by Todd Merer
I didn’t hear when, so I asked her to please repeat.
Long crackle of static, then suddenly clarity:
“See you then,” said the woman, hanging up.
CHAPTER 5
Toungoo, Burma. December 10, 1941.
The girl stood at the edge of the jungle, where she hoped she could not be seen from the dirt airstrip. She was only sixteen but already possessed of the classic beauty of centuries of selective breeding. She wore the black cotton field uniform of the Nationalist Army of the Republic of China. Her family was old money, and she could have lived as a doyenne in Paris, but she preferred to wear a humble soldier’s uniform and remain in China to fight her nation’s enemies: the traitorous Communist People’s Liberation Army, and the atrocious Japanese invaders.
Her name was Li-ang Soo, but an English nanny had dubbed her Kitty, and that’s what everyone had called her ever since. Everyone except the man who was the other reason she’d remained.
Ming Chan.
Her superior and her mentor and the man she wanted to spend her life with. Ming called her by her Chinese name, Li-ang, instead of Kitty because he despised everything about Westerners, including their stupid nicknames. When Ming heard someone address her as Kitty, his dark brows knitted angrily, which reminded Kitty of illustrations depicting scowling Japanese samurai. She forced herself not to laugh at Ming’s reaction when she’d told him that. To Ming, the Japanese were blood enemies, although deep down, Li-ang suspected war in general rather than any particular enemy motivated him. His warrior predilections troubled Kitty; yet she trusted that, in time, his better angels would prevail.
Like Kitty, Ming was from an esteemed family in which every male between fifteen and fifty was expected to pick up a rifle. Ming’s family influence had immediately elevated him to officer status, and he had fought with great distinction on the Nanking front . . .
Until being reassigned to Burma, where he was accorded the great honor of escorting a vital personage of the nation—popularly called Lucky—to a safe place far from the fighting. As Ming’s acolyte, Li-ang, now a lieutenant, had accompanied him. But when they’d reached the general area, Ming had forbidden her from continuing to the final destination. Too risky for her, he’d said, although she knew Ming’s real reason was that he didn’t think a woman worthy of the honor. When she had defiantly joined the detachment escorting Lucky on the last leg of his trip, Ming—in front of everyone—had physically snatched her from its ranks.
The utter humiliation. So . . . demeaning.
Yesterday, she’d thought they’d marry.
Today, she didn’t love him at all—
A coughing roar commenced from the airstrip, jarring her from her thoughts, refocusing her attention on three warplanes emitting black exhaust, their spinning propellers dazzling in the sun. Technically, they were Curtiss P-40 Warhawks, but everyone called them Flying Tigers because their cowlings were painted with fierce eyes and innumerable fangs.
Abruptly, the engines stopped. Apparently, they were only being tested. Even as their sound faded, another could be heard: from a radio atop a mechanic’s bench, a Brit-accented broadcaster read the latest news:
“The United States has confirmed the loss of its battleship fleet at Pearl Harbor. Fortunately, the American aircraft carriers were on maneuvers and unscathed by the attack, which President Roosevelt has called a day that shall live in infamy . . . Japanese forces have landed in the Philippines, but General MacArthur has promised they will be pushed back into the sea . . . Her Majesty’s Royal Navy has confirmed the sinking of HMS Repulse and HMS Prince of Wales with great loss of life . . . Japanese troops are rapidly advancing toward Singapore . . . The Chinese Nationalist government has announced the formation of a fighter force piloted by American volunteers—”
“Turn off the bad news, Smitty,” came an American-accented shout, and a moment later, the radio went dead.
That was when Li-ang first saw him. The American. He was so totally unlike anyone she’d ever seen, much less imagined existed: a carefree, shirtless young man standing atop the wing of the lead P-40 while talking to a mechanic seated in the cockpit.
“Just like wing-walking in my carny days,” said the young American to the mechanic.
Li-ang wondered what a carny was. The West contained so much she was curious about, and this young American personified its mystique. Slender with corded muscles, his grin white beneath dark aviator glasses, the way he wore his officer’s cap, its crushed visor set at a jaunty angle. She saw him not as an aviator, but as a . . . cowboy.
He’s beautiful, she thought—
Horrified, she covered her mouth, as if she’d spoken the words aloud.
“Volunteers, they call us?” said the American. “Five hundred smackers for every Nip kill sounds more like bounty than voluntary. Am I right, or am I right, Smitty?”
Smitty, the mechanic who’d been in the cockpit, had climbed from it and was opening a crate of .50-caliber shells, bandoleers of gleaming cylinders the size of a man’s index finger. He nodded. “Sure are, Archie.”
Archie. Li-ang had never heard the name before. It was so . . . American. It fit him perfectly: Archie . . .
Smitty said, “Five hundred, less my five percent.”
“Always,” said Archie. “How about some music, maestro?”
Smitty turned the radio back on, spun the dial, and out blared big-band swing music: the Glenn Miller Orchestra’s hit of the moment, “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”
As Smitty loaded the ammo ports, Archie hopped back onto the wing, zipped a shearling-lined jacket over his bare chest, then slipped into the cockpit and began singing along with the radio, then turned and pointed toward Li-ang.
Involuntarily, she stepped back. No need, for already he’d looked away, still singing along with the music: “Choo choo me home . . .”
Li-ang understood the words but not their meaning, yet she understood she was his audience—abruptly, the music was lost beneath the roar of the three P-40s’ engines restarting. The planes started trundling past, bristling with machine guns, laden with bombs. Archie had donned earphones over his cap.
He looks different now, thought Li-ang. Like a man. A warrior like Ming. But she had seen that Archie had another side to him, a playful kind of joyousness she wished Ming possessed.
Archie gave a thumbs-up. He was wearing gloves now. Of course, Li-ang thought. The upper atmosphere was freezing cold. Imagine being up there . . .
The P-40s turned onto the runway and stopped. Their engines grew louder, and they strained like attack dogs against leashes . . . and then their brakes released, and they started down the airstrip, faster, faster . . .
And magically rose into the air like beasts become birds. In formation, they banked back over the tarmac. The lead plane dived with a sound that shook the air as it barrel-rolled barely a hundred feet above Li-ang—
Briefly she glimpsed Archie’s white grin, his extended wave . . .
It was like a snapshot, one she’d never forget.
Then his P-40 was gone, rejoining the formation that quickly diminished to winked reflections in the sun before fading in the distance.
The setting sun threw long shadows across the airstrip. On the tarmac’s far end, a few dim lights shone from personnel huts and supply dumps. On the near end, where the tarmac was streaked with rubber landing marks, Smitty and two other mechanics stood looking at the purpling northeastern sky, where, hours earlier, the three Tigers had flown. Smitty glanced at his watch, shook his head.
Li-ang stood by a fuel shed, which, for safety’s sake, was fifty yards away. She, too, peered worriedly at the sky, as she had been doing for the past hour.
Ming had not yet returned from the final concealment of the most-revered Lucky. Kitty, too angry simply to wait for him, had gone for a walk.
And ended up here at the AVG airstrip.
Standing vigil for the American . . .
She admitted it to herself now. She was not onl
y curious; she was deeply attracted to the man named Archie. It was a feeling she’d never before experienced. A need. Not that anything would come of it. Yet still she wondered:
What would it be like with Archie? Just once?
And so Li-ang stared into the darkening sky, praying for the American’s safe return. Was it too late? Surely, he would be running out of fuel. There were no landing lights . . .
She felt someone watching her. Turned and saw a young Chinese man she recognized as the merchant who operated the base PX. Well dressed in a suit and tie, with neatly parted brilliantine hair and steel-rimmed spectacles, he looked more Western than Chinese. Even his first name was Western: Winston.
Suddenly, Smitty looked up.
Li-ang heard a distant hum. Then, mosquito-size in the distance, two P-40s approached. Li-ang clasped her hands and lowered her head and prayed.
Let him be one of them.
She repeated this over and over as the engines roared closer, tires thudded on hard-packed dirt, and two tiger-toothed warbirds taxied closer. When their engines stopped, Li-ang looked up. Two mechanics were helping pilots out from their plexiglass bubbles. But Smitty remained on the tarmac, still staring northeast.
Kitty was disconsolate. She told herself she was acting like a silly girl, mourning for a stranger while, each day, thousands of her countrymen died—
There came another hum.
The third P-40. His.
As it grew nearer, it was obviously in distress. Smoke streamed from its cowling. Its wings seemed weirdly unbalanced—no, one was badly shot up. Its engine sputtered . . . then stopped. The P-40 silently glided toward the tall palm trees beyond the far end of the strip.
Li-ang held her breath. He was too low.
Palm fronds scattered as the P-40 brushed them . . . the plane wobbled . . . then righted itself, and somehow achieved a perfect landing. It rolled down the runway to a stop. The cockpit opened, and Smitty helped Archie out. Even in the fading light, Li-ang saw Archie’s grin.
“Took some flak but nailed three of the bastards,” he said.
“Drinks on the house tonight, boss,” said Smitty, leaving.
But Archie remained, looking around. The Chinese merchant Winston had disappeared. Li-ang shrank against the fuel shed. She relaxed as Archie’s gaze passed her—
Or had it? For all at once, he fast-walked toward her, then abruptly stopped, face-to-face with her.
“Evening,” said Archie. “My name is Archibald Petrie. What’s yours?”
Li-ang, astonished by his audacious bad manners, was too taken aback to reply. Archie’s grin was slightly lopsided, as if he were making fun of himself. He reintroduced himself, this time in Mandarin.
“You speak . . . ?” Kitty’s words trailed off as she realized how unseemly this appeared. He was an American, and she was a virgin pledged to marry within her race. In English, she replied, “Li-ang . . . Kitty will do.”
“Why are you here, Kitty?”
She refused to be bullied, for she had a right to be there. In the harshest tone she could manage, she said, “I am a soldier doing my duty for my country. Why are you here? For money?”
“Ha!” Archie grinned. “Earlier? I knew you were listening.”
Kitty blushed. She wanted to leave—had to—but something came over her. Concern. She noticed a dark thin line running from his hairline down his cheek. He’s bleeding. Without hesitation, she tenderly touched his face.
“You’re wounded,” she said. “You should—”
“Choo choo me home, Kitty.”
What? Oh, that song.
Why don’t I leave?
She knew why.
Their mouths met, and she entered his embrace and they lowered to the grass. Moments later, their clothing lay scattered. At first, she tensed, anticipating pain, but he was gentle . . . and then she became the aggressor, pulling him tighter, drawing him deeper . . .
They crested as one.
Afterward, they lay still as, slowly, Kitty’s mind cleared. She became aware of the world beyond her lover. Heard insects and night birds chirping in the jungle. Smelled the sweet grass beneath her bare skin. Clarity returned. She’d become a woman with a gweilo, a white man. It would be her secret. She had crossed a line and now would step back across it. She stood, turning her back to him as she dressed.
Smoking, he watched her. “Tomorrow the base is moving north,” he said. “We won’t be seeing one another for a while.”
We won’t be seeing one another ever again, thought Kitty.
He twisted a ring from his finger and held it up: a silver band crested with gold letters. AVG. He put the ring in her palm and closed her fingers around it.
Kitty was nonplussed. Was this a Western betrothal?
“Hold it for me,” he said. “Until I come back.”
In spite of herself, Kitty nodded. Then left.
She reached her quarters minutes before Ming arrived. He said, “Lucky’s been made comfortable.”
Lucky. Kitty had forgotten their mission, and now, stricken with guilt, she tried to erase the memory of her moment with Archie. There was only one way. She threw herself into Ming’s arms. For a moment, he protested—he had been bred a gentleman—but, in spite of his upbringing, he surrendered to passion.
Afterward, Ming allowed a rare smile. “The most fortunate day of my life. To be granted the great honor of possessing both Li-ang Soo and Lucky . . .”
California. The present.
Lost in her wartime memories, Madame Soo, a wizened sparrow of a woman, fragile as ancient parchment, sat on her balcony overlooking the western sea. It was day’s end, and in the last light, the room and all in it—Madame Soo herself, the ornately lacquered cabinets, the vases of ancient dynasties, the likenesses of forgotten generalissimos and long-dead empresses—glowed the amber of a faded photograph.
Ai, those were the days—
A voice pierced her awareness: “Traitorous bitch,” said a woman. “I will see to it that she is silenced.”
Madame Soo, hearing the faint ebb and flow of waves below the balcony, struggled to return to her memories. For a moment, she seemed almost there, but all at once they disappeared. A light had come on, and she was here, now.
“Wake up, Grandmother of mine.”
Madame Soo’s lids fluttered open. Her rheumy eyes regarded her granddaughter, Missy Soo. As always, she was struck by Missy’s beauty, her perfect face, lithe figure in skintight gym clothing.
“A drink before dinner, Honorable One?”
“No, my dear,” said Madame Soo.
Both knew she hadn’t touched alcohol in decades. The formal question and reply was a game instigated by Missy, who thought her grandmother age addled.
Not so. The old woman was sharp as ever, although she preferred Missy think otherwise.
Imagine not trusting your own blood.
Yet she couldn’t blame Missy. The girl was exactly the way she’d been. Brave and noble-minded, yet subject to impulsive choices that ended badly. Transport her to 1941, and we’d have been twins—
Twins.
The word triggered another memory, one that had been in Madame Soo’s consciousness for so many decades. A memory so painful yet so beautiful, it was both the tragedy and the beacon of her life. She had a daughter—and perhaps grandchildren—whom she had never met. Meeting her lost child was one of two reasons she’d willed herself to live until she did. The second reason also concerned unfinished business—
“Don’t be sad, Grandmother,” said Missy. “I promise you’ll live to see Lucky again.”
This granddaughter of hers was prescient: that was her other unfinished business, for which she refused to die until it was accomplished:
Seeing Lucky again.
CHAPTER 6
Prior to my suspension, I carried three phones, the better to service my many clients. My present circumstances dictated only one device, which rarely rang, anyway. Come the next morning when it shrilled, I hoped it wasn
’t Stella, for I wasn’t ready to share the little I’d learned. It wasn’t Stella. It was a woman who introduced herself as Missy Soo.
“Oh yeah,” I replied. “We spoke or tried to . . . the connection was bad.”
“No matter,” she said, her tone businesslike. “I wish to retain you.”
Soo? Another case from Uncle? Or the same case? “May I ask who referred you?”
“We have mutual friends.”
I let it go at that. The more immediate question was where to meet with her. I’d checked earlier, and the East Fifty-Ninth Street rent-an-office was being refurbished. The box I called home was out of the question.
“My schedule is tight,” I said. “We could meet for lunch?”
“That would be fine. Today, if you please.”
“Sure.” I suggested a three-star Midtown bistro. “Say, one o’clock? You’ll be wearing . . . ?”
“Red.”
With few exceptions, my clients range from unattractive ogres to unbearably ordinary. Judging by Missy Soo’s Solomon Grundy–like phone demeanor, I expected her to be among the latter. Still, I knotted my best tie and swiped a damp towel across my wingtips.
I arrived at the restaurant half an hour early, figuring I’d have a pick-me-up at the bar before the meet. I was doing so when it happened:
The woman on the stool to my right spoke to me in a voice I both recognized and feared.
“I know you know,” she said.
I drew a steadying breath and swiveled to face her. She wasn’t wearing red. Her outfit—cashmere and leather—looked as if it belonged on a Loro Piana runway, although she wore it better than any model. She’d altered her look since I’d seen her last. Her dark hair was still long, but blunt cut. Same unreadable expression as always, though. And the same perfectly proportioned, petite body.
“My name is Dolores,” she said.
Dolores? I’d known her by many names. Most recently as Laura Astorquiza, antidrug crusader on the blog Radio Free Bogotá whose secret alter ego was the drug kingpin Sombra, the mass murderer believed dead by all the world except the two of us.
