The Spymaster's Daughter

by Allan Cole

  Zach quit clicking on his Nintendo. The room became deathly still, except for the creaking of the old mansion’s joints. Finally, Zach took a deep breath, nodded and continued his game.

  Taking the cue, Ann said, “It’s not as bad as it seems. Frank Holiday has posted some men to guard our place and to look out for Ah Beng, or any other trouble. Nobody really expects them to come here. They’re too hot with the international police. This is just to be safe, okay?”

  Zach looked up, eyes pleading. For a minute Ann thought he was going to speak – his mouth was open, lips moving. But nothing came out. The moment passed and he ducked his head and attacked the Nintendo, fingers flying.

  Ann tilted his head to one side and kissed him on the cheek. She said, “Everything will be fine, Zach.”

  Then she laughed. “And if you doubt it, we’ve got Mr. Karoda staying with us. He’s your friend, right?”

  Zach nodded vigorously.

  “Well, you know as well as I do that Mr. Karoda would never, ever, let anyone mess with his friends. Yeah?”

  Zach’s little smile returned. He gave a slight nod. He truly hero-worshipped the tattooed man. He audibly sighed and settled back into his game.

  But at that second lighting cracked and the boy nearly jumped out of his skin. He looked at Ann for reassurance and she smiled.

  “That’s another thing I was going to mention,” she said. “In case you missed the six o’clock news. There’s a tropical storm heading for Hawaii. You’ll hear on the news that there’s a faint chance that it’ll turn into a hurricane. Personally, I think they’re just going for the ratings. We don’t get too many hurricanes in Hawaii.”

  Zach still looked worried. He wrote on his pad: But what if does?

  “Well, I’ve been through them before and if we use our heads and are prepared – which we are – then everything will be just fine. Best thing to do in either case is start making some good things to eat. Like s'mores. You never tried one of my s'mores did you?”

  Tentatively, Zach shook his head.

  “Well, then you’re in for a treat,” Ann said. “And while we’re at it, why don’t we get out that science book and see what causes lighting and thunder… and well, you know… tropical storms and hurricanes and stuff. By the way, they’ve already given this storm a name.”

  She knew that the meteorologists’ tradition of naming big storms helped people deal emotionally with the threat.

  And it worked now, after she said, “They’re calling it Hurricane Georgia.”

  Zach grinned, visibly relieved. He ran to get the book and brought it back for Ann to read to him. She opened the book and glanced over to notice that the Nintendo was sitting next to Zach, ignored.

  She smiled and started to read…

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The young, muscular Asian sat behind the wheel of an SUV, a miniature TV perched on the dashboard. As he flicked through the channels with the remote, he kept an eye on the Phoenix House, just across the street from where he was parked.

  The strains of Ray Charles singing “Georgia On My Mind” floated from the speakers and the image of a curlyhaired weatherman in a loud Hawaiian shirt appeared on the small screen.

  “It’s Hurricane Georgia that’s on our minds, folks,” Mr. Curly said. “And no foolin’ around, it’s time to get down to the nitty gritty. There’s good news and bad news about Georgia.”

  The passenger door came open and a young white guy – also quite fit – eased in. He had a bag of burgers and a carton tray of steaming coffee.

  “What’s up with the weather, Akiro?” he asked the driver.

  Akiro shrugged, pointing at the TV. “We’re about to find out,” he said – his accent as American as the brand of cholesterol in the burger his buddy was handing him.

  On the screen, Mr. Curly said, “The good news is that Georgia has been downgraded to a tropical storm.”

  Using a laser pointer, he indicated a weather map of the Hawaiian Islands, bringing up arrows that were aimed at the main island. “The bad news,” he continued, “is that Tropical Storm Georgia is going to pounce on us by nightfall with winds only slightly below hurricane force…”

  And as if the gods of special effects were listening, lighting crashed outside and a sudden burst of wind rocked the SUV so hard that Akiro spilled coffee in his lap. Disgusted, he shut off the TV.

  “Langley be damned, Jon,” he said to his companion. “I’m charging for this suit. I just got the sucker cleaned.”

  Jon said, “Hey, why blame the bosses? You can sue the burger joint for searing your crotch with hot coffee. I heard an old woman got millions.”

  Agent Akiro held up his cup, his irritation growing. “Be serious,” he said. “This coffee is three hours too cold and too bitter for a lawsuit.” He glared at his burger, as if it were responsible for his discomfort. “Jesus, I don’t know why they don’t get ordinary cops, or even Fibbies for this detail. I didn’t join the CIA to be a knuckle-dragging, doughnut eater.”

  Jon nodded, but it was the nod of a man who was only half-listening. He had the manner of a person with far more serious business to discuss.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the stakeout grub we’ve been packin’, Akiro," he said. "Maybe we should start noshing some healthy things. You know… carrot sticks and cottage cheese, sushi and maybe some fruit… We’ve got to start watching ourselves, you know.”

  Akiro was outraged. “Carrot sticks and fruit? You turning into some kind of an ATF wimp on me?”

  Before Jon could reply, a shadow loomed up at the driver’s side window. Akiro’s fingers went for his shoulder holster, but Jon admonished him: “It’s the boss.”

  Akiro sighed, hit a switch and the window whirred down, revealing Frank Holiday.

  The senior agent leaned in, nodding to each. “Jon, Akiro.” He grinned, saying, “Don’t suppose you guys noticed the storm coming on?”

  The agents gave their boss a dutiful chuckle and the chuckles were backed by another flash of lighting.

  “Kind of hard to miss, boss,” Akiro said dryly.

  Frank slapped Akiro on the shoulder. “How are the other guys?” he asked.

  Jon said, “Wait up, boss and we’ll see.”

  He manipulated dials on the dashboard and the TV screen lit up. This time, instead of a TV weatherman, a live picture of the clinic popped up. It was an overview of the Phoenix House and the surrounding area. A spy-in-the-sky camera, obviously. Ghostly shapes, outlined in red appeared

  – strategically placed around the grounds.

  Jon and Akiro studied the scene, looked at each other, then nodded in satisfaction at the setup.

  Akiro said, “Everybody’s pretty much in place, boss.” He tapped the screen at one point. “Bill’s cheating a bit. He’s tucked under a palm tree about six feet off station. Hope he can stay dry.”

  Jon broke in. “Excuse me, boss,” he said, “but is all this really necessary? The only thing that’d hit this place in the middle of a hurricane would be ninja ducks.”

  Akiro broke in. “Tropical storm, Jon, remember?” he said. “It’s been downgraded.”

  “What’s the difference?” Jon said. “Headwinds of 74 miles an hour makes a hurricane. A mile an hour less makes it just as nasty, even though the science boys can’t officially call it a hurricane anymore. Point being, this is lousy weather for the bad guys.”

  Frank shrugged. “You’re probably right. But we’ve got our orders and that’s that. Just keep your eyes open, okay?”

  “Sure boss,” Jon said.

  Frank stepped back and Akiro closed the window. As their boss walked away it started to rain. Through the darkened windows they saw him pop open a large, hotel style umbrella.

  Akiro and Jon sank back in their seats, staring at their now cold, greasy burger packets.

  “Shit,” Jon said.

  “Not for at least six hours, Jon,” Akiro said, flicking the TV back on. “Unless you forgot to take your Im
odium, that is. Like they said in spook school, ‘sometimes constipation can be your friend.’”

  “Oh, just shut up,” Jon said. “Been sitting so long my prostate already thinks it lives in my throat.”

  Then the weatherman’s cheery voice announced: “Well, you only have to look out your windows, folks, and you can see that Georgia is no longer just on our minds…”

  And Ray Charles started to sing, “Georgia… Georgia…”

  *****

  Across the street, the Phoenix House was closed for the day and buttoned up tight against the storm. In the kitchen, Ann was stirring a pot of her famous “Hurricane Stew,” Zach was sprawled in a chair, playing his Nintendo; while Mark, Ruth and Mr. Karoda sipped mugs of mulled ale.

  Mark sniffed the aroma coming from the big, restaurant-style pot. “Dr. Donovan’s Hurricane Stew,” he murmured. “Man, does that stir up memories.”

  Ruth shot him a dirty look. “Unpleasant memories,” she said. Then she gave Ann a look of apology. “No offense, Dr. D,” she said. Ann only shrugged and Ruth went on, building her theme. “The point is, Dr. D only makes hurricane stew when trouble – with a big damned capital T – approaches.”

  “Yeah, but it’s almost worth it,” Mark said, his smile reflective. “So what if some scar-faced guerrilla takes you hostage? A little Hurricane Stew will still manage to soothe the savage beast.”

  Ruth shook her head. “It’s ‘soothe the savage breast’, Mark,” she said. “Not beast… ‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast,’ is how the original quote goes.”

  “What do I know?’ Mark said. “My one and only music teacher was a nun and she always said ‘beast.’ Never ‘breast.’ I think she said the author was Bartlett, or somebody like that”

  “Mark, Mark,” Ann broke in. “You’ve taken far too many science classes and not enough courses in the humanities. Bartlett’s is a dictionary of famous quotes. Originated by John Bartlett. The author of ‘… music hath charms….’ was Congreve. He wrote: ‘Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast; To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.’”

  Ruth said, “Whatever, Dr. D. The point is – and the point that Mark is missing… on purpose, in my view… just to get under my skin… is that you only make your killer stew when we are in deep trouble.”

  Ann laughed. “Except I have an actual hurricane for an excuse this time,” she said. “Albeit that it’s a downgraded hurricane.”

  She slid thick gloves over her hands and turned to the oven. Opening it, she said, “And there are certain other constants with my stew.”

  Ann drew out a tray of long spears of French bread, split down the middle and smothered with her own recipe for garlic butter, toasted a golden brown under the flame.

  “A dipping instrument is required,” Ann said. Preferably one smothered with too much garlic.”

  “There’s no such thing as too much garlic,” Ruth enthused as she ripped off an edge of bread and munched on it, eyes closed, the look on her face dreamy.

  “Then there’s the stew itself,” Ann said, whirling around to grab a ladle.

  She hoisted out large portions into wooden bowls, handing them to Zach, who distributed the food to the others.

  Ruth poised over her bowl, big spoon in one hand, a ripped off hunk of garlic bread in the other. “Should we say Grace?” she wondered.

  “Grace,” Ann shouted.

  Laughing, they all dug in.

  *****

  Out in the rain, Frank Holiday picked his way along the street, rain beating on his oversized brolly. He stepped under a tree, which provided better shelter, fished out his cellphone and speed dialed.

  In the kitchen, Ann checked the number on the phone, then answered: “Yeah, Frank?”

  Out under the tree, Frank looked up and down the street, then said, “Everything seems okay so far, Ann. I’m checking on the troops right now and they’re all giving me a thumbs up.”

  In the warmth of the kitchen, Ann replied, “Why don’t we bring them inside? I mean, do you really think we’re in danger in the middle of this storm?”

  Back under the tree Frank dodged a steam of water coming down from a leafy trough to say, “Probably not, Ann. Better safe than sorry is my favorite cliché. The guys all hate me. But I’m getting wet too, so we’re equally miserable, right?”

  In the kitchen, Ann smiled, feeling sorry for Frank and all the agents guarding them. But not so sorry that she didn’t limit her reply to - “Right.”

  Breaking the connection, she went to the window and peered out at the SUV parked across the street.

  She said, “Poor boys. Sitting out there in the rain and the wind.”

  Mark came up behind her, wiping stew from his lips with a napkin. “Poor nobody,” he said. “They’re macho CIA agents. They’re used to it. And for the tax dollars I’ve been ponying up all my life, the least they can do is to keep me and my very good friends safe.”

  Ruth said, “For a change, I’m in agreement with Mark. Let ‘em earn their keep.”

  Ann started to turn away, then looked back at the SUV, considering for a moment. An odd feeling of danger tickled the back of her neck. Then the feeling passed and she shrugged and joined her friends at the dinner table. *****

  Outside, an old and miserable dog came trotting up the street, head and shoulders down, ears pulled in, tail tucked under its belly, the rain pelting him, streams of water pouring off his back. He looked this way and that, clearly hunting for shelter. Then he spied the SUV and trotted toward it.

  It looked nice and dry beneath the vehicle and he sniffed the warmth of an engine recently turned off. From his doggy experience he knew that with luck the SUV would provide him with many hours of comfort. Using the utmost caution, he approached the vehicle. This was a dog accustomed to hard kicks and worse.

  He heard a human voice coming from the vehicle. But the voice was of a kind that he knew to be unthreatening.

  In fact, it was the TV weatherman speaking and he was saying, “Still no need to panic, folks. As predicted, Georgia is moving right along the eastern edged of the main island. Although a band of thunderstorms has moved inland, sweeping – "

  The rest was cut off by a crack of lightning that shattered the night sky, turning the TV to pure static. Not that the dog cared. He was mainly interested in finding a warm, dry place. But as he approached the car, his hackles went up as he caught the scent of something very scary, indeed.

  He almost bolted, but his curiosity got the better of him. The scent was strong, and, yes, it seemed slightly dangerous. The memory of a former master cleaning his guns came to him. Then a thrilling hunt in the bush and the master had fired one of those guns, downing a large bird, which the dog had fetched, bloody, and still quivering, and had been rewarded with a treat. Guns were dangerous, he reasoned, but not necessarily to him. Birds wouldn’t emerge in this heavy downpour, so he couldn’t expect a treat, either.

  However, as he came closer he caught the beckoning scent of some good stuff. Hamburgers and fries. The saliva ran and he chomped his jaws. Oh, he knew those smells very well from the trash bins of the fast food joints in his hunting range.

  The dog decided to investigate. He crept up to the SUV. The driver’s window was open and the rain was pouring in. More importantly to the dog, good smells were emerging unhindered. Burgers and fries and something really, really strong and delicious. Something that he hadn’t enjoyed for many years. Something that appealed to an ancient part of him.

  Although a little frightened, a little wary, the dog trotted up to the window. He could see that the opening was actually a jagged hole. He’d have to be careful when he put his head through to check out the goodies. That is, if he put his head through. He was starting to have doubts about the whole thing.

  Then, just as he was about to leap up – bracing his paws against the door so he could look, something moved behind him. Immediately, the dog whipped around, growling at the approaching figure. Something else was after his trea
sure trove.

  A flashlight beam hit him in the face and the dog yelped as if the light were a blow. He spun around and raced off into the driving rain.

  The TV weatherman was saying: “Okay, folks, this just in. Can you believe this, ladies and gentlemen? Tropical Storm Georgia had just been upgraded. She’s now a freakin’ full-blown hurricane.”

  Lighting blasted and the TV went dark, the speakers reduced to static. A man moved up to the door – an umbrella perched over his head, rain streaming down the sides. Lightning flared again, revealing his features – assuming there had been anyone alive to see who it was.

  Ah Beng aimed his flashlight at the dead face of Akiro. The agent’s mouth was open. There was a bullet hole between his eyes. Ah Beng played the light, catching the large exit wound in the back of Akiro’s skull. The gore had burst out, spraying his partner, Jon, with blood and bones and brains.

  As for Jon, he was splayed back against the passenger window, which was spattered with both his blood and Akiro’s. There was a bullet hole right where the nose met the eye. There was a piece of hamburger bun still dangling from his mouth.

  Ah Beng grunted, then turned, adjusted his umbrella to keep off the wet, and moved on.

  *****

  In the backyard, the fountain was overrun with rainwater. And in the broad pool surrounding the figure of Pan, the goldfish were crammed against the stone, trying to avoid the torrent. In nature, they could escape to the deep. In the life of a display fish, there was nowhere to hide.

  Frank Holiday strode past the fountain, rain pouring down from his umbrella so hard that it masked his face behind the curtain of water.

  As he approached a dark group of bushes someone coughed and then a figure stepped out. Frank smiled.

  “Come on out, Bill,” he said.

  A tall, thin man stepped from the bushes. He had camo makeup on – face darkened, streaks along his cheeks. But the red eyes and drippy nose had nothing to do with cover. When he saw Frank Holiday he sneezed.

  “Jesus, Bill, you look and sound like shit,” Frank said.