by Todd Merer
“My heart is filled,” said Val, hugging me, pinching my cheek. “My Bennela is back.”
He’d upgraded from a Flex to a big Rover. I climbed in the back and told him to take me to the East Side hotel where I’d phoned in a reservation. No more sublet studios for Bennela. Not to mention it was a comfortable place to hole up. Like they say, eat, drink, and be merry; die fast, and leave a good-looking corpse.
The Jersey side of the trip to NYC was ugly and industrial. Val turned the radio on. A news commentator delivered the latest. It wasn’t good. Humanity was another day closer to the end of days. An emergency meeting of the UN was vainly trying to defuse the Asian crisis. Six nations, foremost among them China, were claiming rights to the South China Sea. Already, the Chinese had crossed wakes with the naval forces of Taiwan, Australia, Vietnam, Malaysia, and the Philippines, although these lesser powers, confronted by the far more powerful Chinese forces, were warily skirting the conflicted areas. Uncle Sam was making noises about getting into the act, reminding the world that his navy was nuclear. In response, the Chinese spoke of their own nuclear capabilities and their new carrier-killing missiles.
The station played part of a speech by the Chinese ambassador, his words translated:
“In the near future, the People’s Republic of China will provide conclusive proof that the disputed islands of the South China Sea were settled by the Ming Dynasty, which long ago established China’s exclusive sovereignty over the entire area.”
Conclusive proof? Whether the phrase was propaganda or the truth, I had a feeling that Richard would not only be aware of the game but also playing in it. It was what he did. That, and his link to Duke, and Duke’s links to Uncle.
Which included me. Why?
I needed to find out.
The Rover hummed through the Lincoln Tunnel, its strip of overhead lights flashing by hypnotically. But when we emerged on the New York side, my gears began meshing. Just being in the Apple was like smoking crystal, speeding my brain waves, provoking inspirations. By Forty-Second Street, it came to me.
The realization:
Doodle time. I pulled out my legal pad and drew a man’s figure: bulging biceps, full head of hair, too-bright grin. Richard. Forget which of the many characters in my personal drama was truly in charge—or thought they were. Richard was the hub around which the others orbited.
I drew a cobra and a mongoose. Mortal enemies. Richard was the serpent. I was the small mammal, who seemed overmatched. Unless the snake got sloppy. As Richard would. His mix of drugs and ambition had given him absolute faith in his own infallibility. In his arrogance, he viewed me as weak; ergo, I was no threat; ergo, he’d be loose-lipped around namby-pamby me.
Hmm . . .
I checked in to a five-star hotel—$900 a night—and hit the lobby bar. While imbibing a Bison Grass, I found myself in conversation with my stool mate, a gorgeous woman I guessed cost more than the room for the night. I politely declined, then went up to my posh room and opened my device.
First search: REE. Rare earth.
I let my fingers do the walking and soon learned it was an amalgam of seventeen materials collectively known as “rare earth elements.” REE was essential for building high-performance magnets and batteries used in consumer products like TVs and smartphones. Dolores hadn’t been exaggerating—the REE deposits could be worth trillions. I read on and realized much more was at stake.
It’s not just the money, stupid.
REE was crucial to building global-positioning, satellite-imaging, and guided-missile systems and new, Columbia-class nuclear submarines.
Recent discoveries along the entire Guajira Peninsula had confirmed the presence of huge REE deposits and prompted the Chinese to make a massive investment to secure mining rights in a remote area far from prying eyes. According to the articles—which cited unnamed sources—there’d been a bidding war between the Chinese and an unnamed entity. Undoubtedly, Dolores.
I used the Geek’s software to have another look at the Flying Tigers roster, two of whom had bestowed their names to Marmaduke Mason, alleged fighter pilot, known deceiver.
No Smith, aka Smitty.
Ah, but the roster was a scan of an old, typed document that began with a list of pilots only. I moved to a second page and saw the AVG Tiger ground-crew rosters.
There he was: Smith, William E., Corporal, USAAF.
With an X alongside his name and his date of death in November 2006. I segued to the newspaper archives and read about an auto accident that had taken place on Thanksgiving weekend that year, just outside Duke’s place on Long Island. Six victims, including an unnamed driver, a teenaged girl named Katrina Mason—Duke’s granddaughter?—a Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Maris—most certainly Stella’s parents—and a Mr. and Mrs. William E. Smith. Smitty?
Was this what Richard called the “War of 2006”? The newspaper didn’t call it murder, but Duke, Richard, and even Missy Soo had hinted otherwise.
Had to be. I needed to learn more about Smitty.
I called the Geek and told him we had to discuss a matter. He understood not over the phone and invited me over. His pad was a fifth-floor walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen that perpetually reeked of quality pot. Hydro. I took a toke to upgrade to his level and communicated what I needed. It was a lot, but he seemed unfazed. Simply told me to have another toke and relax. He handed me a pair of wireless earphones. I put them on and to my surprise heard classical violins. I closed my eyes as sweet weed carried me into sweet music—
A minute or an hour later, the Geek woke me.
“Mission accomplished,” he said.
It cost me a grand, but I learned that after the Flying Tigers were disbanded, Smith, William E., Corporal, USAAF, had joined a USAAF cargo unit. When the war was over, he’d been honorably discharged. The following day, he’d filed a request that his new Burmese wife, Ky Aung, be accorded American citizenship under the War Brides Act . . .
Burma. The name jump-started a stray thought, one I considered for a while, then stashed for later reference.
Smitty’s request had been approved. He and his Burmese wife had bought a home in LA’s then-remote San Fernando Valley. As LA prospered and expanded, so did the Smiths. Their home became a hillside compound surrounded by fifteen acres of extremely valuable land. But despite huge offers from developers, the Smiths kept the land intact.
The Geek even had satellite photographs of the property: set amid the Valley grid, the fifteen acres of green formed an outer barrier around a gated compound where a grand house sprawled.
The home’s title was in the name of his wife: Ky Aung Smith.
I took out my roll and peeled off Franklins for the Geek. “An advance for whatever you can dig up on a certain client, and everyone and everything about him.” I told him Duke’s name and location.
He held out a joint. “One for the road?”
“I’m already high on life. But you go ahead. Stoke your warped brain and find out about this guy. He may have a Southeast Asia connection . . .”
“What’s that mean?”
“You’ll tell me. I also need the skinny on the deaths of a Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert Maris.” I gave him the details.
I took the stairs down two at a time, ordered up an Uber, went back to my hotel, hit my device, and searched Southeast Asian languages. Myanmar, formerly Burma, had its own language and an alphabet that to my eye was indecipherable squiggles. Incredible what information lurks in the net. There was even a phonetic guide to Burmese pronunciation.
Aha . . .
In our first meeting, Stella had mentioned a name that sounded like Awn. Smitty’s wife had been named Aung, but in the Burmese language the final g was silent.
Meaning Aung was properly pronounced Awn.
For many people, Los Angeles conjures up visions of Malibu, Beverly Hills, and other enclaves, where palms sway above luxurious homes owned by plastic-perfect people. Experience had left me with other impressions of the City of Angels: razor-carrying Mexic
an cartel workers, the trash who haunt Hollywood Boulevard after midnight, the remote desert canyons in which cultists dwell, the brown smog that more often than not veils the sky.
But the day I arrived, the sky was crystalline, the city green and orderly, outwardly a nice place to live. The Smith place was on a hillside in Encino. The ornate gate was opened and unmanned, so I drove through and up the driveway. The grounds were in need of a shave and a haircut, and the house could have used a dab of face powder, but you had to love the isolation. When I stepped out of my rental, everything was quiet except for birds chirping and the distant murmur of some freeway. Not a soul in sight. I pressed the doorbell and heard a faint ding-dong from within. I waited. Pressed the bell again. Flashed on Philip Marlowe, snooping among the LA rich—
The door opened.
From within the house, a woman regarded me calmly through light-blue eyes. She was barefooted and wore a simple white smock. No jewelry, no makeup. Despite her pale eyes, she was blessed with the delicate eyes and cheekbones of a Southeast Asian. Hard to tell her age, but one thing was certain: she wasn’t the Ky Aung Smith who’d married Smitty. Even if it had been a May-December marriage, Aung had to be at least eighty-five, and this woman wasn’t a day over fifty.
“Sorry. I’m looking for Aung Smith.”
“You found her,” she said kindly.
I introduced myself, said, “Guess I’m confused.”
“Or maybe you’re looking for my mother. Her name also was Aung. Family tradition. My grandmother’s name also was Aung. The family refers to us as Aung One, Two, and Three. I’m Aung Three. You seem troubled. Can I be of help?”
“Actually, I’m not sure what I’m looking for.”
“Well, if it has to do with Aungs, come on in.”
The house was grand but like the grounds needed some loving care. I followed her through it to a rear garden, where we sat in the shade of an old magnolia, its delicate fragrance citruslike, its fallen petals carpeting the grass. In the daylight, it became obvious that Aung Three was quite ill: her color was bad, she was much too thin, and she seemed to have difficulty walking.
“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” she said.
I double blinked but didn’t interrupt. She wanted to speak, and I needed to listen.
She said, “After my father’s death, I began divesting myself of all he’d accumulated. You’d think it would be easy giving things away, but there was so much . . . anyway, all that’s left is the house, and your people are welcome to take it.”
“I don’t understand. My people?”
“You’re a policeman, aren’t you?”
I laughed aloud. “Definitely not. Why would you think so?”
She smiled benignly. “Because my father was always looking over his shoulder. He was a criminal. Well, you can still have the house, anyway.”
“What? I don’t—”
“Now you’re really confused. I’d best explain the rest. My mother and father passed in 2006. . .” The way she said passed was a tip-off that she knew her parents had been murdered. “Soon I’ll give this house away, and my family will be forgotten.”
“You can’t just give this house away. It’s your home.”
“I’m a Buddhist. I won’t live among ill-gotten gains.”
I felt as if a hidden door had just opened; probably because I have a nose for ill-gotten gains. I was configuring a polite way of digging deeper but needn’t have bothered, because whether I was a cop or not, Aung Three had been waiting to tell her story for years.
It blew me away.
Aung Three said, “My father was a sweet man who got mixed up in something he shouldn’t have. It started during the war, when he was a mechanic with the Flying Tigers. Are you familiar with them?”
I nodded, and she continued:
“Father partnered up with a Tiger pilot. I never learned the pilot’s name or any details, but obviously, there were illegalities involved. They amassed a great fortune after the war, until they finally decided enough was enough, although there was one thing that they always regretted never being able to bring home.”
She paused, reflecting.
I said, “That was . . . ?”
“They called it the Ming Treasure. In any event, they parted ways. Father had married a Burmese woman, my mother, Aung Two. Father liked California, but his pilot partner preferred the East Coast. If he’s still alive, I imagine the poor man must be tortured by his past.”
I didn’t respond, although the thought befitted Duke.
She said, “I know my father was anguished. I don’t want to be. I don’t want things bought with tainted money. Neither did my father. He couldn’t live with it and eventually drank himself to death. Soon afterward, my mother committed suicide. My grandfather—everyone called him Smitty—he raised me. I’m told my grandmother—Aung One—was more assertive than my mother or myself, and had she been alive, she might have prevented any of it from happening. I have no children, so I’m the last of the Aungs—oh!”
“What is it?”
“I just remembered, I still have my grandmother’s little box. It’s quite a lovely box. I want you to have it.”
“There’s no need.”
“I think there is.”
“Why?” I asked, but she was already padding inside the house, leaving me with more questions than when I’d first entered.
She returned moments later, cradling a small, ornately carved wooden box. She set it down and opened it. There were bits and pieces of cloth with Chinese characters and a pincushion pierced with gold needles, all atop a lining of old, yellowing newspaper.
“These are acupuncture needles,” she said. “The Chinese characters are instructions for using them,” said Aung. “My grandmother was a great believer in alternative medicine. Perhaps it’s what you’re looking for.”
“I’m not ill. But I’m sure it helped your grandmother.”
She shook her head. “The acupuncture wasn’t prepared for my mother, or my grandmother. It was for the woman my grandmother worked for. A wonderful woman she adored. They called her Kitty, although her Chinese name was Li-ang Soo. Have I helped your understanding?”
“I’m not sure.”
She took my hand. “You didn’t come here by mistake, Benn. Everything happens for a reason.”
“Trouble is, I don’t know what it is.”
“You’re not the only one. Another man whom at first I thought was a policeman came to speak to me. Turned out he was a journalist. I told him what I told you.”
“What was his name?”
“Richard.”
CHAPTER 13
Richard’s father was a USAF flyboy during the Cold War, stationed with his wife and young Richard at Wheelus AFB in Libya, on the edge of the great Sahara. Richard was a curious child who was impatient with his classmates. Frequently while school convened in an air-cooled Quonset hut, his classmates playing and engaging in nuclear attack protocol—“Under the desk, children”—Richard would sneak out and explore the sunbaked base by bicycle. The lawns in front of the personnel bungalows were painted green, the streets crisscrossed with the shadows of overhead wires imprinted by the blazing midday sun. Sometimes he’d pedal to Tripoli, where he’d hide his bike, cover his school clothing with a white robe, and wander the souks and bazaars. With his dark eyes and hair, he resembled a native. He had a natural aptitude for languages and quickly learned Arabic. In the bazaars, he’d listen to merchants making small talk and voicing their feelings about the country’s despised King Idris. It came as no surprise to Richard when the king was overthrown by the military and a Colonel Gaddafi became the country’s new ruler.
Richard reveled in his secret knowledge.
Sometimes he biked out to the old Roman ruins, the sunbaked, crumbling arena at Leptis Magna. Soaking his scout bandanna with canteen water, he’d wrap it as a cap and climb to the top of the spectator section. He’d sit there for hours in the blazing light, looking down at the pit of
the arena and reimagining how it had been when blood was spilled: animals devouring people, gladiators fighting to the death.
He pictured himself as Richardus, Roman viceroy of the Carthaginian provinces, who alone could signal thumbs-up or thumbs-down. He promised himself that someday he would possess that same power of life or death.
The walls of the family bungalow were thin, and from his bedroom he could hear his parents at night: drinking, arguing, making love, and best of all, exchanging secrets they’d overheard during the day. The major’s wife was having an affair with a pilot. Washington was planning to close Wheelus shortly. He knew the secrets in the souk, too, the fakers and the thieving.
Richard loved secrets.
When he came of age, Richard enlisted. Assigned to intelligence training, his knowledge of Arabic and ability to blend in with Middle Eastern people proved invaluable, and he was quickly promoted. He was dispatched to other posts, at one of which he met a Chinese American woman named Jeannie, whom he fell in love with and married.
His home life secure, his ambitions grew.
He volunteered to operate as a civilian behind enemy lines in the first Gulf War. Afterward, he was transferred to Somalia, where he sniped those who’d shot the Black Hawks down.
In 2000, Richard’s life altered when he was made chief of the DEA special operations unit investigating Taiwanese renegade troop involvement in the heroin trade in the Golden Triangle. He and his wife resettled in New York. He worked around the fringe of Chinatown, staying in the shadows, listening, watching. His wife became a securities trader who worked in the World Trade Center.
She was lost in 9-11.
Richard grieved for a month. Then he continued going after the top players of the Golden Triangle. Eventually, he identified an American air force vet named Archie as the big guy. But instead of taking Archie down, Richard flipped him: in exchange for paying a tithe to Richard and cooperating—so copiously that Richard devastated the entire Golden Triangle junk trade—Archie was allowed to keep his money and given a new identity in the States. He selected the new name himself, a twisted tribute to his lost buddies Marmaduke and Mason. Back in the United States, Archie had only one obligation: stay the hell out of the heroin business. Which he happily did, having already accumulated a Midas-like fortune.
