made the payment to his associates, painfully avoiding the bruises from before. Now it all had to be replaced.

And it would have been.

But here he was in Toledo. Josh rechecked the address of the apartment building. Not the best part of Toledo, not that he was that familiar with the city. But clearly it wasn’t. Josh looked in the rearview mirror of his car and saw a man who looked older than his 34 years staring back at him. Anger in his eyes. Anger and fear. He ran a hand through his brown hair. Needed a haircut. He saw a light stubble on the face in the reflection. A shave wouldn’t hurt, either. There hadn’t been time. He looked nervous. It wasn’t too late to call it off and go back home. To what? The man who lived here was the only one that could give him the answers. The man here was the mandate.

Let’s get this done. He went to the lobby, took the elevator upstairs, went to apartment 804 and knocked.

Isaac Kepler, a tired, black man who looked in his late 60's, with thinning, dapple grey hair and a trim moustache, opened the door.

Yes? Kepler’s blank stare added to Josh’s tension.

Mr. Kepler, I’m Josh Wagner, one of the traders in the wheat deal. I know you’re the buyer’s mandate and I’m here to get the money that’s owed me.

Kepler stared at him for a moment without expression. I don’t know what you’re talking about. He quickly started to close the door, but Josh blocked it faster with his foot.

Don’t even think of closing that door. I’ve come all the way from Indianapolis to get my money. Now, let me in.

Kepler looked down the corridor, checking to see if anyone else was around. He lowered his voice. What do you think you’re doing here? Josh gave him no additional answer other than the angry stare. After a moment, Kepler just slowly turned his back, left the door open, and walked into the apartment. He picked up a pack of cigarettes next to a half-full ashtray on the end table, muttering I just don’t believe it. Nobody’s ever come here before. He lit his cigarette and turned back to face Josh, eyed him up and down, and shook his head mumbling, How could I have been so careless?

Josh grew bolder, moved inside the apartment, and closed the door behind him. What happened to the deal and all our money? he demanded. You don’t realize how important this is. To me. To all of us. I need it.

Kepler simply sat down in his corduroy easy chair, one arm rest mended with silver duct tape. His head shook from side to side as he laughed quietly. You want to know where your money is, and I don’t realize how important it is. That what you said? His disbelieving laugh turned into a raspy cough. Boy, you really must be new at this.

Josh stared at the man, wondering if he had the right Kepler from all the phone calls he made this morning. That Kepler from the conference call last week was a take-charge mandate, laying out the rules when talking with the seller’s representative. This Kepler was just a tired, old man. Kepler waved the pack of cigarettes in an invitation. Josh let his silence answer.

Finally Kepler said, The wheat seller played us all. Turned out that we weren’t dealing with a real seller’s mandate, and there was really no seller. When they went through the proofing stages, the seller’s loading manifests couldn’t be verified as current, and the wheat was simply not there. Everything fell apart, although the seller’s mandate kept asking to keep the deal and paperwork alive, while not telling me he was trying to find another supplier. That’s why the notification wasn’t immediate, and the deal was not shut down immediately. But...hey, it didn’t happen. There was no sale. None of us got a dime. Not one red cent. I kept trying to get back in touch with him and all the numbers were ‘out of order,’ or disconnected. No answer to any emails, nothing but denials and no information from the banks, no nothing.

He can’t do that! He can’t just disappear. What about all the support documents showing the seller had the wheat? Josh asked.

That was all from a prior deal, doctored up to make it look like it hadn’t happened yet. And he needed those docs to get the buyer to prove that he had the money.

But that’s not right. That’s not fair, objected Josh.

Fair? You want to talk fair? There’s nothing fair about any of it. Kepler took a deep drag and slowly let the smoke out in a thin stream, looking up at the ceiling.

Josh pressed on. And you couldn’t let us know that the deal was dead? I’ve got people up and down the chain asking me what’s going on. Some mandate you turned out to be. Josh saw Kepler stiffen at the derisive character assassination, but there was no reply. What do we do now? Josh asked.

We?... Kepler asked, tapping the book of matches against the brown Formica end table, I’m going to keep tryin’. That’s what I’m going to do. I don’t know about you. Kepler got up from the table and moved into the kitchen. You want some coffee or something?

That’s all? That’s all? I come all the way down here for answers and you offer me coffee? Josh couldn’t believe the old man’s attitude or uncanny lack of concern.

Kepler maintained his patient, quiet reply while getting two mugs, How did you find me anyway?

I’ve got a damn good ear for voices on the phone. Did some serious research to narrow down the city, then called all the Keplers in the Toledo phonebook, and when you answered this morning, well I recognized your voice. Josh looked around the sparsely furnished room and noticed the pictures on the mantel of a young girl about twenty, who Josh assumed to be a daughter, and an older black and white shot of Kepler and his wife, laughing, sharing a piece of wedding cake. What about you? How long have you been doing this?

A long time. He looked long and hard at Josh. Let me show you something.

He led Josh by the sliding glass door to the patio and down the hallway leading past his bedroom. Josh noticed the tidiness of his bed, all the old man’s clothes hung neatly as if the room was scarcely visited.

In here, he said, opening the door to what Josh surmised to be the guest bedroom. He glanced around the room and saw that an older computer and an old fax machine had been set up on a table against one wall. In the corner were two stacks of file containers, each four boxes high. Kepler slid open the wooden door displaying a closet with still more cardboard boxes, overflowing with files. He looked at Josh in a very matter-of-fact manner, as if the boxes spoke volumes on their own.

These are all trades that started years ago and never got completed. Never finished, never happened. He then pointed to the separate group of boxes against the wall, and a pile of folders on the desk next to his computer. These are all the recent trades in which I have been the mandate.

And this, Kepler picked up a bulging address book and thumbed through it to show Josh the entries, names, email addresses, phone and fax numbers of hundreds of contacts and their specialties, …this is the heart of my operation. All my contacts in one place. Everything. He twisted a thick rubber band back around it to keep the pages intact.

Josh was amazed at the amount of information and documentation in the room –

stacks of boxes, piles of folders. If you did all of this, but hadn’t completed a deal, how did you come to be a mandate?

Kepler sat down on the edge of the bed and smiled. Never told anyone. Not much chance to become too friendly with other traders. He made a noise deep in his throat. And I sure as hell haven’t had one track me down. His eyes roamed over the file boxes as he reminisced. During the day, I work at a private Catholic school not too far from here over on Academy Street, St. Ignacio’s, as a custodial engineer, handyman and...well, I’m old school. Let’s just say I’m the janitor.

Josh listened, fascinated as Kepler spoke, sensing that the old man’s smiling face indicated both a relief and satisfaction at being able to share with someone. The tired pace and tone of Kepler’s voice grew stronger with each minute as he relayed his story of struggle and desperation. His eyes flashed as they moved from folder to box, each one holding a new tale of near success. Josh was mesmerized. Two hours later an insistent hammering at the door interrupted their conversation.

I’m comin’, the old man shouted towards the door. Then back at Josh, I don’t s’pose these are more of your people? It really pisses me off, you findin’ me. I must be gettin’ old. He disappeared around the corner down the hall, chuckling and shaking his head. Josh laughed at the comment, looking at the papers spread on the table. Now that Josh understood that both he and Kepler had been conned, he found Kepler congenial and likeable, even if the old man was still irritated that Josh had traced him to the apartment.

Josh heard the sound of quiet conversation, then scuffling and muffled grunts and a yell. The voices in the living room grew louder and agitated. There were three voices arguing, the two visitors sounded foreign. He heard what sounded like a lamp crash. Josh took a few steps towards the door. Another crash. Josh hurried down the hall to help, but was stopped by the sight of Kepler’s airborne body flying at him. They collided and fell to the carpet, the old man sprawled out on top.

Compliments of Barouche! the tall foreigner shouted from the end of the hall, now approaching Kepler. He stopped abruptly, his focus shifted to Josh, surprised to see anyone else in the apartment. Deux? He pointed at Josh as a second head poked around the corner looking in Kepler’s direction.

Kepler’s big, black hand reached out toward the side of Josh’s face as he looked directly into Josh’s eyes. The bag. Take it. Get it to him! Kepler whispered painfully through clinched teeth, blood spilling from his lip and a cut above his eye. He rose and charged at the two intruders, yelling like a rejuvenated madman. His leap blocked the hallway with all his extremities extended like a flying spider. A muzzle exploded with the dull staccato of three shots, a silencer dampening the sound into muffled thwacks. The impact stopped Kepler in mid scream, the rounds landing in the shoulder and chest, throwing him backward, his body ripping through the patio screen door. The impact carried him over the wrought iron rail, amid torn and shattered aluminum screening, falling and screaming for eight floors. The two intruders rushed to the edge of the patio to witness the fall.

Josh scrambled back to the bedroom, slammed and locked the door, and barricaded it with a heavy stack of file boxes. He saw a backpack next to the desk and with one sweep, shoveled everything on the table into the bag. The two gunmen slammed repeatedly against the door as Josh frantically ran out onto the bedroom balcony. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Kepler lying sprawled on the shrubbery down to the left. A bloody mess. Bullets popped from the silenced automatic and split the wood around the handle as the bedroom door frame finally gave way to the combined weight of the gunmen, spilling them into a sea of papers and cardboard files.

Josh climbed onto the railing. A four inch ledge of white concrete decoratively circled the building on each floor. He looked down, then back at the bedroom. What the hell am I doing? He stretched his legs, stepped out onto the shelf and hugged the building, inching to the right. He could feel the weight of the backpack as it pulled him off balance. He sucked in his breath but couldn’t get any closer to the building. His fingers grappled at the concrete grout and bricks of the wall as he began to fall away. In a moment of panic he instinctively pushed off from the ledge towards the next door balcony. He misjudged the distance and the extra weight on his back caused him to miss the rail, grabbing at the iron support of the balcony floor. He missed, falling to the balcony on the floor below.

Amazing how the brain and body can function in tandem, appearing to slow a split-second action to allow thought, analysis, choices, selection and execution as though it were a round-table discussion. Josh was in relatively good shape, a runner, and played pickup basketball games at the Y. His choices were few and brain and body unanimously approved his only real option. His eyes concentrated on finding hand-holds in the wrought iron design. He prepared for a jolt as he took a breath and reached out.

Agggghhhhhhh!! The combined screams of Josh’s pain and the surprise from the neighbor who was scared to death at his flying attack, lessened the noise of the gunfire that chiseled away at her patio. Josh’s landing had knocked a potted plant onto a glass top table, the crackling of the glass adding to the clamor of the instant. The woman jumped back and tripped, falling into a chair. Josh pulled himself up the bent railing and onto the concrete floor of the balcony, feeling his hands and arms as if ripped from his body while he rolled under the metal canopy over the patio.

The heavyset woman in a striped bathrobe lay upended in her chair, screaming What the...who? Her startled face twisted back and forth between her feet in the air, looking at the crumpled assailant, her demolished balcony and the pinging bullets erupting in the concrete.

Sorry, ma’am, Josh grunted in agony. I’ll just see myself out. He struggled to his feet, limped into the apartment, and headed for her front entry. He eased the door open, looked each way, and bolted for the end of the hall where a sign indicated Exit. By the time he was down to the fifth floor, the slam of the door above and heavy footsteps echoed in the stairwell. He looked up and was greeted by shouting and more muffled gun fire. Josh took the remaining steps three at a time, circling the stairwell to the first floor. The door opened to a street behind the building. He raced across, cradling his torn and battered arms, noticing several alleyways ahead.

The men squeezed off a couple of shots as he raced madly for the first alley. One bullet splintered part of a backyard fence, the other pinged past to Josh’s left, before he could duck into the alleyway. He saw