The Last Phoenix

Prologue

South China Sea

Thursday, July 22

Tel heard it first. Captain, he called in Malay, something’s out there. He stood at the bow of the small fishing boat and looked into the night.

Victor Kamigami strained to hear, but his fifty-eight-year-old ears weren’t up to it. Luckily, the boy had excellent hearing. He’s not a boy, Kamigami said to himself in English.

I’ll be twenty in two months, Tel said in Malay.

And with good hearing, Kamigami replied, still speaking English. He had a voice that was unusually soft and high-pitched for such a big man. Look away from the sound so your night vision can work better. Automatically, he checked the small handheld GPS that dangled from the throttle lever. On course and four nautical miles to go. At five and a half knots, they’d make landfall in forty-five minutes. He glanced at his Rolex watch—the only clue that he was not a poor fisherman struggling to feed his family on the eastern shore of Malaysia. They would be on the beach and home in time for breakfast.

I hear two engines now, Tel called. From his rigid stance Kamigami could sense Tel’s worry and made a mental promise to install a radar set. It wasn’t a question of affording it, but he didn’t want to spoil the simple, classic lines of his prahu, a traditional Malay fishing boat. After his family, it was the pride of his life.

Kamigami retarded the throttle to idle, and they coasted to a stop in the calm waters. Now he heard the deep rumble of diesels at high speed. He started to count. I can hear two, maybe three, he said. Can you see anything?

There! Tel screamed, his voice tight and filled with fear. He pointed to a spot slightly aft of the starboard beam, as a large shadow emerged out of the darkness and bore down on them.

Kamigami’s reflexes were still rattlesnake quick as he shoved the throttle full forward and hit the horn button to blare a warning. A searchlight clicked on and swept over Kamigami’s prahu, blinding him with its brightness. The ship’s big diesels roared as it turned onto Kamigami’s boat. Jump! he shouted. He dove over the side and swam down the wake his boat had carved in the water. He was a big man and still physically fit, as befitted a former command sergeant major in the U.S. Army. He took fifteen powerful strokes before the ship smashed into the prahu, crushing it like matchwood. The wake kicked up by the ship’s bow engulfed Kamigami and pulled him under.

He came to the surface sputtering and coughing. Another ship cut by him, outlined by the glare of the searchlight. Son of a bitch, Kamigami thought, a fast-attack patrol boat. Who in hell? Singapore? He didn’t know. He watched as the large craft slowed to a crawl. Its searchlight swept the water looking for survivors. The familiar bark of a heavy machine gun echoed over him. Bastards, he said aloud. The light moved toward him. He simply let his breath out and dropped below the surface. His proportions may have matched those of a sumo wrestler, but he was more muscle and bone than fat. He sank like a rock. It was a long swim back to the surface.

A much bigger ship ghosted by him. An LST! What the hell is a landing craft doing here? None of it made sense to him. Now one of the patrol boats circled as its searchlight again swept the water. Then the light was doused and the boat raced after the landing craft. He waited, treading water. He mentally urged Tel to be quiet—if he was still alive. He kept checking his Rolex as the minutes passed. Seven more minutes, he calculated. Is that long enough? He reasoned that was how long he would have waited.

Six minutes later a diesel roared to life, and a patrol craft cruised by with its two searchlights sweeping the water. Again Kamigami exhaled and sank. But this time he didn’t let out as much air and it was a much shorter swim back to the surface.

He patiently treaded water for another five minutes. Finally he judged it was time. He felt for the flat gold whistle on the chain around his neck that May May, his wife, had given him for good luck. It was about the size of his old dog tags and was engraved with a dragon on one side and a tiger on the other. He gave a short toot and waited. Nothing. He blew hard on the whistle—a long blast that carried for a mile.

Captain! a faint voice called. Is that you?

You bet your sweet ass! Kamigami roared, relieved to hear Tel. Keep talking and I’ll come to you. He took three strokes and stopped to listen. Tel’s voice was louder. He took an even dozen strokes before stopping to listen. He was getting closer, but there was panic in Tel’s voice. Keep cool, Kamigami urged as he stroked hard, pulling ever closer. His hand touched something in the dark. It was Tel, and the boy jumped on him, holding on for dear life.

Kamigami easily broke his death grip and turned Tel around in the water. His big right hand held him by the back of the head. Lie on your back, he ordered. You’ll be okay. I won’t let you drown. Tel’s breathing slowed. The ocean’s our friend. Don’t fight it. He could feel the boy’s body relax. Much better.

Are we going to die? Tel asked.

Not tonight. It’s only four miles to shore.

I can’t swim—he gulped for air, the panic back—that far.

Kamigami snorted. Who said anything about swimming? Give me your pants. He held Tel’s head above water while he struggled out of his light trousers and handed them over. Okay, you’re gonna have to tread water for a few moments. Kamigami let go of him and quickly tied an overhand knot in the end of each leg. He grabbed the waistband of the trousers and found the drawstring. Then he gave a strong kick and rose out of the water. At the same time he waved the pants over his head and filled them with air. He held the waistband underwater as he tied it closed with the drawstring. The pants legs stuck out of the water like two overstuffed sausages. Kamigami handed the pants back. Here’s your life preserver. Lie on it. Keep it wet and it’ll stay inflated.

Kamigami did the same with his pants and lay across the crotch with a leg under each arm. That’s not fair, Tel said. Yours are bigger than mine.

Tel’s spirits were definitely improving, and Kamigami played on it. You want a quick drowning lesson, boy?

Not tonight, sir.

Much better, Kamigami thought. I need to get my bearings, he said. He studied the sky, looking for familiar stars. Finding Polaris was out of the question, as they were too close to the equator. Okay, he said half aloud, what’s in the west at three in the morning this time of month?

Nothing good, Tel answered. But the Belt of Orion is above the eastern horizon, and you can see Sirius. He pointed to their left.

Kamigami breathed more easily when he found the constellation and the bright star. He was impressed with Tel’s knowledge. Very good, he said, wondering what else was hidden behind that pretty face. Swim away from it. We’ll have the sun later. They started kicking and stroking. There was no doubt in the older man’s mind that he could make the long swim, but he hardly knew Tel. The boy might not be up to it. Normally Kamigami was a quiet man and never said much, but an inner sense told him he needed to talk to keep Tel’s spirits up. So you know astronomy?

My father left a star chart on the wall when he left. My mother kept it.

Kamigami heard resignation in Tel’s voice. He was a very lonely young man, and as long as he lived in a kampong, or village, he would stay that way. That was the main reason May May had asked him to take Tel on as his crew in the fishing boat. Do you remember your father? Kamigami asked.

A little. He’s English, very tall and skinny. He had a beard. That was at the root of Tel’s problems. He was too different. Not only did he have Eurasian features, with doe-shaped eyes and light skin that made Kamigami think of a teen movie heartthrob, but he was tall and slender, towering above the average Malay. It wasn’t a question of virulent racism—the Malays were very tolerant—but rather the pervasive influence of ethnicity in Malay society. Because he was a very visible half-caste, Tel was simply excluded from the mainstream of village life. Kamigami and his family had experienced some of the same rejection when they first moved to the kampong. But thanks to his Japanese-Hawaiian heritage and his wife’s beauty—she was a Zhuang from southern China—his children were very Asian in looks and readily accepted by the villagers. It also helped that he was a wealthy man and always ready to help the villagers in time of need.

Why doesn’t your mother move to Kuala Lumpur? Kamigami asked.

My father still sends her money. It’s not enough for us to live in the city but enough for her to be important to the family. Like most Malays, Tel’s family was very aware of economic reality.

Two hours later something rough brushed against Kamigami’s leg. Don’t move, he said. Stay absolutely still.

What is it? Tel asked, the panic back in his voice.

Kamigami lied. Just a big fish. He suspected it was a shark.

I need to pee.

Don’t, Kamigami ordered. Urine in the water acted like a homing beacon for sharks. The two men waited, but whatever had been there had left. Kamigami could see a faint glow in the east. Keep paddling.

The sun was just below the horizon when Tel gave up. How much longer? Despair etched every word.

What difference does it make? We keep going until we get there.

I can’t make it, Tel announced.

At least wait for the sun to come up.

Why?

So you can see the shore and know how close you are. There was no answer. Kamigami took two quick strokes in Tel’s general direction and dove. He reached out in the blackness as he swam in a circle. His lungs were bursting for air when he felt skin. He grabbed a handful and kicked for the surface, dragging Tel with him. He broached like a whale, spouting and gasping for breath. He grabbed Tel’s face and blew a lungful of air into his mouth. Tel coughed and threw up water. Damn, Kamigami growled. We lost our pants. Lie on your back and start kicking.

No, Tel replied.

You’re stubborn. I like that. Now, start swimming or I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to the first passing shark.

How? You don’t have a knife.

Okay, Kamigami groused, so no plan is perfect. He thought he heard a laugh as Tel lay on his back and kicked for the shore. Kamigami did the same as they watched the sun break the horizon. He turned to look where they were headed, and saw land. There, he said, gesturing in the general direction. Tel turned and looked. His spirits soared, and he kicked harder. They were making good time when a series of dull explosions echoed over them.

What’s that? Tel asked.

Kamigami didn’t answer and maintained his even pace. Mortars, he thought. The explosions kept up a steady rhythm, growing louder as they swam. Dark smoke rose up and drifted over the shore.

I can touch bottom, Tel said.

Kamigami looked down and saw a coral formation. He dropped his feet and gingerly felt for the reef. He found a smooth place and let his weight come to rest. Be careful, he warned. Don’t cut your feet. The explosions abruptly halted, only to be replaced by the sharp report of gunfire. Now he could see flames licking at the bottom of the smoke.

Tel looked at him, his eyes full of concern. It’s our kampong, isn’t it?

Again Kamigami didn’t reply. His eyes squinted as he studied the shore, obviously looking for something. The gunfire stopped. I don’t see the ships that ran us down, he said. He set off with a powerful stroke, plowing the water. Tel fell in behind him but was rapidly outdistanced. It was a long swim, and Tel was two hundred meters out when Kamigami waded ashore and disappeared into the foliage behind the high-water mark. Tel struggled ashore and followed Kamigami’s footprints into the dense underbrush.

Over here, Kamigami said quietly. There was something in his voice that cautioned Tel to be silent.

They waited for over an hour.

Kamigami came to a half crouch. Follow me, he commanded in a low voice. Do exactly what I do, and don’t make a sound. Before Tel could stand, Kamigami drifted silently into the brush. Tel followed, astounded by the speed of the big man. It defied all logic that Kamigami could seemingly disappear at times and then emerge twenty meters farther on. Tel blundered after him, panting hard, following familiar landmarks as they neared the kampong. The stench of burning meat and wood filled his nostrils, and his eyes burned from the smoke. He ran into Kamigami’s back.

Tel was barely able to see as Kamigami led him to the upwind side of the village. Kamigami stopped and stared into what was left of their home. Nothing’s alive in there, he said. He sat down to wait for the fires to burn out.

Tel sat on his haunches, overwhelmed with grief, as Kamigami examined the ground around their kampong. He motioned Tel over and pointed out a distinctive footprint. See the ridges on the sole and heel, he said. They’re everywhere.

What does that mean? Tel asked.

Kamigami spat. Soldiers. He found a stick and poked through the ashes of his home. One by one, the big man carried out the blanket-wrapped remains of two of his children and then his wife. He gently laid her body next to the children’s. Mai Ling isn’t here, Kamigami said, his words barely audible. He stood and went in search of his twelve-year-old adopted daughter.

Isn’t she Chinese? Tel asked.

Yes was all Kamigami said as he plodded down a trail to a nearby kampong. They had been there before while waiting for the fires to burn out, but it, too, had been destroyed in the attack and was burning. Kamigami pushed through the still-hot rubble to the house of the old woman who had been the children’s amah. The house itself was leveled, but a small shed at the back was still standing. Kamigami pulled open the low door and looked in. For a long moment he didn’t move, his face frozen. Then he bent over and disappeared inside. He came out carrying his daughter’s body. From the shreds of her clothes and the condition of her body, there was no doubt that she had been tortured and raped. Tel ripped off his shirt and draped it over her body as Kamigami carried it back to his kampong.

Kamigami and Tel placed the nine small tin boxes holding the ashes of their families in the small shrine they had built overlooking the beach. It was a beautiful spot, and willowy casuarina trees and palms curved over them, beckoning at the emerald green sea and the islands that floated on the far horizon. Only the three offshore oil platforms that marched in a straight line spoiled the peace and tranquillity that had originally brought Kamigami to this place.

We used to come here in the evening, Kamigami said. May May always said we were looking the wrong way to see the sunset. But it didn’t matter. Together they lit joss sticks and placed them on the shrine, one in front of each tin. Kamigami knelt down in the sand, his hands on his knees, and gazed at the shrine. He fingered the flat gold whistle dangling from a chain around his neck. He cocked his head as he studied the dragon engraved on one side. May May said it made good feng shui at sea. He turned it over to the tiger. She said the dragon and the tiger are inseparable. Just as the North Pole must have a South Pole, if there is a dragon there must be a tiger. He raised it to his lips and gave a little toot. It was a sad, wistful sound that drove a pang of despair into his heart. It’s all that’s left. Everything else was destroyed in… His voice trailed off. Then, more strongly, I came here to escape all this. But it came after me.

Tel didn’t know what he was talking about, but rather than pursuing it, he asked the one question that consumed him. Why? He waited for what seemed an eternity.

Kamigami finally came to his feet, looked out to sea, and gestured at the oil platforms. Maybe something to do with that. I don’t know. He picked up a shovel and walked quickly toward the amah’s kampong. At a distinctive bend at the halfway point, he stepped off the path. He counted the steps to an open spot and started digging. The shovel clanged off a hard object. Kamigami scooped out more dirt and handed up a metal chest sealed in plastic wrap. He cut away the plastic, knocked off the hasps with the shovel, and threw back the lid. He removed a bundle from the chest and unwrapped it to reveal a submachine gun coated in Cosmo-line. A Heckler and Koch MP5, Kamigami said. It’s time you learned how to clean and assemble one.

For the next hour Kamigami and Tel methodically stripped and cleaned the MP5 and a well-used Beretta nine-millimeter automatic. When they were finished, Kamigami packed two rucksacks, hiding the two weapons. Then he dressed in dark gray-green pants and a black T-shirt, taking care as he laced his jungle boots. The boots were the only military item he was wearing. He threw Tel a pair of pants and a T-shirt that were much too large for him. We’ll find something that fits later, he told him, shouldering one of the rucksacks and adjusting the straps. Satisfied that it fit properly, he went into a deep crouch as his right hand reached back and snapped open a flap at the bottom corner of the rucksack. The MP5 fell out, into his hand. He slapped in a clip as he brought the weapon to the ready. The sound echoed in the smoky air.

Tel stared at the dark specter towering in front of him. He had never seen such a look on the face of a human being.

Kamigami gestured at the second rucksack. You coming?

One

Oakland, California

Saturday, July 24

The formal dedication ceremony of the Matthew Pontowski Presidential Library was over, but Madeline O’Keith Turner did not leave. Instead the president of the United States strolled down the hillside garden chatting with two former presidents and savoring the unusually clear and mild August day. From time to time they would stop and take in the magnificent vista overlooking San Francisco Bay with its view of the Oakland Bay Bridge and the city on the hill. A breeze washed over them, gently ruffling the president’s hair, creating a charming effect not lost on the TV cameras that were held at a distance on the veranda of the small library building.

The presidential entourage hovered in the background, nervously checking their watches. Only her personal assistant, Nancy Bender, was unconcerned with what the delay would do to the president’s carefully crafted campaign schedule. She alone knew what was on the president’s mind.

The deputy chief of staff rushed up to Nancy. How much longer will the president be? the young man asked. I’ve got a campaign to run…can’t delay much longer.

Nancy stifled a sigh. Like so many who worked in the White House, he had an overblown opinion of his importance because of the position he occupied. Yes you can, she replied. But she immediately relented. He’s got a point, Maddy. Madeline Maddy Turner had just emerged from a hard-fought primary campaign and turbulent convention to win her party’s nomination for president. It had been a near thing, which was unusual for an incumbent. Now her old rival and nemesis, Senator John Leland, was determined to deny her the election and get his boy elected, the former congressman and now governor David Grau. Leland and Grau’s opening salvo was an attack on her legitimacy. They claimed she was a political lightweight and incompetent, not capable of leading the United States, and had come to the presidency only through the vice presidency and the death of President Quentin Roberts. It was turning into a savage personal fight, and the fall campaign and run-up to the November election promised to be a brutal, take-no-prisoners battle.

A woman reporter floating behind Nancy said, She may be the most beautiful widow in the United States. Nancy agreed, for Maddy was at her best on this particular day. The president’s brown eyes sparkled with life, and her makeup was perfect for the sunlight, accentuating her high cheekbones and smooth complexion. That white linen suit is very elegant, the reporter continued. She has a fabulous figure.

Indeed she does, Nancy thought. She waited for the inevitable question.

Off the record, the reporter ventured, is there anything to the rumor about Matt Pontowski?

Nancy knew better than to deny it. Only what the president has said, she answered. They’re good friends and have the same mutual interests as any parents. She didn’t have to explain what the mutual interests were. The reporter knew that the president’s and Pontowski’s fifteen-year-old sons were best friends attending New Mexico Military Institute in Roswell. Nancy saw the cause of the delay move down the veranda and walk across the lawn toward the presidential party. She glanced at her watch and went in search of the deputy chief of staff. She found him still fretting over the delay. Thirty minutes was all she said. The young man scurried away to set the wheels of the campaign back in motion. Oh, Maddy, Nancy breathed. He does light your fire, doesn’t he?

The he was Matthew Zachary Pontowski III, the president of the library and grandson of the late President Matthew Zachary Pontowski. Every person, not to mention the TV reporters, at the dedication ceremony of President Pontowski’s library was talking endlessly about the physical resemblance of Matt Pontowski to his famous ancestor. Pontowski was exactly six feet tall, lanky, and with the same piercing blue eyes and hawklike nose. His shock of graying brown hair with its barely controlled cowlick was an exact replica of the late president’s, and he even walked with the same limp. Like his grandfather and father, he had flown fighter aircraft in combat, but no reporter really understood the significance of that. Still, it was the stuff that made news good entertainment, and they played it to the hilt.

Secretly each reporter hoped there was some truth to the rumor of an affair between Madeline Turner and Pontowski. But a strong sense of self-preservation held them in check—for always lurking in the background was Patrick Flannery Shaw. No one knew exactly what Shaw did as the special assistant to the president; however, he had direct access to Turner at any time and any place. That, plus a well-deserved reputation as the president’s pit bull, made it mandatory to stay on his good side. The one White House reporter who had gotten crosswise with Shaw had suddenly found himself reporting local events in Pocatello, Idaho. It was an object lesson that didn’t need repeating.

The TV cameras on the veranda zoomed in on Pontowski. Matt, Maddy called, what a wonderful ceremony. She extended her hand. I was quite moved by your words. He was a wonderful man.

Thank you for coming, Mrs. President, Pontowski said, gently taking her hand. The TV cameras recorded that they touched for a few seconds longer than required by protocol. But that was all. Pontowski shook hands with the two former presidents, and both were eager to recall the last time they had met. The reporters scribbled in their notebooks that the friendly reception was proof that Pontowski had a future beyond that of running the presidential library.

What a magnificent view, Maddy said, leading the small group to the one secure observation point. Because of two attempted assassinations, the Secret Service made sure that no one was within earshot or, for that matter, any other kind of shot. While security was intense, Maddy still moved without fear among people as the agents standing post worked themselves to a frazzle and into an early retirement. How’s Little Matt? Maddy asked.

Growing like a weed, Pontowski replied, and he’s not so ‘little’ anymore. Maybe that’s why everyone is calling him Zack these days.

Maddy laughed. Brian never told me. It’s much better than that horrible name Brian was calling him. I know Sarah will like it. Sarah was Maddy’s fourteen-year-old daughter, who had a not-so-secret crush on Pontowski’s son. Then the tone of Maddy’s voice changed as she became all business. Have you had time to think about it?

Pontowski nodded. The ambassadorship to Poland is tempting, but I’ve got to get the library off the ground. I can’t believe the stacks of documents and files we’re sorting.

You’re lucky, one of the former presidents said. No real hard issues like the tapes the Nixon Library has to deal with.

Anyway, not yet, the other president allowed.

Again Maddy laughed, enchanting Pontowski. There’s always a rat in the woodwork. They all assumed her rat was the man ambling toward them. Patrick Flannery Shaw was a shaggy bear of a man given to wearing rumpled plaid suits, scuffed shoes, and outrageous ties. At first glance he seemed totally out of place. But the knowledgeable knew he was a shark swimming in his perfect environment.

Mizz President, Shaw said, putting on his thickest southern accent, we got a passel of people who need tendin’.

Maddy pleaded helplessness. What can I do?

Win the election, the older of the two presidents said.

She shook hands all around, coming to Pontowski last. Matt, please think about it. I don’t need an answer until after the election. She turned to go. Oh, Mazie needs to talk to you. Can you escape from all these dusty archives? Mazie was Mazana Kamigami Hazelton, her national security adviser.

For Mazie, Pontowski answered, anytime.

I believe she’s free tonight, Shaw said. I’ll set it up for after the banquet. Then the president was gone, locked in a deep conversation with Shaw.

Sounds like a command performance, the younger of the two presidents said.

With the Dragon Lady, the older growled, damn right.

Pontowski only smiled and shook his head.

San Francisco

Saturday, July 24

General Pontowski, the Secret Service agent said, this way please. Pontowski followed the amazingly fit young man into a service corridor on the ground floor of the Fairmont Hotel. They stopped at a guard station, where Pontowski emptied his pockets and was searched. A uniformed guard ran a wand over him, searching for metallic objects. The wand buzzed when it passed over Pontowski’s right knee, and three guards immediately surrounded him.

It’s the pins in my knee, Pontowski explained as he pulled up his pant leg to show the long scars on his knee. Ejected from an F-16, he explained. Bad landing. Shattered my kneecap.

Understand, sir, the Secret Service agent said. But we’ll need an X ray to confirm, if you’re to see the president.

Pontowski was confused. I thought—

I can vouch for him, a familiar voice said. Pontowski turned to see Chuck Sanford. Evenin’, General. Setting off alarms—again?

A smile spread across Pontowski’s face. It’s been a while, Chuck. I thought you were with Brian. Sanford was normally assigned to guard Brian Turner, the president’s son.

I’ve been on vacation. I’ll pick up the duty when he goes back to the Hill. The Hill was the New Mexico Military Institute, where Sanford headed the detail guarding Brian. Because of the close friendship between Brian and Zack, Sanford and Pontowski had met many times. I’m lookin’ forward to gettin’ back to the land of the sane and borin’. How’s Zack doin’? For a moment the two men were silent. It was not a simple question, because Zack had saved Sanford’s life in New Mexico. But Zack had had to kill a man to do it.*

Pontowski chose his words with care. He’s doing just fine, and his counselor says he’s handled it as well as any adult. The relief on Sanford’s face was obvious. I swear he’s grown three inches over the summer, Pontowski continued. He’s been working at the library here until school starts.

Sanford signed a clipboard and motioned Pontowski to a service elevator. They rode in silence to the presidential floor. The doors swooshed open, and the security drill repeated itself. Sorry for the inconvenience, Sanford said.

I understand, Pontowski replied. It must be hell during a campaign.

You wouldn’t believe, Sanford allowed. He led the way down the service corridor to a door leading into the Presidential Suite. I’ll wait here for you, the agent said. He held the door open, and Pontowski entered a kitchen.

Pontowski’s back stiffened. Mazana Kamigami Hazelton was sitting at a small table with Patrick Flannery Shaw. Hello, Mazie, he said, ignoring Shaw. What can I do for you? Mazie was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, and the best of her Japanese and Hawaiian heritage was captured in her beautiful face and eyes. She came out of her chair and held Pontowski’s hand with hers, no longer the cool and aloof national security adviser but an old friend.

"It is good to see you, Mazie said. She stood back and studied him. It’s not fair. You just keep getting better and better looking."

And you’re still the charmer.

Maddy wants to see you, Mazie told him. But we need to talk first. They sat down at the small table with Shaw. She really wants you to be her ambassador to Poland. Before Pontowski could reply, she held up her hand. There’s more. Zou Rong is leading the Chinese delegation to the World Trade Organization conference in Chicago next week. He wants to speak to you.

Pontowski frowned as memories washed over him in full flood. He could no more stop them than change the course of the Mississippi River. For a moment he was back in southern China leading the American Volunteer Group—the AVG, a ragtag collection of pilots flying A-10 Warthogs—in support of Zou and his abortive revolution. Zou had saved himself by cutting a deal with Beijing. Pontowski had extracted the American Volunteer Group at the last moment and brought them back to the States. But it had been a near thing. Now Zou was the chairman of the Standing Committee of the National People’s Congress—the real power in China—and in line to be the next president. Common wisdom held that Zou was not content to wait until the current president died, and the two were locked in a power struggle.

Why me? Pontowski asked.

That’s what we want to find out, Mazie said. Pontowski tightened his lips, not liking what he was hearing.

We need an inside with the new boys in Beijing, Shaw said.

Because you’re at total odds with the current regime, Pontowski added.

They are expansionist, Mazie said, and engaged in an arms race. But we believe that if Zou Rong and his group come to power, all that can change.

Good luck, Pontowski said under his breath. He had a different take on Zou and what was really going on in Beijing.

But you will see him? Mazie asked. Pontowski thought for a moment before making a decision. He nodded once. Mazie pushed back in her chair. Maddy’s waiting.

Shaw humphed for attention, demanding the last word. The campaign is heatin’ up, and the press is sniffin’ after her like a pack of Dobermans goin’ after a poodle in heat. So far I got their peckers tied to a tree. But if they sense there’s anything goin’ on between you and her…well, let’s just say those boys are more than willin’ to do themselves an injury if they smell— Pontowski gave Shaw a cold look, cutting him off in midsentence. But the older man wouldn’t let it go. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why she lights up like a June bug when you come around. But you’re a political liability, son.

So what are you saying? Pontowski demanded.

Cool it until after the election, okay?

Pontowski stood and followed Mazie into the lounge. Maddy Turner looked up from the briefing book she was reading, and came to her feet as Mazie closed the door behind him, leaving them alone. Maddy rushed into his arms and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Then she led him back to the couch and sat down. For a moment he stood, not knowing what was expected, until she patted the cushion beside her. He sat, and she cuddled against him, caressing his hand. They talked about the boys, their families, and the personalities that walked on their stage. Gently they found what had been lost. Finally she couldn’t avoid the one issue they had to lay to rest. Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry for what happened in Poland. I wanted to do something, but we had to hold it at arm’s length for political reasons.

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 marked 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