The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “I thought you had hung us out to dry.”

  “I’d never do that,” she promised.

  Terengganu, Malaysia

  Monday, July 26

  Kamigami and Tel squatted in the brush on the hillside overlooking the small hamlet. Below them, men shouted as they swept through the streets, killing everyone they found. “What can we do?” Tel asked.

  “Nothing,” Kamigami replied in a low tone. He motioned Tel to silence, and they waited for the attack to end. It didn’t take long, and soon the men were looting and torching the wooden structures. Then they climbed into trucks and disappeared down the dirt road to the east. “Let’s go,” Kamigami said, leading the way into the valley.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Tel complained. “The other villages were Malay. This one is Chinese.”

  Kamigami examined a soft spot in the dirt and found a footprint. “Nike or Adidas,” he said. “Those were Malay doing the killing.”

  “So the Chinese are killing Malays, and the Malays are killing Chinese in revenge?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Was our kampong the first?”

  Kamigami thought for a moment. “Probably.”

  The question was back. “Why?” Tel moaned.

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.” A shadow moved in the tree line on the hill above them, and Kamigami’s right hand flashed, sending Tel a command. Kamigami took refuge behind a burned-out car and dropped his rucksack. He chambered a round in his Beretta and checked the safety while Tel retreated to their original spot on the hillside. Once Tel was safely out of the way, Kamigami slipped into the brush and worked up the hill to circle around to the backside of the area where he had seen the movement. He smelled urine first and shook his head. Whoever was out there was very deficient in basic tradecraft if they were urinating in the open. He moved at an oblique angle to his target and secured the area. He didn’t need any nasty surprises from a lookout or backup that had gone undetected. Satisfied that the area was clear, he closed on the target. He saw two men wearing civilian clothes lying on the ground. They had spread a ground cloth to make themselves comfortable while they scanned the village with a pair of high-power binoculars.

  This is too easy, he reasoned. They had to see us when we were down there. He listened as they talked loudly in Cantonese—a language he understood. The man with the binoculars pointed to the spot on the far hill where Tel was hiding. The boy needs more training. One of them moved, and Kamigami saw the soles of his boots. He froze. The boots had the same ribbed pattern as those in his kampong. His face was impassive as he drew the Beretta and thumbed off the safety. Then he thought better of it.

  He holstered the Beretta and moved silently toward them. They never heard him as he stood behind them. He decided he wanted them to see him and reached for the golden whistle hanging on its chain around his neck. He gave a short blast, and as they turned to the sound, he fell on them, banging their heads together. One man groaned, stunned but not unconscious. Kamigami slammed his hands against the man’s temples in a clapping motion. He checked the man’s breathing and reflexes. He was out cold. Kamigami worked fast, calculating that the man would regain consciousness in a few minutes.

  The man’s head was racked with pain, and his temples throbbed as he fought his way back to consciousness. He was lying on the ground and, other than this splitting headache, was unharmed. A shadow moved across his face, and he looked up. He forced his eyes to focus on the image swinging in the shadows. His partner was hanging upside down from a tree by his ankles, free from any obvious wounds but totally lifeless. The man staggered to his feet and touched the body. It was still warm but strangely blanched. Confused images flashed through the pain—lying on his stomach and watching the boy on the far hill, reacting to the sound of a whistle, turning in time to see a huge creature descending on them, smothering under its weight. A vague memory of two giant hands crashing against his head kept coming back, demanding his attention. He forced it away as he cut down the body, not sure what to do.

  Then he saw the two closely spaced punctures on the neck. He stroked his own neck where the punctures would have been, and felt his carotid artery pulsing with life. His fingers went to his own teeth and touched his canines. The spacing was the same as the holes in his comrade’s neck. His eyes searched the ground where the body had been hanging for signs of blood. Nothing. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The sound of a whistle, far away but clear, echoed over him.

  He turned and ran, crashing through the dense foliage.

  Kamigami reached the spot where Tel should be. Okay, where are you? It puzzled him, for so far Tel had been following his directions to the letter. He felt something poke him in his back and whirled to face the threat, his MP5 coming up to the ready. Tel was standing there with a long stick, a big grin on his face. “Gotcha!”

  “Not funny, boy,” Kamigami groused. “I could’ve shot you.”

  “I don’t think so,” Tel replied. He felt the need to explain. “I saw the lookouts, and I wanted to draw their attention away from you. I knew you would come back here, so I hid.”

  “Why did you have to hide from me?”

  “Well, I couldn’t be sure it would be you, could I?”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Kamigami muttered, wondering who really needed more training.

  Two

  Oakland

  Monday, July 26

  The Annex, the nondescript office building where the real work of the Presidential Library took place, overflowed with files stuffed with documents, photographs, books, reports, letters, diaries, movies, videotapes, newspaper clippings, interviews, memoirs, and magazine articles all devoted to one subject—the life and times of President Matthew Zachary Pontowski.

  The librarian, and the real force behind the library, was a little birdlike woman with boundless energy and a no-nonsense disposition. Judy Bloomfield, or Bloomy as everyone called her, was also a dedicated feminist of the very liberal persuasion, and while she liked Matt Pontowski as an individual, she quivered at the notion that she worked for a socially conservative member of the establishment, spoiled by position, wealth, and privilege. When pressed, she would admit that he was a good administrator and served the library well with his astute sense of public relations, his connections, and his good looks. But it upset her when he laughingly described himself as a “retired aerial assassin.” It hurt because she knew he wasn’t joking.

  However, Bloomy had no reservations about Pontowski’s son, Zack, who was spending his summer vacation working at the library. She enjoyed his boyish ways and good humor and had put him to work in the foreign collections department, figuring it might give him an incentive to polish up his rudimentary German. She also kept a mental calendar counting down the days to when he went back to school at the New Mexico Military Institute. She was going to miss him.

  On the Monday morning following the library’s formal dedication ceremony, Bloomy was still basking in the compliments and accolades over the success of the ceremony. But it frustrated her that the staff was more interested in hearing the details of her meeting with Maddy Turner than in the real substance of the day. When she finally broke free for a late lunch, she realized she hadn’t seen Zack all morning. She went in search and found him in the special collections department, normally under lock and key. He was reading and didn’t see her. She studied him for a moment, seeing a young carbon copy of his father. “Zack!” She feigned indignation. “How did you get in here?”

  He gave her the infectious grin that seemed to be in the Pontowski genes, and held up a key ring. He handed her a small diary she had never seen before. “I found this. Grandma Tosh wrote it.” Tosh was Lady Wilhelmina Crafton, the elder Pontowski’s wife and one of the most elegant first ladies ever to grace the White House. He blushed brightly. “There’s some personal stuff in there. Grandma Tosh was jealous because Gramps knew a woman called Chantal Dubois.”

  Bloomy turned to the marke
d pages and read. While there were some very racy passages, there was nothing really damaging, as Tosh and the president later married. It was wartime, she rationalized. She smiled at the thought of a young couple finding love in the chaos of a war that threatened to destroy them. It only added to the Pontowski legend.

  “Then I found this,” Zack said. He handed over another small journal. “But it’s written in French.” Bloomy was fluent in French and scanned the little journal. Now it was her turn to blush. “Oh, my.” She read in silence. She would have to verify its provenance, but her instincts shouted, Authentic! She looked for the source, but the donor was listed as anonymous. “Is there anything else?”

  Zack showed her a formal document written in German. “I think it’s a death warrant signed by the German governor of a town called Amiens in northern France. It’s for Chantal Dubois and dated February 19, 1944.”

  Bloomy was fully alert. “Who else has seen all this?”

  “Only me that I know of.”

  She made a decision. “Come with me.” She carried the death warrant and two small books to her office, where she locked them in her personal safe. “Are you hungry?” From the look on Zack’s face, she knew she had gotten that one right. “Let’s go for a pizza. We need to talk.”

  Zack had found the Pontowski rat.

  “General Pontowski,” Bloomy said, “do you have a moment?”

  Pontowski looked up from his desk. “For you, always.” He motioned her to the most comfortable seat in his spartan office on the sixth floor of the Annex. It surprised him that she closed the door without asking. Why is she so nervous? Pontowski thought.

  “Zack unearthed these.” Bloomy handed him the death warrant, Tosh’s diary, and Chantal’s journal.

  Pontowski glanced at the warrant and thumbed through the little books. “My French is very rusty, and I don’t read German. What am I looking at?”

  “The document is a death warrant for the execution of one Chantal Dubois, incarcerated in Amiens prison in France. According to Zack, it says she had committed crimes against the Third Reich and is dated February nineteenth, 1944.”

  Pontowski pulled into himself. “If I remember right,” he said slowly, “Gramps bombed that prison.” He brightened as it came back. “Operation Jericho. Gramps was flying Mosquitos for the RAF, and they bombed the prison the day before a group of French resistance workers were scheduled for execution. The idea was to blow the place up so they could escape. He was shot up something fierce and wounded but managed to land the Mossie in England. His navigator was killed.”

  “Unfortunately,” Bloomy said, “we know very little about his wartime record after that. He was grounded and couldn’t fly. The president never talked much about the last year of the war. I call it ‘the missing year.’”

  Pontowski gave her a little smile. “He could be the great stone-mouth at times.” He glanced at the pages Zack had marked in Tosh’s diary. Pontowski chuckled as he read. “It looks like they went at it like bunnies.”

  Bloomy ignored the remark and was all business. “Near the end there’s a reference to Chantal Dubois. Apparently the first lady was quite jealous.” Pontowski read the marked passages and again chuckled. “I assure you,” Bloomy said, “it is not funny.” She picked up Chantal’s journal and translated. Pontowski’s eyes opened wide. “To paraphrase your words, General, it looks as if the president and the Dubois woman went at it like bunnies.”

  “Oh, boy,” Pontowski murmured. Then his basic good humor reasserted itself. “Well, Gramps always said the Pontowskis were a tight-lipped and lusty bunch. Just good peasant stock from Poland.”

  “The dates on the Dubois journal are after February the nineteenth,” Bloomy continued. “Apparently the Dubois woman did escape. But I keep asking myself, why were the death certificate and Dubois’s journal given to us? Memorabilia like these are worth a great deal of money at auction.”

  “Maybe they’re not authentic,” Pontowski replied. But even as he said it, he knew they were.

  Taman Negara, Malaysia

  Wednesday, July 28

  They hadn’t come that far from the destroyed Chinese hamlet, perhaps forty miles. But the trek through the jungle-covered hills was an excursion into hell, and Kamigami wanted the fleeing man to get the full experience. Unfortunately, in his panic the man had bolted, leaving all his gear behind, and Kamigami couldn’t push him too hard. He had to have time to find water. But Kamigami made sure he didn’t get any rest, especially at night, and a little toot on the whistle would get him moving.

  At the end of the second day the man was on the verge of collapse, and he needed help. Kamigami left Tel behind to keep an eye on things while he ranged ahead. He found a well-used path, almost wide enough for a small truck. A squeaking noise caught his attention, and he barely had time to hide before a line of men came lumbering down the path from the east, pushing bicycles heavily laden with supplies. Kamigami waited until they had passed, and then set out after them, stalking the last man. As expected, Tail End Charlie was last for a good reason—he couldn’t keep up with the others, and the gap was widening. The man leaned his bicycle against a tree and took a short smoke break.

  Kamigami didn’t even bother to drop his rucksack. He unsheathed his knife and slipped up behind the man. Kamigami had no compulsions about killing him—he had killed many others before—but it bothered him that it was so easy. Fish in a barrel were better fighters. In one smooth motion he grabbed the man’s hair, which was too long for the jungle or combat, jerked his head back, and drew the knife across his neck. It looked easy, but Kamigami had put all his strength into the attack and almost decapitated the man. He threw the body over the bicycle and retreated down the path until he reached the place where he had come out of the bush. He pushed the overloaded bike into the dense foliage and retraced his steps.

  It was hard going, and Kamigami had to lighten the load. He tossed the body into a ravine and pressed on. When his small GPS placed him near the location where he had left Tel, he dropped the bike on its side, certain that it was too heavy for one man to lift. He rifled through the bags strapped to the bike and pocketed a few items. He dumped the rest on the ground so his quarry could easily find it. Then he sat down to rest, and within seconds dozed off.

  “You do sleep a lot,” Tel said from a deep shadow.

  “That’s the idea,” Kamigami said, instantly awake. “Where is he?”

  “About two hundred meters behind me. Coming this way.”

  “Good. Let’s vamoose.”

  “What’s vamoose?” Tel asked. “Something to eat, like a McDonald’s?”

  “You don’t eat a McDonald’s, you eat at a McDonald’s.”

  “I could eat a McDonald’s right now,” Tel told him. But all he could see was Kamigami’s back as he headed for the path.

  Tel sat on his haunches and munched the soy cake Kamigami had taken from one of the bags on the bicycle. He was puzzled, since they had been watching the path for over a day and nothing had happened. “This tastes terrible,” Tel said.

  Kamigami handed him a granola bar. “Drink lots of water.” Tel savored the bar as Kamigami turned on his GPS and unfolded a map. It was time for a navigation lesson. “We’re here,” he said, pointing to a spot near the Tembeling River in Malaysia’s Taman Negara, or National Park. Suddenly Kamigami’s right hand flashed, palm down, close to the ground. Tel lay on the ground, certain he could not be seen. Again Kamigami signaled by pointing a finger to his eyes and then pointing into the jungle. He held up a finger indicating that one person was coming their way. The man they had been stalking pushed through the brush and stepped onto the path, a relieved look on his face. He had a bag strapped to his back and was in much better shape. He looked both ways and set off toward the east. Kamigami didn’t move.

  “Aren’t we going after him?” Tel asked softly.

  “He’ll come back,” Kamigami replied.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “The stupid
ass is going the wrong way.” He pointed to the west. “That’s the way the pack train was going. I think he wants to go the same way.”

  Twenty minutes later the man came back, making good time. He trudged by, less than three feet from Tel’s hiding place. Again Kamigami didn’t move. After what seemed an eternity to Tel, Kamigami stood and shouldered his rucksack. “He’s going in the right direction,” he announced.

  “What now?” Tel asked.

  “We follow. Stay alert for lookouts or guards.” Kamigami set off, moving silently along the path. His forward motion was a series of short moves from shadow to shadow, which Tel tried to copy, but it was hard going. He was just hoping that Kamigami would take a break when the big man stopped and motioned him to join up. Tel heard voices, and Kamigami pushed a leafy fern aside. Tel looked where he was pointing and, far down the path, saw their man talking to a guard. After a few words the guard motioned the man on and stepped off the path to light a cigarette. “Stupid,” Kamigami said under his breath, the professional in him disgusted with the lax security.

  He carefully slipped out of his rucksack and signaled Tel to cover him. He stepped onto the path in full view of the guard. But the guard just kept puffing on his cigarette and was oblivious to the danger coming his way. Kamigami shrugged in resignation and walked toward him. Kamigami spoke a few words of Cantonese in greeting as he approached, finally capturing the man’s attention.