War of Shadows

by Leo J. Maloney

  Dan stood in his dark gray t-shirt, pants, boots, and jacket, waited, and watched as the Flying Fox shot straight up into the nearest cloud almost as fast as he could blink. It may have started northwest after that, but Dan wasn’t sure.

  The temperature was comfortably warm, and so far he had arrived on one of the fifteen non-rainy days of the month. Dan took a second to look at the coconut palms, evergreen laurels, Chinese cryptocaryas, and Japanese blue oaks before Linc spoke in his ear.

  “Turn left around twenty-five degrees…nope, too far…Yup, that’s it. Walk forward.”

  * * * *

  Taiwan was brown and green and gray and about as rocky and hilly as a country bisected by a mountain range and mostly covered with forested peaks could be. But as Dan entered his second hour of walking, he began to see populated life at the end of the arboraceous, vertiginous tunnel. Off in the distance, he thought he could see a few twinkling lights, but as much as he wanted to check them out, his inner Linc kept him moving southwest.

  “Just another mile or so,” he said, “and you should start skirting some fishing villages.”

  Sure enough, about fifteen minutes later, Dan took his first step onto something other than grass and ground. It was a cracked concrete path that had seen plenty of use in its time.

  “Know who I’m meeting yet?” he murmured, careful to keep his lips as still as possible in case he was being watched.

  “It’s tricky,” O’Neal said tiredly. “We want our friends to hear us, but not our enemies. We think the word has got out to the right sources, but so far, no definite replies.”

  “But you’re in the rendezvous area,” Randall advised him. “Only a few miles from Coastal Highway One-Fifty-Three, so explore. Act like a tourist.”

  That was easy. As soon as Randall finished talking, Dan turned a corner on the path, and saw, stretching out below him to the coast, a small, quaint, cove village of well-built pine, bamboo, and concrete structures nestled around a simple one-lane circular pathway. It was still early, but he could see two men with nets and one with a spear heading for the lone dock.

  From his vantage point, Dan could see that all activity seemed to encircle a stone, cement, and wood structure closest to the concrete wall separating the village from a splotch of a beach. Hefting his knapsack, he headed in that direction.

  As he neared, a five year-old girl and her dog noticed him, but if they found it odd that an American had appeared out of the jungle this early in the morning, they didn’t show it. As he continued toward the central structure, they went back to studying what appeared to be an abandoned shedded snake skin. Dan had seen birds and even squirrels on his walk, but thankfully no snakes, boars, bears, or monkeys, all of which the country apparently had in abundance.

  As Dan got closer, the wind off the ocean gave him a refreshing spray. He stopped and appreciated it. When he opened his eyes again, he saw three young ladies and one old woman emerging from a door at the back of the main building. They all fanned out across a concrete patio. The three young women wore loose dark pants and sandals with roomy white shirts and carried fishing poles. The older woman wore an old sleeveless muumuu.

  As the old woman began pulling plastic tables and chairs away from the far wall at the rear of the patio, the young women headed for the beach, looking Dan over. As they passed him, he could see them start to talk and laugh amongst themselves, doing everything but pointing at him. Well, at least somebody acknowledged his existence. As before, he decided to take the chattering as a compliment.

  He watched as the young women spread out across the small, narrow, beach. One took a position on the far right, another on the far left, and the third in the middle. They all cast off and started fishing as if they had done this a hundred, or even a thousand, times before. Dan only turned when he heard a hoarse voice behind him, and then a quieter voice in his ear.

  “You hungry? Want to eat?”

  Dan turned to see the old woman beckoning to him from the edge of the patio. Although Palecto had given him a pretty spectacular Denver omelet, that had been some time before his hike through the coconut palms. He opened his mouth to say “sure, why not,” but closed it when he remembered that the old woman didn’t have a translating R-comm. At least, he certainly didn’t think so. He smiled instead, hoping the repast would fill the time until someone—anyone—contacted him.

  The old woman gave him some guava juice and then what she—and the R-comm—called high mountain tea. When it came time to order the main meal, she had brought out a well-worn piece of plastic with various fishes pictured on it.

  She pointed at the first one, and looked at him with expectation. Dan just looked back in confusion. She pointed at the second one, then looked at him again. Again he hesitated. She pointed at a third fish, but instead of looking at him, turned and pointed at one of the young women. Dan got it.

  Fish for breakfast? he wondered. But then he felt the crisp, salty air again, saw the blue waves, and appreciated the style of the young women.

  Well, at least it would be fresh, he thought. When in Taiwan, he supposed, do what the Taiwanese do.

  He pointed at the second fish without even knowing what it was. Within twenty minutes, the milkfish was caught, steamed, and on a plastic plate in front of him. It, like the juice and tea, was delicious—when Dan could get a piece of it into his mouth without bones.

  In fact, everything was fine until two hours, thirty-five minutes, and three seconds had passed since his entry into the jungle. That was when the two men with their nets, and the one with the spear, returned from the dock.

  So soon? Dan thought. They couldn’t have caught their fill for the day.

  As the trio casually approached the restaurant, Dan pushed the plastic chair back from the plastic table, which made a squeaking, juddering sound. He remained seated until one of the net men, wearing a worn t-shirt and shorts, came up the left side of the patio, while the other, wearing a bathing suit, came up the right. The third one, the spearman, wearing a wetsuit, asked the old woman something with forced camaraderie.

  “Need any more fish for today?” the R-comm translated for Dan.

  But it wasn’t the words that made Dan stand up. It was the old woman’s reaction. She looked at the spearman with disdain bordering on anger, while her eyes held not a shred of respect.

  That was all Dan needed to know, already feeling the juice, tea, and fish begin to boil in his gut. His timing was terrible. He had waited too long. Even at his best, he couldn’t take all three down before they used their weapons. And as they kept sidling toward him, he recognized something else in their eyes. It was the same thing he had seen in the eyes of the waitress and busboy back in New Mexico.

  I have got to stop going to Chinese restaurants, he thought as he went for his Walther.

  But, as he feared, the one closest to him threw his net, and, just Dan’s luck, the man threw it perfectly. The surprisingly heavy clinging web slammed onto him, throwing off his aim and sending him staggering back. He spun, throwing up his free arm, and managed to avoid getting ensnared.

  Okay, his mind barked, he’s without his immediate weapon. Take him down, or shift aim to one who still has their weapon? The nets were bad, but the spear was worse. His arm shifted toward the third man, but as that guy ducked down, the second one threw his net, and the first, now net-less one, charged Dan.

  These guys were fast. The PPK bullet just grazed the spearman’s slicked-back black hair, but it succeeded in getting the attention of the little girl, her dog, and the fisher women. They watched as the second net slammed into Dan a blink before the first man did.

  This time the net went completely over him, and the first man was on top of him. The only thing that kept Dan upright was the fact that he was much bigger, taller, and more muscular than the attacker. Even so, he staggered back while the table, high mountain tea, and milkfish went everywhere. />
  Dan lucked out. His feet hit a dry spot on the cement floor. The attacker wasn’t so lucky. He slipped and went down. He tried to take Dan with him, but the Zeta op’s luck held as the attacker’s fingers hooked only the net, going some distance at pulling the thing off Dan, who did the rest, hurling it atop the attacker as he shifted just in time for the second man to leap onto him like a splayed starfish.

  This man had more of a head start than the first, so despite not being as tall and strong as Dan, his weight was enough to bring them both down onto the cement floor. Dan had learned as well as anyone how to fall without hurting himself, but the man’s clawing fingers sunk into the crook of his right arm as the attacker flailed and kicked. There was a dull thudding sound, and a flash that came from between them, and then the second attacker was dead weight atop him.

  The first attacker scrambled up as the spearman raced forward, the point of the blade directed right at the widest part of Dan’s chest. With all his strength, Dan launched the limp, bleeding, body of the second man off him. It was a great throw. The probable corpse collided with the spearman, sending them both back.

  Dan sprang to one knee, bringing his smoking Walther to bear, when the first attacker, also scrambling up, swung a plastic chair with all his might. But he was smart enough to aim at Dan’s gun arm, not his face. The PPK got caught in the sharp, hard rungs of the chair back, and was pried from Dan’s fingers as surely as if the man had used a vise.

  As before, the gun went off, the bullet taking the second man’s left ear, eye, and most of his nose with it.

  Dan heard the chair hit the patio ledge, and his gun clatter behind him amongst the other plates and cups. As the rest of the second man’s head turned, and his body followed to flop onto the patio floor the way the milkfish had flopped on the sand, Dan shifted to face the remaining attacker. Unfortunately he had already noted the man’s speed.

  The third man pushed the spear tip behind Dan’s rear leg, tripping him. As Dan fell again, the third man flipped the weapon, and stuck the spear tip inches from Dan’s eyes. Dan wanted to bat the spear away, but the angle was too severe and the spearhead was too close. He looked up to see the surviving attacker staring down at him with rage, just before he started seething.

  “They’re dead!” the R-comm translated the spearman’s words into Dan’s head. “You killed them, you foreign devil!”

  The man looked up in despair for a second, giving Dan hope he could take advantage of it, but the spear only stabbed closer. It was just millimeters away when the third man, his face twisted in regret and hate, leaned in even closer.

  “They said don’t kill you. They said grab you, keep you for them. For money! So much money! They said no problem, but now my friends are dead! So I will do to you what you did to them!”

  Dan was ready to grab at whatever part of the spear he could get before it nailed his skull to the cement. No matter how the old woman had looked at the guy, Dan already knew that he wasn’t an amateur spearman. He wouldn’t pull the weapon back before thrusting it. So they would just have to see who was faster: the trained agent or the lithe, wiry spearman.

  Dan never did find out, because a breath later an upturned eye, double shank, fifty-millimeter, five-gram fishhook sunk through the spearman’s cheek and, like the prize catch of the day, he was yanked back and away.

  Dan jumped to his feet as the young woman who had caught his breakfast expertly used the spearman’s head like a medieval mace against the concrete lip of the patio. The old woman and other fisher women winced at the sound of a bone cantaloupe breaking open. The little girl and the dog stared with wider eyes than they had used for the snake skin.

  The young woman who had caught the milkfish stood looking down at her spearman catch just long enough to make sure he wasn’t moving, then turned her head to the American.

  “Dan Morgan, I presume?” she said in nearly perfect English.

  Chapter 23

  Her English wasn’t quite perfect since she had tongued over the “r” in “presume.” She also rolled her tongue over the “let’s” in “Let’s get you out of here.”

  Dan was more than willing to go, but he’d only gotten a few steps before he looked back. The old woman, the two other fisher women, and even the child and her dog were gathering around the corpses with what appeared to be curiosity.

  “Uh, shouldn’t we…?” Dan started.

  “The villagers will clean up,” the milkfish-catching woman said without slowing her pace as she led Dan through the concrete building. “They have no love for mainland spies.”

  “That’s who they were?” he asked, noting the sparse, plain, but clean and well-made room’s few simple furnishings.

  “Of course,” said his rescuer without slowing or looking back at him. “We don’t have much violent crime here. But fraud and mainland moles are pandemic.”

  Dan studied his rescuer as they neared a side door. It was tougher to judge her shape in her loose-fitting, untucked shirt and baggy pants, but her face was fit and nicely shaped, if unmemorable.

  The better to slip in and out unnoticed, Dan thought. Perfect for an undercover operative.

  He put his other questions on hold as she pushed open the side door and they emerged into the parking lot. It was shaped roughly like the patio, but emptied out onto a concrete road, which wound up into wooded hills. Again, the ocean air was refreshing on his face, but it had taken on some strength during their quick march through the building, and he noted that the sky was graying and the tree tops were swaying.

  She marched over to a compact dark blue hatchback. As she curtly waved him over to the passenger seat, he noted its make and model. CMC Zinger MPV—China Motor Corporation compact multi-purpose vehicle. No foreign cars for this girl. This was one of the few vehicles made in Taiwan.

  The interior was fairly standard for this brand of vehicle, with more plastic than wood or leather. Its two outstanding features were its twenty-four hundred c.c., hundred and thirty-six horsepower motor, and that it smelled, unsurprisingly, of fish.

  “In Japan this sort of car is known as a space wagon,” the girl shared as she started the engine while Dan hunkered down in his seat. “Probably because there’s space for my stuff and it also looks like it came from space.”

  It wasn’t until she had driven a few dozen yards that he opened his mouth again. “How did you find me?”

  The young woman concentrated on the road, but answered without pause. “Tell your superiors I got their signal, but I couldn’t answer in case we were being bugged.”

  “And you just happened to be there?” Dan asked skeptically.

  The woman sniffed. “It’s where I work. What you might call my cover.” It seemed she was going to leave it at that, but then she sniffed again, a little more forcefully. “And give your superiors credit. The meeting place was not picked by accident.”

  Dan pictured the way the fishing village was designed, and acknowledged what was pretty obviously the only real meeting place within it. Then he heard Linc snicker deep in his ear, followed by Randall’s soft voice.

  “We have to be careful, Cobra. Don’t know who’s listening and how much they’re hearing. Less said the better for now.”

  And of course you rely on my skill, Dan thought but resisted replying.

  Instead he studied the area and the driver more scrupulously. The beaches, fishing coves, and palm trees rapidly gave way to two-lane highways and blotches of civilization. He knew he had arrived when he spotted a Starbucks and McDonalds, along with a snorkeling center, a diving club, and even a combination motel resort and cocoa center.

  The driver tossed him a stained, floppy bucket hat. “Don’t be obvious about it, but try not to be seen.”

  Dan saw the sense in it, so he pulled the small hat as tightly over his head as he could and slumped down in the seat so he didn’t tower over the driver.

>   “You think the fishermen had back-up?” he wondered.

  “Those three?” she scoffed. “I doubt it. I actually think they spotted you by total accident. You heard what that spearman said. ‘So much money.’ Apparently, there’s been a price on your head for some time. And given that you, a big fish—if you’ll excuse the expression—just happened to march into a relatively small pond crawling with bored snoops, well…?”

  Dan mulled it over, but couldn’t quite make it work. “Is it really that bad here?”

  “It’s great here,” she retorted, “but this is an island you can cross in a six-hour drive one way, and a three-hour drive the other. And it’s also an island that another country of one and a half billion has coveted for seventy years. Do the math. A billion Chinese who need something to do. Why not pepper them all over a little island their masters want under their thumb?”

  During her speech Dan had kept fiddling with the hat and his posture to try ensuring no one else would spot him.

  “Do you think this hat makes me blend in,” he complained, “or yells to everyone ‘look at the big American ape’?”

  The driver glanced over, then jerked her eyes back to the road. But she couldn’t keep her laugh in. It was a charming, warm, human sound that made Dan feel much better.

  “Plop it over your eyes so it looks like you’re trying to sleep,” she suggested. “That will explain to any looky-loo why it’s obviously not your hat.”

  Plop? he thought. Looky-loo? Did this girl grow up on American television?

  But he did as she recommended, regretting that he could no longer study the area.

  She seemed to read his thoughts again. “You’re not missing much,” she commented. “Just lots of rocks and trees.”

  But that gave him time to catch up on some other things he wouldn’t mind knowing—like his savior’s name, for one.

  She laughed again. “I’m Lo Liu.” She pronounced it Low Lee-yuh.