The Last Phoenix

by Richard Herman

  “Very,” Kamigami said.

  “We’ve created a special operations unit to deal with this type of problem,” Gus said. “But as this type of organization is new to us, we’ve encountered many…ah, difficulties.” Again he waited for Kamigami’s reaction.

  “Special operations are always tricky,” Kamigami allowed, speaking with authority. He was a legend in the field of special operations, and only a very few men, none living, had a combat résumé that matched his.

  “I am told you’re fluent in Malay and Cantonese,” Gus said. He paused for a moment. “I can offer you the command of our little task force.”

  “I’d like to think about it,” Kamigami said. “Would tomorrow morning be okay?”

  “You and Tel are more than welcome to stay here tonight,” Gus said. “Your young friend will not be bored.”

  Kamigami was still awake after midnight and sitting on the veranda leading into his suite when Tel came in. He sat down beside Kamigami in a wicker chair, propped his feet up on the railing, and savored the night air. Kamigami glanced at him. There was no doubt Tel had crossed one of the divides that mark a boy’s transition into manhood. “Had a nice time?” he asked. A slight nod answered him. Good, Kamigami thought. He knows when to keep his mouth shut. A warm breeze brushed against them. “What did you talk about?” he asked, his curiosity up.

  “My name. They said it was very unusual. LeeAnn really liked it.”

  “LeeAnn was the dark-haired girl?”

  “No. That was Cari. LeeAnn was the blonde.”

  “They’re right, it is an unusual name. Where did it come from?”

  “My father was English, and he named me. He used the initials for Thomas Edward Lawrence.”

  “Lawrence of Arabia?”

  “My father was a great admirer and said Lawrence was one of the greatest amateur soldiers who ever lived.”

  “He wasn’t an amateur,” Kamigami replied. “He spent most of his adult life in the service.”

  “Wasn’t he a lieutenant colonel?”

  “At one time. Later he was a private in the Tank Corps and then an aircraftsman in the Royal Air Force.”

  “That’s sort of like you in reverse. You were a sergeant and then a general.”

  Kamigami chuckled. “That was different.”

  “Which did you like best?”

  “Sergeant.” He was silent for a moment. “Gus has offered me a job. It involves special operations, and I’m thinking of taking it. You’re welcome to come along, but if not, I’ll help you find your relatives.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Tel said.

  “Before you make a decision, there’s two things you’ve got to know. First, you’ll have to go through training on your own.” He described the various forms of torture Tel would have to endure to qualify for special operations. “Most who try, fail.”

  Tel listened impassively. “What’s the second thing?”

  “This is what I am.”

  Five

  San Antonio, Texas

  Thursday, August 5

  The shiny black 1956 Ford pickup eased into a parking space in front of the 341st Training Squadron at Lackland Air Force Base. For a moment the driver didn’t move as he gripped the steering wheel. His mind made up, Chief Master Sergeant Leroy Rockne climbed out of the cab. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, given to hard workouts and seven-mile morning runs. The Air Force was his only family, he wore his uniform with pride, and on first impression many thought of him as a five-hundred-pound gorilla with muscles. But those who served with him in the security police knew better. Professionally, he was a walking, talking advertisement for a security cop: dedicated, smart, and by the book.

  Rockne reached behind the seat and pulled out a leather leash with a silver-plated chain dog collar. He slipped the collar into a pocket and deliberately folded the leash into fourths. He slapped it against his pant leg like a riding crop. He closed the door and checked his image in the window. His black beret was set at the correct angle on his closely cropped Marine-style haircut, and his square jaw was cleanly shaven. He wasn’t a vain man, but he knew the value of appearances.

  Technical Sergeant Paul Travis saw him first. He came to attention as he greeted him. “Good morning, Chief. What brings you down here? Headquarters getting too much for you?” There was respect in his voice.

  “Personal business,” Rockne replied.

  No reply was called for, and the sergeant hurried past a training flight of students marching to the line of aircraft fuselages used for antihijacking training. He skidded to a stop and spoke to the training NCO, Staff Sergeant Jake Osburn. “Over there,” Travis said, pointing to Rockne.

  “Ah, shit,” Jake muttered. He halted his training flight. “Listen up. That’s Chief Master Sergeant Leroy Rockne over there. He’s called ‘the Rock’ for a damn good reason.”

  “What makes him so special?” an airman asked.

  “He just happens to be the best security cop who ever wore the beret.”

  Rockne walked into the building and turned into the operations section. The clerk, Airman First Class Cindy Cloggins, came to her feet. Rockne’s reputation had preceded him, and she was nervous at meeting him face-to-face. “Good morning, sir.”

  Rockne fixed her with a hard look, taking her measure. She was a big girl, young and immature. He made a decision and eased off a notch. “It’s ‘Chief.’ I’m not an officer.”

  “Yes”—she caught herself in time—“Chief.” She buzzed the captain and sent Rockne right in. She waited until the door was closed, and called the squadron commander, a newly minted major. “The Rock’s in the building,” she told him. The major said he’d be right over.

  The captain in charge of operations stood and smiled. “It’s been a while, Chief. What can I do for you?”

  “I heard Boyca was scheduled for disposal tomorrow. I want to adopt her.”

  “The veterinarian and kennel master say she’s not adoptable,” the captain replied.

  Rationally, Rockne knew that euthanasia for an old dog like Boyca, who had exceeded her working life and could never adjust to family life, was the humane thing to do. She was a working dog, and, like he was a security cop, that’s all she was. “Screw the vets. We got a history.”

  “She’s too old, Chief,” the captain said, telling him the obvious.

  “She’s got another year or two left in her,” Rockne replied.

  The captain was about to say that he couldn’t approve of the adoption, but one look at Rockne’s face convinced him otherwise. “I’ll take care of the paperwork.”

  “Thank you, sir. I owe you.” Rockne snapped a sharp salute and left, heading for the kennels out back. The captain punched at his intercom to tell his secretary to start the paperwork rolling, his day now pure gold.

  Rockne walked along the double row of kennels as he searched the cages. A dog started to bark, setting the others off. On the backside a dog smashed into the cage’s wire fence in a frenzy. “How ya doin’, Boyca?” he said. The dog barked at him. “You remember me, don’tcha?” Rockne’s lips compressed into a tight line when he saw the red X in grease pencil on the gate’s metal note plate. Tomorrow’s date was written below the X. “I almost missed it.”

  He opened the gate, but Boyca retreated to a far corner and growled at him. “Come,” he ordered. No response. “Feelin’ bitchy today?” He slapped the leash he was holding against his thigh. Boyca’s head came up as a vague memory stirred. He slapped his thigh again. “Come,” he repeated. The dog immediately came to his side and stood quietly, eager for whatever came next. Rockne bent over and ran his hands over Boyca’s coat, careful not to touch the open wound where she had rubbed herself raw against the wire. He felt her conformation, surprised that she was still in good shape at fourteen years of age. But the deterioration in her muscles was obvious, and he knew she tired easily. He dropped the collar over her head. “You’re a good old girl, aren’tcha?” Boyca was a Belgian Malinois wit
h a reddish-brown, short-haired coat. Size-wise, she was smaller than a German shepherd with much the same conformation. But Malinoises didn’t suffer from the same hip-degeneration problems.

  Rockne stood and clipped the lead onto the collar and headed for the parking lot as the major in command of the squadron walked up. He glanced down at Boyca. “She’s done good, Chief. Take care of her.”

  “I will, sir.” Rockne led Boyca to his pickup and pointed to the back. “In,” he ordered. The dog looked at him and didn’t move. He relented. “Okay, so you’re too old for jumpin’ in and out the back.” He opened the passenger door, and Boyca crawled onto the new leather seat. Rockne settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The big, highly tuned V-8 came to life with the distinctive lope of a high-lift cam. Boyca leaned her head over the edge of the seat and vomited on the carpet. “Didn’t like the food?” He bent over to clean it up. “Do you have any idea what this carpet costs?”

  Boyca licked his cheek.

  Chicago

  Thursday, August 5

  Pontowski worked his way through the small group of protesters crowding the sidewalk outside the Chinese consulate. For the most part they were young, scruffily dressed, and carrying placards denouncing the WTO. A young girl stepped in front of him and waved one in his face. “Where you going, bud?” she demanded.

  “In there,” Pontowski said.

  “No way.”

  “It has nothing to do with the WTO,” he said.

  Three rough-looking young men joined her. “Get lost,” the biggest one said.

  Pontowski shook his head and pushed past them. The man grabbed his arm, stopping him. Pontowski looked at the man’s hand and then at the other protesters. Without exception, they were thin, in poor shape, and showed signs of drug use. He looked for indications of a concealed weapon. Nothing. He had seen it before. They were there for show and not really serious about getting physical and going one-on-one. He tried to be reasonable. “You have no argument with me. Please, I urge you to reconsider if—”

  “If what, fuckface?”

  Pontowski’s voice hardened. “If you want your hand back.” The man released him, and Pontowski was all reason again. “I’m being polite and don’t want trouble. But I’m perfectly willing to oblige you, if that’s your choice.” He leaned into the man and lowered his voice. “Didn’t your daddy teach you to be very careful when you pick a fight? You gotta know who you’re taking on.” He paused. “You’ve already made two mistakes.”

  “I ain’t made no fuckin’ mistakes.”

  “Make that three,” Pontowski replied. He looked in the direction of the four policemen heading toward them. The protesters turned, and Pontowski slipped past, into the consulate.

  A dark-suited young Chinese woman was waiting for him. “Good afternoon, General Pontowski. This way, please. Mr. Zou will be a few minutes late, please forgive. But there is someone who wishes to speak to you.” She smiled at him. “I saw the way you handled the protesters. Most impressive.” He followed her up to the second floor and into a small reception room.

  He froze when he saw the woman sitting there. He was vaguely aware of the door closing behind him, leaving them alone. The woman stood, her hands clasped demurely in front of her. She was five feet six inches tall, possessed beautiful dark almond-shaped eyes, lustrous black hair, and a delicate facial structure with high cheekbones. She was not Han Chinese but Zhuang from southern China. She was perhaps the most famous fortune-teller in China, and Zou’s mistress. “Jin Chu,” Pontowski said, “you’re as beautiful as ever.” The memories were all there—the time in China, the American Volunteer Group, and Zou’s abortive revolution.

  “And you are charming above all men.” She beckoned for him to sit beside her on the couch. It was a royal command he hurried to obey. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed at him, looking deep into a world he could not see. “How is Victor?” she asked.

  There was no emotion in her voice, but Pontowski knew it was there. Before Zou, Jin Chu had been Kamigami’s mistress. “I haven’t seen him since 1996,” he said. “I understand he’s living in Malaysia.”

  “How is your son?”

  “Zack is growing like a weed. He’s turning into a fine young man.” They talked, and the time flew by. A clock chimed four, and Zou Rong entered the room. His ever-present entourage of bodyguards and advisers trooped in behind him. Pontowski stood, and the two men shook hands. He was surprised at how Zou had aged. He had grown fat, and his hair was thinning. The boyish countenance that had charmed people was forever gone, replaced by a shrewd cunning.

  “Mr. Zou has only a few moments,” an aide said.

  “What brings you to Chicago?” Zou asked, knowing full well that Pontowski was there at his request.

  “Politics,” Pontowski answered. “What else?”

  “I was hoping for friendship,” Zou answered smoothly. He had just delivered the first part of his message to the Americans.

  “There is always friendship. But that is a constant in my life, and I could never intrude for that alone.”

  Zou laughed, and they sat down. “You were always the smooth devil. It is good to see you again.” He continued to dissemble, playing the surprised host glad to see an old friend. “How may I help you?”

  “My president is worried about the trends in China. To be honest, her advisers are not sure how to read your government’s intentions.”

  “Our admiration and friendship for the United States remain unchanged. But we are engaged in the new world order, which is economic. We must not lose sight of our friendship even though we are competing economically.” That was the second part of his message.

  The aide interrupted. “Mr. Zou, your schedule, please.”

  Zou frowned. “Please forgive me, there is so much to do.” He stood and spoke in Cantonese to Jin Chu. “See what you can learn.”

  Pontowski stood with him. “Thank you for your time.” The two men shook hands again, and Zou was gone. “That was quick,” Pontowski said.

  Jin Chu took him by the hand and led him to a window overlooking the interior courtyard. She held him in the light and placed her hands on his cheeks. “I have never told your fortune,” she said. Again he had the impression she was looking into another world. She took his right hand and held it against her cheek without speaking. Then she opened his hand and studied his palm. Slowly she moved a finger over his life line. “I see a mountain pass in a land I do not recognize. There is a man. It is you, but it is not you. There is a beautiful dark-haired woman.” She started to tremble. “I also see a great struggle and many deaths. But I cannot see further. There is so much confusion.” She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears, and whispered, “Victor.” She ran from the room.

  Pontowski walked to the open door. The dark-suited aide was waiting for him. “You are the most privileged of men,” she said. “Jin Chu has not told a fortune in eight years.”

  The White House

  Friday, August 6

  Patrick Flannery Shaw exploded in a loud guffaw as he read the New York Times. The sound carried out of his corner office and into the quiet halls of the West Wing. It was the modern equivalent of a bull elephant trumpeting victory or a lion roaring over the dead carcass of his latest kill. The president’s staff knew the sound: Maddy’s special assistant had barbecued some feckless politician. They didn’t know who was on the receiving end of Shaw’s attention or why, but they would figure it out in time. They always did.

  Shaw’s intercom buzzed. He pulled himself off the couch and lumbered over to his desk. A short, thick finger jabbed at the buttons. “Hello, darlin’.”

  The caller came right to the point. “Leland’s at the west gate with eight of his staff.”

  Shaw checked the president’s daily calendar: Senator John Leland was scheduled for a personal conference with her in fifteen minutes. Shaw snorted. “Thanks for the heads up,” he said, breaking the connection. He pulled on his coat and ambled down the hal
l. “Lordy Lord,” he mumbled. “Eight sounds like an attack.” He plugged that number into his unique algebra of Washington politics. On one side of the equal sign, Leland thought eight was a show of strength. On the other side of the equation, Shaw saw political weakness. And he knew how to cancel Leland’s side. Shaw paused at the door leading into Maddy’s private study next to the Oval Office. He knocked twice, counted to three, and walked in.

  Maddy looked up from her rocking chair and dropped the thick report she was reading. “Good morning, Patrick. I take it you’ve seen today’s New York Times.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I did.”

  “Enjoy it?”

  Shaw nodded. It was all that would ever pass between them about the congressman who had made the mistake of spreading a malicious lie about the president and Matt Pontowski sharing the same bed.

  “Leland brought eight of his advisers.”

  Maddy arched an eyebrow. “I was expecting him, not his staff.” She paused. “Do I want to see all of them?”

  He thought for a moment. “Why not? They’re totally out-matched.” Maddy nodded in agreement. “Let me set it up,” Shaw said.

  “Make your entrance at the right time,” she told him. They were on the same wavelength.

  The man entering the West Wing looked and sounded like a senator. John Leland was an accomplished orator with a deep, rolling southern accent, a full head of gray hair, and the jowly cheeks his constituency expected of the most influential and powerful senator in the Imperial City. His career in Congress stretched over forty years, and he was the chairman of the powerful Foreign Relations Committee. With a few well-chosen phone calls he could change the political weather of the capital and move whatever legislation he wanted through Congress. Shaw thought of Leland as the South’s permanent revenge on the United States for losing the Civil War. It was a quip he was saving for the right moment, preferably on a Sunday-morning political talk show.