Four
Oakland
Monday, August 2
Zack hunched over the chart spread out on the worktable. He was alone in the basement of the Annex and surrounded by silence as he worked. He had never seen a map like this one, a survival chart used by downed airmen in World War II, but thanks to his orienteering class at New Mexico Military Institute, he knew what it was. He reread the memo establishing the map’s provenance. The source was good: the archives of the British Imperial War Museum. He turned the map over and read the notes penciled on the back. There was no name or signature, but he recognized his great-grandfather’s cramped handwriting. He methodically listed the dates written by each note. All were in what Bloomy called “the missing year.”
Something deep in his fifteen-year-old psyche told him his great-grandfather was sending him a message. But what was it? Frustration gnawed at him like a Rottweiler worrying a juicy bone. “Fido,” he muttered to himself. His best friend, Brian Turner, had adopted “fido” as his favorite expression: fuck it—drive on. But the gnawing wouldn’t go away. Zack carefully folded the map along its original creases, gathered up his notes, and headed for Bloomy’s office. Another emotion puzzled him. Why did holding the map make him feel so good?
He found the chief librarian in the small workroom next to her office. “Miss Bloomfield,” he said from the doorway, catching her attention.
She gave him a smile. “I thought you were going back to school?”
“I am. But I’m waiting for Dad to finish up some business, so I had some time to kill, and I found this.” He came in and handed her the map and his notes.
He enters a room just like his father, Bloomy thought. Was the president the same? She made a mental note to follow up for the biography she was planning to write. It was the stuff that made the subject come alive. She studied Zack’s latest discovery for a few moments before carefully folding it and replacing it in its envelope. “The dates check,” she told him. “I’ve been doing some research on my own. It appears your great-grandfather never talked about this period in his life because he was absent without leave from the Royal Air Force and at one time had been classified as a deserter.”
A look of pure shock crossed Zack’s face. “That’s serious! Why would he do that?”
“I have no idea,” Bloomy replied. She paused for a moment. “There’s so much I don’t understand about him, but he was very strong-willed.”
“I want to know,” Zack announced. He had never felt so sure of anything in his life.
“Know what?” Pontowski said from the doorway.
Automatically, Bloomy glanced at him. He was wearing his summer working uniform: khaki pants, a light blue chambray dress shirt without a tie, and a blue blazer. A battered briefcase was resting against his shoes, an old but well-cared-for pair of English jodhpurs, a low dress boot with a strap that buckled on the side. He is good-looking, she conceded. “Well,” she said, “Zack has made another interesting discovery about the ‘missing year.’”
“I found a map, Dad. Gramps made notes on the back.” He stopped. “Anyway, it looks like his writing.”
Bloomy became all business. “It corresponds with the time he was reported absent without leave…”
Pontowski’s head came up. His eyes were wide and alert. “Where did that come from?” His words were measured and calm.
“Nothing conclusive in the research,” she murmured. He knew! she thought.
Pontowski bent over the map. “This could be significant,” he said in a low voice.
“Maybe,” Bloomy allowed, now convinced it was a family secret that had finally surfaced.
“We’ll have to look into it,” Pontowski said.
Bloomy gave a little nod. “I’ll treat it as confidential,” she promised. She changed the subject. “So you’re off to New Mexico.”
Zack came alive. “Yeah! We’re flying the Mentor, and Dad’s gonna let me fly in the front seat.” He felt the need to explain. “I’ve already soloed and passed the written test for my pilot’s license.”
Pontowski laughed. “And he won’t let me rest until he gets his hands on it.” He shook his head. “That’s what I get for letting him help me restore it.” The aircraft in question was a T-34A, a two-place, tandem-seat trainer built by Beech Aircraft for the Air Force in 1958. It had been a family project restoring it to pristine condition, and now it was better than new.
“After I drop Zack off at NMMI,” Pontowski said, “I’ll fly to the World Trade Organization meeting in Chicago. Should be back by Friday.” He didn’t mention that he was going to the WTO to see Zou Rong at the national security adviser’s request.
“Fly safe,” Bloomy said.
Pontowski laughed. “Always do.”
She knew it was a lie, and that bothered her as well. How could any sane human be so cavalier about life and death?
Over New Mexico
Monday, August 2
Never teach your own kid to fly, Pontowski told himself. He bit his tongue, waiting for Zack to make the decision. He ran the numbers for the third time. They had refueled at Las Vegas and had taken off with fifty gallons of fuel. He glanced at his watch, the best fuel gauge on the aircraft. They had been airborne for two hours and thirty minutes, with another hour to go to Roswell. They were consuming gas at fifteen gallons per hour, and that meant they needed to land and refuel. Come on, Zack, he urged. Think!
He did. “Dad,” Zack said from the front seat, “we need to land to refuel. Socorro’s on the nose at thirty miles.”
Pontowski breathed easier and keyed the intercom. “Sounds like a plan.” Then the father in him took over. “The outside air temperature is pushing a hundred, so carry a little extra airspeed coming down final. Full flaps.”
“Got it, Pop.”
Pop! Pontowski thought. Was there condescension in his son’s voice? He didn’t know. Then he laughed out loud.
“We might have to stay overnight to take off in the morning,” Zack said.
“Why?” Pontowski asked, knowing the answer.
“Well, the field elevation is almost five thousand feet, and the temperature has got to be over a hundred on the ground. I haven’t calculated the density altitude, but it’s gonna be high. It’s safer to take off in the morning.”
“Make a decision,” Pontowski said.
“How do you like Mexican food?” Zack replied.
“Love it,” Pontowski said, meaning that he really loved the chance to spend some time with his son. The World Trade Conference and Zou Rong could wait another day. Zack flew a standard pattern into the airfield and came down final at eighty knots. He flared and made a sweet touchdown. “Beginner’s luck,” Pontowski grouched.
The amount of food Zack consumed amazed Pontowski, and the dark-haired teenage girl serving them was more than happy to keep his son’s plate full. “I think you’ve got an admirer,” Pontowski conceded. “She’s pretty enough.”
Zack’s reply surprised him. “Dad, do you really think Gramps went AWOL?”
Pontowski thought for a moment. “I can see him doing it.”
“Why?”
“We’ll probably never know for sure, but that’s the way your great-grandfather was. Once he decided to do something, he did it. But knowing him, you can bet it was for a damn good reason. He put principle above everything else.” Zack shoveled more food into his mouth. “If you eat like this at NMMI, I’m getting one hell of a bargain on room and board.”
Zack nodded as the girl brought out another plate of tamales. “Bloomy said Gramps was a very strong-willed man.”
“When he believed in something,” Pontowski said, “the strongest. It was his best trait. I wouldn’t want to get in his way when he set out to do something.”
“I hope I can be like that,” Zack said quietly.
I hope so, too, Pontowski thought, hearing the resolve in his son’s voice.
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia
Wednesday, August 4
The c
abdriver turned onto Tun Razak and pulled over to the curb. He pointed across the busy boulevard. “That’s the American embassy,” he said in Malay. “The police won’t allow me to stop in front.” Kamigami got out and stretched while the driver opened the trunk. “Bags extra,” the driver said to Tel. “Twenty dollars U.S.”
Tel protested. “You said twenty ringgit.” He looked at Kamigami. “That’s what he said at the hotel.”
“Twenty dollars U.S. or no bags,” the driver barked. Kamigami shrugged and shouldered the driver aside. He lifted two of the duffel bags out of the trunk. “I call police!” the driver shouted. He reached to close the trunk lid on the two remaining bags.
Kamigami brushed the driver back like a fly and dropped one of the heavy bags on his foot. The driver bent over in pain. “Twenty ringgit or I drop the other one on your head,” Kamigami said in Malay. The driver looked up into Kamigami’s face and, before Tel could hand over the money, hobbled down the sidewalk as fast as he could, abandoning his cab and forgetting about collecting the fare. Kamigami picked up the two heaviest bags and motioned for Tel to get the two others, which were still in the trunk. “I expect the guard will stop us at the entrance. Just do what they say until I can get it sorted out.”
“I thought you said they know you,” Tel said.
“They may not remember me,” Kamigami said. They dodged a few cars crossing the street, and Kamigami led the way to the Marine guard. They deposited the four bags at the corporal’s feet, and Kamigami gave him a friendly smile. “My name is Victor Kamigami. I’m an American. These are for Mr. William Mears. I believe he’s still here, an administrative officer, if I remember correctly.”
Kamigami’s soft, high-pitched voice surprised the guard. “Please wait over there,” he said, pointing to a spot closer to the street. “And please take your bags with you.” He keyed his radio while Kamigami and Tel moved back. “Two individuals, one who claims to be an American citizen, are here with four duffel bags for Mr. Mears.” It was common knowledge inside the embassy that William Mears was the CIA chief of station. The guard gave Kamigami a questioning look as he listened to the reply. “He said his name is Victor Kamigami.”
“You might not want to stand too close to me,” Kamigami said in a low voice. Tel obediently moved a few feet away, not understanding why. He discovered the wisdom of the request a few seconds later when a large unmarked van drove up, slammed to a stop, and a tactical squad of Malay police in full battle gear burst out the side and rear doors.
“Down!” the Marine guard shouted. “On the ground! Spread-eagle!” His automatic was out and leveled directly at Kamigami. Tel fell to the ground. He was amazed that Kamigami was already down and spread-eagle. He looked at Kamigami in confusion.
“I guess they remember me,” Kamigami allowed.
“Gentlemen,” the Marine guard said, “the Ambassador.” He stepped aside as Winslow James minced into the basement room of the embassy. He nodded at the two CIA agents, William Mears and Charles Robertson, and surveyed the weapons and other items spread around the room. “Well, well, what do we have here?”
“Sir,” Mears said, “this is Victor Kamigami.” He read from his clipboard. “Twenty-four years in the U.S. Army, all of it in the Rangers and special operations. Reached the rank of command sergeant major before deserting and fighting as a mercenary for Zou Rong in southern China in…ah, 1996. After that he went into hiding on the east coast near…”
“Near Kemasik,” Kamigami said. “Terengganu Province. Mr. Ambassador, may I present Tel Zaidan? He and I were the only survivors when our kampong was destroyed.”
Winslow James nodded in gracious acceptance, always the polished diplomat. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Zaidan.” A concerned look spread across his face. “I must apologize, for I haven’t heard of the tragedy that befell your village.” Mears and Robertson exchanged glances. It had been included in the daily intelligence summary that was placed on the ambassador’s desk every morning. The ambassador looked at the two CIA agents, effectively dismissing Kamigami and Tel. “I take it that you know Mr. Kamigami?”
“We’ve met,” Robertson, the junior CIA agent, said. Robertson instinctively felt the scar on his neck, the result of their first meeting when Kamigami had jabbed his fingers into Robertson’s neck and crushed his larynx. Only the quick action of May May, Kamigami’s wife, had saved him from suffocating.
Kamigami couldn’t help himself. “The last time we saw each other, Chuck and Bill were hanging around in Singapore.” The two CIA agents had been transporting Kamigami to Singapore for extradition to the States when he escaped. In the process Kamigami had handcuffed them together and left them dangling from a bridge railing.
“I see,” James said, not understanding at all. “And what do we have here?”
“We took these off soldiers in the National Park,” Kamigami said. “They were operating out of a large base camp and were from the same group that destroyed our kampong.”
“Do we know anything about this so-called base camp?” James asked. No answer from the CIA agents. James rummaged through the uniforms, ID tags, and papers on the table. He glanced at the weapons stacked against the wall. “It appears they were well armed.” He picked up a pair of boots and examined them.
“They were Chinese regulars,” Kamigami said.
James’s reaction was immediate. “Because they were wearing these? Nonsense.” He turned for the door. “Please dispose of this,” he told Mears. Then he was gone.
Mears and Robertson stared at each other. They would never admit to an outsider that the ambassador refused to believe anything that ran counter to current State Department policy with regard to Malaysia. “The official position is that we’re seeing an indigenous political faction of farmers dissatisfied with the current regime,” Mears said.
“If that’s dissatisfaction,” Kamigami said, “you don’t want to be around when they get angry.”
Mears took a deep breath. “You better tell us everything you know.” He listened while Kamigami detailed all he had learned. A heavy silence came down in the room. “This is not a disgruntled bunch of farmers,” Mears finally said. He made a decision. “You need to talk to Gus.”
Robertson moaned. “Ah, no. Give me a break, Bill.”
Singapore
Thursday, August 5
The white Bronco with Malay license plates drove down Admiralty Road and turned into the walled compound. Its wheels crunched on the raked gravel that led to the main house. “You’re meeting Deng Shikai,” Mears explained from the front passenger seat. “He looks like some old grandfather, and you’ll swear he’s one of the nicest guys you ever met. Don’t be taken in. He’s the head of Singapore’s Security and Intelligence Division and will cut your throat in a heartbeat.”
Robertson pulled to a stop under the canvas awning and spoke to the young man waiting for them. The visitors’ bona fides established, two more servants rushed up and opened the doors to the Bronco. The very visible bulges under their white jackets left little doubt they were armed. Tel followed Kamigami out of the backseat and stood in awe of his surroundings. “I’ve never been in a house like this,” he said.
“Keep your mouth closed and you’ll be fine,” Kamigami told him. But even he was impressed as they walked through the main atrium of the mansion and into the garden. Their host was waiting for them under a flower-covered lanai by the pool. Two beautiful girls—one Eurasian, the other Caucasian—were swimming in the pool. The old man stood as the men approached. He was tall for a Chinese, almost six feet, very thin, and slightly stooped.
Mears made the introductions. “Sir, may I introduce Victor Kamigami and Tel Zaidan?”
The man extended his hand. “I am pleased to meet you.” He spoke with a crisp English accent. “Call me Gus.” They shook hands all around, and Gus motioned them to seats. “LeeAnn, Cari,” he called. The two girls smiled at him and climbed out of the pool. They were both nude and wrapped themselves in big towels as they sc
urried across the grass and into the main house. Tel couldn’t take his eyes off them.
“Close your mouth,” Kamigami muttered.
Gus waited until the girls were out of earshot. “Your reputation precedes you, General Kamigami. I can’t help but wonder what brings you out of retirement.” He laughed at the look on Tel’s face. “Your big friend here was a general, I believe. That was in China, was it not?”
Kamigami nodded. “I was with Zou Rong.”
Gus’s face went blank. “Ah, yes, Mr. Zou. A most interesting creature, don’t you think?”
“He’s a survivor,” Kamigami replied.
“Indeed,” Gus said. “But Mr. Zou is not why you’re here, is it?” He thought for a moment. “Tel, I’m afraid this conversation will bore you. Perhaps you’d like to meet LeeAnn and Cari?”
“I wouldn’t know what to say to them,” Tel replied.
“I’m quite sure they’ll think of something,” Gus said. He motioned to one of the servants in the cabana on the far side of the pool. The man hurried over, and Gus told him to escort Tel into the house. “I imagine they will find your young friend a pleasant distraction,” he said to Kamigami.
When they were gone, Mears extracted a map from his briefcase and spread it on the low table in front of Gus. Kamigami pointed to a spot on the eastern coast of Malaysia. “This was my home,” he began. He spoke in a low voice, without emotion, as he detailed everything that had happened from the time the patrol boat sank his prahu.
When he finished, Gus tapped the map with his right index finger. “Why your kampong?” he asked.
“Mr. Deng doesn’t believe in coincidence,” Mears added.
“I have no way of knowing for sure,” Kamigami said. “But considering what happened afterward, I suspect it was the opening move of a plan to stir up ethnic conflict in eastern Malaysia.”
Gus was aware of Kamigami’s reputation, and there was no doubt that he could be useful. But recruiting him was another matter. Gus turned it over in his mind and then did the one thing that was totally contrary to his nature: he told the truth. “Your village was destroyed for a number of reasons. I believe it was the first step in a plan to set the Malays and indigenous Chinese at each other’s throats. I also believe that this problem will soon be ours. Further, I have reason to believe that Zou Rong is involved and that he wanted you eliminated.” He paused, waiting for Kamigami’s reaction. He found it in the set of the big man’s jaw. “Interesting, yes?”
The Last Phoenix Page 6
