The White Tigress

by Todd Merer

  That lately, his real priority concerned China.

  Which was the same as her own.

  Finally, in the early hours, they’d agreed . . . and consummated their partnership. Dolores had known the kind of lover he was the moment she’d met him. Too coarse for her liking, but she’d been abstinent for so long, she didn’t mind a bit of rough love.

  She set down the remote control. On the roof above, a satellite dish linked, and a Bogotá news station lit up the TV screen.

  The images were horrifying. Fallout from the lost cocaine had grown worse: carnage in Cali, truck bombings in Medellín, sniping in Bogotá. Sixteen people executed in Montería. Open warfare waged in the vast Llanos, armored vehicles maneuvering the plains, launching rocket-propelled grenades. Scattered limbs, smoking corpses . . .

  “Tsk.” Dolores feigned a pout. “Look what you went and made me do.”

  “I’m kind of pleased about it,” he said. “And you? No regrets?”

  She shook her head. “None. The opposite. I’m relieved.”

  This was true. She’d spent many years working toward a deeply personal goal: wreaking vengeance upon the cartel bosses who’d murdered her father, the CFO of the Cali cartel. Many years and murders later, she’d become the incredibly rich, powerful, and reclusive boss of bosses, known only as Sombra, or Shadow. When all her deadly goals had been achieved, she’d continued working for no other reason than she took life one day at a time. Did she know she was careening toward an unhappy ending? Yes. Did she care? Didn’t matter. She did whatever she wanted to do when she wanted to do it. Call it force of habit.

  Until the man had arrived.

  “I know who you are,” he’d said. “Sooner or later, some DEA moron will manage to do the same.” For a moment, she was surprised. Who was he? Then she realized he was a different kind of G-man. Not a company man but a singleton. A player.

  She knew his point was true: continuing on her present path would end inevitably at a washed-out bridge. But why let him know that?

  “Hypothetically speaking?” she’d said. “Even if I am who you say I am, how do you presume to know my future?”

  “Sooner or later, everyone goes down. So either you’re with me, or waiting for the morning when you never make it to bed that night. Here’s my proposal . . .”

  If Dolores had any lingering doubts, his proposal had convinced her: in return for her future cooperation, she’d be pardoned for all her crimes by the presidents of both the United States and Colombia.

  She’d been amazed. It was a divine intervention that perfectly fit her plans. And so she had agreed to his proposal and, to demonstrate her commitment, added her body to the pact. The sex was enjoyable, but her heart remained with her Logui people: Those Who Know More, a tribe that lived in the shadow of the sacred peak that was the center of the earth, its name her mantra: Anawanda—

  “Check that out, babe,” said the man.

  On the TV was an orbiting satellite view of the North Pacific. Blackness. Then the screen zoomed closer to where a bright disturbance bloomed, rising from the sea, as if from hell.

  “Two million kilos . . . poof,” he said.

  Then the screen shifted to a shot from a rescue plane circling an expanse of sea, empty but for an oil slick.

  Cut to another shot: a seismograph needle slowly, steadily scratching—then abruptly twitching.

  He laughed. “It was the size of a small earthquake. You do things right.”

  She took the remote from him and shut off the TV. Straddled him so her long black hair caressed the length of his body until her face was inches above his.

  “Sombra does everything right,” she whispered softly.

  That she acknowledged her secret identity deeply aroused him. He went to draw her closer, but she held back so they were not quite joined at the hips, and her nipples barely brushed his chest, and their mouths almost touched.

  Hovering, she whispered, “Tell me everything.”

  “C’mon, Dee, I already did.”

  “You just said it had to do with China.”

  “Actually, I said the Orient. But, yeah, China. And that’s all I’m saying.”

  Again, he moved toward her. Again, she moved away.

  “We discussed the need for a third party,” she said.

  “I said a disposable person, but whatever.”

  From the bed table, she took her device and typed a word, keeping the screen hidden from him. “This is the third party I have in mind. Type your choice on your phone, and we’ll compare—”

  “Games? Why don’t I just tell you?” He reached for her.

  She slid from him. “No writing, no touching.”

  Sighing, he picked up his device and typed a name.

  She held her device alongside his.

  The names were identical:

  Benn Bluestone.

  She’d known he’d choose Bluestone because they both had histories with him.

  “The man’s an action junkie,” he said, “chasing rainbows that end at pots of fool’s gold. Which makes him controllable: the old carrot and stick. Funny, how we both thought of him.”

  “Great minds think alike,” said Dolores. Other than her Logui family and only living blood relative, her Uncle Javier, Benn Bluestone was the one person in the world she trusted. He’d first proven his loyalty twenty years ago, on the night of the long knives when her father and extended family had been murdered. Benn Bluestone had risked his life—and taken two others—to save hers. And now she needed him again.

  She was well aware that her adopted kinsmen’s guerilla tactics against the Chinese troops encroaching on their land would be temporary, that in the long run, this was a no-win strategy for the Logui. Instead of choosing war, they needed to negotiate. But negotiation required leverage. Finding and applying the leverage was her job, but the crucial negotiations would be Bluestone’s job, for two reasons:

  One, his being in the line of fire shielded her.

  Two, Bluestone was a master schemer.

  She wondered how Benn was aging. Given his vanity, probably well, and still full of juice. She also wondered—not for the first time—what it would be like bedding him—

  “Why the smile?” said the man.

  She lowered to him. “I’m happy.”

  “Second the motion,” he said, touching her most sensitive places, the ones he’d learned about earlier.

  Dolores would have preferred to lie back and enjoy, but for the man’s sake, she passionately murmured his name:

  “Oh, Richard . . .”

  CHAPTER 4

  When I got home, I didn’t fix a drink. I wanted to keep my head clear while considering Stella. Her unexpectedly large fee I took as a sure sign she wanted to rent more than my negotiation skills. In retrospect, there was something off about Stella, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I just sensed that beneath her remarkable beauty was a darkness, that what I’d first mistaken for sadness veiled a deeper anger. No big deal and none of my business. I had myself a big new client, and so what if she was an adorable kitten with a penchant for scratching? But I’d not give her the opportunity. I’d learned my lesson about getting personal with clients from Jilly. I’d simply do my job, starting with some due diligence. I got behind my computer and hit the search engine.

  All that came up for Stella Maris was what I’d already thought—aka “Star of the Sea” in Latin—plus a reference to the guide star Polaris, and lo and behold, another to Our Lady Virgin Stella Maris, a Brooklyn church around the corner from where I grew up. Maybe it was the thought of my old hood, but I suddenly flashed on my father. He died long before I became a lawyer, but I doubted he’d have been proud of me when I was taking drug-tainted money. Now I had a shot at a do-over . . .

  The thought passed, and I got back to work.

  As to Marmaduke Mason, I found nothing at all. Stella’s alleged grandfather was a cipher. I closed my eyes and reran my conversation with Stella, looking for a clue I’d mi
ssed. She’d said her grandfather had been in the Second World War; his pal Smitty had called him a fighter pilot.

  Fifteen years ago, I’d have hired a private cop to snoop Mason out. Now, like everyone, I’d gone digital. I have a paying acquaintance with a brilliant geek who’d overcharged me for some exotic software that allowed me backdoor access to certain government networks. Unclassified stuff, but helpful now and then. The Geek, alluding to electronic wizardry about which I hadn’t a clue, swore using the program couldn’t be traced to me. Being naturally suspicious and a computer-unfriendly person, I had my doubts about that, but being nosy by inclination and experience, I occasionally risked using the software on important matters.

  Like the case of Stella Maris.

  Why was she important?

  Sure, I wanted to help the kid, but no denying another fact: it was the money, stupid. Not to mention that doing well for Stella meant doing well for Uncle, who would then hopefully reintroduce me to Chinatown’s ever-profitable criminal underground.

  I used the Geek’s software to search for Marmaduke Mason in the archival files of what, during the Second World War, had been called the USAAF, or the US Army Air Forces. In them, I visually scanned for his name on rosters, a paltry few digitized, the rest poor copies of the originals. Fortunately, people had nicer handwriting back then. Unfortunately, I found no pilot named Marmaduke Mason.

  I left the computer and went for a walk in the night. Clear my mind, maybe. Realize something I’d overlooked, maybe. Have a drink somewhere, maybe.

  Few people were out. Strong wind, clear sky, chilly. I was walking west and in the distant sky saw the lights of a jetliner traversing the flight corridor above the Hudson River to LaGuardia. Planes. As a kid, I’d wanted to be a fighter pilot until I discovered the joys of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Unlike me, Marmaduke Mason had taken the straight and narrow into a fighting cockpit. Or had he? Maybe his name wasn’t on the rosters because he wasn’t a top gun but an actor.

  I was stumped. What to do when stumped? Easy. Go back to the beginning, and give everything thereafter a hard look. So I cabbed to Chinatown.

  On the way, my device pinged. A banking alert: Stella’s check had cleared. I had the cabbie stop at an ATM while I refreshed my walking-around money. Then I continued on to Albert Woo’s place.

  Albert was in night mode: incense burning, Chinese music softly playing, a brief glimpse of a boy in white jockeys closing a bedroom door.

  “Oh, Benn, you surprised me. Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s swell. I was in the neighborhood, so I figured I’d drop by and reimburse your referral expenses.” Always on DEFCON One for an unexpected wire, I preferred expenses rather than kickbacks, a no-say term that could lead to another ethical investigation.

  I unpeeled twenty-five Franklins and handed them to Albert, who seemed disappointed.

  “Just a down payment,” I reassured him. “The client? How did she wind up in Uncle’s office?”

  Albert’s a ninety-ninth-percentile prevaricator, but he never got over on me. His tell was a mini left nostril twitch right before he told a whopper. Now he shrugged and said, “I heard her boyfriend sent her to Uncle.” No twitch.

  “She has a boyfriend?”

  “I heard they broke up.” No twitch.

  “And after that, Uncle still agreed to help her?”

  “So far as I know.” No twitch.

  I didn’t have Uncle’s number, so I went over to the Pagoda. No lights were visible from the street. No buzzer. I knocked. No answer.

  I cabbed back uptown. In passing, I saw a good-looking blonde woman emerge from a building. From a distance, she resembled Jilly—

  An idea came to me, and I hurried home to manifest it.

  Just as I had unsuccessfully searched the net for Stella, so had I done after first meeting Jilly, a nickname short for Jillian, whose last name sounded something like Shenolt. Much as I’d struck out with Stella, I’d come up with nil online for a Jillian “sounds like Shenolt.” But pondering the name Shenolt aloud triggered a memory of an old war movie about General Claire Chennault, the real-life head honcho of the legendary Flying Tigers.

  Searching for a Gillian Chennault, I’d found my Jilly.

  Now the same methodology led me to another find.

  Online, I confirmed my memory: that General Chennault’s Flying Tigers had not officially been part of the USAAF because they were an American Volunteer Group—or AVG—under Chinese Nationalist government command. I reopened the Geek’s software and nosed around the old AVG rosters. And found . . .

  Nothing. No Marmaduke Mason.

  Disappointing. I rechecked the roster. The pilots had all-American names. Undoubtedly an all-white band of brothers. One of them was named Marmaduke Eddington. Coincidence? Possible. I went over the roster still again, and this time saw a Mason Peckham. Coincidence? Impossible.

  Meaning Stella’s grandfather had, postwar, created a new identity honoring his old flyboy buddies Marmaduke and Mason. The rosters showed little crosses next to the names of those who had died, including Marmaduke and Mason. Most of the deaths had been casualties of war back in the forties; the ranks of the survivors had gradually thinned during the seventy-five-odd years since. Now there were a few still alive. And, excepting one—Milton Peabody—I found neither hide nor home of any.

  Sometimes you get lucky. I did. The next afternoon I drove a rental car to an isolated town four hours north of the big city. Under a white sky in all directions were rolling hills gridded by old stone walls. The cleared land between them had once been pasture but now was reverting to second-growth forest. Understandable. Not many young people want to pull cow udders in subzero weather when they can be in a swivel chair in a warm office cubicle doing whatever it is people do in them. I drove through a small town on the edge of a big stream, crossed a steel bridge, made a hard left, and went up a steep hill that ended at an open plateau of unworked hayfields. In front of the second driveway on the right, a mailbox sat atop a tilted pole. The name on the box was Peabody.

  The driveway turned out to be a road that a mile later ended at a ramshackle trailer outside of which an old man was whittling a piece of wood. I pulled over and rolled my window down. “Say, could you help me?”

  The geezer was bent as a hairpin. Ninety-five if he was a day. More. Without looking up, he said, “Lost?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  “Where you headed?”

  I told him the name of the town I’d just driven through. He nodded and snorted a laugh. “The way here is by passing through there. Guess you didn’t notice.”

  “Busted,” I said.

  “You a writer? Some years back, a fella from Reader’s Digest wanted to do a story on me. The last Flying Tiger. Don’t know if he did . . . least I never saw it.”

  “I’m not a writer, sir,” I said. “Hate to admit it, but I’m a lawyer. Right now I’m trying to track down some ex-Tigers a deceased client of mine left money to.”

  He looked up. “I among them?”

  “No. But there could be a finder’s fee for helping me locate them. One fella’s named Marmaduke. The other is Mason.”

  He laughed, showing me his dentures. “Buzzy and Fuzzy. Archie’s wingmen. Too bad you didn’t check the Tiger old-timer’s alumni association, or whatever they call it. If you had, you’d have saved yourself a trip. Buzzy bought it over Burma. Fuzzy made it through the war and wound up heart-attacked in Florida. After the Tigers were disbanded, Archie kept in the fight, even if it meant jockeying transports over the Hump. DC-Threes, loaded to the gills. No picnic. Lots of fellas never made it. Including old Archie.”

  I nodded. I knew all about the Hump from one of my old fave flicks, China Girl, starring Victor Mature. It was about the dangerous India-to-Burma supply route over the Himalayas. Overloaded and undermaintained DC-3s stuffed with food and ammo and illegal booze struggling to clear the gargantuan peaks.

  “Archie, he flew like a crazed
bird,” said Peabody.

  “Say again?”

  “Man flew on the verge of suicide. Took a lot of Jappos down. Fate, that Archie kept himself alive until the Tigers disbanded, then went and bought it in a damn accident.”

  Archie. An old-timey name that reminded me of the redheaded comic character who didn’t realize brunette Veronica loved him because he was so blindly in love with blonde Betty—

  Thinking of twosomes, it occurred to me that two Chinese connections had popped up: Stella coming to me from Uncle, and her grandfather using the names of dead pilots who’d been employed by the Chinese in their war with Japan.

  “Archie got shafted,” said Peabody. “After the Tigers broke up, he expected to be in the cockpit of a spanking new Hellcat. Hottest pursuit fighter in the air. Instead, some clerk relegated him to Transport. The damn Hump. Coming up on the mountain in bad weather, he realized his bird didn’t have enough lift in her. And not enough fuel to turn back. So he came up with a typical Archie solution. Roll the dice. Told his copilot to bail, no point both of ’em buying it. Besides, losing the copilot’s weight might make the difference between burning to the bone on a twenty-thousand-foot mountain and making it over the top, even if it was just by the skin of his balls.”

  Peabody shook his head, sighed. “The copilot didn’t need to be asked twice. His parachute was floating down when he saw Archie plow into the mountain.”

  “You in touch with any other Tigers, sir?”

  “This entitle me to your finder’s fee?”

  I reached for my roll.

  “I’m joking you. I won’t take money for talking about my boys. Far as I know, I’m the last one left. Nice meeting you, and I hope you get whatever it is you’re really after.”

  I thanked him and started home. It was a starry night in the mountains, and I made a couple of wishes—

  My phone rang. Its screen read Unknown Caller. When I answered, I heard a woman’s voice fuzzed by static. Coverage comes and goes in the north Catskills. Missed her name. Asked her to please repeat. She said Lizzie or Cassie or Missy, and she wanted an appointment on . . .