

## THE TRAITOR OF ODA

Mystery, Romance, Politics, Espionage!

by

### D. S. Hancock

Copyright © 2015 by D. S. Hancock

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either the product of the author's active imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental. Really.

### ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:

Many people have contributed to my experiences, travel, and desire to write this book. Kathy Hancock provided motivation over several years, as I had many starts and stops. Her love and faith, that I both had something interesting to put to paper and that I could actually finish it, was invaluable. My friends, Dr. Gib Stuve and Dr. Alice Quiocho, made many important suggestions to the final draft as did my cousin, Ruth Loomis and my daughter, Cara Barker. And, to all my intentionally unnamed cohorts in adventure around the globe, I say a heartfelt "thank you"! This tale would never have begun without your fellowship, passion, and honest humor.

"Being unconquerable lies within yourself; being conquerable lies within your enemy."

Sun Tsu, circa 420 BC

### Table Of Contents

Prologue Practicing

Chapter One Spy Station

Chapter Two Selecting a President

Chapter Three Central Asia and a Femme Fatale

Chapter Four Bachelor Blues

Chapter Five Old Soldiers

Chapter Six Welcome to the Soviet Union

Chapter Seven Robinson Crusoe Grant meets his Friday

Chapter Eight In the Dark of the Night

Chapter Nine Conyers tells his tale

Chapter Ten Soji's Story

Chapter Eleven Soji Returns

Chapter Twelve A Fateful Decision

Chapter Thirteen Sacrifices for Ninjutsu

Chapter Fourteen Practice makes Perfect

Chapter Fifteen Return of the Prodigal

Chapter Sixteen Testing a New Weapon

Chapter Seventeen Barter Town

Chapter Eighteen Mending a Broken Heart

Chapter Nineteen The Shell Game

Chapter Twenty Deal with the Devil

Chapter Twenty-One Sweaty Palms

Chapter Twenty-Two A Thief Stikes

Chapter Twenty-Three On the Lam

Chapter Twenty-Four Escape by Sea

Chapter Twenty-Five Weak People

Chapter Twenty-Six A Tourist in Jersey

Chapter Twenty-Seven The Cat Fiddled and the Cow Jumped

Chapter Twenty-Eight Spy Lady

Chapter Twenty-Nine Plug the Leak

Chapter Thirty Mata Hari and Shemp

Chapter Thirty-One Sneaking Back

Chapter Thirty-Two Sanctuary

Chapter Thirty-Three Kidnapped

Chapter Thirty-Four The Gathering

Chapter Thirty-Five Insurance

Chapter Thirty-Six Treachery at Oda

Chapter Thirty-Seven A Ninja at Work

Chapter Thirty-Eight Confrontation

Chapter Thirty-Nine An Oath is Fulfilled

Chapter Forty An Appropriate Resolution

Epilogue And?"

Map of Central Asia

Map of Ancient Japan

Cast of Characters

### PROLOGUE

"PRACTICING"

June, 1995 - Detroit, Michigan

The five-story tenement building loomed stark and brooding on a forgotten street, lined with the bones of its dead brothers; a lone memorial to lost dreams and faded lives.

A summer sun blazed white hot, its brilliance ricocheting off sidewalks and street pavements as if alive, only to die the instant it encountered the building's ancient and powdery paint. Two small windows in the lobby door, layered with years of accumulated grime, denied entry to even a sliver of light. No, this was not a monument. It was a tomb for the living.

A tall blond man in a gleaming gray silk suit, skipped spryly up the entrance steps as if he had not a care in the world. Pausing in the foyer, Simon Pettit allowed his eyes to adjust to the dark interior. He could hear two men arguing, their slurred and muted voices drifting down from an upper floor. Ignoring the faint sounds, he headed up the well-worn granite stairs. Only one bare bulb hung on frayed wires at the first landing, casting more shadows than light. But the dark did not deter Simon. Since childhood, the dark had always been where he escaped, where he could become invisible. Reaching the first landing, he walked the fingertips of his left hand lightly on the wall as a guide, continued to the second floor, and took the hallway to his right. The argument from the upper floor faded entirely and the sound of his leather-soled loafers on the bare hallway floor snapped sharply.

Damn, he thought, hard soles. Forgot the soft-soled mocs. Soji was right as usual. It's been way too long – almost a year. Stepping toe-first, he moved his weight forward and glided silently, flowing like a dancer across a stage.

Simon stopped at a gray door with the number **27** hand-painted in white where an eyehole had been plugged. He knocked softly. No answer. He knocked a second time, slightly louder, and heard the sound of a dead bolt being withdrawn. The door opened slightly and a puff of warm, stale air escaped, pushed outward by a squeaky window fan. A short, overweight woman with straight brown hair peered from within, behind the cracked door, now held by a chain lock. Her pasty white face, eyes rimmed in dark pouches, and graying hair betold an age well beyond her thirty-four years. Layers of fat blurred a once sharp jaw line. Her dark green terrycloth robe hung open, revealing a greasy blue and white sweat-stained cotton housedress. With a rock-steady hand, she pointed a snub-nosed Colt 38 Police Special directly at Simon's nose.

"Who're you?" she demanded.

"I understand you have a problem," Simon replied coolly, keeping his eyes on the gun barrel.

"Problem? Whadayamean, problem?" she retorted, squinting at the man standing in the unlit hall. She could make out that he was well dressed. New suit, she thought. Even has a handkerchief in the pocket and damn, he's tall. She squinted harder and decided he was kinda handsome too. She gripped the gun ever tighter.

"Are you Miss Becky Hammond?"

"So?"

"I've read your letters to the President, Miss Hammond."

"You from the fuckin gov'ment? Huh? The F.B. _\- fuckin_ \- I?"

"Yes, but different agency," Simon replied softly. "It's important that I speak to you in confidence, Miss Hammond. May I come in, please?"

"Bout time somebody answered my letters to that sum-bitch fuckin' White House liar. What _you_ gonna do, ask more questions about them letters?" she asked, unlatching the door and moving a little to the side.

Simon moved to step through the half open door and hesitated as his nose caught the stench of excrement. He wasn't disgusted, just watching where he stepped. Papers were strewn everywhere. Bits of bread, chicken bones, and other unidentifiable food scraps lay on the sink, table, and kitchen floor in various stages of decay. About a dozen pictures of the current American President, cut from magazines and newspapers, covered the opposite wall behind a battered sofa. Human feces had been meticulously smeared on every likeness, giving each a dark brown mustache and goatee.

The woman noticed Simon as his gaze swept the wall collage and she waved her Colt at the pictures, giggling, "See that? Hah! Ain't he a real piece a shit? I wrote him 'bout every week for two years. Finally...I git you. Yeah, well anybody besides the F.B. - _fuckin_ \- I. Can't wait to see that sum-bitch in person when he gits here next month. You bet he'll notice me then. You damn betcha"

She stuffed her left hand, the one with the Colt, into the left pocket of her robe and then slowly released her grip on the weapon. With her right hand, she pulled out a well-used handkerchief from another pocket, put it to her nose, and blew noisily. Becky shuffled closer to Simon and he leaned toward to her, ignoring an overwhelming halitosis suitable for Godzilla, and smiled amiably.

"Miss Hammond, please, may I call you Becky?"

She nodded in resignation. No one called her Miss Hammond anymore, not even those tight-ass F.B.- _fuckin_ -I guys.

"Good. Well, _Becky"_ , Simon enunciated carefully, "several people in Washington have read your letters. You're very outspoken to admit you want to shoot the President. Most people only just think about it. You mentioned the FBI. When was the last time they talked to you?"

"Them guys? They ain't been here fer a long time, four-five months prob'ly."

Lowering his voice, Simon brought his lips near her ear and whispered, "Where I work, the FBI forwards us letters from folks like you, Becky. In certain cases, such as yours, I decide to help."

"Waddayamean, help?' Her face pinched and she cocked her head, waiting for an answer, then jerked back as his laser blue eyes locked with hers, piercing into her brain, searching out her madness. His eyes could probe places she didn't want seen. Becky quickly shifted her gaze downward and again wiped her handkerchief over her nose.

"First, I have a gift for you from the White House," Simon announced as he reached into his suit jacket pocket to withdraw a ball-point pen bearing the Presidential Seal of the United States of America. He offered her the pen.

"What's this?" she grunted. Grabbing the pen in a grimy paw, she slowly lip-read the inscription. "This supposed to fix things? This supposed to make up fer years of be'in sick and all?"

"Oh, no, Becky," Simon protested, with palms outstretched. "It's just a small present. I have something else, something that portends the solution to your problems. May I", he asked as he motioned with his head a desire to see her kitchen. She shrugged.

Simon took three quick strides to the kitchen area of the tiny flat. Becky Hammond's nervous fingers twiddled with her gift pen as she warily watched him edge past her.

Simon peered into the sink.

"Ah, yes," intoned Simon. From a pile of scum-covered dishes, he plucked a damp, sour wash rag. Squeezing the last bit of water from the rag, then using the rag as a pad in his right hand, he selected an encrusted dining fork from the dry sink bottom.

"Please, Becky. You need to see this close up." Simon beckoned slowly with his left arm for her to join him at the sink.

"Wha?" Becky Hammond muttered, tightening the fingers of her left hand around the handle of the Colt in her pocket, and shuffled toward where Simon stood waiting.

"The people to whom you have written those hate-filled and threatening letters will be happy when your problem is solved, Becky."

Suddenly his left hand stopped its slow waving movement and darted like a cobra's strike, snagging Becky Hammond by the nape of her neck, pulling her to him. Then, against her forward momentum, with the weight of his body behind it, Simon plunged the fork through her thin dress, into her solar plexus, just below the sternum. The upward curve of the fork guided four dull tines directly into her heart. Eyes wide, she dropped her handkerchief and released the revolver to grab at the fork with both hands. Her mouth opened for a scream, only to produce a loud belch. Becky spun and toppled to the floor, upsetting a kitchen chair in the process. Simon danced to the side as she dropped, watching her eyes bulge and then roll back in her head. Becky Hammond kicked, shuddered twice, and then lay motionless on her left side, head askew, right hand still grasping the fork. A small pool of blood had formed under Becky, a dark stain of urine coated her robe and the sharp, pungent odor of ammonia began to permeate the small apartment.

Simon righted the overturned chair, placed it near the small kitchen table, and tangled Becky's toes in one of her slippers. Anyone looking at the scene would see either a tragic accident or a horribly successful suicide. Either way, not a soul would care.

Simon bent down, retrieved the White House pen from Becky's pocket, and wiped it with the wash rag. He replaced the pen in his coat pocket and tossed the rag into the sink. Moving to a clothes rack near the door, he plucked off a wire hanger, unraveled the hanger, and fashioned one end into a small, closed "V". Opening the door slowly, he first checked to see if the hall was deserted, and then stepped into the hall, holding the door ajar. He hooked the V end of the hanger onto the end of the door chain and slowly closed the door, aiming the hanger so that the he could latch the chain just before the door closed. One the third try, the chain held. Loosening the hanger end from the chain latch, he retrieved it, wrapped the hanger twice around the door handle, and pulled sharply, locking the door. Unwinding the hanger wire from the door handle, Simon twisted it into a ball and stuffed the ball into his jacket pocket. He went quickly down the stairs, out of the building, and stepped away at a leisurely pace. He tossed the wire into an overflowing trash bin and continued on for three blocks until reaching a city bus stop.

Three young black men, wearing identical sleeveless leather vests in gang colors, lounged at the corner opposite the bus stop. All three watched Simon through narrowed eyes. This was not a neighborhood where blondes took casual walks. Apparently, this dude didn't give a fuck. Before they could initiate any action, a blue and white city bus puffed to a stop and, with a nod toward the three bangers, Simon boarded. He rode until reaching the Bonaventure Hotel.

Simon entered the Bonaventure beneath a huge green entrance canopy, crossed the marbled lobby, and exited through a large revolving rear door. He walked two blocks south to the main entrance of the hulking, gray Convention Center and took a place in line at one of the taxi stands. When his turn came, he told the driver that he wanted Wayne County Airport. As he relaxed in the cab seat, Simon reviewed the bus ride, the hotel cross-through, and now this cab. Gotta practice more, he thought, never know when I'll need it.

The taxi pulled away from the Wayne County Airport terminal, leaving Simon on the sidewalk, just outside the departure lobby. He went in and punched a number on the lobby pay phone.

"Extension 6731."

"Debbie, it's me. I'm at the Detroit airport. There's a plane leaving here for Washington National in about an hour. Switch my reservation for that flight and then book me back here next Friday. Also call Congressman Hastings and set up a meeting for tomorrow, any time."

"Yes, Mr. Pettit, I'll do that. By the way, what happened? Didn't you have your meeting about the satellite programs?"

"Yeah, but it wound up by ten, just in time to solve a small problem regarding the President's coming visit. Now, get me out of this place!"

### CHAPTER ONE

"The Birth of a Spy Station."

June, 1995 - Washington, DC

Swaying on burning, gout-stricken feet, Willard "Windy" Whitzer felt like a failed hot coal-walker at a Tony Robbins seminar. Sweat oozed its way around his ears, trickled down his cheeks and gathered to drip off his chin. He'd swear his right heel had a two-inch nail stuck in it. Breaths came only in short, rasping wheezes. Through glazed eyes he could see his audience of fellow congressmen and women gathered in the third floor conference room. The halls of Congress on this Friday were almost vacant of tourists and, when he paused for breath, he could hear the echoed footsteps of junior pages. In offices and meeting rooms, whether empty or in use, ceiling fans created the only visible movement. The thermostat in the House Intelligence Committee conference room was set on 70° and, unlike its occupants, the state-of-the-art A/C worked effectively. Unfortunately, the low temperature didn't help Windy. His hips ached as he moved his massive weight from foot to foot in an effort to ease the fire in his feet. Windy's 400-pound body swayed with hypnotic rhythm as he talked and sweated and wheezed. The talking part had always come easy to Windy, hence his nickname. During thirty-two years in politics, Windy had trained his mouth to work on cruise control, free of brain intervention. That little trick now freed his mind for a minute, escaping his gout-inflicted pain by imagining tonight's liaison with Charlene Thomas. She was after one of those high-paying non-jobs controlled by senior congressmen. Yes sirrrr, he thought, that Charlene is one foxy little gal. I wonder how badly she wants a job? Reeel bad, I hope!

Some people might label this good ole Texas boy a sexual predator but he wasn't, at least not by Washington standards. Members of congress from both parties and both genders rapidly learned how to bargain jobs for sex. And so did their employees. Insiders swear that's where the term "civil service" originated.

On this particular June day, the House Intelligence Committee had stayed in session later than usual to consider NATO's proposed cooperation with Russia's military. While Windy pontificated inside a cool conference room, the city of Washington was like the inside of a Finnish sauna, absent only the sizzle of cold water hitting hot pavement. The streets surrounding the Capitol Building were unusually free of pedestrians. A sparse scattering of first-time tourists stood on the Capitol steps, fanning themselves with city maps, wondering why they had come _here_ instead of the beach and why their tour brochures pictured D.C. as elegant and serene, cloaked in cool white marble when it was, in actuality, acres of hot concrete sitting where a swamp had existed for eons.

The entire committee was gathered around a twenty-by-eight foot table. Aides sat in study chairs behind their members. If they couldn't go home, they could at least hide here from the heat. Most of the day had been spent on the tedious details of American military interests in NATO and potential border problems with Russia and former Eastern Bloc countries. The committee had reached the last item of the day's agenda; a draft bill offered by Owen Hastings, committee chairman. Windy Whitzer was the fourth and last thirty-minute "position" speaker scheduled to debate the merits of Hastings' draft but he knew he wouldn't use his entire allotted time. Windy had been standing for only twenty minutes and was about to throw in the towel.

God _damn,_ I hurt, he thought, to hell with my promise. The America First people will have to take what I can give and today that ain't but few minutes more. I've _got_ to sit.

Windy summarized quickly. "I just can't see why these piss-ant, third world Asian countries are so damn important to the security of our great nation." He paused, inhaled with a deep wheeze and, briefly energized by the rush of oxygen, went on. "For too long we waited for the Ruskies to crumble. Now they have and their miserable factories are such a damn mess you can't see the dirt for the grease. I, for one, fail to see how that shambles of a disgraced regime can prove dangerous to anyone. Certainly not us."

Windy stopped swaying and smiled, awaiting a reaction, only to be greeted by stony silence. The ceiling fan was now especially noticeable, its soft _whoosh, whoosh_ further hypnotizing an already benumbed committee. Long seconds passed before the spell that had been cast by Windy's graceful, metronomic balancing act dissipated and it was finally apparent to all that Windy had actually finished a speech in less than his allotted time. Whitzer sighed and plopped his tired bulk into his chair, swiping his forehead with a well-soaked handkerchief.

"Well, er...well, thank you, Willard," intoned Committee Chairman Owen Hastings.

Hastings needed to stall. He hadn't really paid much attention to what Windy had said and he wasn't sure if he should compliment fellow democrat Whitzer on a fine presentation or move on without comment. Hastings pressed his memory to recall at least _one_ point that Windy had made. In microseconds, he snatched a word, a sentence, from the back of his memory and his political instincts took over.

"Your view is most correct, Willard," Hastings continued. "The Russian economy is – as you aptly put it – in a shambles. The intelligence community tells us, however, that the Soviet military machine is mostly intact. They caution that the impact of a deteriorating economy on the morale and living standard of each soldier, up, through, and including the General Staff, is going to affect everyone in the former Soviet Union. Eventually, perhaps the rest of the world as well. Sergeants are getting something like fifteen dollars a week, if they get paid at all. Common soldiers have been seen begging for food in the streets of Irkuts and Sevastipol. If the central government does not solve these and other problems soon, there may well be another attempted coup, this time backed in full by the military."

Owen Hastings' gaze swept the room, his soft brown eyes belying the arrogance that lay beneath. Hastings stood an inch under six feet but his stiff bearing, leonine white hair, and aquiline nose caused most people to remember him as much taller. Effective with the current administration, Hastings had, at long last, achieved a committee chairmanship. He'd paid his dues. His BA and LL.B. from Stanford and two terms as mayor of Chino had culminated into twenty-three mildly flamboyant years in the House representing an upper-middle class district in Riverside County, just east of Los Angeles. Hastings could finally enjoy the spoils of a committee chairmanship. The timing was also such that he was one of the many congressmen who had recognized the time had come to cash in.

Recent campaign financing laws had played a large factor in these personal decisions. Hastings had determined that he could take the $1.8 million remaining in his campaign fund with him, if he left soon. So, he'd made the not-so-difficult option to retire to his golf, Washington business interests, and local female companions. Leaving congress at this point was a no-brainer.

Except for a small white growth in his left eye, his health was superb. He'd inherited good genes and maintained a steady regime of sixty-minute workouts, four times a week at the University Club. He was confident that he could join the world of private business and still be based in Washington. That way he could avoid spending additional time in California with Steffie, his shrewish wife of some thirty-five years. Plump Steffie looked every day of her sixty-one years, whereas Owen could pass for ten years younger than his current sixty-two. Hastings intended to enjoy his contacts, good health, and impending wealth as a still-married but fully independent man.

Hastings' gaze rested on Sydney Harvey, a republican from Minnesota, who offered, "Mr. Chairman, I would like to add some additional input to this discussion."

"You have the floor, Syd," responded Hastings and Harvey rose to give his usual little lecture.

"I'm in total agreement with Congressman Whitzer. I was in Moscow this past March and got briefed by the CIA Station Chief there. He was extremely concerned about the inactive and deteriorating nuclear weapons remaining in the thirteen non-Russian Soviet Republics. Including Russia, the former Soviet Union contained fifteen republics. Other than Russia itself, only Belarus is considered purely _Russian_. That means thirteen out of fifteen are rediscovering their non-Russian identities. The Station Chief believes – and the Pentagon later concurred – that we can be somewhat more comfortable now in dealings with Russia. Of course, as Windy said, that's true only if the Russian central government stays in control of things within their country. It appears to me that those thirteen other, non-Russian republics are of serious concern. Some, such as Ukraine and Kazakhstan, have huge arsenals or even the rudiments of nuclear weapons that could be sources of instability and terrorism. They might well sell or barter weapons to terrorist states, plaguing all of our houses. Regardless of what happens in Moscow and between us and Moscow, fourteen other new and individual nations have emerged, requiring both our notice and attention."

After pausing for emphasis, Harvey continued, "Mr. Chairman, the draft bill under discussion should also adopt the CIA's quadripartite view of the former Soviet Union. It's one we've discussed but have not formalized in the bill. Therefore, I move that this committee include in the bill a statement that a quadripartite concept for the fifteen ex-soviet republics will be official US policy." Harvey shuffled his notes, selected a page, and read aloud, "The four groupings of Soviet republics will be: First: Russia and little Belarus. Second: the three Baltic nations of Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania. Third: the five Euro/Caspian countries of Moldova, Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia. Fourth: the five Central Asian republics of Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Turkmenistan, and Uzbekistan. Under this approach, United States intelligence agencies and this committee can be more specific and effective, in a geopolitical sense."

As Harvey was resuming his seat and before Owen Hastings could react to Harvey's motion for amendment, a small, dark complexioned congressman interrupted, by standing and asking, "If I may, Mr. Chairman?"

This diminutive politician normally took a rigorous part in discussions such as these. However, today he had listened quietly as one member after another exhibited his or her concern, either for American security or reluctance to release any more money to bureaucratic intelligence agencies such as the CIA.

"Chairman Hastings has drafted a plan that will make a most unique beginning to this committee's issue of intelligence gathering from the ex-soviet republics."

The speaker was New Yorker Anthony Robert Cannelli, the second ranking democrat on the committee. He stood, thumbs tucked into his trademark red velvet vest, and his eyes swept the room, touching on the face of each member present. Every person in the room knew that Canelli was not only a shrewd and experienced politician, he was also the only child of Gino 'Pockets' Cannelli, a _made man_ in Brooklyn's La Costa Nostra. And, from his earliest memory, Tony Cannelli had seldom failed to get whatever attention he desired. Cannelli's talents had not been lost on the silvered fox, Owen Hastings. At their very first meeting, almost twenty years ago, Hastings had recognized Cannelli as someone to be measured, stroked, and, whenever possible, utilized.

Cannelli faced Chairman Hastings as he continued. "Owen, today is the first time we've grappled with a geopolitical grouping approach to these fifteen republics. I can readily see that only by dividing them, can we make any efficient headway with any one of them. In our last meeting we approved additional funding for security at our embassy in Moscow and for improved surveillance of Russian submarines in the Baltic. That sort of stuff is routine to this committee. The bill that we debate today is historic. Along with Syd's amendment, this bill will allow funding for the first western-owned commercial bank in Central Asia. That bank will establish our presence in that fourth group of republics in a new and unconventional way. Our bank will be, in all outward appearances, a regular commercial bank operating at western standards in the ex-soviet republics of Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Turkmenistan and Tajikistan. These five newly independent countries have a total population of almost seventy million. Central Asia has more territory than the continental U.S., west of the Mississippi. Lastly, and most important to U.S. security interests, Central Asia borders the trouble spots of Afghanistan, China, and Iran. The bank we're talking about will be capitalized with one hundred fifty million dollars from our budget, under the bill we consider today. However, while our bank will be helping to furnish US intelligence agencies with what they need to know, this committee cannot be seen as the ultimate controlling body. The House committee on Banking and Finance, a committee that has virtually no contact with the CIA or intelligence-gathering, will be the publicly announced sponsor of a new entity called the Central Asian Bank corporation. I want every member present today to know that, although Banking and Finance will get the credit for establishing this bank, we will be empowered to name the bank's directors, thus holding ultimate control.

Cannelli waited, assuring himself that all twenty-four committee members were not only awake but also attentive. "Be proud," he said with a slight smile, "except for Iran/Contra, this may be the first time the US makes money from an intelligence operation. Mr. Chairman, I move for a vote on your proposed bill, with Representative Harvey's amendment attached, to bring it to the full House to consider."

Cannelli smoothed his vest and Hastings asked with a smug smile, "Is there a second?"

Less than ten minutes later, the ayes and nays were counted and the CIA's Central Asian Bank was conceived. Its actual birth would take less than three months.

### CHAPTER TWO

"Selecting a President"

January, 1996 - Washington, DC

Tony Cannelli had chaffed under Hastings' bumbling, preening chairmanship for far too long and was glad to be rid of the Californian snob. If Cannelli hated one thing more than losing, it was losing to tall WASPs. But today he had business with _this_ WASP. A lot had changed since last August when, via an amendment to a large defense bill, Congress had created the Central Asian Bank. Only two months later, Hastings resigned from the House and supported Tony Cannelli to replace him as Chairman. Cannelli then saw to it that Hastings was selected as CEO of the new bank, now commonly referred to as the "CAB". _Quid pro quo._

In his suite at Washington's Madison Hotel, Owen Hastings rose from the tufted silk sofa to greet Tony Cannelli as he stepped through the doorway. Cannelli might be only 5' 5" in street shoes but, with his chest puffed up under his famous bright red vest, an aggressive thrusting of his chin, he exuded power and arrogance. Slightly balding, Cannelli compensated with heavy black dye on his graying sideburns and, thanks to modern dentistry, he flash an engaging, toothy-white smile.

"How's your golf game coming along, Owen?" Cannelli asked while pumping Hastings' hand like the old pol he was. Internally, Cannelli yearned to draw his hand back quickly but instead squeezed tightly. He'd never given a hint of his personal distaste for the taller man and now was not the time to start. Hastings' Stanford education, thick head of hair, and old-family lineage had always been anathema to the son of a Wise Guy. However, Cannelli was a realist. He knew he could never escape the WASPS of the world, so he either charmed them or squeezed them. Regardless of which method he chose, he almost always won.

"Just fine, Anthony. Broke 90 twice last week."

Returning to his seat on the sofa, Hastings motioned with his hand for Cannelli to take a chair and asked, "What're you drinking?"

"Scotch on the rocks."

While pouring, Hastings asked, "Have you managed to get out on the links?"

"No, not yet" he replied, waving a hand dismissively and plopping into a low, softly upholstered armchair where his short legs wouldn't dangle. I still can't see much point to that game. It's about as dull as having lunch alone with Al Gore. Poker is still about as physical as I care to get."

"I see", murmured Hastings and changed the subject, "Have you learned who will replace Mike Felchuck on the committee?"

"Nope. Maybe next week. You know, sometimes I regret being Chairman." Cannelli paused and sipped his scotch. "Okay, not often but sometimes. That stupid son-of-a-bitch Andrews can never stop asking questions even when he has no hope of understanding the answers. The real truth is, maybe I've been on The Hill too long. Every two years a new group of freshmen knocks down the House IQ by a few points. They come with more advanced degrees and yet the debates get dumber. Owen, the Intelligence committee's name has become an oxymoron."

Regardless of the many years he had served in Congress, Hastings was now a "civilian", an outsider, and Cannelli hesitated; unsure whether he had said too much. On quick reflection, he decided he hadn't given anything away that wasn't known to most of Washington. Then, focusing on Hastings' inquiry of the committee members, he replied, "Oh, yeah, speaking of Texans, we both know one who died yesterday. Windy Whitzer."

"What? Hastings cried incredulously, Windy died?"

"Yep. His family's trying to keep the details out of the papers. Janitor found him yesterday at one in the morning."

"My god, Anthony, I didn't know. What happened?'

"The weirdest thing. He was in his office screwing that little secretary, Charlene, and had a massive coronary. When he collapsed, he damn near squashed Charlene like a bug. Cracked two of her ribs. EMTs couldn't get to _her_ until they rolled _him_ over onto a stretcher." Cannelli pictured Whitzer's 400-pound corpse atop tiny Charlene Thomas and he grinned slyly. "Say," he asked with an innocent look. "Maybe Charlene can get workers' comp!"

Hastings guffawed. "Seriously," Cannelli continued, "I'll miss hearing that good ole Texas boy's oratory. Some of these newbies make presentations like they're a valedictorian at a middle school graduation. What about you. Ever regret leaving the Hill?"

Hastings brightened. "Not for a minute! This Asian bank has me going faster than ever. We've built a very experienced local staff. And soon will be ready to open all five banking offices, one in each capital city. There's only one last piece to put in place. I need a real banker for president.

Cannelli's eyes widened. "You need a president NOW?" he sputtered. "For Christ's sakes, Owen, why'd you leave _that_ until last?"

"Well," Hastings answered carefully, "since you asked .... your son Daniel, our chief counsel and director, recommended a New Yorker named Dominic Fratello for president. Based solely on Daniel's recommendation, I authorized his hiring. Unfortunately, after the standard background investigation, the FBI reported that Fratello was currently under investigation by the SEC for securities fraud. That little detour set me back almost four months."

"Yeah, I heard about that, responded Cannelli. "Daniel told me he didn't know anything about Fratello's problems and I believe him." Cannelli's eyes narrowed and turned jet-black, recent humor forgotten. "Is Danny a problem?" Cannelli asked, in a hoarse whisper.

Hastings recoiled slightly. He well knew that it could be unwise, if not downright unhealthy, to get on the wrong side of the Cannelli family.

"Oh, my no. Daniel is doing a fine job. Anyone could have made that mistake. I appreciate his advice and counsel. Perhaps we should get to the real purpose of this meeting. I'd like you to review the file of another man the CIA has offered for the position of president."

Hastings' dealings with Cannelli went back to the bill that had created the bank, a result of the CIA's proposition to Hastings that a commercial bank could serve as part of its intelligence-gathering plan for the entire Soviet Union. Unsure as to what course to take on that unusual proposition, Hastings had tried to consult with Cannelli, whose initial reaction was no reaction at all. Cannelli couldn't have been less interested. Then, unexpectedly, a few weeks later, Cannelli came back to Hastings saying that he had reconsidered and could now see the benefits of such a bank. He encouraged Hastings to proceed and pledged his full support. Armed with Cannelli's backing and CIA assistance, Hastings' staff had drafted a bill, HR 2247, that received congressional approval. Concurrently, Hastings and Cannelli came to an understanding of a more personal nature. These two politicians were as different as Hillary and Monica but they shared the same love of money and quickly agreed that, at some convenient point soon after the signing of the bill to fund the CAB, Hastings would resign and, then Cannelli, on behalf of the bank's sole shareholder – the U.S. Congress – would nominate Hastings to be Chairman of the CAB with a five-year, two and a half million-dollar contract. As Chairman and CEO, Hastings would then see that Tony's son, Daniel, got a similar contract as director and in-house counsel. Hastings and the Cannellis, pere et fils, would split five million of the public's money, regardless of the bank's profits.

Hastings placed a folder on the coffee table in front of Cannelli. The label read:

"CONFIDENTIAL - GRANT, SHERMAN FRANKLIN"

As he reached for the folder, Cannelli asked, "Why do I get the feeling that this guy is now your choice as much as the CIA's?"

"Very perceptive as usual, Anthony. What we – you and I – need in this project is someone who actually knows how to run a bank but who will also follow my orders. I didn't leave Congress to become Chairman of the CAB to then have someone take it away from me. I will not put my face on this publicly visible business and then let it be run by someone who marches to his own drum. Further, Daniel and I both have custom designed compensation packages that are much too valuable to endanger. Believe me, after much deliberation, I've come to the conclusion that this fellow, Grant, is probably our man. Please take a few minutes, Anthony. Read his file and I think you'll agree."

Cannelli scanned the documentation inside the folder. A few minutes later, he put down the file, and cocked his head, peering at Hastings out of the corner of his eye. "Okay, just who, exactly, at CIA put this guy up for the job?"

Hastings nervously cleared his throat. "I believe you know him. Simon Pettit."

Cannelli's eyes widened. "Pettit?" he croaked. The Agency's weirdest loner? Look, if Simon _Fucking_ Pettit were selling dollar bills for fifty cents, I'd take a pass. He's like a lion at an antelope convention. I've met lots of guys serving time for murder and not one of them is as cold-blooded as him." Cannelli shook his head in disgust. "Didn't you know his background?"

Hastings' neck reddened and his lower lip twitched slightly. He replied, carefully choosing his words, "The Director of Operations at CIA was the first to suggest the Central Asian bank project. Effective last month, the agency formally assigned Simon Pettit as the CIA liaison to the CAB, under cover as being a financial advisor from Goldman Sachs. I've already nominated him to join the board of directors. You might find him a bit eccentric, but the CIA Director of Operations told me personally that Simon has produced _things_ of immense value for the Agency. When I asked Simon to assist in the search for a president, in less than forty-eight hours he came up with Grant's bio. To be totally honest, Simon hasn't yet met Grant but says he has a good feel about him, based on the records."

"Hold on," replied Cannelli, rising from the armchair to address Hastings from a standing position, left thumb hooked in his signature red velvet vest. "Let me tell you a little about this _eccentric_ guy you say has produced _things_ of value," Cannelli hissed as he began pacing round the coffee table. "I first met Pettit when he was working on a special project to assess Japan's modern military capabilities. Initially, I thought he was a pretty good rep for the Agency, well dressed, handsome, articulate, and he knew his subject. One afternoon I ran into him in the Capitol cafeteria and we got to talking. All of a sudden, he says casually, "Our next problem will be bailing out Japan."

That caught me by surprise, so I asked how he had come to that conclusion, in the face of the Soviet Cold War and the shit the Chinese and Koreans were pulling. In response, he starts spouting lots of technical data. Some of it sounded like pretty heavy stuff. When I asked where he got his information, he assured me nothing he was telling me was classified. When I asked him if this was an official Agency position, he said, "Oh, no. Not yet. Right now, the theory is only mine."

When I asked him why he held such a contrary position in opposition to conventional wisdom, he leaned toward me and, in a conspiratorial tone, whispered, "I speak and write Japanese and I've spent a few years there."

"So what?" I replied, "The Agency's got lots of spooks that speak and write Japanese, some of their parents or grandparents were born in Japan."

"That's true, Congressman," he answered, "but how many of them really know the Japanese culture and can speak _ancient_ Japanese?"

All of-a-sudden, his voice seemed to get deeper and his eyes went dark and squinty. It was real creepy. Can you picture ice blue eyes, suddenly turning into dark, slanted _Asian_ eyes?"

Pettit then stared at me and announced, in a deepened voice, "I studied at Osaka and Edo."

I didn't quite understand, so I asked, "Where's Edo?" He continued to stare at me with a blank expression. Then suddenly shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked at me kinda funny, like he was embarrassed at what he had just said but he didn't blush. Instead, his face brightened, his eyes stopped squinting, and his voice went back to normal.

"Congressman, he said slowly, "I'm sorry I piqued your curiosity but I can't tell you anything more. I'm not comfortable discussing my personal background"

I was a little pissed at that condescending tone, so I snapped at him, "Listen, Pettit, you opened the issue of Japan and _your_ studies at someplace called Edo. Sit down, damn it, and explain yourself!"

He glared at me with those piercing eyes of his and god knows I've been stared at by some pretty tough characters, so I stared right back and didn't blink. After a minute or two, he answered me in a flat, stone-cold voice. "Okay, but briefly."

I nodded, motioned for him to sit, and he began telling me his story.

"I joined the Agency right out of college, NYU, in June of 1980. They started me in at grunt jobs; filing and analyzing old position papers. I worked hard and learned a lot. After three years of office experience, I asked my boss, Jim Conyers, if I could get a field position in Japan. Jim approved a posting to the consulate in Osaka in early '83."

I interrupted and asked if he had learned Japanese or Asian languages in college.

"No, later," he answered.

"Why did you ask for Japan?"

"I'm getting to that," he snapped and gave me another laser-eyed stare. "Do you know that the Agency periodically gives all 'secret cleared and above' employees polygraphs and certain other tests to uncover moles, corruption, substance abuse, and other stuff?"

I nodded, and he would have continued except that a congressional page spotted me and came over to tell me I was needed for a roll call vote. Roll calls get to the C's fairly quickly so I broke off the conversation with Pettit but I didn't forget his strange, unfinished story. I ran into him two days later in a hallway. He tried to avoid me but I cornered him and asked him to finish his story. He coolly refused to discuss his background with me any further. You might guess I was really pissed. I don't like teasers. Who was this fucker anyway, playing games with a congressman! Then, out of the blue, about a week later, Pettit's old boss, Jim Conyers, came to my office to ask for my support at a pending State Department budget hearing."

Cannelli stopped pacing and returned to his chair. "I think you know Conyers, maybe six four, bald, as black as charcoal, and one of the sharpest guys I've ever met in _either_ CIA or State."

Hastings nodded and Cannelli went on. "At that time, Conyers had moved over to State as assistant secretary for congressional liaison. When Conyers finished pitching me on State's budget requests and before I made any commitment to back his position, I brought up the subject of Simon Pettit. I demanded that Conyers tell me everything he knew about that condescending shit. He hesitated to tell me anything but I pressed him, reminding him I was number two on the Intelligence Committee and had a top-secret clearance. I didn't have to remind him of State's pending budget issues.

Conyers waved away my arguments, rubbed his baldhead nervously and said that it wasn't just _secrets_ they were dealing with. He was concerned that the Agency might get a black eye if others knew what Simon was doing. He stated that Pettit had turned into a very, very valuable Agency asset, regardless of how or why.'

I conceded that Pettit might be valuable to the Agency but I told Conyers that, so far, I think Pettit's a little off and certainly hadn't shown me any respect. Then I asked Jim what he meant by 'regardless of how or why? Conyers replied that if I really want to know, it would have to be on a top secret basis. I told him it was fine with me, so he suggested we go for a walk. We were outside the Capitol Building, headed off on Pennsylvania Avenue, before he resumed our conversation. This is what was happened...

'First you'll first need some background," Conyers began. "I think it was in '78 or '79. Somebody on the Director's staff got the hots over J. B. Rhine's work in parapsychology at Duke University and put some heat on lower CIA staff to take a closer look at various types of ESP. We already knew the Russians were deep into this new quasi-science and our guys didn't want to get caught with our clairvoyants down. By the time Simon took his first security test in '83, Agency examiners were using flash cards to see if anyone exhibited ESP abilities and hypnosis to help determine truthfulness in the questioning phase. They were also experimenting with post-hypnotic suggestion as a way to help agents resist enemy interrogation.

After looking warily at some passersby, Conyers continued, "Simon's first ESP test with flash cards indicated some deviation from norm. That wasn't followed up and had been completely forgotten when, a few months later, his hypnosis session set everybody on their asses. According to our specialist in hypnotism, Simon was one of the best subjects he'd ever seen. Seems he got into a trance much faster and deeper than most. The real mystery was that Simon answered all the questions in Japanese, with some Chinese phrases mixed in. Pettit wasn't supposed to know any Japanese or Chinese. Of course, the examiner didn't know that this wasn't expected, so he went through the entire list of questions, accepting Simon's answers in Japanese, even though no one present understood what the hell he was saying. The next day, I sent a tape of his answers to our Asian desk for translation. Those guys were stumped. They thought Simon had used a strange Japanese dialect and recommended we call in two Asian language professors from Georgetown. The Georgetown people listened to the tape and told me an interesting fact. Until about 1650AD, Japanese peasants were illiterate and spoke only an argot version of Japanese, which was really a streamlined version of Chinese, whereas Japanese nobles, warriors, priests, and merchants spoke both the _new_ Japanese language and _old_ Chinese and wrote mainly in Chinese. These two professors said Simon's replies were all in ancient Japanese and the Chinese he dropped in, here and there, was just like it might have been spoken by nobles hundreds of years ago. As soon as I received a written report from the Georgetown professors, I called Simon in and asked two other senior department heads to join me. The three of us grilled him for over four hours. Simon consistently said that he didn't know Japanese or Chinese and that he didn't know how he could answer as he had. One guy on that interrogation team challenged him, accusing Simon of being a deep mole for the North Koreans but Simon didn't faze. From the beginning, my opinion hadn't changed. I believed he was just a young man obsessed with Japan, for some unknown reason. At the end of this tough interrogation, the three of us decided to test him again and see what else we could learn. If he was really a mole, he might slip up, now that we knew what to look for. If not, maybe we could get some clue as to what was going on. Simon agreed immediately and admitted that he too was beginning to worry that maybe he did have a subconscious obsession problem."

At this point, Conyers slowed his pace, came to a stop, and turned to face me. His face had a deep frown and, in a low voice, he said, "Congressman, I've never before told this story outside the Agency." He held up his hand as I tried to interject. "I know, I know," he said. "You're cleared for top secret. That's part of why I feel able to tell you what I have. Also, you're someone who understands intelligence, who usually backs the Agency, and someone who has a family past full of secrets. Know what I mean?"

Now, the fact that that fucker had the balls to mention my _father_ , even by inference, really steamed me but I didn't react. I had to hear more.

"Yeah, yeah," I said. "Go on."

We resumed walking and Conyers continued his story. "We set up a lecture room for the second try. I invited more than two-dozen people: psychologists, psychiatrists, interrogators, and Agency brass. That was the audience, pretty much skeptics to a man. We used a new hypnotist, with the original hypnotist as backup, and she began to talk Simon into a trance. That went fast with the new examiner asking questions about other people, names, and dates. She tried to trick Simon or his Japanese personality into saying anything that might blow a mole's cover. Later, both hypnotists told me that Simon had given the best hypnotically revealed past life history they'd ever heard of, much better than Bridey Murphy. Simon had given answers complete with specific facts that they usually didn't see in cases like this. The morning after that test session, I received the translation of Simon's responses. I'll never forget how it went:

Question: 'What is your name?'

Answer: (Always in old Japanese) 'My name is Kajimoto Soji'.

Question: 'Where do you live?'

Answer: "During my last year, I lived at the castle of my _daimyo_ , General Katsugi."

Question: What is a _daimyo_?

Answer: He is my noble lord, my master.

Question: 'Where is this castle?'

Answer: 'Katsugi castle is on the highest hill in Kohuku, looking west to the ocean.'

Question: 'How old are you?'

Answer: 'I was seventy-two at death.'

Question: 'What was your job?'

Answer: 'Master of Ninjutsu for my _daimyo_ , General Katsugi.'

Question: 'What is a Master of Ninjutsu?'

Answer: 'I supervised the training and assignment of ninja warriors, once called _shinobi_.'

"That type of questioning went on for about forty minutes."

Conyers looked at me to see my reaction. And was I real intrigued! "What did you do then?" I asked. "What did the Agency do?"

He answered after a bit. "I sent the transcript of Simon's session to our people in Japan for verification of the data he'd provided and put Simon on paid leave until we got the verification back and could make some determination about his future. Five weeks later, I met with the DDO and several other senior people. Not surprisingly, the verification report from Japan began by complaining of the difficulty in verifying items, places or events that were over eight hundred years old. However, they were able to verify three dates, two names, and two locations. It was their opinion that Simon could not have obtained the information he gave from simply reading about Japan. He, or a tutor, would have had to research these items _in_ Japan. As far as we could tell, he'd never been there and, hey, he was just a kid.

Our guys in Tokyo recommended that the Agency seriously study this phenomenon further. They also asked us to get something even more specific from the Soji personality, something irrefutable. Most of us, including Simon, wanted more tests, so we ended up doing one more hypnosis session, two polygraphs, and one psychiatric exam. During the third hypnotic trance, the Soji personality was asked if he could prove his previous life; who he was or had been. We asked him for specific evidence that he had ever existed. Most of all, we wanted him to describe something about his life that couldn't be faked. Simon seemed to be searching his memory and didn't respond for a long time. Finally, the Soji voice said for us to look in the lowest floor of a small castle near Hagi, on the west coast of southern Japan. He described the wooden and fieldstone castle and its approximate location but said he couldn't guarantee that it would still be standing. He named one of the rooms where he said he had slept as a child and told us to locate a certain stone in the floor. I remember his words exactly, 'My father's sword is under the third stone. It has a bone handle.'

We sent a transcript of the entire session to our Station Chief in Osaka with the Soji directions marked in red. When all that extra testing was finished, we still didn't know any more than we had before we started, but at least we felt we could rule out Simon being a mole. Also, the psychiatrist's evaluation didn't tell us much. He said he found Simon to be an exceptional intellect, inner directed, with limited parental and personal relations. In other words, a smart loner. From all of this, we developed two theories: One, Pettit was brilliant enough or psychotic enough to fool our hypnotists and the psychiatric interview, or Two, Pettit somehow had memories of a past life".

"Did your guys ever find the sword?" I asked.

"Oh yeah, they found an old, rusted sword just where he said it would be only it wasn't Japanese. They don't use wide, curved swords like the Arabs or Mongols, so how could it be his father's? Regardless, our guys in Japan were fascinated just by the fact that he had led them to an ancient hidden sword. They pleaded with us to send Pettit to Japan for a follow up. At that point, the Deputy Director decided that if Simon had some ESP connection to Japan, the Agency should jump at posting him there. Beating the Russians at ESP research was not an un-important factor. We figured, once he was in Japan, our guys, with Simon's total cooperation, could follow wherever this old Jap, Soji, would lead. This was the first time in my experience at the agency where everyone involved happily signed off on a foreign posting. He left in May of '83."

"So he went to Japan," I asked. "What then?"

By this time Jim and I had walked quite a way down Pennsylvania Avenue. We stopped for the light at the corner of 12th Street and, as I was about to step off the curb to continue walking, he grabbed me by the shoulder with one of those huge hands of his and stared at me. "Congressman, er ...Tony," he said, "I've just given you a top secret briefing. If you want more, we'll need at least a few hours in a more secure location. When it's convenient, give me a call."

I said, "What the hell?" But he ignored my protests and, without another word, turned right and went down 12th, leaving me standing there. He hadn't even brought up the issue of getting my support on his budget. I thought of running after him but I really didn't have any more time myself. So, we ended up walking off in different directions."

"Did you ever take him up on his offer?" asked Hastings.

"Well, yeah, I really wanted to. After that little walk, I went out on a limb and supported every one of his budget requests. He owed me and knew it. You know, Owen, I've probably reached for the telephone to call Conyers more than half-dozen times since but something always gets in the way." Cannelli stabbed a stubby finger at Hastings. "Right now _you_ need to get to Conyers. Use my chit. You need to have absolute confidence in Pettit and his recommendation. If what he says doesn't change your mind, so be it."

"I will, I will, Anthony, as soon as possible. Thank you for the warning...and the chit."

Owen Hastings had no intention of risking a check on Simon. He owed his position of bank chairman _first_ to Pettit and _second_ to Cannelli. It had been Pettit who, in championing the CAB cause, had started the bandwagon for Hastings to become CEO of the bank. Every time HR2247 had caught a snag on the way to approval, Pettit had been the one who solved whatever problem lay in the way. Pettit's involvement and trust were much too valuable to lose at this point.

"I must tell you," said Hastings, "so far, Simon has been extremely helpful. With regard to finding a president for the CAB, he assures me he wants someone with the same qualities as I do, someone I can handle. And, he's only read Grant's file; Simon's yet to meet him."

"Okay, Owen, but what the hell makes you and Weird Simon think that Grant can be controlled?"

Again Hastings replied cautiously, lest Cannelli's anger return. He leaned nearer Cannelli, gave him his Honest Abe look, eye to eye, and answered as sincerely as he could.

"Grant's whole life is a portrayal of that old West Pointe slogan: Duty, Honor, Country. He's never disobeyed an order. Eight years as a Marine officer and always right by the book. No fights, no drinking bouts, no gambling, not even an unpaid tab at the Officers' Club. And the best part of it, he speaks Russian. His mother was born in St. Petersburg and, for that reason, he proved himself useful on assignment to NATO headquarters. His natural Russian set him in good stead with Warsaw Pact officers. All of his CO's gave him high marks and he even finished an MBA while in the Marines. After mustering out, Grant went through a Citibank management-training program in New York and stayed on for two years. I think he was an analyst or something in the commercial loan department. Next, he went to Connor-Meade Investments on Wall Street as a broker. He was there for over four years and, can you believe it, Anthony, not one customer complaint. You know as well as I do, if a broker on The Street doesn't get complaints, he probably isn't screwing enough people. My guess is that Grant left New York for less pressure and a steady income. He's been at Bartlett Bank almost three years now and they're very happy with him."

Cannelli pursed his lips and asked, "What about his family?"

"Only child of very interesting parents. His father, Joe Grant, was one of the originals at the OSS in '42 and completed several missions behind the lines in Central and Eastern Europe. After the war and the disbandment of the OSS, Joe joined the new CIA as senior specialist for the Balkans. He retired in '82. As I said, his mother, Tanya, was born in Russia. She escaped with her parents to England in '39. She and Joe met there, right after the war. Tanya eventually became a novelist of sorts and taught literature at William & Mary. Both Joe and Tanya were killed in an automobile accident in '84 or '85. I don't know exactly how much, but Grant received a good deal of money by way of insurance and inheritance.

"Have you talked to him yet?"

"Not yet. I will soon. Then I'll see then how he acts in person."

Cannelli fidgeted with his tie. He didn't want to let go of this. Pettit virtually called his own shots at the Agency and it could be more trouble than it was worth to roil up Hastings. He'd already pushed a bit too far against Pettit's recommendation without a substantial reason.

"Oh, I guess this guy's okay," Cannelli finally announced, reluctantly. "It's just that I have a bad feeling in my gut about accepting a gift horse from Simon Pettit. Go meet him. Keep me posted and don't forget - see Conyers."

Hastings smiled and nodded in agreement as Cannelli rose to leave. As soon as the door closed behind Cannelli, Hastings picked up his phone and dialed a private number at CIA - Langley.

"Simon?"

"Yes, Owen. What can I do for you?"

I've just finished meeting with _Godfather_ Cannelli. He blessed Frank Grant without a whimper."

"Careful what you say, Owen. That tough little Italian is no dummy and don't forget it," replied Pettit, with a slight hardness to his voice. "When do you want me to see Grant?"

"Time is of the essence. It's almost February. How about today. A drink at Duke's?"

"OK. You call Grant and I'll see you there about six."

Frank Grant set down his telephone after a surprising conversation with one of Washington's most powerful men, ex-Chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, Owen Hastings. Frank did not like to deal in unknowns and at this minute he was deeply puzzled.

Why, he wondered, would Hastings call _me_? Hastings had been guarded, saying only that he would like to share a cocktail. Frank shrugged. No sense in worrying, he thought, I guess I'll know after Duke's. Frank put Owen Hastings out of his mind and resumed reviewing one of the many financial statements that lay stacked on his desk.

"Mr. Grant, Mr. Stevenson wants to see you," announced the office receptionist on the intercom.

"Sure, right away, Gloria."

Frank stretched his arms, flexing his back muscles, and picked up his suit coat off the back of his chair to slip it on. He scooped up the top loan file and headed out the door.

Frank rapped on the office doorjamb of Hadley Stevenson, III, President of the Bartlett Bank, and heard an annoyed voice respond from within the cavernous office.

"Is that you, Grant?"

"Yes sir."

"Come in, come in. What's that you have in your hand?"

"It's the file on the Jackson project. At loan committee meeting this morning, you said wanted to see it."

"Oh ... yes. But that's not why I've summoned you." Stevenson regarded Frank over wire-rimmed glasses perched halfway down his large nose. He was a small man, thin and balding with wispy gray-brown hair. Stevenson's desk stood on a three-inch riser so that visitors would have to look up to face him and the spotlighted visage of his grandfather that hung on the wall immediately behind him. Not having been offered a seat, Frank stood in front of Stevenson's desk and glanced round at the portraits of six male Stevensons that hung on the dark, mahogany-paneled office walls. Each had a large, bulbous nose and appeared to sneer at the viewer, either over or directly through thin spectacles.

The nose must be a family trait, Frank thought, along with bad eyes and an attitude to match. This pompous little shit hasn't a clue about respecting other people. One day he'll go too far. Frank spread his feet, relaxed his shoulders, and did his best to remain calm and confident in an atmosphere of arrogance.

"Why am I here, then?" Frank asked.

"This morning I received an inquiry from the FBI, asking about you. Stevenson paused and then hissed, "What have you been up to, Grant?" Under raised eyebrows, Stevenson's beady eyes stared bullets and Frank took a half step back. in wide-eyed surprise.

"FBI? I don't know why the FBI would be asking about me. Did they give you any reason for their inquiry?"

"Obliquely. They said it had to do with _government employment_." Stevenson thrust his head forward like a snapping turtle reaching for food and raised his voice, "What are you scheming, Grant? Thinking of leaving us? Taking all that we have taught you and running off, eh? Without so much as a farewell note." Stevenson sat back with a sour expression. "And I thought you marines valued loyalty. _Hoo Ray_ and all that macho crap."

Hearing the marine cry misspoken, it took all of Frank's composure to keep from smashing Stevenson in his red, clown-like nose. Well, fuck him, he thought and looked to his left, picked an armchair and sat down without being invited.

Crossing his legs, he smoothed his pant crease and answered in a calm voice. "I haven't applied for any other position, in government or otherwise. If you think I'm doing something wrong, document it and we'll discuss it. Otherwise, I've brought the papers you asked for this morning." Frank reached out and dropped the Jackson file on Stevenson's desk with a loud _thunk_ and leaned back in his chair.

Stevenson started at the sound of the papers hitting his desk, also shocked that Frank had actually sat without permission. His cheeks began turning bright red and his tongue stuck to the top of his mouth.

Getting no response from Stevenson, Frank asked quietly, "Anything else?"

Grant sat down before I gave him permission, Stevenson thought, and now _he_ is ending the meeting. Taking liberties just because he thinks he's a source of business and a good loan man. This won't do! Stevenson glared at Frank, unsure as to how to punish Frank's impudence. After a second, he held his up his hand to forestall Frank's exit, took off his glasses, squinted suspiciously, and announced coldly, "If you say there is nothing to it, Grant, I'll let it go for now. However, should the FBI call again, I shall expect that you will know a good deal more than you do today."

Stevenson replaced his glasses. Snapping opened the Jackson file, he buried his snout in its contents and, by ignoring Frank's continued presence, dismissed him. Frank exited Stevenson's office, vowing that he would never again let that little prick get to him again. At least not without paying dearly for it.

Duke's is one of the most popular and, for some, the _only_ watering hole in D.C. for people playing the power game. Every day, from eleven in the morning until well past midnight, senators, congressmen, cabinet members, ambassadors, lobbyists, and their peers met at Duke's to discuss the latest winners and losers in Washington's constant, bloodless but deadly political wars.

Paul, the maitre d', greeted Simon Pettit warmly and directed him to a coveted end booth on the left rear wall, where Owen Hastings and Frank Grant sat waiting. As he worked his way through the crowded restaurant, Simon sized up Grant. Because Simon himself had such unusual eyes, that was the first feature he noted on any stranger. Grant's green and brown eyes, deep-set in a heavy-boned, masculine face, shone bright with intelligence and interest. Although clean shaven, Grant obviously had the kind of heavy beard that showed a shadow five minutes after shaving. Simon guessed that Grant's nose had probably been broken sometime in the past and now it pointed a little to the left. Grant's dark black, wavy hair was medium length parted on the left and his suit had obviously been tailored to fit his muscular frame, pleasing Simon to see that Grant still kept his body in fighting Marine condition.

Simon flashed his brightest smile. "Hello, Owen," he said, out of the side of his mouth while he stuck a hand toward Frank. "Simon Pettit. You must be Sherman Grant."

Frank rose slightly, taking Simon's measure. Pettit's wiry physique topped Frank's six feet by two or three inches and he wore his light blond hair slicked straight back. Pettit had on a dark gray silk Italian suit and sported a matching handkerchief. Pretty smooth, Frank thought. Looks like he wants to give the impression that he's a model for GQ or a successful D.C. lawyer. Or both.

"Good to meet you," Frank answered. "My father's fascination with Tecumseh Sherman and Benjamin Franklin aside, it's just plain Frank."

Frank took Pettit's outstretched hand and Simon's cool, crisp exterior did nothing to prepare Frank for Simon's limp handshake. Frank grimaced inwardly, hiding his distaste at holding another man's lifeless hand. It was akin to holding a flaccid cock. Someone else's.

It was then that Frank first noted Pettit's icy blue eyes, the kind that revealed nothing and saw everything, and an image flashed in Frank's mind. A Gestapo officer in an old movie. That Nazi, he thought, had eyes like Pettit's, emotionless and penetrating. I've always wanted eyes like that. You don't lie to eyes like that.

Waiting for their drinks to arrive, a Perrier for Pettit, Wild Turkey on the rocks for Hastings, and a Jack Daniel's Manhattan for Frank, they worked through ritualized chatter about weather, sports, and other mundane topics. The moment his bourbon was in hand, Hastings' spine stiffened. He seemed to rise in his chair as he prepared to address the reason of their meeting.

Regarding Frank, Hastings began, "I think it's time I told you why we asked you here. Mr. Pettit and I are responsible for a government project that began when I was Chairman of the House Intelligence Committee. That project began as HR2247, also called The House Bank Plan for Central Asia. That bill established a commercial bank to operate in Central Asia, financed by the US Government and owned and operated by a surrogate corporation. Our meeting today is to discuss a need we have at the Central Asian Bank, CAB for short."

Hastings paused and glanced at Simon. Simon nodded for him to continue and he would have but Frank interrupted, his gaze going first to Simon and then to Hastings.

"Excuse me but I'm confused. Do you have the right fella? I don't know anything about this, this ... CAB ...or even Asia."

"Well, we think we've got the right man. We – Simon and I – have worked for almost a year to staff and equip the bank. I've selected and hired five skilled people as vice presidents to manage each of the bank's offices and experienced local personnel to back them up.

Unfortunately, we recently bade farewell to our original choice for president. He failed to pass a background test. However, his departure may be a blessing in disguise because, in reviewing your records - in school, the military, and in business, - we were highly impressed. Simon and I want you to be the first CAB president."

What the..., Frank thought. President of a bank in Asia? I had enough trouble in Poland to last a lifetime. There's got to be a catch to this.

"Congressman Hastings, eh, _Owen,_ " said Frank, leaning toward Hastings. "This is a flattering surprise, to say the least." Frank looked inquiringly first at Hastings and then Pettit.

Simon answered first. "We know what the bank needs. Of all the candidates we looked at, your background and record were the best, by far. You've got the necessary banking and financial skills. And you speak Russian."

"Russian?" blurted Frank. "What's that got to do with Asia? Even Viet Nam's lost its Russians by now."

"The key word here, Frank, is _Central_ Asia," said Simon. "We're talking about the South Eastern part of the Soviet Union. Seventy million people in five newly independent countries. The boys at State refer to them as the _stans_ : Kazakh _stan_ , Kyrgyz _stan_ , Tajiki _stan,_ Turkmeni _stan_ , and Uzbeki _stan_. _Stan_ meaning 'land of', as in 'land of the Kazakhs,' and so forth. All five republics commonly use Russian even though they each have distinct local languages, either Pharsi or Turkic based. Of course, sometime in the future they'll no doubt emphasize endemic languages and eventually the use of Russian will fade but that will take at least a couple of generations. Perhaps even longer, because a sizable Russian population remains scattered throughout the region. For example, almost half of the twenty million citizens of Kazakhstan are Russians."

Frank was intrigued. "What you're saying is fascinating and new to me. I'm familiar with the Asia of the Far East and even the Middle East. I had no idea there was a _Central_ Asia."

"Yeah, it's somewhat of a misnomer," said Simon. "These five countries are west of China, over the Tien Shan Mountains, are more of a _Western_ Asia, if anything. I don't know why or when, but somewhere along the line they got tabbed _Central_."

"Obviously, I missed that geography lesson. Thanks for the background." Frank ran his hand absentmindedly through his hair as he considered his next question.

"Okay, I can see how I might be a candidate. That also explains why the FBI was asking questions at the Bartlett Bank. Apparently you already know a lot about me and, if I'm to have any choice in the matter, I had better learn more about the CAB. Do you gentlemen have anything in writing about this? You know, the local economic data, bank funding, goals, duties of the president, salary, and whatever?"

Hastings reacted immediately and reached under the table, took out a brown folder from his attaché case, and offered it to Frank. "This should answer most of your questions. Please read it and get back to me as soon as you can." With that, Hastings took a last sip of his bourbon, rose, shook hands with Frank, and turned to Simon. "Get the bill, will you? I really must go." And he disappeared through the rear exit.

"Care to have dinner, Frank?" Simon asked with his right eyebrow arched.

Something told Frank that he should read the CAB material before getting too close to either of these men. It was white lie time. "Gee, I'm sorry," Frank answered. "I hadn't planned on this lasting beyond the one drink promised by Congressman Hastings. I need to get back to the office for a bit. Perhaps a rain check?

"Of course," Simon answered smoothly, with the trace of a smile. "Next time."

Simon had planned to prime Frank for the _rest of the story_ but that could wait. And so could Simon.

Arriving directly from Dukes, Frank pulled his Mercedes 500 SL into his building's underground garage and patted the dash of the convertible lovingly as he climbed out. Frank never tired of this car. Its performance, dependability and strength had drawn him from the first moment he'd spotted it. At the moment when he'd felt most depressed, his love-life dashed, he'd gone walking on a cool Saturday morning and unexpectedly found himself drawn to a showroom window on New York's West 58th Street. Inside, _his_ Mercedes awaited. Twenty minutes and eighty thousand dollars later, he'd driven happily away, proving that a new woman wasn't the only thing that could salve a man's emotional wounds.

Casting one last, protective look at his convertible, Frank walked up one flight to the main floor of his Arlington townhouse. He'd purchased the property sight-unseen four years ago as soon as he was certain that he'd be leaving New York and moving to Washington. Contrary to what many people might assume, Frank had done very well as a broker for Connor-Meade Investments. True, it took him almost two years, after the marines, to catch up to the other young brokers on Wall Street but, when he did, he had clients who loved and trusted him. Frank didn't have to constantly replace clients like the high rolling brokers who screwed twice as many as they helped. Frank's fourth and final year was good for four hundred thousand _after tax_ and the next year could have been even better, had he stayed. Fortunately, thanks to his parents' estate, money had been the least of his worries, even before choosing to be a broker. They'd left him generous life insurance settlements, two houses, stocks, two cars, and a motor home. He'd quickly sold all the vehicles and the main house in Williamsburg, retaining the stocks and the old family get-away place on the Thames River in Connecticut. To his knowledge, that inheritance made Frank the only multi-millionaire captain in the Corps.

Paying eight hundred thousand cash for the townhouse didn't require much thought. What else did he have to spend it on?

Frank popped a Dos Equis, eased himself into his favorite chair and opened the CAB folder. It contained four documents, several maps and State Department briefings on each country in Central Asia. The first document was a forty-six-page reprint of HR 2247, authorizing and funding the Central Asian Bank. The second was a one-page job description, which briefly stated:

1) President / COO (Chief Operating Officer), reports to Board Chairman (CEO)

2) Three year contract, $265,000 per year, minimum annual increases of 8%

3) Board of Directors has the option to renew President's employment contract for additional two years

4) A severance payment of $200,000, for termination without cause

5) Housing and transportation allowances up to $100,000 per year.

6) Reports to Board Chairman.

7) Supervise five regional vice presidents, each at a "country" office:

Tashkent, Uzbekistan

Ashkabad, Turkmenistan

Dushanbe, Tajikistan

Almaty, Kazakhstan

Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan.

8) Responsible for annual budgets and corporate assets.

The third document was a comprehensive ten-page employment contract, which further detailed the job description and compensation. Frank made a few notes on a yellow legal pad in preparation to turning over all the papers and his notes to his attorney, Sid Korshak, for Sid's usual, solid legal review. The fourth and last document was a government secrecy agreement. Apparently, the president of the CAB must sign an air-tight agreement not to disclose any federal government secrets. That's very strange, Frank thought. What _government_ secrets will the CAB have that are so valuable?

"Mr. Grant, there is a Mr. Pettit here to see you," said the Bartlett Bank receptionist over the intercom.

"Send him in, please," Frank answered, rising to meet Simon at the door.

Simon politely declined an offer of coffee and Frank resumed his seat behind his desk with Simon settled in a visitor's chair. Eyeing the several sports trophies, charity awards, and celebrity photos on the walls and on Frank's desk, Simon grinned, thinking, if I was managing the Redskins, I've just been given first pick in the draft. This guy is perfect!

"Thanks for seeing me without notice, Frank. Owen sent me your packet of materials, including the signed secrecy agreement. He said your attorneys had cleared the contract and that you intended to sign it today, so I wanted to tell you in person how happy and relieved I am that you've decided to come on board. Also, with paperwork out of the way, I can now explain how and why the CIA came up with the idea of having your bank provide the Agency with intelligence from each of the Republics of Central Asia. Frank, I'll be your primary contact with the Agency. It's going to be great working with you!"

Frank's whole body stiffened and he sucked in air and then spewed out three questions in one breath, "You're CIA? This bank is a CIA covert? Does Hastings know about this?"

Simon's grin disappeared in the face of Frank's angry reaction. He'd expected some questions, some hesitancy, but Grant was going ballistic.

"Easy, boy, easy," Simon cautioned, in a calming voice. "I can understand your surprise. First let me tell you how it is. Sure, Congress hypes the idea that they're funding the CAB to help those poor folks in Central Asia. However, in all honesty, the CAB would never have happened if the Agency hadn't asked for it. As a marine officer, you understand our national need for intelligence, right?"

Simon paused, eye brows raised. Frank glared back and Simon pressed on. "The United States needs intel from everywhere, especially that potentially volatile area of the world. Reliable intel and lots of it. Currently: _nada, zilch, nyeto_. We have an embassy in each country and each embassy has at least one intelligence officer. Their input is Lilliputian. Our schmuck at in Kazakhstan took three weeks to find out that the Kazakhs had appointed a new Defense Minister. Some lowly analyst at Langley got lucky and picked it up from a Moscow newspaper. Damn it, Frank, how can the Agency advise the White House without good intelligence? The biggest problem is the lack of qualified people. When Jimmy Carter appointed Stansfield Turner as CIA Director, Turner lost no time is gutting the Agency and we've been gradually sliding deeper into mediocrity ever since. Then, in '91, came the breakup of the Soviet Union and, virtually overnight, we needed fourteen new embassies for the new Soviet republics. Because my responsibilities included Central Asia, I got stuck with seven cast-off field agents to post to the five new Central Asian embassies. Those seven guys were selected solely because they were _available_. For whatever reasons, their last bosses were happy to get rid of them, even in a world of more work and less staff. Finally, we face the problem of the speed at which these five republics are going their own ways."

Simon caught his breath and leaned forward with emphasis, ticking off points on his fingers. "One: Kazakhstan is trying to shake down the West by hinting they may upgrade their nuclear factories and missile installations. Two: Turkmenistan is blackmailing an international oil consortium that wants to lay a $10 billion pipeline across the Caspian Sea. Three: Tajikistan is threatening to let the Taliban use their country as a base to spread their version of Islam into the other Central Asian republics. Four: Uzbekistan is holding the foreign exchange of Daiwoo Motors Company hostage, right after Daiwoo finished building a new car factory in Tashkent. Five: Little Kyrgyzstan is the only one that isn't biting any hand that feeds it. At least not yet. And that's why the CAB headquarters is there."

Simon paused. He could tell Frank was listening but a dark, suspicious scowl covered his face. Simon decided to press on with his pitch, with the experience that enough dry facts can act as a coolant. "With less than five million people, Kyrgyzstan is officially classified as an emerging country. _Emerging_ is PC-speak by economists for _poor_. That's to avoid lumping poor non-African countries with poor African ones." Simon smiled sardonically. "Proving even number-crunchers can practice discrimination."

Frank scowled even more darkly and Simon waited. Frank's light-green eyes were slits and, with a voice hoarse with tension, he responded, "Look, I've just spent a week of my time on your offer, paid a lot of money to a bunch of attorneys to negotiate the contract's fine print, and drafted a resignation letter for Bartlett Bank. Had I known this was a CIA operation, I wouldn't have spent a minute or a dime. But don't think I'm a babe-in-the-woods when it comes to the world of espionage. My father lived in your world his entire working life and he never failed to make sure I knew enough about it to steer clear. My dad was a true-blue American who loved and respected the OSS. But, by the time he retired, he'd grown to loathe the CIA. He told me, more than once, that the OSS's was hesitant to mutate into today's CIA and, when it did, it became a politicking, castrating, and hypocritical organization. He warned me to never trust the _Agency._ That's one reason I chose a life in finance." Frank's eyes shone like hot coals as he stared at Pettit. "I'm sure that contract is not binding. You failed to disclose material facts about the CIA's involvement." Frank snatched up a paper from his desk. "This is my resignation letter to Bartlett." Frank ripped the paper in half, dropped it on his desk, and rolled his chair back from his desk, signaling the meeting was over.

Simon held up his hands, palms out to Frank, "Hold on, Frank. Please hear me out. I totally agree with your father's depiction of the Agency but it will only change if guys like me – and you – help. The Agency still performs some very useful things for our country, admittedly slowly and sloppily. One of those good things was when the Agency backed me to create the CAB. The CIA won't be running the bank, Frank, you will and we want you to succeed. The CAB will have normal banking objectives: deposits, loans, services, and profits. You'll be able to help these host countries. I'm only asking for information, something a bank relies on almost as much as the Agency does, right? How can you evaluate loans if you don't have all the facts? When you're gathering data on loan applications, just get me copies. When you visit government officials, send me a copy of your report. Every now and then send me a list of your depositors' accounts. As a director, I'm entitled to that information. Don't worry, your job description specifies banking, not spying."

Frank's scowl had faded but his eyes remained hard. "I'm not troubled about passing on information to a _director_. But, if I take this job, I have to be sure you and that bureaucratic Agency of yours won't interfere with the bank itself. Regardless of the reason for its creation, what I've learned in the past few days has convinced me that the CAB truly has the potential to be a positive financial force, both for Central Asia and the U.S. Those counties need financing badly and, if it's run properly, the CAB can be of immense value to all concerned. Considering the lack of experienced personnel in that region, the communications problems, and a hundred other things, it'll be all I can do to get the bank up and running. That'll be difficult enough with one boss, let alone a bunch of spooks. One of the things I've learned in the past few days is that Owen Hastings doesn't know shit about business and even less about banking. Oh, he'll try but, in the past few days, I've had three discussions with him about operating procedures. I took great pains to explain things in basic terms and he still didn't get it. Now, you too want in on decisions? What the hell do _you_ know about running a bank?"

Simon recognized he was at a critical point of salesmanship. One little push and Frank would be gone, off the hook and too wary to bite again. Grant's initial reactions had at first seemed to be anti-Agency when now it seemed that Frank's biggest worry was actually outside interference _by anyone_. If Frank thought Simon was going to be heavily involved, _as he planned to be_ , Frank would balk and that would set everything back at least three or four months, maybe longer. Simon had to keep Grant committed and then get him off to Kyrgyzstan. Now was the time to dust off his people-handling skills that had been honed convincing scared shitless covert operatives to get in the game and provide him the intel he needed. Simon raised himself in his chair, reached across Frank's desk, put his hand lightly on Frank's arm and beamed his best evangelical smile.

"Frank, we chose you because we need someone who can deal with things on his own. I'll admit, in the short run, this bank is only a source of intel to me. In the long run it can be the glue that binds these countries to America. When that happens, the Agency's need for intel from the CAB will abate, primarily due to the goodwill and relationships nurtured by investments such as the CAB. You're absolutely right, Frank, it doesn't take a genius to predict this bank will die if Washington tries to run it and, if it dies, I'll be left with the same five dwarfs I have now to provide me with intelligence. I also agree, too many bosses spell failure. The only sensible thing is for you, and only you, to run the bank. You have my word that you'll get no micro-managing from Washington. And that includes Hastings. If he becomes a problem, I'll deal with him personally. Trust me on this, okay, _Captain_?" Pettit patted Frank's arm lightly, looked him straight in the eye and waited, his ice blue eyes warming to the color of a blue summer sky.

Before answering, Frank's thoughts turned to something his father had said about the OSS. Since he was old enough to remember, Frank had pestered his dad to talk about his time with the OSS and later the fledgling CIA. Throughout Frank's early years, he never questioned his father's love and support but, during those days, Joe never felt close enough with anyone, including his only son, to talk about his OSS wartime experiences or even his work as a CIA civilian employee. As far as Frank knew, the closest Joe ever came to mentioning his time as a spook was during dinner at home, when occasionally he would drop a sarcastic remark about some ignorant politician who "got off" dabbling in Intelligence affairs. Joe's silence evaporated the day after Frank received his commission in the Marine Corps. Joe finally accepted Frank as a man, a soldier, and, at last, a confidante.

Frank's memory turned to 1981 when he and his father were celebrating his commission, sharing a bottle of Merlot in Joe's den. His dad began speaking in a low, intimate tone.

"You remember the actor, Sterling Hayden?"

"Sure, Dad. The general in the Doctor Strangelove movie, right?"

"That's the guy. Did you know he was OSS? He jumped with me into the mountains just north west of Sarajevo."

"Really?" Frank asked, intrigued.

"Yep," Joe answered, "May of '44. Just seven of us: two Yugoslavs, three yanks -- Sterling, me, a guy from Oklahoma named Bobby something -- and two Brits who acted that our wartime experiences were boring. Sterling, Bobby and I didn't get along with those Brits. They never seemed to get excited or a bit nervous. Some people might like that style. You know, cool and aloof. They bragged that they were Sandhurst grads and could handle any situation. Arrogant pricks." Joe sipped his wine and continued, "You know, if you can't get the adrenaline pumping, you don't properly respect problems, like the ones we dealt with. Fear can be your friend; it's a great warning system. Anyhow, we needed an RAF plane for the Sarajevo mission, so we had to take them along."

Joe sat back in his chair, his mind recalling long-past faces. "You would have liked Sterling, he was a great son-of-a-bitch. Six four and as tough as nails. Like the English, he didn't seem to rattle easily but he sure respected danger. I could always tell when things were getting rough. Sterling's gravely comments got shorter and dirtier until sometimes he only said one or two words at a time, like _damn it_ , _fuck it_ , and _shit_. I got so I knew _damn it_ meant halt, _fuck it_ was retreat, and _shit_ meant booby trap or ambush. On the other hand, the Brits never swore. Oh, they'd say _bloody_ and _bugger_ , but never our kind of cuss words. So they totally ignored Sterling when he did and they never bothered to figure out his little code. One dawn, we were entering a grove of trees and Sterling growled, ' _shit damnit'_. Bobby and I immediately stopped and ducked but those limey goofs kept going. A sniper shot both of them right in their tracks. One was dead before he hit the ground. The second one was only wounded and we left him with the guerrillas."

Finally, his father could talk with him about events never before voiced to anyone outside his close group of old OSS buddies. "Dad, obviously you got out okay, but was the mission successful?"

"Yeah, I guess so. We set up good, reliable communications with the resistance in the North and knocked out a German train before we got out through the port of Split.

"What was the worst part of it?"

"I guess the best part was also the worst. The resistance people were extraordinary. Very brave. They'd fight to the end. Unfortunately, a few of them were much more dangerous to us than the Germans. Yugoslavs had mixed feelings about the war. On the one hand, they hated the Germans occupying their country. On the other, they had a deep, historic hatred for the non-orthodox people in Yugoslavia. You know: Jews, gypsies, Muslims. Lots of times these hatreds clashed and we had to guess which way they were going to jump. Whenever someone said 'Trust me', 'I'm your friend', or 'This way, you first', I checked my weapons and my maps and stuck close to Bobby and Sterling because, about half the time, this _friend_ would be leading us into a trap."

Allowing old memories of his father to fade, Frank addressed Simon, "Okay, now I understand more about the Agency's needs but what if you're transferred or Hastings is replaced? I think I need something that protects my authority, like a board resolution."

"Sorry, Frank," Simon responded. "The politics surrounding the bank directors won't allow that. Suppose we put an addendum to your contract that says you can quit with a very substantial severance if ever your authority is undermined by anyone _other_ than Owen? After all, technically he is the Chairman."

"I've always recognized that he's the CEO but I'm pretty sure I can handle him. If you can do that, I'll accept it."

Pettit stood, sighed, and smiled broadly.

"Good. I'm glad we've gotten everything out in the open and you're still part of the team. Now, we need to discuss your training."

"Training? What training?"

Simon closed his eyes and considered which tack to take. He opted for the _patriot/hero_ play. "You've had Marine recon experience, right?"

Frank nodded. "So?"

"Well, that'll help. I think you might also need, but probably will never use, I might add, some additional exposure to Agency methods in surveillance, communication, and encryption. What's the use of getting information that may be vital to nation security, if you can't pass it on? As I've said, we don't expect anything serious to ever cross your desk but the CAB will be Uncle Sam's best eyes and ears in all of Central Asia. If an uprising occurs, a terrorist makes threats against Americans, or Americans are kidnapped, you could be our only link. See what I'm saying?"

"Yeah," Frank replied, "but that's more than passing on account information."

"True. But would you want to see innocent Americans blown up or assassinated or kidnapped, and not offer to help?"

Frank shrugged his shoulders and didn't answer. He'd just bought into the patriot's burden, sold by a snake oil salesman.

Simon smiled. "I knew you'd understand. I've set you up for a three-week session at The Farm in Virginia beginning two weeks from next Monday. You'll finish on March 3rd. That timing okay with you, Frank?"

"Hell, first I learn that I'm part of a spy network and now I'm going to be trained as one. I'll go, and I'll say it one more time; don't count on me as one of your spooks. I'm counting on you to get that damn addendum signed by the end of this week." Frank could feel his shoulders tense and wondered if Simon Pettit was the kind of _friend_ his father had warned about. How do I check my weapons, dad?

"Consider it done," answered Simon, offering Frank his rational limp handshake.

Now all Simon had to do was get Frank through training and then off to Kyrgyzstan before buyer's remorse could set in. Simon left the Bartlett Bank both exhausted and elated. He'd finally signed his first draft pick!

### CHAPTER THREE

"Central Asia and Natasha."

February, 1996 - Washington, DC

Janie Frost sensed her boss approaching her desk from behind her and she quickly spun her chair around to face him. "Mr. Hastings," she asked, "do you have your tickets, passport, travelers' cheques, and the CAB folder?"

"Oh, yes," Hastings answered innocently, "Of course."

Janie had been his secretary for over eight years, writing his letters, overseeing filing, and making sure he went to the right meetings with the right documents at the right times. Six months ago, she'd followed him to the CAB. Janie probably knew Owen Hastings better than anyone. Grinning smugly, she held up his tickets and waved them under his nose. Hastings feigned guilt and Janie giggled. He'd known she had his tickets and he also knew that it made her feel good to show him how much she was needed, even though he often told her so. This plain, overweight, shy young woman had never, ever let him down. In January of '87, Hastings' office was a shambles. He couldn't get work out and had to terminate the one secretary working for him, deciding that just one secretary wouldn't do; he needed two. And competent ones. The problem was that even senior congressmen eventually bump their budget limits and Hastings only had enough money left for one secretarial position. What the hell, he'd figured, I'll hire a minority, take the credit and, when she doesn't pan out, use the crisis to get an allowance for two gals. It was thus that Janie came to work for him; solely as a shrewd political move – a _triple bonus_ : female, black, and a single mother. Hastings fully expected the work pressure and his volatile temper would run Janie off in a few weeks. How wrong he was. She not only took over the vacant position but also carried the load meant for the yet-to-be approved second position. Hastings never again disparaged minority-hiring programs; in fact he became a very vocal proponent of affirmative action, something that pleased his new aide immensely.

"Janie, I don't know how you do it. Now, tell me again, what do I do when I get to Istanbul?"

Janie swiped at her bangs and recited, as if reading from a travel brochure, "You arrive at Ataturk Airport at 10 a.m. local time. Remember, you have a fourteen-hour layover in Istanbul. First stop is passport control. There should be a special desk there where you can purchase a visa to enter Turkey. It's forty dollars and good for thirty days with unlimited entries, so you won't need to get another one on the way back. You already have a one-year visa to Kyrgyzstan in your passport and that's also good for any of the other Central Asian countries. Once you buy the Turkish visa, go through passport control and then on to baggage claim. Get your bags and look for a desk marked 'Turkish Airlines Hotels'. They'll provide, _free,"_ Janie's eyebrows rose as she emphasized, "a room in a _first class_ hotel to go with your _first class_ ticket. Turkish Airlines will take you to the hotel and back to the airport later in the evening for your midnight plane to Kyrgyzstan. Puleeeeeze, Mr. Hastings, remember what our travel agent said. If you decide to play tourist, you shouldn't wander too far from the hotel. Istanbul is a city of 11 million and about 10 million are poor. Just think of Washington after dark, times ten. All clear, sir?"

"You haven't lost a step, Janie." Hastings hefted his briefcase. "See you in five days."

February, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Turkish Airlines' Airbus 320, flight 672 from Istanbul, touched down at Manas airport in Bishkek at 07:40, about thirty minutes late. Owen Hastings spilled his third bourbon as the plane bumped and jumped along in the worst landing he'd ever experienced. Grumbling and wiping his pants, he looked out the window to see why they'd landed in a cotton field.

The man in the seat next to him noted Hastings' concern. "First time Bishkek?" he asked in heavily accented English.

Hastings regarded his fifty-something neighbor, a short and stocky man with a thick black mustache and a pockmarked face, dressed in a wrinkled gray suit, white dress shirt and a black tie.. Hastings had sat next to this man for over four hours and hadn't exchanged so much as a hello.

"Yes," Hastings replied, "it's my first trip here. You've been here before?"

The swarthy man nodded. "Oh, yes, many times. I am businessman here."

The plane slowed, winding its way to a stop just off the end of the runway. Hastings relaxed turned to question his seatmate, "Is it difficult doing business in Kyrgyzstan?"

"No, no." responded the man. He rummaged in his coat, pulled out a business card, and offered it to Hastings. "I am Ikhbal Murat. I am from Turkey but know this country. Many Turkish businessmen work here. You know the Kyrgyz people speak Turkish?" Hastings shook his head in reply and Murat continued, "Under Ottoman Empire, much of Central Asia was Turkish." Murat sighed, "Sometimes it is difficult to get Kyrgyz to work but...we Turks do it."

Hastings nodded, stored that bit of information for future reference, and made a mental note to check this reference to Turkish superiority. If it were true, why hadn't the CAB been staffed with Turks, instead of locals and Russians? The jet engines whirred into silence as the plane crept to a halt in a parking spot facing the gray, concrete and marble terminal building. Ground personnel quickly moved an old, recently repainted portable stairway up to the forward door of the big jet and Hastings followed Murat down the shaky contraption. As Hastings reached the tarmac, he took a deep breath in the crisp, clean air of an early spring dawn. The morning sun was peeking over mountains to the east, spilling golden light on the southern snow capped mountains. The sky was clear, free of clouds and not a trace of the East Coast smog that Hastings knew so well.

Eight or nine Russian-made passenger planes, marked either TU 134 or TU 154, sat to the west of the terminal, their engines covered, looking used-up and long forgotten. Two still bore the emblem _Aeroflot_ , the others had _Kyrgyzstan Airlines_ crudely painted over the old _Aeroflot_ name. To the east portion of the tarmac, he saw a long line of World War I style single engine biplanes, some covered with tarps. Beyond the biplanes, a new large cargo jet, with IL 76 marked on its nose, sat with its rear-loading bay hanging open. A small man, standing next to a blue van marked VIP, waved and Hastings turned his attention from the airplanes to the van. Jim Vandercamp, manager of CAB's Tashkent office approached and offered Hastings his hand. "Welcome to Bishkek, Congressman. This your first trip to Kyrgyzstan?"

"Thanks, Jim. Right, I'm a rookie.

Vandercamp took Hastings' carry-on bag and Hastings asked, "How are things coming along down there? In Tashkent, I mean."

"Pretty good, sir. We got our license last Tuesday from the Uzbek National Bank. I expected it to come in sooner but it took them a little longer because they didn't know how to word our license. They've never had a real foreign bank before."

"Well, congratulations are in order." Hastings gave Vandercamp's arm a slight squeeze. "Sorry to get you up here for my visit, Jim, but Frank Grant is still making his transition from the Bartlett Bank. He won't arrive for another month or so."

They climbed into the VIP minibus and Hastings settled next to Vandercamp. A young Kyrgyz man, sitting in the front of the van, next to the driver, turned round and Vandercamp introduced Almaz Kourmanbekov, CAB's translator. Vandercamp admitted to Hastings that he could get along ordering lunch in Russian but he needed Almaz to handle the more difficult conversations, in either Russian or Kyrgyz. Their van pulled away and Hastings pointed to some planes sitting on the tarmac.

"Maybe one of you can tell me, Jim, why are those biplanes all sitting and rusting? And why are Aeroflot jets parked here?"

Vandercamp smiled to himself. Now was his chance to show off a bit and he signaled Almaz to stay quiet. "The biplanes are AN2's, Antonov's that is. I call them the pick-up trucks of the air. Super little planes that can land most anywhere, in a long driveway if you want. They're designed to carry about a dozen passengers and some cargo. The problem is they use 115-octane aviation fuel. No one here makes that good a fuel anymore; the demand just isn't high enough. Our cars have to make do at the gas pumps with 73 octane"

Vandercamp paused and Hastings asked, "What about the big passenger jets?"

"The 134's and 154's?"

Hastings nodded and again Almaz stayed silent, letting Vandercamp appear the expert.

"Well," Vandercamp continued, "those planes symbolize the most amazing aspect of the breakup of the Soviet Union. When it came, in August of '91, the entire Soviet Union – fifteen countries and 350 million people - divided up all the equipment that had been shared for seventy years, without firing a shot. If a portable asset was on your territory, it was yours. Railroad trains, airplanes, ships, even military equipment got sorted out, virtually overnight. For example, Kyrgyzstan had a training base for helicopter pilots near this airport with about a dozen choppers. Moscow would send a good portion of Soviet and Russian pilots here for training. After '91, Russia decided to train its own pilots and the other republics didn't have any money to pay for new students to be trained. So Kyrgyzstan got the choppers and quickly closed the school and sold most everything to Nigeria, spare parts and all. Sure, the different republics are still arguing about things like water resources, oil refining, and railroad maintenance but they handled pretty much everything simply, efficiently, and, thank God, peacefully." Vandecamp paused. "Sorry for the long answer to a short question, boss. All commercial planes before the breakup belonged to Aeroflot, the only airline in the old Soviet Union. The planes you see here were either on the ground on August 31, 1991 or landed here that same day. Those planes were the beginnings of Kyrgyz Airlines. The same thing happened in each of the other fourteen republics. In one day, Aeroflot went from being the world's largest airline to being the mother of a dozen new airlines. Russian Airlines, Aeroflot's successor, is now a much smaller operation. The planes here that still have the Aeroflot name just haven't been painted over yet. One of the interesting lending projects we're looking at is a revamping of those aircraft so that they can be sold to those republics that didn't get as many planes in the break-up."

In all of the intelligence briefings he'd attended in congress, Hastings had never really grasped the phenomenal transformation that had taken place in the Soviet Union. Sure, he'd heard about unattended missile sites, deteriorating nuclear bombs, and a ravaged economy. Now, here on the tarmac at Manas Airport, he could see the some of the results first hand. In some respects, it was pretty scary. How could these people have split apart so quietly, so quickly and so peacefully? There had to be more to the breakup of the Soviet Empire than a simple division of assets. Hastings didn't like unanswered questions and vowed to pursue solid answers in the coming days.

"What's on the slate for today?" Hastings asked, rubbing his hands expectantly. "I hope you've made allowances for my jet lag. Ten hours time difference is a real ball-buster. By the way, how's the heat?" Vandercamp motioned to Almaz to finally answer a question.

"Well, sir, the weather in Bishkek is mid-continent, maybe similar to your Kansas City. Of course, Askabad, in nearby Turkmenistan, is a desert city. It usually gets over 50 degrees, er ... 120 Fahrenheit ...in July or August. I've compared temperatures and Bishkek should not be as hot as Washington. Even though it is early spring, to be safe Mr. Vandercamp ordered you one of the few air-conditioned rooms in the city."

Vandercamp interjected, "We'll get you to the hotel as soon as we get through immigration and customs. Once you've freshened up, we'll take a tour of bank headquarters and then have tea with the President,"

They all clambered out of the van in front of the VIP door to immigration and Almaz guided Hastings to a kiosk reserved for special visitors. As soon as Hastings retrieved his passport from the immigration guard, they walked down a short hallway toward baggage claim and customs. Abruptly, Hastings stopped in a delayed reaction to what Vandercamp had said.

"The President? So, Jim, we're having tea with President Askar Akayev!"

"Yes sir. I'm told he's anxious to meet you and that he's heard of your years of experience in US politics. After the presidential visit and a quick lunch, you'll have a sleep break, and then we'll convene for dinner with senior bank staff at the hotel restaurant."

The hotel they headed for was on the opposite side of town from the airport and the ride took almost an hour. A plethora of identical apartment buildings, all in advanced decay, were scattered along the 40-mile route. The only landscaping surrounding the apartment buildings consisted of two sidewalks; one along the curb and another leading from the curb to the first floor doors. Grass was non-existent.

Each apartment had two or three windows and a small balcony barely big enough for drying only a few pieces of laundry. "Say, when did they build these apartment buildings?" Hastings asked.

"Oh, maybe five or six years ago, Vandercamp responded. "Why?"

"They look ancient. You're sure they're that new?"

"Oh yes. I had the same reaction. One of the reasons for their battered appearance is the poor grade of concrete. The cement they get is often diluted by several middlemen before it gets to the actual contractor on the job site. Another factor is weathering. Government committees were responsible for erecting all these apartment complexes. Like committees everywhere, it took them years to finish each building. Consequently, the frames were open to the weather for maybe years and the weather here varies greatly. . .lots of rain, sun, and snow."

"What about the grass? Why isn't there any grass?"

Vandercamp chuckled. "That's one reason you'll never see a power lawn mower anywhere in Central Asia. Before independence in '91, construction costs were budgeted and paid for by Moscow but maintenance costs were a local responsibility. So they'd get Moscow to pay for construction and worry about maintenance later. You can't blame them; it works the same with our government at home, right? Politicians kick the can of expenses to the next guy and, somewhere along the line, someone gets stuck with a major problem that should have been solved when it was much smaller. Because the various governments had kicked the can all the way down, the burden of maintenance eventually fell to the residents themselves. Because people didn't have money for gardens or janitors, in Soviet times, every apartment dweller was expected to participate in _Sabotnik_ , Saturday Work. Under lots of peer pressure, everyone would pitch in to clean up the common building hallways, stairs, grounds, and sidewalks where they lived. Today, each family is more concerned with personal survival and ethnic differences among the residents are much more troubling. Sadly, camaraderie and community spirit have been pretty much forgotten when it comes to government-built buildings, even residential ones. Owen, do you remember the Russian word for comrade, _tovarich_?"

"Yes, of course, what about it?"

"It's a symptom of the breakup. Until 1991, _any_ citizen from _any_ republic could travel freely throughout the Soviet Union using their Soviet ID. All Soviet, _United_ , People would welcome any stranger as a _tovarich._ Not now. You'll never hear the word _tovarich_ and no one accepts strangers as comrades, without having a very good reason. People here are focused mainly on two things: their family and the interior of their own dwelling. Some time I'll show you the few apartment buildings that are inhabited by wealthy ex-communist bosses or current _democratic_ ones. Those guys can afford to pay someone else to clean their buildings and maintain the exterior areas but the great majority of apartment complexes stay littered. Things won't change until the average guy can afford his share of maintenance expense. A large loan request of forty-five million, sitting on my desk in Tashkent, is a renovation project for buildings like these, complete with small parks and a reasonable maintenance budget. I'm hopeful the CAB can help with that effort."

"Good project, Jim. Let me know how that works out," replied Hastings, still full of questions. "I met a Turkish businessman on the plane and he said the Turks are moving in and taking over Kyrgyz business. Is that true? Should we consult with the Turks?"

Vandercamp motioned to Almaz. "You want to take this one?"

Almaz realized his comments would be treated as local opinion by the head of the first western bank in Central Asia. Clearing his throat, he confidently replied, "Hundreds of years ago the Turks controlled this area for a long time. Our current language is based on the Turkish tongue. Over the many years since the Ottoman Empire, the Kyrgyz language changed. It's now perhaps only twenty percent Turkish. I mean no disrespect sir, but when your President Bush declared that Turkey would be 'America's stepping stone to Central Asia' he made two very serious mistakes. First, how can the Turks show us how to run a democracy when they have so many problems with freedom and democracy at home? Second, the people of Central Asia have not forgotten who conquered them in the bloody past: It was the Chinese and the Turks. It's true that we trade with both of those countries but we hold no particular love or respect for either one."

Hastings, surprised at the conviction in Almaz' answer, tried a little devil's advocacy. "What about Turkish investment and businesses here, aren't they important?"

Almaz smiled and turned completely around in the front seat to face Hastings directly. "The largest Turkish investment here is the Coca Cola plant. When Coke decided to move into this area, they heeded President Bush's words and offered the Central Asia franchise to some Turks who managed the Coca Cola plant in Istanbul. When the plant first opened in Kyrgyzstan, everyone was invited to tour the plant. Soon after, in response subsequent public comments about its dirty condition, they closed the plant to visitors and it's probably still just as dirty. In another situation, some boastful Turks intended to build the hotel where you are staying but they ran out of money as soon as they dug the foundation. So much for good planning! Of course, I have to admit that there are few good Turkish-owned restaurants here. That's about all they've contributed".

"So what that guy told me was bullshit, eh?"

"In Kyrgyzstan we say, _ya run dah,_ " replied Almaz, grinning. "Same thing."

After brief introductions, Hastings, Vandercamp, and Almz Kourmanbekov took seats in the Kyrgyz President's office, facing each other across a long, 20x6 foot table that formed a "T" as it abutted President Akayev's desk. Table, desk, and wall paneling were all covered in polished walnut veneer cut from an ancient forest in the south of Kyrgyzstan. The desk was not large but breathtakingly beautiful. Its surface swirled in unique shadings peculiar to walnut burls. Hastings first reaction was to estimate how many Mercedes dashboards could be made from the walnut in this very one room. His thoughts were interrupted by a cough from the President's interpreter who, with raised eyebrows, hinted that Hastings should be first to talk. Hastings nodded toward the expectant Kyrgyz President who was dressed in a conservative pin-stripped, light wool charcoal suit, set off with a red tie and a French-cuffed white shirt. Mostly balding, Akayev's smooth-skinned face was surprisingly devoid of wrinkles and his high cheekbones and solid physique gave evidence of his Mongol heritage. He could easily pass for much younger than his forty-seven years.

"We want to thank you, Mr. President," Hastings began, "for making time to see us. I know your time is very limited."

President Akayev flashed his brilliant trademark smile, deep dimples in both cheeks, and he answered in Russian through the interpreter. "It is our pleasure, Mr. Hastings. I try to give my personal attention to any new investment in the Republic. Unfortunately, you are correct in saying my time is limited." The president's gaze softened and his voice lowered as he recalled simpler days. "I fondly remember the first full year of our independence, in 1992. My country was virtually unknown to the West and I had ample time to greet almost every potential investor who came to see us. Soon after my first visit to New York and Washington in 1993, the world began to notice us. Today, there are many people who desire interviews here, so many that I do not have time to journey elsewhere. The increase in attention is good for my country but makes me a very busy man." The President paused, his energetic smile in place, his eyes betraying fatigue. "I have looked forward to meeting you so that I can tell you in person of my pleasure and support for your investment. As a banker, you can understand that we are still climbing out of the pit we were cast into after issuing our own currency." Akayev looked directly at Hastings. "Mr. Hastings, were you on the parliamentary committee which oversees the International Monetary Fund, the IMF?"

"Why, yes, Mr. President," Hastings replied, "I was. For six years."

"I thought so. Then I'll tell you a little story. In January, two years ago, representatives from the IMF convinced my Minister of Finance and me that our small republic could never attract new, solid investment without our own currency. At that time, Kyrgyzstan was a member of the Ruble Zone and was committed to support Russia's currency. We had to decline the IMF's suggestion because of our obligation to the Russian ruble. However, the IMF was adamant. As a second reason, we told them that Kyrgyzstan had too little gold reserves to support our currency. The IMF then said they would provide support with U.S. dollars. At this point, they admitted to me that they had decided to do this in Kyrgyzstan, one of the _new_ republics, as an _experiment._ The IMF wanted to prove that a new country could successfully issue its own money, supported primarily by U.S. dollars. The IMF people were most arrogant. They told us that if we declined, some other republic would get the _opportunity._ Further, they refused to support any of our social projects if we did not issue our own currency. Well, my country needed financial help from someone and the Russians weren't coming forward, so I finally surrendered to IMF pressure. Not quite three years ago, we issued the Kyrgyz _som_." Akayev's face grew dark and his voice dropped to a whisper as he recalled those dark moments. "As you Americans say, all hell broke loose. After seventy years as comrades, in one instant, we became Russia's enemy. I was visiting Washington for the first time when the Kyrgyz _som_ was issued. President Yelsin called me at my hotel, the Madison, I think. He screamed at me on the phone and promised to bury me and little Kyrgyzstan under tons of Russian cow shit. That very day Moscow pressured Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan, our main trading partners, to close their borders with us. In one week, Mr. Hastings, I aged a lifetime. It took me six months and a great deal of diplomacy to get our borders reopened."

Akayev leaned forward and spoke slowly, enunciating each word. "No one from the West will ever again put me or my country in such a situation. Never!"

Hastings paled and swallowed hard. It was obvious Akayev had been manipulated by a cavalier IMF.

"I'm sorry to learn about those strong-arm methods, Mr. President. I didn't know." offered Hastings. "Did you manage to calm the Russian bear?"

"Yes, eventually. You can imagine the difficulty." Akayev's visage softened. He'd made his point and decided to return to the agenda. "Today, our currency is supported by four factors: IMF dollars, market forces, the twelve independent local banks that operate in our republic, and the National Bank. I expect your bank to become a shining example for the others to emulate. Our currency is fairly stable but the banks have struggled. Frankly, several are already failing. The biggest obstacle to bank growth is the people's lack of confidence. Your Central Asian Bank, with western management, can go a long way to educate the Kyrgyzstani people to trust banks." Akayev paused, his eyebrows raised. "You will have deposit insurance," he asked, "like in America?"

Hastings didn't know how to answer a question he didn't understand and deferred to Vandercamp who replied, "Unfortunately, Mr. President, we did not budget for deposit insurance. Perhaps, when we have a few years experience, we can work with the National Bank toward creating an insurance program."

Akayev face soured. They didn't have the very thing he knew was most needed.

"I am sorry to hear about the delay for bank insurance." Akayev paused and then decided not to beat a dead horse. Well, we do appreciate your choice of Kyrgyzstan for your bank's headquarters. I know you could have chosen a different or larger city than Bishkek in one of the other republics."

The President leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and looked Hastings directly in the eye. "We Kyrgyz came here from many directions but we are basically an Mongol people with long memories. We never forget an ally ... or an enemy." Akayev smiled and leaned forward. "You will be our ally, won't you?"

"Always!" Hastings answered exclaimed. Vandercamp laughed and the President chuckled but Hastings recognized a serious issue when he saw one. We better not screw this up, he told himself.

"Gentlemen, is there anything I can do for you or your bank at this time?"

"No, Mr. President," replied Vandercamp, "everything is coming along fine but we thank you for the offer."

President Akayev stood. The audience was over.

Hastings called room service from his room in the Ak-Keme hotel and ordered a club sandwich with a Heineken. When the food arrived, he motioned for it to be placed on the desk. Then, ignoring the food, he lay back on his bed and his thoughts swirled, jumbled by jet lag and culture shock, and spun away into sleep until the telephone rang at five, announcing dinner would be served in one hour. The room service food sat untouched.

By 6 p.m., the four senior staff of the CAB and Vandercamp had gathered in the main restaurant of the Ak-Keme Hotel in Central Bishkek. They'd been given a long table against the south windows, overlooking one of the rare manicured lawns in Bishkek. Almaz hovered nearby as Vandercamp lined up the troops to formally introduce them to Hastings. First in line was a tall Kyrgyz man, Sadyr Asankulov, chief of the accounting department. At 6'7", the slender, ex-basketball player towered over Hastings and had to bend down to deliver his welcome. Hastings, surprised that Asankulov had reddish hair and freckles to go with his dark, Asian eyes, asked him with a laugh, "How'd you get those freckles? Are you hiding an Irishman in your family?"

"No sir. Many Kyrgyz have freckles," Asankulov replied soberly. "Scholars attribute it to the red-haired men who came from Northern Russia. Some even say Vikings mingled with the remnants of Genghis Khan's armies."

Hastings pictured giant Asankulov wearing a horned Viking helmet, astride a Mongol horse and could easily see how they conquered most of the world. "Well, Sadyr," he replied with amusement, "I'm half Irish, my mother was O'shea, and we're also descended from Vikings. Maybe we both have someone named Olaf in our background, eh?"

Asankulov smiled broadly and then made room for the next in line, Vladimir Bogolepov, a Russian born in Bishkek who was chief of the bank's currency department. Bogolepov, along with two of his employees, had studied western-style accounting in London. Bogolepov had long, white hair and a stocky build and resembled Hastings so much that Hastings could visualize himself standing there, if he'd been born in the Soviet Union instead of Canoga Park, California. Bogolepov made his greeting with a slight English accent, demonstrating he'd picked up something in London beyond accounting knowledge.

Serge Garginkov, chief of lending, was third in the welcoming line. Garginkov was the antithesis of the accountant, Sadyr Asankulov. Where Sadyr was tall, thin, and athletic, Garginkov was short, fat and totally devoid of muscle tone. Garginkov mumbled a short, memorized welcome in something akin to English, pumped Hastings' hand once, and quickly sidled to his chair, embarrassed at his weak knowledge of his new chief's language.

The first three were already seated when the last employee, Natasha Ivanova stepped forward to greet Owen Hastings. A Russian woman born just outside Bishkek, Natasha had been hired as Vice President of Operations and was the boss of the other three. She had spent more than two years working for an American Bank in Moscow.

With the first three introductions, Hastings had smiled and shook each hand perfunctorily, until Natasha. At five eleven, Hastings had looked up to speak to Asankulov but seldom had to look up at a woman. Natasha stood five feet ten in flats and had two-inch heels on for dinner. Hastings' head went back a bit and his eyes moved upward, encountering Natasha's emerald green eyes staring back at him, seemingly daring him to look deeper. Natasha, like Asankulov, was an ex-athlete, a volleyball star, and she stood stiffly at attention, her ample chest thrust out, ready for inspection. Her visual challenge demanded a response and his hand intimately squeezed hers as his eyes slowly devoured her. She squeezed back. Hard.

She's certainly well put together, Hastings thought, dark blond hair, long tapering legs, breasts screaming to be let out, and, god, she smells great. I wonder what she tastes like? Natasha's lips parted slightly in a knowing smirk. It was not the first time that a new man had developed erotic thoughts upon meeting her.

Later that evening, with the food eaten and the required toasts given, the small party began to disburse. As he rose from the table, Hastings beckoned Natasha to his side.

"Do you have a jealous husband waiting for you?" he whispered.

"No, I'm not married. And you, Mr. Hastings, is there a worrying wife waiting for a telephone call?"

"No, I live alone."

Natasha's swept her eyes down to Hastings' beltline and then back to his face. She stared, waiting.

"Excellent," Hastings said. "When the others leave, let's you and I have a drink and a private chat about the bank, okay?"

Natasha smiled broadly and, seemingly for the first time, Hastings noticed Natasha's full lips, especially exotic and definitely erotic. He couldn't wait for the others to leave.

Hastings' planned three-day business trip quickly lengthened into five sexually exhausting days.

### CHAPTER FOUR

"Bachelor Blues."

March, 1996 - Washington, DC

Frank eased himself onto his living room sofa. The CIA's short course in clandestine operations at "The Farm" had gone easier than he'd expected. The past five weeks had been educational but not especially challenging. In contrast to many of his classmates, he'd had no trouble with the physical fitness part. Several trainees had been in condition to tote an extra briefcase or two but run? Pushups? Forget it. In the era of title IX, ERA, and 'everyone passes', the CIA's entire physical conditioning program had denigrated to the lowest common candidate. Policies designed by political correctness ignored the fact that, if a spy is trained to break into a secure facility and he can't outrun a pushcart, you've got a dead spy. To be fair, Frank had picked up some interesting surveillance and coding methods for future reference but his Marine recon training put the rest to shame. He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms, and tried to push the CIA and its Farm out of his mind. As he reached for his cold Dos Equis, the phone rang.

"Frank? Simon Pettit. How was the course?"

"If you ever need to decode a message from planet Krypton, I'm your guy. What's up?"

"Frank, I've planned a small cocktail party tomorrow for you to see all the directors and some of the senior staff before you leave.

"Fine, Simon. Black tie or...?

"No, no, it's 6:30 at the Palm and work clothes will be fine. Should I reserve an extra glass for a date?"

"No, Simon. I'm traveling light. Just me," Frank answered flatly.

"Well, old boy, sorry to hear you're sleeping _manage a une_. We'll have to put our heads together to see what we can do to remedy that situation," joshed Simon.

Frank had no desire to continue down a previously painful and embarrassing emotional avenue. "Please don't bother, Simon. See you tomorrow." Frank set down the phone, took another swig of his Dos Equis, and considered Simon's wisecrack. According to everything Frank had learned about him, Pettit was a loner. Was he gay? Kinky? Whatever, Frank was going to be just like him if he kept avoiding any chance for a serious relationship. Hell, _serious_ was a second date and he hadn't had one of those, let alone gotten laid, since his first week at the Bartlett bank. Damn it, he thought, I guess some people are destined to sleep alone but, my god, it's been almost three years! Damn you, Sheila!

As an attractive, virile man, Frank had experienced his share of sexual overtures from attractive women, to no avail. His problem was the deep emotional scar from his bitter, broken engagement with Sheila Whitmore, his real reason for leaving New York. Sheila was Manhattan born and Vassar educated, the only child of Spencer Whitmore, President of Manhattan National Bank. She and Frank first met at a party given by MNB for its good customer, and Frank's employer, Connor-Meade Investments. Shelia had entered wearing a conservative Donna Karan, a high collared, floor- length black velvet dress with matching velvet slippers and a pearl necklace. Clothed from chin to ankle, she was still the sexiest thing at the party. You can cover up beauty but you can't deny it. Frank was hooked from the very first glimpse and they became a society item within a week. Sheila couldn't have been more was warm, sensual, and attentive during their first few months together. She would murmur sweet, supportive things to the ear of anyone listening. "Oh, Frank is the smartest broker on Wall Street" or "Frank will be a full partner soon" or "Frank, dear, can I get you a drink or give your poor tense neck a little massage?"

However, the closer they came to setting a wedding date, the more Sheila's behavior transformed. By the end of three months, Shelia had done a complete "180". Even a long weekend in romantic St. Johns didn't delay or soften Sheila's metamorphosis. Frank's brain would be forever etched with the pain of dealing with her rapid and unexpected personality mutation. One day she was an understanding, considerate lover, giggling at his dumb jokes, and the next, a driven, calculating daughter of a cool, calculating father. On their first date, Frank had lovingly dubbed Sheila _his_ Princess, his _fairy tale_ princess.

Not long after returning from St. Johns, Frank began referring to her as _the_ princess, with barely disguised sarcasm. Sheila had never worked herself; Daddy had provided her with an education, a trust fund, and a promise to his little darling to give a job to whomever she chose to marry. Sheila had learned early and well from Daddy and proved to be a master manipulator, especially adept at twisting Frank into a frustrated emotional pretzel. In Sheila's mind, she was both Machiavelli _and_ the prince. Frank had a speaking part in her little playlette, but the show had only one star. Sheila truly believed that her role was crucial if Frank was to win any corporate wars he faced. However, she stubbornly refused to recognize that Frank had no interest whatsoever in corporate warfare, with or without Sheila. He was content with his clients, his job, and his life in general. To Frank's constant irritation, Sheila wouldn't leave it alone. Even now, lying in bed _alone_ at night, he could still hear her preaching, "Frank, dear, if you would only admit that every one of those other brokers are out for your job, you can beat them. Get in the game, Frank, take the ball and run with it. Before you know it _we'll_ be running Connor-Meade."

Strangely, it wasn't money Sheila was after. Frank already did well enough in that category. It was keeping and exceeding the status and power to which _the_ Princess had been accustomed. Sheila's soapbox even made it to the bedroom. Whenever Frank scored a coup on The Street, she rewarded him with an evening of great sex and, lying together afterward, she would describe in detail her ambitions for him. Between those scores, he might as well have been sleeping alone. Good old Semper Fi Frank endured Sheila's abuse for over a year, somehow sidestepping setting a wedding date.

One evening, after dinner at Frank's apartment, Sheila bluntly asked, "Why did you pick _me_ , Frank?"

Ever the innocent, Frank replied honestly, "Well, I first fell for your beauty. You were a knockout when we met. Later, I came to admire your energy and intelligence. Okay, why did you pick _me_ , honey?"

Sheila stabbed her bloody steak with a fork and answered without looking up. "Simple. You had the most _potential."_

Frank's jaw dropped and he stared at Sheila, speechless, suddenly reminded of a cold-fish college football recruiter he'd once met. It was then Frank realized he wasn't a fiancé', he was a management trainee. He suddenly knew that could not marry this woman, but he also had no reason to hurt her. Frank, the ultimate team-player, finally and decisively, simply refused to play her game. Just like a frustrated coach, Sheila soon decided that Frank just wasn't cut out for her team and began searching for a new quarterback. They were through.

Now, three years later, Frank couldn't take the man/woman relationship beyond a polite lunch or a double date dinner without shuddering at the memory of The Princess and incomprehensible female agendas. First dates went okay, but Frank never made that second call. Consequently, he was about as horny as any man of his age and health could be without exploding or seeking _professional_ help. In a vain effort to silence the shouts of his ever-increasing hormonal needs, he had immersed himself in work and his passion for the art of Chinese Boxing.

Frank's clock said it was time to get ready for Simon's party. Simon's probably just using this cocktail party as a CAB expense to pay back some dinner debts, Frank thought skeptically, stepping from the shower. As he toweled off, Frank recalled his recent meetings with the many-faceted Simon.

Immediately after Simon had revealed the bank's CIA connection, Frank had called Owen Hastings for a verification of Simon's role and for further assurance of getting an addendum to his contract. Hastings had counseled Frank that Simon Pettit was a senior man at the Agency and the CAB would not have been established without his and the Agency's efforts. Hastings had insisted that Simon had told the truth, an addendum was being drafted. Hastings stressed that assisting Simon would be a minor effort for Frank in the face of a much larger benefit to America and those needy countries in Central Asia. Hastings admitted that he had agreed, without reservations, that the CAB could be relied upon to supply the Agency with accurate and valuable information.

Reluctantly accepting Hastings support for the CIA connection, Frank had then called Simon to relay Hastings' confirmation of the bank's commitment to the Agency. He recalled how strangely detached Simon had acted about Hastings' endorsement. A terse, "That's fine, Frank," and he was gone. On the half-dozen occasions they'd been together after that, Pettit had played several roles: one-of-the-boys, a nauseating aristocratic, a nonchalant modern Gatsby, or, once, a cold-blooded spymaster. Pettit had proven to be a chameleon and a very good one, never mentioning his private life or his time before the Agency. In many ways, Frank could see his dad in Simon's behavior. Ever since the confrontation concerning his contract, Frank had watched closely for any clue to Pettit's true character, without success. While they were together, whether alone or in a group, Frank enjoyed Simon's contributions and his sharp comments that moved conversations along. Strangely, immediately upon leaving Simon's presence, Frank sometimes felt as if he was emerging from a trance, having given up some control to Simon. This vague feeling always caused the small hairs on the nape of his neck to rise. It had been three months and Frank had yet to dig a millimeter beneath Simon's steely Teflon veneer. Frank vowed that he would try again tonight, before he had to leave Washington for Central Asia.

The Palm in Washington is one of the oldest in a chain of unique restaurants that stretch from New York to Los Angeles. Specialties are big lobsters, juicy steaks, and waiters with _attitude_ s. Of course, to Washingtonians, their Palm is the only one and _the_ place to be. Where Dukes is sedate and convenient for whispered alliances, the Palm is noisy and full of cheerful patrons. Frank arrived at six-thirty on the dot and asked for Mr. Pettit's table. The maitre d' indicated the Pettit Party had reserved the entire rear section, some six double tables.

"Frank, how generous of you to be prompt," Simon hailed, flashing his Gatsby smile as he smoothly guided Frank to a private bar in the rear and ordered Frank his customary Manhattan. Simon then moved to greet his other guests as they arrived: eleven American consultants to the bank and four "outside", supposedly independent directors. Except for Frank and Simon, all had brought spouses or dates. At a previous board meeting, Frank had met the CAB's four _outside_ Directors. To his immediate left stood Chandler Thrush, octogenarian and ex-Chairman of Montana Chemicals. Thrush chatted quietly with seventy-six year old ex-California senator Alan Cranston who, upon retiring from the Senate, had formed the Kyrgyz/American Business Council, immediately appointing himself as Chairman. Next to Cranston, long-retired Army General William Castora rounded out the geriatric trio. Thirty-something Daniel Cannelli, ex-counsel to the House Intelligence Committee was the fourth, although his new position as in-house counsel to the CAB, now classified him as an _inside_ director.

Obvious to anyone with modicum of business sense, Thrush, Cranston and Castora were "names", placed solely on the board for public and political credibility. Even if they could, none of these gentlemen were expected to lend any real guidance to the bank's performance and would be compensated accordingly with modest stipends. Although Frank had spoken at length with those three elderly directors, Hastings had always monopolized contact with Danny Cannelli. In the role of CAB's president, Frank felt that he should develop a file on each director: their experience, prejudices, likes, and dislikes. He'd already completed files on Castora, Cranston and Thrush. To get information on Danny Cannelli, Frank had been forced to use some of his sources developed over three years at Bartlett Bank and he now knew about as much about Danny Cannelli as the others. Danny's father, Anthony, was one of the most powerful congressmen in Washington yet avoided the spotlight of a Meet the Press venue. Except for taped and well-scripted campaign ads, Anthony Cannelli never appeared on television or gave interviews to national magazines, limiting public presence during his bi-annual elections to billboards or local gatherings of civic organizations like the Knight of Columbus, Elks Club, VFW, and Community meetings. For years Cannelli had even eschewed a committee chairmanship until succeeding Owen Hastings as Chairman of the Intelligence Committee. Frank sipped his Manhattan and watched Simon lightly embrace Danny Cannelli and how embarrassed and humbled Danny appeared at Simon's attention. From a distance, Frank wondered if Danny was oblivious to his father's power or just playing shy.

Perhaps, thought Frank, I can get a better line on Simon tonight and even have some time for Danny, that is, if Owen doesn't cut me off again. Frank worked his way through the tight crowd, heading for Danny. With luck, he managed to be standing behind Danny just as Danny ended an exchange with ex-congressman Cranston. Cranston sidled off toward the bar and Frank deftly stepped into the vacated space.

"Hello, counselor," Frank said as he squeezed Cannelli's drink-free left arm.

"Yes, hello, Frank. Nice gathering Simon's set up. Got all your bags packed?"

"I couldn't decide what to take so I'm just taking clothes. What do you think, am I in for some culture deprivation?"

Cannelli smiled broadly. "Hell, I drew the short straw last year and spent about a month in Moscow. Then took a brief trip to Kyrgyzstan to set up our first bank license and meet a few prospective staff. Be glad that you're going to be in Bishkek. Moscow's dirty, disorganized, dangerous, and yet really, really expensive. Doesn't make sense does it? Regardless of the differences between there and DC, I think you'll find Central Asia more of a challenge than a deprivation. Besides, you speak Russian and I don't. Hell, I could have really used you in Moscow. The girls were gorgeous but I couldn't say anything beyond, hello." Cannelli smirked. "Funny, though, after a drink or two, I didn't care and they didn't either."

"Now, that's the kind of challenge I need!" Frank roared and then inwardly winced, reminded of his current state of chastity. "When will you get to Bishkek?"

"Can't say right now, Frank, but I'll be sure to let you know as soon as I know.

"Are you anxious to go back?" Frank asked.

"Definitely. Since that first short trip, I've managed to pick Alan Cranston's brain 'cause he's been there many times. That's what we were just discussing. He wanted me to go with you next week but, unfortunately, I can't. Too many hungry wolves on the Hill to feed. Besides, the last thing you need is another director hanging around. Don't forget, if there's anything...anything at all I can do for you, don't hesitate, okay?"

Frank lifted his glass in a mock toast. "Thanks, I may."

Out of the corner of his eye, Danny Cannelli spied Owen Hastings beckoning. "I need to see what Owen wants. Talk with you later."

Noting Danny delving into an energetic discussion with Hastings, Frank suddenly felt better about Danny. I'm glad I got a chance to chat with him, he thought. Seems to be a good guy and interested. He could be a real asset. Too bad I had to wait until now to find out.

It took Frank less than an hour to exchange a few words with each of the guests. His formalities accomplished, Frank swept his eyes over the small gathering, checking to see if he had neglected anyone before leaving and caught sight of an unexpected late arrival. Congressman Anthony Cannelli was whispering in Hastings' ear. As Frank moved toward them, he was intercepted by a tiny brunette in a tight silver lame' mini skirt. Frank immediately detected the scent of Passion perfume that lightly enveloped her.

"Mr. Franklin Grant?" she asked in a sweet voice. "Sorry to be late. I'm Larisa Balancheva, public relations representative from O'Connor and Stern. My friends call me Lara. I hope you will too."

"Well, hello, Lara," replied Frank as he tried to place her face. Had he seen her before? Where?

"Mr. Grant, Lara purred, "Your glass is almost empty. Can I get you another?"

"Uh, thanks, it's Frank", he responded, and all thoughts of exiting early faded. "My name, that is. And, yes, I drink Manhattans. Jack Daniel's. Double vermouth."

She smiled and looked around for a bartender. Frank swallowed hard and stared at this beautiful creature slowly walking away from him. His inspection, skimming up from her shapely legs to her tiny waist, came to rest on her long, glossy raven hair. She turned back, knowingly. " _Horasho_ , only be a minute, _"_ Lara tossed over her shoulder and glided off in the direction of the convenience bar set up for Pettit's party.

God, he thought, she's a young, compact version of Sophia Loren; the same enormous, almond-shaped eyes and sensuous mouth. Not close to Sofia on top but the ratio's got to be at _least_ the same. Damn, I've become a lecherous old bastard!

It took Frank a few seconds to realize she'd used Russian. _Horasho_ – Good.

Why, he wondered, would she speak Russian to me? Is she testing me? Where the hell did she come from? O'Connor and Stern? Frank had never heard anyone mention that firm. His mental browser raced to find a connection, any clue. Nothing.

Jim Vandercamp, the man chosen to head the CAB Tashkent office, came up to Frank and they easily fell into a discussion concerning loans and staffing. Suddenly, Frank felt a tingling at the back of his neck. Spinning, he saw Lara draw her hand back after having run a fingernail fleetingly across his neck. She proffered his Manhattan.

"Your drink, Mr. Grant. _Shto Delayesh_?"

"What's happening? Oh, yes, thanks", answered Frank, again noticing that she'd used a Russian phrase. "We're just going over some potential loans." Frank indicated Vandercamp. "Lara, this is Jim Vandercamp. He'll be running the Tashkent office."

Lara winked at Vandercamp. "Oh, I've already met the charming Mr. V. Right, Jim?"

"Oh, Yeah, oh yeah", stammered Vandercamp. "Simon introduced Lara a little while ago, when she first got here. Apparently Lara's going to be your new public relations officer. Congratulations, Frank, great recruiting!"

Frank forced a smile, barely managing to conceal his puzzlement and mild irritation. Why the hell didn't Simon consult him before hiring a PR Officer? Was this the beginning of the interference Frank had been so afraid of? Slowly beginning to steam, he looked around to confront Pettit. If by magic, Simon appeared at his side and slipped an arm around Frank's shoulder. "I see you've met Miss Balancheva, Frank. Danny Cannelli suggested her to us when you were in training. Not being able to reach you, Owen and I both approved her contract. I think you'll find she's more than qualified."

"Thank you," responded Lara, "and my compliments to you, Mr. Pettit, for getting such a handsome man for president. I look forward to working with Mr. Grant. We should begin to get to know one another right away. With the quality of your PR in mind, of course." Lara linked her arm with Frank's, subtly moving him apart from Simon and Vandercamp. She peered up at Frank, waiting for his answer, her eyes wide, inviting, tantalizing. "What do you think, Frank?" she asked.

Frank was a bit dazed and still puzzled. Why had she been hired? He searched his memory in vain for any mention of O'Connor and Stern or a Larisa Balancheva. Then he noticed Lara staring at him with sad emerald- green eyes and a pout on her pretty mouth.

"You aren't interested in PR?" she asked, "or is it me?"

His train of thought gone forever, Frank tried to pull his eyes from Lara but they had a mind of their own, fastening first on her breasts and then snapping back to her emerald eyes, as if on a bungee cord. No one spoke. The electricity between them crackled. From a few feet away, Vandercamp awkwardly mumbled something to Pettit and both men faded from Frank's view.

Frozen in eye-lock, Frank asked huskily, "What do we do now?"

Lara smiled sweetly and winked. "We leave quietly, dahling".

"Oh... right", he gulped.

Memories of _The_ _Princess_ were far from his mind when Frank opened the door to his townhouse and gently ushered Lara in ahead of him. Before he could shut the door, she spun around, wrapped her arms around his neck and, standing on tiptoe, pressed her mouth hard onto his. After a second or so, Frank gasped and stepped back a half step. He shut the door with a quick twist of his left hand, and returned the strength of her kiss with months of pent up desire. Their lips linked like two strips of Velcro. Lara's coat slipped off and Frank pressed her against the entry wall. They made love in the entry, on the bed, and finally in the shower. For her tiny size, Lara was inexhaustible, an Energizer _Bedroom_ Bunny. His vitality and virility more than just restored, Frank returned her passion in equal measure.

Blinking, Frank rolled sideways in bed to check the clock. It read 9:40AM. He shook his head and reached over to touch Lara. The bed was empty. He struggled up and noticed a note on Lara's pillow. "What a delightful way to begin a weekend. _Lubouf_ (Love), Lara"

Frank jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen. "Lara", he called, "how about some coffee?" He searched the house but she was gone. Only the note and a hint of Passion remained.

It was Monday morning and Frank still hadn't been able to reach Lara. For two days, Frank had failed to find a working telephone number for her. He'd started with the offices of O'Connor and Stern, then Pettit, Hastings, and finally Joe Stuart, Vice President for the bank's office in Dushanbe, Tajikistan. Frank struck out. Everyone tried to help and each had quickly located a phone number for Lara. Unfortunately, they all gave Frank the same number. A disconnected one.

Hastings told him that Lara was scheduled to leave for Kyrgyzstan at her convenience, any time during the next few days. It was Hastings who, more than any other, seemed to understand Frank's sense of loss and worry. "Don't lose any sleep, Frank", Hastings had advised, "I'm sure that she's on some unexpected assignment. Don't worry, she'll be there when you need her."

Frank couldn't get Lara out of his mind. Her eyes, her voice, her dirty Russian words, and her aura of Passion remained etched in his brain. He damned Sheila and her hidden agendas that had so retarded his getting back into the dating game. He had to find Lara. Frank decided to go to the Virginia State DMV and try to get her address from them. As he gripped the door knob, his phone rang. Answering quickly, he heard a dusky voice whisper, " _Meenyah enravitsa tuvaya zadnitsa_ ", dahling."

Purely by reflex, Frank responded, " _Da_ , _meenyah tuvaya tohzha enravitsa_ ". Yes, I love your buns too! Recovering his composure, he switched to English. "Lara, where in the hell are you?"

"I'm at Dulles, getting ready to board British Airways for London. When are you leaving?"

"Damn it, Lara, you didn't have to go until next week. Why now?" Frank pleaded, his voice strained with disappointment.

"Oh, I'm truly sorry, dahling Frank, but Simon insisted that I get to Central Asia before everyone else to arrange a proper welcoming ceremony for you and the others. Don't worry my dear, I'll be there when you arrive. Perhaps you will recognize me? Must go now, _ya_ _t'bya_ _lublu_ ".

A short, "I love you" _,_ and the line went dead. She was gone again. Frank replaced the receiver slowly and all of his worrying gone and his energy drained. He wanted her desperately. For one short night, he'd felt like a complete man again and suddenly the glue that had patched him was gone, off to far-away lands.

### CHAPTER FIVE

"Old Soldiers Never Die."

March, 1996 – Washington, DC

It had been three days since Lara's departure and Frank was filled with nervous energy. Her perfume still seemed to permeate his bedroom and, without her there in the flesh, he hadn't slept for more than a few hours a night. One phone call a day was not enough!

As he sped away from his townhouse, he decided to try exercising to help. Today, he thought, I'll workout for three, maybe four hours. Then I'll have to sleep....I hope.

_Sifu,_ Mike Powell, master of the Arlington martial arts studio did his best to keep the facility immaculate but, whenever athletes exercise in a closed space, the air tends to stay heavy with perspiration and martial intensity. The small Green Dragon Kung Fu _kwoon_ in Arlington contained two rooms. The larger one, where Frank usually exercised, had two fighting areas. The second room held two practice mannequins: one leather _Mook Jong_ manakin and another of wood. Three well-worn punching bags hung, one in each corner. Half a dozen spears, of different lengths and tips, rested on rungs along the east wall and four old, but still gleaming, ceremonial swords hung opposite on the west wall. Two purple sash devotees slowly practiced Tai Chi facing the mirrored north wall. Tying his black sash, Frank walked onto the fighting floor and started a warm-up routine. His tired body was reluctant and he forced himself through warm up sets four times before he felt loose, beginning to perspire. Finally, Frank began a series of moves in _Wan Fa Tung_ , White Crane Boxing. Suddenly, a loud voice boomed from behind him.

"Let your arms flow easier, little man."

Frank spun to confront his critic and his dark frown quickly faded into a wide smile. A huge man stood mocking his movements.

"Yuri, you son of a bitch!" Frank shouted. "What're you doing here?"

"Perhaps I will become your _Wan Fa Tung_ trainer, even though we both know you are a lost cause," Yuri answered. "By God, seeing you again is a pleasant surprise, Little Brother. Fortune has smiled on us. I came to practice alone but now I think not. We will go somewhere they serve good Russian vodka and talk of Warsaw and the missing years, yes?"

"Great idea," responded Frank, beaming. "A quick shower and I'll be with you in ten."

Frank had never expected to see Major Yuri Nicholaivitch Borkov again, recalling a warm friendship with Yuri that went back seven years to their time in Warsaw. Frank, then a Marine captain, had been attached to NATO and assigned to work with Warsaw Pact representatives. Borkov was a major in the Russian Army and Frank's counterpart from the Warsaw Pact members. In their first two meetings, they had crossed Cold War swords over the conference table. After a third such clash, it was obvious to all observers that Borkov was the match to Frank's gasoline. However, as much as they were on opposite sides at work, they shared a love for _Gung Fu_ , Chinese Boxing, known in the USA as Kung Fu. In all of Warsaw, only one martial arts studio operated as a karate dojo. As it was the only dojo in town, Frank and Yuri and other martial arts adherents were forced to share the solitary studio and, hopefully, practice with mutual respect. Due to the large number of fighters, matches were deemed finished as soon as one combatant had been taken down. At that point, both fighters were required to stand, face each other, bow and relinquish their mat to the next two competitors. Recognizing a growing animosity from their countless arguments in the halls of NATO, both Yuri and Frank took pains to avoid each other at the dojo and, unsurprisingly, their circumvention often left them matched with complete strangers.

Frank had worn a black sash since high school. Borkov also wore a black belt, earned in the Red Army. On several occasions, Frank had noticed that Yuri liked to throw in a few street fighting moves in his matches. At thirty-six, Frank was three years younger than the Russian but was six inches shorter and eighty pounds lighter. Borkov weighed in at one hundred nineteen kilos, over two hundred sixty pounds and all muscle. After several weeks of working out at pretty much the same time, but in separate matches, Frank and Yuri found themselves looking around for sparring partners. In order to avoid Borkov, Frank hastily asked a large, well-built man with long straight black hair for a match. With a thick Eastern-European accent, the man introduced himself as Peter, and as Frank introduced himself to Peter, he noticed Borkov warming up by hitting the heavy bag. The blast from his tremendous blows reverberated throughout the _kwoon_ as the bag's seams stretched and groaned, seemingly ready to pop with every blow.

Watching Peter out of the corner of his eye, Frank muttered to himself as he finished his warm-up, pitty-pat, pitty-pat on the light bag. This guy ain't gonna be easy. Big but nothing like Borkov.

As Frank finished his match warm up, Yuri was already handling his new opponent easily with both style and strength.

When Frank's match began, Frank's swiftness and skill at Monkey Boxing immediately began to tell. He hit Peter almost at will and got tagged only once on his right shoulder; a seemingly light _tap_ that numbed his entire arm for minutes. Wow! That guy can hit, thought Frank as he lashed out with a frontal kick that staggered Peter. For the second time in this brief match, Frank stepped back and allowed Peter to steady himself. Peter found his footing, huffed a bit and glared daggers at Frank. Then they resumed circling on the mat, looking for openings. Frank dropped down for the coup de grace, an iron broom sweep, and felled Peter with a loud thud. Frank began to rise and noticed Borkov staring bullets his way. Frank was halfway erect, still on one knee, when a round-house kick caught him flush on his nose and mouth.

The next thing Frank knew, Borkov was holding a towel to his face, attempting to stop a geyser of blood, frowning with concern.

Frank groaned, took the towel from Yuri, and mumbled, "Hut da huck?"

"Correct, Captain" answered Borkov, as he helped Frank to his feet. "You were fucked. Peter hit you after you had obviously beaten him.

Yuri grinned, "He will not do that again here. My match had ended and I could see what was about to happen but I was too late. After this breach of ethics, I told him to leave and not to return. That Siberian is a nasty guy but he doesn't want to piss me off. I outrank him and his commander is my cousin. Well, Captain, I am impressed! I've not seen such agility in many years and you were most gracious to your opponent. You do our sport honor."

Frank mumbled his thanks and Yuri continued, "Not all Russians fight dirty. My apologies. You know, Captain, we have been opponents at work but I do not think we should be opponents here, yes?

"Yeth," Frank muttered through the towel. "I dink he boke ny node."

_"Konechna._ Of course. The kick was aimed at your jaw. It could have been worse but he missed. Can you get up?"

"Yeth, I dink tho."

_"Horasho_. Good. Sacha's Bar awaits! We will toast to my victory and to your new nose."

And so they did. For the next five hours.

Kick-started by alcohol at their commiseration session for Frank's broken nose, he and Yuri gradually gained mutual respect for each other. They began working out together in their off time and, even when on duty, found time to offer each other suggestions for use in their respective delegations. These two disparate soldiers formed an uncommon little détente of their own and startled their senior officers more than once when, reacting as one, they had opposed either NATO or the Warsaw Pact bloc for pressing inane or dangerous ideas. Now they were together again.

As he dressed, Frank had a feeling that the chance meeting with Yuri had to be a good omen, much more valuable than just seeing an old friend again.

The two friends sat in a darkened back booth at Big Mojo, a neighborhood bar near Frank's Alexandria townhouse. Yuri pushed back a dangling forelock with his left hand and extended his long, muscular right arm toward Frank, his fist wrapped around a shot glass of vodka, the glass barely visible in his huge hand. It was Yuri's third toast.

"My good friend, Captain Frank, may you fight fairly and always be victorious - _except against me!_ "

Frank grinned, threw back his drink, and then looked at Yuri seriously. "Okay, Yuri, tell me. Why you are in Washington?"

Yuri grimaced. "Okay. It's stupid bureaucrats. They posted me here over one month ago to prepare the security team for my President's visit. It seems he now has decided not to come to America. So I take some time for myself."

Can you stay a while?" asked Frank. "Let me show you some of the sights here."

"No, my friend, two days more to wrap up things and then I must return to Moscow. Dark times now. But ah, remember our times in Poland?"

"Sure. You had the hardest right hand in the Warsaw Pact."

Yuri chuckled and then his face sobered and his voice became a whisper. "In Warsaw, I was a perfect career officer, counting the months until I became a general. Today I think only of quitting. Moscow expects me to work fourteen hours a day, six days a week. For that they pay about $150 a month. Frank, I am a full colonel, not a private. Twenty years as an officer. How can you respect yourself with so little money? How can you live? The situation in Mother Russia is terrible and I cannot make it any better. No one can. At least not for a long time. So, I will resign when I return. Then I will get about eighteen dollars a month for pension." Yuri spat in his glass. "Soldiers get shit."

Frank sat silent for a moment, embarrassed for his proud friend. "Did you marry after Warsaw?"

"No, a lover only." Yuri answered, his eyes riveted on the bottom of his shot glass. "In Moscow."

They continued toasting until one of them hiccupped, causing the other, with a burp, to suggest a taxi.

The next morning, a groggy Frank awoke to strange sounds coming from his kitchen. Burglars? He slid from his bed and crept down the hall. Suddenly a huge shadow crossed the hall in front of him. Instinctively, he jumped back, fists at the ready.

"Good morning, captain. I have coffee ready", Yuri said and offered Frank a cup.

"Oh, shit...Yuri," muttered Frank. "I forgot you stayed over. Did you sleep okay?"

"Fine, fine. I cannot sleep for too many hours. Too restless."

Frank took the cup from Yuri and, with mutual sighs, they took seats at the oval kitchen table. After reflecting on the dubious quality of the previous night's vodka, Frank worked his hand through his hair and said, "Yuri, maybe there's a way we could work together. If you truly have decided to leave the army, would you like to work with me in Central Asia?"

"Central Asia?" Yuri exclaimed, gulping his coffee. "Where in Central Asia? Not Tajikistan. Those crazy Tajiks are just like their cousins in Afghanistan. I've seen how they torture and kill their own people. I saw too many dead bodies and pieces of bodies in Dushanbe." Yuri frowned and his green eyes darkened at the memory of armless hands, and charred, headless bodies.

"Well, I guess that's a yes and a no." Frank sipped his coffee and tried another tack. "Let me back up a little. In June, I became the president of a new bank. It's American owned but will only operate in Central Asia. The bank's main office, where you and I would be most of the time, is in Kyrgyzstan and, I'll admit, our territory does includes Tajikistan. I was thinking about what you've been doing lately. You know, security for President Yeltsin. Security is the one area of the bank I haven't yet addressed and that role seems made to order for you." Frank set his cup down, put both hands on the table, and leaned forward. "Would you consider working for my little bank as head of security? It would mean looking after the safety of our bank assets, customers, and staff in all five republics. You can have whatever staff you think necessary."

Borkov looked pensive and didn't reply. Frank began to worry he might have insulted a full colonel by asking him to become what some might call a rent-a-cop. Frank played his ace. "Also, your salary would be ... say, four thousand a month to start?"

Yuri's back straightened. His eyes crinkled and his frown disappeared. "By God, Captain Frank, you have an old colonel at your service."

"Great!" Frank gripped Yuri's hand and asked, "When can you leave?"

"I must resign with a month's notice. I can be ready in five weeks. Is that good?"

"That'll be fine. I guess I should brief you on what I know now but honestly, we'll both be learning as we go."

Frank re-filled the cups, brought a few files from his den, and began explaining to Yuri the origin of the bank, its staff, and locations. Three hours later, when they'd finished drafting a rough organization and budget for the CAB Security Department, Yuri left to draft his resignation letter and make travel arrangements.

Frank stood in his living room, perplexed. He needed to get ready as well. Should he take anything besides clothes? The picture of him at Bartlett bank when he made vice president? The lounge chair that fit his ass so perfectly? Golf clubs? No, no, NO! He had to make a clean break. No physical reminders of either New York or Washington that might jinx his chances at beginning again. Plus, he was pretty sure there weren't any golf courses in Kyrgyzstan.

Unlike his tour with NATO, moving to the other side of the world wouldn't be just another assignment; it had to be the beginning of a new and different future. He fervently prayed that this new job would give him time with Lara and a place to erase his scars from time spent with _The_ _Princess._ This was his opportunity to see if he could really do it, stand on his own, without a corporate or military structure to lean on. Or an ambitious, scheming wife. Sheila said I couldn't make it, thought Frank. Said I needed her _and_ a big corporation. Well, screw that! I _can_ do it and now's my chance to prove it. Adding Yuri to my little group certainly won't hurt. Damn, I'm glad he showed up!

### CHAPTER SIX

"Welcome to the Soviet Union."

March, 1996 –Moscow, Russia

By the time Frank pulled his bags from the ancient and creaking luggage carousel, more than forty passengers had queued ahead of him for Russian Customs Inspection. A long hour later, he emerged into the main lobby of Moscow's Sheremetyevo 2, the Soviet Union's largest and most famous airport. He stood in the center of the airport lobby and gaped, eyes wide in amazement. Chaos ruled Lines snaked through lines until you couldn't tell where one ended and another began. A large, disorganized crowd pushed at the single entrance to departure control, all thoughts of queuing abandoned in their shared anxiety. There wasn't an airport official to be seen anywhere. Stepping over loose luggage and easing through lines, Frank tried to find the inter-terminal bus stop to Domodidova, Moscow's second largest airport, where his flight to Kyrgyzstan would originate. He stopped each tourist who didn't look lost and, using his best Russian, albeit with a slight American accent, asked for directions to the bus. He couldn't find anyone who knew, or even cared, where to get a bus to Domodidova. Frank was about ready to look for the next plane home when a tall, well-dressed Russian man approached him. "Only taxi," the man said in halting English. "No buses, only taxi. No money for fuel. Buses stay at Moscow central station. Take taxi or stay here."

Frank remembered the briefing by Mark _somebody_ from the State Department. Mark had sternly lectured CAB personnel on the dangers of Moscow cabs and had instructed them to make sure they took the inter-terminal bus from Sheremetyevo2 to Domodiova airport. As Mark told it, passengers had lost baggage, clothes, money, and some their lives. At this point in Frank's frustration, bureaucratic warnings meant little, especially if they were out-of-date wrong. With renewed determination, Frank wheeled his bags outside the terminal building and headed for the taxi area. Six or seven dirty, dilapidated, once yellow taxis, waited at the curb.

"How much to Domodidova?" he asked the first driver in Russian.

" _M'noga_ Kilometers. _Stoh dollara,_ " the driver answered laconically, his eyes never leaving the newspaper in his lap.

"One hundred dollars!" exclaimed Frank. "How far is it?"

_"Vosemnatset kilometer_ ," Eighty kilometers, said the driver. " _E m'noga machina zvordny_ ". And lots of traffic today.

Frank recalled reading somewhere that barter and haggling were now customary in Moscow, so he went to the second cab in the line and asked for a price to Domodidova. He got the same answer.

"Okay," Frank grumbled, "the hell with trying to save a ruble!" and hauled his bags back to the first cab. The driver made no move to get out and open his trunk. He didn't even look up, so Frank shoved his bags in the back seat.

"Domodidova, _p'shalista_ , Frank told the driver. The driver remained silent, put the cab in gear, and they pulled away from the curb.

This system is really no system, Frank thought. Does anyone know what's going on?

Frank challenged the driver, "Why is the price so high? One hundred dollars. And why is it the same for each driver, even though there are no meters?"

The answer came clearly and without hesitation. "The Russian Mafia runs Sheremetyevo and they supervise all airport taxis."

"Mafia? Organized crime runs the airport?"

_"Poinyall_." Sure. The driver gave a little chuckle, and calmly explained Moscow life to his naïve American passenger. "Until two years ago, this airport was a mess. Whole families sleeping inside or outside on the grass, waiting for tickets. Drunks lying in the lobby and thieves stealing anything left alone, even for a few seconds. The Mafia took over a very bad situation. They cleaned it up and made it work. Mafia charges me 30% but they keep the rates steady and high. Everybody is happy. Everybody but the old airport managers."

"What happened to them?"

"Dead."

It took another hour of silence to get to Domodidova.

As the driver pulled up to the airport entrance, he offered Frank a word of advice. "First, you must register as a passenger. Find the registration desk and give the clerk your ticket for a boarding pass. If you cannot find the desk or no one is there or the clerk gives you problems, find a Mafia runner."

"How?"

"Stand near the gate with a one hundred dollar bill and your ticket sticking out of your passport. The Mafia has not yet taken full control at Domodidova and they only intervene when asked."

Just as the driver had warned, the registration desk was unmanned. Frank pulled a hundred from his wallet and did as instructed. Within minutes, from somewhere to the side and behind him a voice asked in accented Russian, "Need a boarding pass?"

Frank turned. A clean-shaven young man had spoken. He was dressed casually, all in black: wool slacks, shined loafers, and matching silk shirt. He was smiling and seemed eager to help.

"Yes, I need to register for my flight to Kyrgyzstan."

"Kurdistan?" asked the young man with a puzzled expression.

"No, No. Bish-kek, in Kur-GEEZ-stan. The capital city is Bishkek. It was Frunze until 1991. Maybe you know it as Kur-GEEZ-ia,"

"Ah, yes, Kyrgyzia," said the young man. "I know it. No problem. One hundred dollars. OK?"

Frank nodded his acceptance and said to himself, Must be the going rate for most everything here. Just come back with my damn passport!

The young man returned within ten minutes, carrying Frank's passport, ticket and a boarding pass. He instructed Frank where to check his luggage for Bishkek.

Pocketing his baggage claims subs, Frank joined the queue at the gate, and walked down a rickety stairway to a waiting, already-overloaded bus. The bus ground its way to the end of the runway section where a faded blue and white Aeroflot plane waited. Reaching the top of the boarding stairs, Frank had to stoop to enter the small door without hitting his head and proffered his business class boarding card to the flight attendant who guarded the doorway. She nonchalantly pointed to the rear of the cabin, away from the nose section. Puzzled, Frank began searching for a seat number to match his boarding pass. He looked at each row without success and soon found himself at the tail of the plane. It was obvious to him now that his seat was in the front and the attendant had miss-directed him. He pushed and sidled his way back up the aisle, squeezing past incoming passengers. and found another flight attendant. He gave her his boarding card. She looked at it, shrugged, and said "So? What can I do? The seats in front are full. Sit where ever you want and be thankful you have a seat."

Sufficiently chastised, Frank again worked his way toward the back of the plane and eased himself into an open aisle seat on the left side at the mid-ship emergency exit. There were only two seats in this row, the window seat had been removed to provide access to the exit door. A Russian man, about fifty or so, wearing a wrinkled gray wool suit, occupied what had been the middle seat. Frank figured that this seat wasn't too bad, at least the exit row would give him some added leg-room. As late arriving passengers passed his row, heading for the rear, several of them stopped and stuffed boxes, bags, and suitcases in the vacant space where the window seat had been, completely blocking the exit door. Frank couldn't restrain himself and, as soon as the last passenger passed him, he motioned to the second flight attendant.

She stomped down the aisle and stood over him. "What now?"

"What about these packages and boxes?" Frank pointed to the exit door. "They're blocking the exit. That can't be safe."

Glancing summarily at the pile of baggage, she glared at Frank and answered slowly and loudly, as if lecturing a child. "We never need these doors. Russia has hundreds of airports. If there is a problem, we land. Fasten your seat belt."

With a dismissive look, she stood stiffly and continued on to the galley area.

The man sitting next to Frank looked at him and grinned. As if to sum up Frank's frustrations, the man whispered in halting English, "Russian _service_."

Frank guffawed loudly but stopped short when he saw several passengers stare at him, as if he were a bit touched. He turned to the man beside him and whispered in Russian, "That was funny. And accurate. Thank you for noticing." Frank extended his hand. "My name is Frank Grant, I'm an American going to Bishkek."

"I'm Alexander Karnikov," the man answered, "a professor of accounting at Kyrgyzstan University. I was visiting with my brother in Moscow."

"Is her attitude normal?" Frank asked, tilting his head toward the flight attendant. "While I'm sure you'd be pleasant company, I paid for a business class seat but she couldn't care less."

"Unfortunately, yes. She doesn't worry about the passengers or safety, only making extra money. I would imagine someone either paid her or the ticket agent a few rubles and that person now fills your seat. No, I forget myself. _Hundreds_ of rubles, a few dollars. Also, some of the boxes at our feet may even belong to her or to someone else in the crew. Who knows?"

"You're saying the crew uses cabin space to haul their personal trade goods?" asked Frank, astonished.

"Of course, how else can they live? They transport their own goods or, for a small bribe, allow passengers to bring along many kilos over the limit. Other passengers don't like it but don't complain because most are in similar circumstances. Wages from a government owned company like Aeroflot are insulting. No one can live on what they are paid, so everyone who can, trades. Much of Russia's economy has gone underground; no taxes and no government officials telling us what to do or not do. Alexander pointed, indicating a small cardboard box next to the window. That contains a stereo radio that I will sell in Bishkek." Karnikov sighed with a far-away look in his eyes. "It's a very sad thing. I am old enough to remember better times. "

March, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

The Ilushin 154 left Moscow's Domodidova Airport approximately one hour late. It was 10:00 pm by the time Flight 6772 landed at Bishkek and taxied to a reserved spot on the tarmac at the apparently deserted Manas airport. As soon as the plane had come to a halt and the pilot had turned off the plane's engines, Frank rose to get his briefcase from the open overhead rack. Alexander tugged at his sleeve. "Wait. All the passengers stay seated until the crew leaves."

Frank sat back down. Very _Soviet_ , he thought. Certainly shows where their customers rank.

Viewed from the plane's stairway, the main terminal building hulked, cold and foreboding. The passengers trudged in a loose line forward, heads down. Suddenly the entire building burst into lights, awakened as if by magic. The entire first floor windows shone brightly, ready to receive the group from flight 6772, brightening everyone's spirits.

Frank soon found his bags on the carousel, snatched them up and, with a wave to Alexander, headed toward the terminal exit. Three yellow/orange streetlights cast the only illumination; their eerie glow exposing the airport entrance and a small portion of a parking area. About thirty young men, Asian, Russian and other, swarthy men, maybe Turks, crowded together outside the exit doors.

"Taxi? Taxi?" they asked as the passengers, dragging boxes and heavy bags, pushed their way through the press of friends, relatives, and eager cabbies.

" _Gasperdeen_ Grant, _Gasperdeen_ Grant!" Mister Grant! Frank slowly picked his way through the crowd in the direction of the voice.

" _Spraznicum,_ Welcome to Kyrgyzstan, _Gasperdeen_ Grant!" shouted a mustachioed Russian man, of perhaps forty years. "Let me have your bags, please. I am your driver, Zaour Nicholaiovitch."

Zaour led Frank to an old, mustard colored car of unknown lineage. Frank reached for the rear door handle but Zaour quickly moved to the passenger side and opened the front door for Frank.

"Always the honored seat is in front, Mister Grant. You must show the people that you are important enough to have a chauffeured car. If you sit in the back, everyone will think you can only afford a taxi."

Zaour had an unfamiliar accent, forcing Frank to slowly translate what Zaour had said. Finally, nodding his understanding, Frank took the honored suicide seat.

Tell me, Zaour," Frank asked as Zaour drove out of the parking lot "What's your dialect? I've never heard Russian spoken like you do."

"I'm from Dagestan, near the Caspian Sea in the Caucasus. You know, near Soviet Georgia and Chechnya?"

"Yes, that's a pretty far distance. How did you end up in Bishkek?"

"Army. I was stationed in Afghanistan. When we left Afghanistan, my division came through Tajikistan into Kyrgyzstan. My time was over and they told me I could take two hundred Rubles and go my own way or they would send me by truck to Moscow. But if they paid for me to go to Moscow, I would get only thirty-five Rubles. Dagestan is about two thousand kilometers from here and five thousand from Moscow. I took the two hundred rubles thinking I got the best deal and started planning to get home. The first day out of the army, I met a Russian girl here in Bishkek and never got home." Zaour gave a contented sigh. "But life is good here. You will like it, Mister Grant."

They drove through farm fields and small clusters of houses. The car lights illuminated square houses, plastered over adobe or brick. Most were A-roofed, covered in tin sheets with both ends of the roof left open.

"Why don't the people board up their roofs, Zaour? It doesn't look like there is any insulation."

Zaour looked amused. "In the summer, breeze can go through, and it cools the ceilings. In fall, people store hay there for cattle and horses to eat in winter. It's easy to get at the hay with the ends open and hay is good insulation. By spring, the hay has been eaten and they start over. Pretty clever, yes?" Yep, Frank thought, very clever and a lot less expensive than HVAC.

Zaour pulled up in front of a four-story apartment building, motioned for Frank to get out, and then retrieved Frank's bags from the trunk. Toting two of Frank's three bags, Zaour led the way to the building's back entrance and they climbed to the second floor. Only two apartment doors opened on this landing, one obviously Frank's. Zaour unlocked the door and Frank entered, glancing briefly at the apartment's layout. He'd expected a something dreary, perhaps even dirty, similar to his apartments in Warsaw and East Berlin. This apartment was clean, neat, and the living room had six-foot high windows open to the boulevard in front. Zaour dropped the bags in the entry hall and asked Frank what time he wanted to be picked up on Monday morning. First consulting his watch, he did some quick math, and took a few minutes to guesstimate Bishkek time, Washington time, and what time his body thought it was. He'd been traveling for thirty hours straight, over eighteen hours in the air, flying from Washington to Moscow to Bishkek, and his body was still trying to adjust to the ten hours time difference between Washington and Bishkek. All at once, he felt exhausted.

"It's about 11:00PM here now, right, Zaour?" asked Frank

" _Dah_ ".

"Well, I think I'll unpack, get a good night's sleep, and get to the office tomorrow about 9:00, okay?

"Tomorrow is Saturday, Mr. Grant. You will work on Saturday?"

"Absolutely. You'll pick me up at 9:00?"

Zaour shrugged and waved goodnight, leaving Frank standing in the entry hall. Frank locked the door and took his first close look at the apartment's interior. To the north, the living room had a large two-piece sectional along two walls, a TV, VCR, and stereo. To the south, directly across from the living room, there was what appeared to be a small, second bedroom. Frank walked down the hall and, after the small bedroom, came to a good-sized kitchen with windows along the south wall open to a park in the rear. All the rooms had 12-foot ceilings and, except for the kitchen, all had 5 X 6 carpets hung on at least one wall. Ornate scrollwork circled each ceiling light. Two small, closet-sized rooms served for toilet and bath. That left only one room at the end of the hall. Frank decided that must be the master bedroom and, opening the door to the room, he could see a double armoire, a small writing table, a dresser and a large double bed covered by a plush red and black feather-filled comforter. It was occupied.

"Welcome, dahling," cooed Lara as she slipped out from under the covers wearing only a smile. "Come here," she ordered, stretching her arms out to him. "Later you must tell me all about your trip. First, we make love."

Without a word, Frank stripped off his travel clothes, snapping two buttons in the process. The hell with jet lag!

### CHAPTER SEVEN

"Robinson Crusoe Grant meets his Friday."

August, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

By Frank's second week on the job as CAB's new president, he was rising at dawn, in the office by 7:00 and, except for business lunches, seldom left until after dark. Lara's travel schedule took her to the cities of Tashkent, Almaty, Dushanbe and Ashkabad to meet and plan advertising and PR with each of the local managers and key government officials. Fortunately, air transportation between Bishkek and the other capitals was easily available and she was able to stay at Frank's about three or four nights a week. The two worked hard at putting together a comprehensive, six-week media plan for the bank. First, Lara had to set up a PR program for the CAB in the five cities. Second, as soon as the plans were finalized here, she would jet back to Washington, to coordinate press releases with Owen Hastings, legal counsel Daniel Cannelli, the UN and IMF press relations officers, and major media. Now that their plans were in effect, Frank could set his own travel schedule for visits throughout the region. However, working harder and harder, Frank still found it impossible to finish his daily desk work. Regulatory papers and loan requests piled higher every day. He knew that he had to get out or go crazy. Immediately. Or sooner.

Frank stood before a 4 x 6 map of Central Asia on the wall behind his desk and, with a red marking pencil, circled each city with a CAB office. He had begun measuring the mileage from Bishkek to each circle when Goulnara, the office secretary/receptionist, knocked on his door to offer a morning coffee.

"Mr. Seragulov is waiting to see you," Goulnara said. "Should he come in?"

"Seragulov? Who is Mr. Seragulov?" asked Frank quizzically. "Did I have an appointment with him?"

"No, he just walked in," she answered. "He's a very important Kyrgyz businessman, also a very famous athlete. He said he wants to talk to you about his business."

Frank quickly dropped the marker pen, stepped out to the small waiting area, and escorted Luke Seragulov to his office. Seragulov was dressed for serious business in a gray, pinstriped light wool suit over a white shirt with French cuffs, black loafers and he carried a small leather briefcase. If Frank didn't know better, this man could have been one of the brokers he'd worked with on Wall Street. Luke's physique matched Frank's and they were probably about the same age and weight. Luke certainly wasn't the stereotypical Bishkek bank customer.

"Would you like some coffee or tea, Mr. Seragulov?" asked Frank in Russian.

"Yes, tea and please call me Luke," answered Seragulov in English, grinning. "There are a lot of Seragulov's in Kyrgyzstan but only one Luke".

"All right, _Luke_ , what can the CAB do for you?" asked Frank as he motioned for Goulnara to bring in a tea service.

"Today? Nothing. Tomorrow, who knows? Mainly I came to say hello. It's a rare treat to meet a real, live western banker. Since independence in 1991, we Kyrgyz have had to use a banking system that is antiquated, self-serving, and untrustworthy. Anyone who has money keeps it at home. I hope your bank will be different." Luke smiled and asked, "What do you think?"

Frank sat back in his chair, pleasantly surprised by this brash and fast-talking man. He could get to like this guy.

"Unfortunately, I have to agree with your observations, Luke. I think the CAB _must_ do better. Something else though, how did you learn English, .er American, so well? Most of the translators I've used aren't nearly as good."

"Mr. Grant, it's obvious that you don't know much about me."

"I'll admit, I know practically nothing about you but I'd like to learn. And please call me Frank."

"Okay, _Frank_. My background is in sports. People know me because of my wrestling. It's the most popular sport in Kyrgyzstan and attracts more athletes than any other sport. I was fortunate to win several titles when I competed; Champion of Asia and the Soviet Union, and a silver medal in the Moscow Olympics. In the '84 Olympics, I was young but at my best. I thought I would win gold but then politics intervened and the Soviet team was not allowed to go to Los Angeles. No gold for Luke. In Seoul in '88, I earned another silver medal and decided to retire. I was only twenty-four." Luke paused and seemed to lose his train of thought. "Oh, I'm sorry, you asked about my English. I learned a little in school and some from books but mostly from talking with people in other countries and seeing American movies when I traveled. As a champion of the Soviet Union, I got to travel all over the world to competitions and training camps with light restrictions. I learned quickly that American English has become _the_ international language and I use it whenever I meet Westerners here."

"That's a great career! I've never wrestled. My sport is Kung Fu, Chinese boxing."

"Kung Fu! What a coincidence!" exclaimed Luke. "I started studying Kung Fu only last month at a new place, the Manas Martial Arts Academy in Bishkek. This dojo specializes in Karate but I want to learn Kung Fu. What belt do you have?"

"In Kung Fu it's called a sash. I earned a black sash my senior year at high school."

"What degree?" asked Luke.

"Kung Fu doesn't have degrees like judo or karate. Once you get a black, you can be a Sifu and begin teaching. Although there are thousands of black sash holders, and large a fraction of those teach, only three people in the world of Kung Fu are entitled to rank above a black sash: Master's Disciple, Master, and Grand Master. I got lucky and studied for a while with number two, a World Master of Kung Fu."

"Damn!" exclaimed Luke. "You must be good, Frank. Maybe we can work out together?"

"I'd like that. When?"

Luke and Frank met the next evening at Luke's dojo. Immediately upon beginning warm-up exercises, Luke's balance, agility and strength were impressive. However, Frank's experienced moves made poor Luke look awkward. It was obvious to both of them that they couldn't fight on an even level, so Frank spent most of their first session as Luke's instructor. Frank didn't mind, in fact he found that he enjoyed being a Sifu instead of a student, helping someone learn the sport from his point of view. After that first session, they agreed to meet every Tuesday and Thursday, whenever they both were in town.

On their second workout, Luke brought along an older man, maybe sixty or so, in a suit and tie. Common among the older Kyrgyz men, he also wore a white woolen Kyrgyz hat, a _Kalpak,_ shaped in the manner of Robin Hood's hat in an old Errol Flynn movie. It had a peak in front and a narrow black, velvet-trimmed brim, turned up all around.

"I want you to meet my uncle, Ahlimbek," said Luke, indicating the old man.

_"Ochin preatnah._ Pleased to meet you," said Frank, taking the old man's extended hand.

"My uncle is a Professor of mathematics at Kyrgyz University," said Luke, continuing the introduction. "He even taught President Akaev when he went there."

"Were you responsible for the President's success in science?" asked Frank.

"No, No," answered Ahlimbek. _._ "He had his own natural talents. His patents in the field of computer graphics are beyond my poor level. Why do you ask? Have you met President Akaev?"

"Yes, just last week," replied Frank. "He's a very personable man. Kyrgyzstan is lucky to have him."

"I agree. Do you know how he was first elected?"

"No. Please tell me," Frank asked inquisitively.

"Early in 1991," Ahlimbek began, "most of the Republic's leaders knew that freedom and a breakup of the USSR was close at hand. Our country's constitution then called for the President to be elected by parliament and an election was due in May. The incumbent President, Saltinbek Mamatov, an arrogant, old line communist, felt so confident of his re-election that he went on an early holiday to Lake Issyk-Kul. With Mamatov out of Bishkek, parliament had an opportunity to seek another candidate. Unfortunately, there were several factions in parliament and each insisted on their own man. Negotiations for cooperation failed. No one candidate could muster a majority. At one point someone, I don't remember who, asked, "What about Akaev?" Askar Akaev was then President of Kyrgyz Academy of Science, having returned to Bishkek in 1989, after seventeen years in East Germany as a decorated mathematician and scientist. Even thought Akaev had no thirst for politics, he'd been thrust into parliament in 1990 to replace his ailing older brother who represented a small, non-aligned rural district outside Bishkek. Because Akaev had only recently returned to Kyrgyzstan, he didn't have many close friends, didn't belong to any one political faction, and most important, hadn't had time to make enemies."

"As a compromise, the leaders of parliament settled on Askar to serve as President. After much persuasion, he finally agreed and parliament promptly elected him President.

"Not bad for one of my ex-students, eh?"

"Fascinating," replied Frank. "So, did he keep the old line communist government like some other presidents?"

"Yes, but the minimum. We have problems today but old communist bureaucrats are not the main cause. New bureaucrats can be just as stupid and greedy."

Frank laughed. "Please excuse me if I offend but I have to ask about your name. Ahlimbek is unusual, is it not? I've never heard it before."

Luke interrupted, "My uncle's name is truly one of a kind and he loves to tell the story behind it."

The old man smiled, his gold teeth flashing, happy to relate another favorite tale.

"When my parents, first married, like any normal Kyrgyz couple, they started a family. Their first child was a girl and they named her, Goulnara, after an aunt. The baby didn't live past one month and the entire family was heartbroken. The next year my mother had another baby, a boy. They named him Malik, after my father's father. This baby lived for only two months. The family called a conference to discuss these unusual deaths and my mother's mother advised that it was bad luck to name a baby after a living relative. Upon that seemingly wise advice, my parents determined that the next baby would not be named after a living relative. The third was another boy who was named Bulot, after my father's, father's, father, who, of course, was long dead. This baby lived for only two weeks. Now my family was distraught. Three babies had died within three months of birth. Everyone in town talked about the problem. It became the villagers' favorite topic. One day my father believed he had found the solution but he didn't tell anyone.

When my mother gave birth to my older brother, my father announced that this baby will not be named until it has lived for a good length of time. And so the baby was not named until he was almost two. They named him Janibek. After Janibek, came a fifth child, a girl. My mother insisted that the curse had been broken with Janibek and, before my father could object, she told everyone that she had named the baby, Zamira. Little Zamira died ten days later.

I was the sixth baby and, when I was born, my father stood over my mother as she held me, only minutes old. He forbade her to give me a name until I had celebrated my second birthday. Obviously, along with my brother, I made it. Only two out of six. That's why my brother and I have unusual Kyrgyz names. His means ' _Still Alive_ ' and I'm ' _Not Dead Yet_ '."

### CHAPTER EIGHT

"In the Dark of the Night."

April, 1996 – Washington, DC

Simon Pettit pulled his black Lincoln town car over to the curb at the end of North Uhle Street in Alexandria, Virginia to a spot where he could see the entrance to Lara's apartment on Key Boulevard. He took a mobile car phone from its cradle and punched a number. Three rings and a woman's voice answered.

"Welcome back, _darling_ Lara." he said.

"Simon? I just now walked in the door from the airport. How did you know that I was here? Did you have me followed? "

"That would be a real waste of manpower, now wouldn't it, Lara? I talked with Natasha in Bishkek and she gave me your flight schedule. You know why I called, right?

Lara didn't reply immediately. "I think so," she answered hesitantly.

"You _think_ so? Lara, think some more. Did you insert the program file on the bank's computer before you left Kyrgyzstan, as I told you?"

"No, no, I didn't. Let me explain. I appreciate everything you've done for me, Simon, clearing that bullshit drug charge. Please believe that. But I'm sorry. I can't do what you want. The last few weeks with Frank have been wonderful. I'm sleeping, really sleeping. No midnight sweats and no drugs. Dear god, Simon, I truly care for him and now you want me to do something to his bank without his knowledge. I could never do that to him. Ask me anything, anything else."

Simon's voice got cold and flat. "You're the only one I brought in on this. When I got you the job with the CAB, I did a lot of planning and weeks of waiting. All of that work and time was for _you_. You agreed to put my analysis program into their computer. And now you tell me, No." Simon's voice became a sinister whisper. "Don't fuck with me, Lara. I need you to install my program." He paused to control his rising exasperation. "You needed me once, Lara, and you will again. We both know your drug bust was legit and it only faded away because of me, but it can be reopened at any time. Now, damnit! Get back on a plane and do what you're told!"

"I can't, Simon, I just can't," Lara sobbed. You're not the only one pressing me, you know."

"What? Who else is pulling your strings?"

"I can't tell you, not without seeing Frank first."

Simon paused, let out a breath, and considered Lara's words. He did the old count to ten, by twos. "That's quite unacceptable," he said coldly and punched END.

Lara heard the disconnect signal, her stomach muscles tightened, and she suddenly felt nauseous. Being with a loving, caring man like Frank in quiet, secluded Kyrgyzstan had been better than the best therapy any re-hab doctor could have prescribed. For the first time in years, Lara didn't need anything to get through the night or stimulants to wake up in the morning. She had Frank. And he had her, forever if he wanted. Simon's icy voice echoed in her mind and she began to tremble. Tonight would be the first night in a week without Frank's warm hard body next to hers and his strong arms to hold her whenever she cried out in nightmares, running from faceless demons. A chill came over her face and spread to her arms. She sucked in air, trying to calm herself but her hands wouldn't stop shaking. The telephone rang again. Could that be Simon?

"No. I'll say it again. No," Lara stammered into the phone. Her hands trembled so badly she held the phone with both hands and still almost dropped it. "I just can't do that to Frank. Ask me anything else. Hello? Hello?"

The phone went dead again and she missed the cradle putting down the receiver and it cracked against the hardwood floor, startling her as if she were shot. She needed help, something to get her through tonight and the tense coming days in Washington. Lara found her purse and rummaged through it frantically. In frustration, she dumped the contents on the sofa and snatched at a small piece of crumpled paper. She unraveled the paper. That was it! A prescription for Percodan. It would have to do. Clutching the prescription in one hand, she threw most of her stuff back into the purse and ran out the front door, intent upon reaching her car that was parked diagonally across from her doorstep. Her size four heels click-clicking the pavement, she crossed the street in mid-block, eyes focused on her destination. Lara never saw the large black sedan cruising down the hill from the west. It hit her from behind, instantly breaking her back. Lara's one hundred-fifteen pound body was tossed straight up into the air, arms and legs akimbo. The car sped beneath the high arc of her body and, a second before her twisted body smacked the pavement, the car had disappeared around the corner at Troy Street.

April, 1996 – Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Frank sat at his CAB desk doing his best to finish a loan report. All the windows were open to a warm, breezy Saturday night, the second week of April. Lara had left the previous morning and Frank couldn't sleep, knowing she wouldn't be back for perhaps three weeks. He'd come to the office before 7:00 this morning and it was now past 6:00PM. All the office staff had gone home and, when the main telephone line rang, he answered it himself.

_"Dobrea Vercher. Bahnk Centraal Ahzia_. Good Evening, Central Asian Bank."

"Frank?"

"Yes ......... Owen? Is that you?"

"Yes, Frank, it's me. How are you?"

"I'm fine. What's the matter? You sound different."

"I tried your apartment first and I'm glad I found you at the office. I've got some bad news, Frank, and I don't know how to say it gently. Lara Balancheva's dead."

Franks stomach clenched and his breath halted. "What? Lara? Oh no, not Lara. There's got to be some mistake, Owen.......shit, oh, shit.... Frank heaved a sigh and managed to croak out, "What.... happened?"

"I only have a preliminary police report. They say that she was found in the street near her apartment sometime before midnight Friday, last night. The police found my card in her purse and called me this morning. They said it was a hit and run without witnesses. I reached Lara's parents about an hour ago and they're in shock. Her uncle just called me back and said they're going to have her buried in Rochester. I'm terribly sorry, Frank. I know that you two were close. Can I do anything for you?"

"No, Owen, thanks anyway," replied Frank hoarsely as tears began streaming down his cheeks. "I think I should be there for the funeral."

"That might be a good idea. Don't let her be buried without a farewell," advised Hastings. "It'll be painful but good for your healing in the long run."

And so Frank began the ten thousand-mile trip the very same night. He drove to Almaty, Kazakhstan and flew from there to Frankfurt and then on to Washington, arriving before dinner, DC time. Hastings had been proven right, the funeral was painful. Very painful. Frank fervently hoped that Hastings would also be correct about the long run.

April, 1996 – Washington, DC

Owen Hastings placed the telephone receiver on the hook, turned and went straight to his liquor cabinet. A good stiff shot of bourbon would do nicely, he thought. Telling Frank about Lara's death had not been easy. In his gruff, stiff-collared way, Owen liked Frank Grant. He'd grown fond of Frank's honesty, innocence, and straight-arrow ways. Like a bad omen, the bourbon slammed onto the pit of his empty stomach at the instant his telephone rang. It was Simon Pettit.

"Owen? I received a message from your office that a CAB employee died. What happened?"

"Yes, yes, Simon. A terrible tragedy. Lara Balancheva was killed last night in DC by a hit and run driver."

"Did anyone see the car?"

"The police are questioning people in the neighborhood. So far, no luck."

"Too bad, too bad" pronounced Simon in a monotone. "She should have looked before jaywalking."

"I can't believe it," moaned Hastings, ignoring Simon's caustic comment. "She was such a vibrant person. I just got off the phone with Frank. He's taking it pretty hard."

"Too bad, but he'll get over it. Anything else?"

"No, Simon. I thought you should know as soon as possible. Her family is taking care of the funeral."

"Well then, We'll be talking soon," said Pettit. A click and he was gone.

Hastings returned to his bar and refilled his glass. Sipping the bourbon, he began to think about what Simon had said. That bastard Pettit has no feelings whatsoever. He acted as if we just lost a computer. And accusing Lara of being at fault. What crass! Then it hit him. How did Simon know she was jaywalking? She could have been in a crosswalk or even on the curb for all Simon knew. He sat down and drained his glass. Cannelli's words of warning last year about Simon Pettit came bubbling up from his memory pool. Perhaps a busy congressman couldn't find time to be briefed by Jim Conyers but a semi-retired bank chairman certainly could. Hastings grabbed his address file and searched for Conyers' home telephone.

### CHAPTER NINE

"Conyers' Story"

April, 1996 – Washington, DC

Three days after Lara's funeral, Owen Hastings joined Jim Conyers in a sound protected, electronically secure meeting room in the State Department's Dulles Building,

"Mr. Hastings," Conyers began, "This meeting you have requested will be recorded. Have I impressed upon you the delicate and sensitive nature of your request?"

"Yes."

"Are you aware of my reluctance to disclose anything further than what you already know?"

Hastings nodded perfunctorily and then, for the record, quietly answered, "Yes".

Conyers gave Hastings a tightlipped look, shrugged, and continued, "Since you've demonstrated a need to know and are still cleared for such classified information, we might as well get on with it. Please sign a current non-disclosure form."

Hastings placed his signature on the form proffered by Conyers.

"Do you solemnly swear that you have signed this non-disclosure of your own free will and promise never to use or disclose anything of what I'm about to tell you to the detriment of the Central Intelligence Agency or any other agencies or departments of the Federal government?"

"Absolutely, you have my word," responded Hastings.

Conyers took in a large breath. "What I am about to relate to you is a compilation of many investigative interviews, various surveillance techniques, observer reports, Simon Pettit's personal notes and debriefings, telephone and microphone taps, and my personal records and opinions. Are those sources sufficient for your needs?

"Yes, more than adequate."

Conyers relaxed his shoulders, opened a thick folder marked TOP SECRET.

"I'll start in May of '83," Conyers announced and then began relating the most bizarre story Hastings had ever heard...

Osaka, Japan – 1983

Northwest Airlines flight 764 touched wheels at Osaka's Kansai airport with a jolt, waking Simon from a light sleep. Simon Pettit pushed up the window shade and peered out at the early Japanese morn, his mind racing.

So that's mysterious Japan? Looks just like O'Hare, he thought. That building silhouetted against the dawn to the east looks just like the Sears Tower.

Simon pulled his flight bag from the overhead compartment and moved with the other passengers out the door, down the mobile stairway, and into the terminal building. After shuffling down a long, narrow hallway, the parade stopped at the immigration queue. Simon fumbled with his passport and diplomatic ID and tried to ignore the organized bustle around him. It soon came his turn and the immigration officer dutifully scanned his face, glanced at his new, virgin diplomatic passport, and waved him through to baggage claim. Simon followed the signs showing the silhouette of a suitcase to a vast open area with ten or fifteen luggage carousels. He found the correct carousel but baggage from his flight had not yet begun to spill off the conveyor. For the first time since landing, Simon took notice of his surroundings, as his gaze swept the crowd. Thousands of short, slant-eyed, dark-haired people swarmed around and eddied past him. My god, he thought, they all look the same! He became conscious of the chatter of voices, all in Japanese and all completely unintelligible. He suddenly felt like John Wayne at a gay pride parade: too obvious, too big, and _way_ out of place. As quickly as his bags tumbled out of the delivery tunnel, Simon snatched them off the conveyor and hurried past the nearest Customs station. The official did nothing to stop him. Almost running now, he burst out into the arrival hall and suddenly froze. He would not, could not, join this horde of alien humanity.

"What have I done?" he said aloud. "Oh, god, where in hell am I?"

A policeman noticed Simon's agitated state and attempted to converse with him. With a bucktoothed grin he asked, "So, _pra rem_?"

Simon stared at the cop, shook his head, and headed for the exit, dragging one bag and carrying two. He found the taxi stand and got in line. When his turn came, he handed the driver a letter in Japanese bearing the name and address of the hotel the Agency had chosen.

Slumping in the back seat, Simon tried to think, how can I get out of this? Why did I think Japan was my destiny? There's nothing here for me!

At the hotel, he registered and followed the bellman to his room in a zombie-like state, his depression and paranoia increasing with each step.

When his request for a CIA assignment to Japan had been approved, he'd packed without hesitation, never once considering his personal history of being the consummate loner who had always shied from groups of people. Here there were thousands. All around him. All so different. Everyone looked, spoke, dressed, and acted ..... alien. Simon rubbed his neck as he surveyed his room: one single bed, a small desk and TV, a built-in closet about two feet wide and a shower/toilet combination only slightly larger than the closet.

"This midget room is for Japanese," he said to the walls, "not me. Damn it to hell! What can I do?" No one answered. Collapsing on the bed, he wrapped the bed's tiny blanket around him.

Simon awoke the next morning to sunlight streaming into his room from the slit of a window. The small clock on the desk read 10:00am. Crawling off the bed, he stripped off his wrinkled clothes and showered as best he could in the cramped bath. Once dried, he donned a sport shirt, slacks and loafers and then, holding his breath, he opened the hallway door and peeked out. The hallway was empty, so he headed to the elevator, intent on getting to a restaurant. Suddenly the elevator doors opened and several Japanese emerged, forcing Simon to hug the wall. No, he thought, they're everywhere! Simon stumbled back to his room, dialed the icon for room service. and merely said, "Food _"_. I'll go out tomorrow, he thought. I have to, it's my first day at work. The balance of his first full day in Japan was spent in his room, reading a book on Japanese history that Jim Conyers had thoughtfully given him.

The morning of the second day, Simon's taxi deposited him at the American consulate, exactly at 9:00am.

Stepping past the marine guard, Simon's posture stiffened, his face brightened. He could actually smell home in the wall paint! The receptionist directed him to Paul Del Monico's office, Osaka's CIA Station Chief.

"Hey, Pettit!" called Del Monico. "Welcome. Come in."

During Simon's first working day, Del Monico took pains to see that Simon met as many employees as possible. Del Monico had read Simon's file more than once and he anticipated the unease that a loner like Simon would feel on his first foreign trip. He wanted Simon to build people-support in his new job and, concurrently, Del Monico planned to establish as many intelligence sources as possible to monitor Simon's activities. Simon dutifully smiled at each new face, nodding his way through the first day. That afternoon, as soon as Simon reached his hotel room, the sweats began. He turned up the thermostat and put on a jacket but couldn't stop shaking. He crawled into his small bed and curled into a fetal ball, lest his feet dangle off the end. Simon didn't know if he could go back to the consulate the next day, maybe never. Finally, he wondered about his other personality and wished it were able to help him. Here he was in Japan but where was that Soji? Was he fucking real?

For as long as he could remember, Simon had kept himself apart from others, neither needing nor giving, but he'd never felt this uneasy. Japan was his ultimate isolation, to be among millions and have no connection, no affinity with anyone. Simon lay still until hunger pangs diverted his anxiety. He rolled on his side and grabbed the telephone. Reaching room service, he eventually conveyed to the man on the other end that he wanted a " _ham bubbah_ ". Then, exhausted by the phone ordeal, he collapsed again, as his shivers and sweats returned.

Each day seemed longer than the one before. Five tension-filled days passed with Simon still uneasy around most of the Japanese employees at the consulate. One of the translators, Kimiko Fujihara, could not help noticing Simon's discomfort. Kimiko was fascinated by this _gaijin's_ blond hair, bright blue eyes and his resemblance to _Ben_. Slyly, whenever she could, she watched Simon as he read the consulate daily reports and wrote his analyses. Often her thoughts returned to when she had been a student at Tokyo University....

Tokyo, Japan - 1980

Professor Kubelsky returned Kimiko her term paper and she blushed as he loudly praised her work to the entire English class. Professor of Languages, Benjamin J. Kubelsky, Ph.D., Stanford, was an American hired to teach American English to Tokyo University seniors. Each student in Kubelsky's class had majored in English and had tested fluent in the language, just to be admitted to his class. Unfortunately it was a fluency that stopped at the shores of Japan. Ever since the war, University graduates had joined American firms or enrolled in post-graduate schools in America, only to find that they had lots of trouble conversing in everyday American English. While American English was an ever-changing language, the Japanese language was almost static, changing slowly over many decades. Consequently, the idioms, slang, metaphors, and regional intonations used by Americans were a mystery to both Japanese teachers and students. At long last, Tokyo University of Foreign Studies decided to hire an actual American to teach its students the American language. Kubelsky was the first teacher selected and he quickly introduced his classes to jive, valley girl, and Brooklynese, along with the many discrepancies between the Oxford _English_ dictionary and Webster's _American_.

Kimiko was Kubelsky's best and most eager student. Her quick mind and easy laughter had charmed him from the very first day of class. Had he not been gay, he might have fallen in love with his star pupil. As far as Kimiko was concerned, Doctor Kubelsky was the best teacher she had ever had; a font of knowledge for her unquenchable thirst. Kubelsky was tall, thin and wore his blond hair long, tied in a ponytail.

Ten days after Kubelsky and his Californian lover had celebrated Ben's thirty-third birthday and their sixth anniversary together, he received an invitation to teach in Tokyo. Kubelsky had looked upon the fateful letter as an omen of change, recognizing that his partnership had long ago slipped into complacency and tedium. Consequently, he readily accepted the lucrative Japanese offer. Ben's lover, himself a professor at Berkley, stayed on in San Francisco, quickly consoling himself with a new _protégée_.

Before the semester was half over, Kimiko and Kubelsky had become somewhat of a gossip item among the students. Many suspected that Ben was gay but homosexuality was an unspoken taboo in Japan and, even if she had suspected, Kimiko was significantly naive regarding gay lifestyles. When tall, blond Ben and dark-haired Kimiko were spotted together sipping sodas or giggling at some cartoon festival, a few _sophisticated_ observers had a good chuckle but most just felt sorry for the pretty, innocent young girl who obviously didn't realize that she had no future with Ben.

Kimiko sometimes daydreamed that she and Kubelsky were married. She would spend hours designing an apartment for them and imagined many children, even though she had some reservations as to what the kids would look like. Would they be blond or dark-haired? Finally, she didn't care. If she was with Ben, everything would be fine. To her, Kubelsky was the ideal man: smart, successful, and extremely sensitive and caring. She longed to be with him more often than just in class and a few casual semi-dates. Finally, Kimiko made up her mind. She would take the initiative and have Kubelsky to meet her parents. That simple act would expose her desires to everyone concerned, including the unsuspecting Kubelsky. On a Monday morning, she asked her mother if she could bring a guest to dinner that Friday. When her mother immediately approved, she then drafted a formal invitation for Kubelsky. Using her best American, she carefully penned the words, sealed the envelope, and placed it in Kubelsky's staff mailbox at the University. She skipped away with joy to meet her school chum, Aiko at the library. As she approached the large glass doors to the library, she saw Aiko pacing inside, next to the main counter. Aiko, normally a cool, level-headed young lady, was obviously very agitated. Kimiko rushed through the doors and Aiko ran to her and wrapped Kimiko in her arms tightly.

"What's the matter, Aiko?" Kimiko asked, breathlessly.

"Oh. You didn't hear? Poor professor Kubelsky! He was hit by a bus this morning. He is dead!"

Kimiko crumpled to the floor without a sound. She awoke minutes later on a bench in a dark corner of the library with Aiko hovering over her, wiping her face with a damp cloth.

"Is it true?" she whispered. "Ben is dead?'

Aiko nodded and bowed her head. She knew how Kimiko felt about the tall American and the pain his death must be causing her. Aiko helped Kimiko to sit up and then they walked silently together for rides home.

"I will never have a love like this," Kimiko said suddenly, her eyes filled with tears.

"No, dear friend. You will survive," Aiko promised, "and you will find your man. You'll see."

Osaka, Japan - 1983

Aiko's words from years ago echoed in Kimiko's ears as she timidly approached Simon's desk. Nodding in a modest, westernized bow, she asked, "I'm sorry to interrupt. May I speak with you?"

He looked up and stammered, nervously, "Oh...oh, of course."

To avoid embarrassment, Kimiko focused her eyes on the desktop. "It appears that in your short time here you have only seen your hotel and our office. Perhaps you would like to see a real Japanese family? Would you like to come to my father's house, where I live, for dinner?" she whispered. "I promise," she added quickly, "we will not serve any unusual food. My parents would love to meet an American and I know you'll like them. Will you come?"

Simon's initial thought was 'no thanks'. He wanted nothing to do with Japan and dreaded leaving his hotel inner sanctum, especially to eat Japanese food. He sat in silence, staring at Kimiko's wide-eyed, innocent face.

Kimiko smiled again, her dimples deepening, and pleaded, "Oh, please Simon, you _must_ come. My mother and I will prepare a special dinner for you." She shyly put her hand over her mouth and tittered, flirting like a teenager. Kimiko's giggles and unseen female pheromones got the best of Simon's anxieties. He murmured, "Okay, yeah, thanks."

When Simon stepped out of his taxi in front of the Fujihara house, Kimiko was in the doorway to greet him, dressed in a traditional kimono, looking softly feminine without her gray daytime business suit. As they settled into dinner, Simon marveled at the decorum, the polite ritual, all within a warm family atmosphere. Kimiko's father had donned a robe over his western shirt and tie but the three women, Kimiko, her mother and sister, Mitsui, wore kimonos. Beautiful blue silk form Kimiko's kimono, intricately embroidered floral designs. Kimiko's mother and Mitsui wore similar robes but of different colors and different embroidery. Kimiko's hair hung down her back in a single thick, black braid whereas her mother and sister had put their hair up in large buns, fastened with decorative _Kanzashi_ hair sticks.

Throughout the multi-course meal, Mitsui poured green tea from a delicate blue and white china pot that rested in front of her on a red and black lacquered table and Mr. Fujihara attempted to engage Simon in halting English. They had almost finished the meal and Simon was listening to Kimiko as she shared some office gossip with him, when Mr. Fujihara, in Japanese, asked Simon how he had enjoyed the fish. Simon, still thinking about what Kimiko was saying, hadn't paid much attention to Mr. Fujihara and answered Fujihara's question without thinking. In fluent Japanese. Kimiko gasped and put her hand to her mouth.

Simon stared at Kimiko and then blinked several times. "What's the matter?" he asked.

"You spoke Japanese!" Kimiko answered. "I didn't know that you could. What is most surprising is that you spoke in an old style."

"What do you mean, 'old Style?" responded Simon.

"You said some words that have not been commonly used for many, many years".

In Japanese, Mr. Fujihara asked Simon where he learned the old style Japanese words and who had taught him. Simon stared back at Fujihara, his face a blank. He had no idea what Mr. Fujihara had asked, so he guessed.

"I must have heard someone speaking this way but I don't remember where," he answered in English unknowing, but correctly.

Kimiko translated and Mr. Fujihara addressed Kimiko in Japanese.

Kimiko nodded to her father, then turned to Simon, and translated. "My father says that he doubts you would have heard these words spoken in public today. My father is very intrigued with this and thinks you should meet Master Renaki Kurusawa. Master Kurusawa is in charge of the temple where my father studied as a young man. Father says Master Kurusawa is a student of Japanese history and perhaps can tell us more about the origin of your Japanese words. What do you think?"

Simon's mind refused to wrap around her words and he stared dumbly at Kimiko, his normally bright blue eyes, glazing over. Like a brick, it hit him! It's Soji, he though. That old Japanese personality from the hypnosis sessions at Langley. Here I go again!

"Simon? Are you alright?" asked Kimiko, anxiously.

Simon reacted slowly to Kimiko question. He shook his head to escape the memory of his first experience with Soji. "What?" he replied. "What did you say, Kimiko?"

"I'm talking about the Japanese words you used. Is it true that you've never studied my language. Have you?"

"Honestly, Kimiko, by now I've learned: hello, thank you, and please. That's about it. I don't know where those other words came from. As a matter of fact, I don't remember saying them but I'll concede that you heard me speak Japanese." Simon's mind raced. He must get to the bottom of this mystery. His sanity might be involved. "Maybe I should meet this Master Kurusawa," he agreed. "When is he available?"

Kimiko consulted her father and he made a quick phone call, apparently to Kurusawa. After a few quiet words with her father, Kimiko announced, "My father has made an appointment for us, you and me, to see Master Kurusawa tomorrow at nine, after dinner. Can you pick me up here?"

Simon quickly agreed, anxious to see what light Kurusawa could shed on his _other_ personality.

Simon's chauffeured Toyota sedan pulled up to Kimiko's house and Simon exited and met Kimiko at her door with a nervous bow. This simple act of coming up to her door to escort her to the car, unsettled her. Few young Japanese men would have acted so. Kimiko smiled to herself. She liked American chivalry. And Simon.

After a one-hour journey, their car stopped in front of a modest Buddhist Temple. The temple and Kurusawa's living quarters formed one L-shaped three-story building on the corner of Sansei and Boro streets. A young monk met them at the temple door and welcomed them in melodious Japanese. He ushered them to a sitting area where Kurusawa stood waiting. The old monk bowed slightly and directed them to take cushions at his light oak tea table, embossed with brightly colored dragons. Tea was poured and sipped politely before Kurusawa decided to ask Simon, through Kimiko, why he had come to Japan and why he was now at Kurusawa's temple. Simon told his story slowly, allowing for Kimiko to carefully translate. He omitted reference to the Agency but pointedly related his hypnosis sessions and the mysterious appearance of a personality named Soji.

Kurusawa looked directly at Simon and asked, "Have you ever read anything about a person named Soji?" Simon looked blank and then looked to Kimiko who translated. Simon shook his head. Kurusawa suggested that they try some Zen meditation. Simon nodded quickly in agreement and Kurusawa turned out all the lights, leaving only two candles to cast flickering shadows over the room. Kurusawa gave Simon and Kimiko a simple Buddhist chant to say and all together, with eyes closed, they began making humming sounds: _naaah, eeeh, oooh, naaah, eeeh, oooh, naaah, oooh, eeeh, naaah, oooh, eeeh._ They had been resolutely chanting for almost five minutes when Simon suddenly stopped. Kurusawa, noticing that Simon now sat mute and unmoving, also went silent and placed a finger lightly on his lips to quiet Kimiko.

Softly, in Japanese, Kurusawa asked Simon, "What is your name?"

"My name is Kajimoto Soji," responded Simon in Japanese with a deep bass voice.

Kurusawa's expression did not change, registering neither surprise nor puzzlement. Either he had experience with this phenomenon or he was simply unflappable.

"How did you come to my home?" asked Kurusawa.

"I came," answered Simon's bass voice, "with the American, my spirit twin. He carries me with him wherever he goes and yet does not know me. But I know him, almost as I know myself. Perhaps with your assistance, Master Kurusawa, I will be able to communicate with my sprit twin."

Kurusawa stared at Simon for a few moments and then answered, "Kajimoto Soji, I will call you by your given name, Soji. I do not believe it is possible for you and Mr. Pettit to talk together. That would require Mr. Pettit to bring you forth thus allowing you to control his speech. In that process, there is a chance he might lose himself in the vastness of the mind, never to find his way back. Kurusawa paused, "However, there may be another way to communicate."

"How?" Kimiko and Soji asked in unison.

"You can use a third party to record and translate your words for Mr. Pettit. He'll then respond and you can answer, again through a third party translator."

Kimiko was at first a little frightened at Simon's voice alteration and the idea of a _spirit twin_. But she now tingled with anticipation as she realized the role open to her. I can be this third party, she thought. I'll help Simon speak with his spirit twin. This could be a long term partnership: Simon and Kimiko!

Kurusawa thanked Soji and then asked Kimiko to call Simon back.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"In English, call for Simon. There are a thousand things we would like to ask the spirit Soji but I'm not yet sure of the danger to Mr. Pettit. We must proceed slowly and carefully. Now, call loudly and clearly, please."

"Simon, come back," called Kimiko. "Come back, Simon,"

Simon seemed to stir inwardly. He blinked several times and then answered, "Yes?"

Kimiko and Kurusawa peppered Simon with questions about what had just happened, to no avail. He couldn't recall any part of Kurusawa's conversation with Soji. Simon's memory ended soon after the chant had begun.

"This phenomenon has occurred before," said Kurusawa. "Twice that I know of. Certain _koji,_ laymen, can exhibit a remarkable ability to reach _Satori_ , the state of physical liberation. Some scholars say this is because they have a spirit twin to guide the way. You, Mr. Pettit, must have reached _Satori_ and I think that you can again, even without me. However, if you have difficulty or have other questions, you may call on me and I will do whatever I can. Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Pettit?"

"Yes, sir, of course. I don't remember any _Satori_ but, if you and Kimiko say I got there, I guess it's so."

Kurusawa then carefully explained to Simon and Kimiko how a third person could help in communicating with a spirit twin. He was particularly careful to let them know the dangers of the dealing with a spirit, such as the one called Soji. Kuruwsara cautioned that some spirits of this kind had been known to cause damage to their hosts, even to the point of attempted suicides. Kimiko quickly acknowledged Kurusawa's admonitions and eagerly volunteered to help keep Simon safe. Simon also readily accepted; he'd take as much help as he could get.

Kurusawa told them that the spirit Soji should appear when using the same chant that they had just used. He cautioned that, when chanting, Simon should be in a calm mood and in a relaxed environment. He stressed that the contacts must be short, lest Simon literally lose his way and his consciousness never return. For Kimiko, the one short contact tonight was enough. The thought of potentially losing Simon quieted her enthusiasm. Finally, Kurusawa gave them a list of questions he would like answered by Soji when they next summoned him. Simon and Kimiko nodded and promised faithfully to keep Master Kurusawa informed about any conversations with Soji. Later, Simon and Kimiko agreed to meet the next evening at Simon's apartment to try conversing with Soji.

Simon slept restlessly that night, eager to get some answers from that damned spirit. He also felt a little frightened. This whole thing might be just him. No spirit twin, only Simon Pettit, closet schizophrenic. It wouldn't be the first time he'd worried about that. Or the last.

### CHAPTER TEN

"Soji's Story"

Osaka, Japan - 1983

Kimiko sat facing Simon over his kitchen table. As in Kurusawa's house, two small candles cast shimmering shadows on the pair as they slowly hummed the chant given them by Kurusawa. Kimiko stopped humming when Simon grew silent and asked softly, "Soji, are you here?"

_"Hi_. Yes", answered Simon in a deep bass voice.

"We are here to begin a dialogue between you and Simon Pettit. What would you like to say to Simon? Please talk slowly as I am not familiar with some of your words."

"First", Soji answered, enunciating carefully, "tell him he has nothing to fear from me. I'm as mystified as any of you. One moment I was dying in my bed at Katsugi Castle and the next I was inside Simon's mind as he sat in a hypnotic trance. In the past few months, I've been able to watch him whenever he relaxes his mind. It's as if a slit opens in my world with just enough room for me to peek through. But, when he is extremely alert or concentrating on something, I can only hear sounds, mostly unintelligible. I have not been able to contact him to ask about the strange people and culture that I see through his eyes. I've ached and prayed for an opportunity to speak. I know that Simon thinks his life has been a lonely one. But he does not know what I have suffered, imprisoned in his mind for months, denied communication or purpose or form. My only salvation is now, speaking through you; it's come like a reprieve for a man condemned to hell. I too have many questions for Simon but my curiosity is second to my relationship with him. I know that he is my spirit twin. His fate is my fate."

Kimiko could feel the remnants of Soji's pain and his relief at speaking. She scanned Kurusawa's notes.

"Who are ...er, were you?" she asked.

In the few moments since Soji had begun speaking, Simon's face had slowly morphed. His eyes were now slits and his fair complexion had darkened. His voice strengthened as Soji responded. "I studied the art of Zen with Master Jokin when he served the emperor Dai-go. Later, I became a Ninjutsu master known throughout Japan. When I lived, I lived to teach. I believe that is why I'm here. Just as Master Jokin guided me, I can show Simon how to reach the inner peace of _Satori._ If my spirit twin will become my student, the ancient art of Ninjutsu can live again. With me as his teacher, he can learn much and use his new abilities to serve whatever master he chooses. If Simon is willing to work and study very hard at the lessons I give him, in five or maybe ten years, he will have acquired something of infinite value."

"How do you propose this education should begin?" asked Kimiko.

Soji listed four tasks to practice and six readings for Simon. Then Kimiko relayed Kurusawa's other questions and recorded Soji's instructions and answers on a large note pad. She paused to remind Soji that Simon did not speak Japanese and that she would have trouble translating the old texts that Soji had requested Simon read.

"Can you use Master Kurusawa? Soji asked.

"Perhaps. I'll ask him," promised Kimiko. "I think he can be of help to us for a while. Until I learn more of the old language."

"The first step," said Soji, "is for Simon to learn our language, both old and new. You and Master Kurusawa must tutor him. Between the two of you, he must quickly become expert in our language," intoned Soji. "You will call him and I'll leave for now."

Kimiko called Simon from his trance and watched in amazement as his facial features slowly returned to their normal state. "Did you hear what Master Soji said?" she asked.

"No, sorry," Simon replied hoarsely in his regular voice. "My concentration kept fading. I seem to slip back and back until I...... slept? I don't know how to explain it. I seemed to be floating in silent darkness until I heard you call my name. It reminded me of the hypnosis sessions, except it feels like I actually traveled somewhere. Maybe I go where Soji was. Like we change places, in a way."

"Should we ask Master Soji about where he comes from and where he goes?" Kimiko asked.

"Okay, let's try it," replied Simon.

No, no", continued Kimiko. Remember what Master Kurusawa warned?"

"Yeah, but two questions shouldn't hurt. Call me back in three minutes."

Simon began the chant alone and soon fell quiet.

"Master Soji?" asked Kimiko.

"I am here. You wish to discuss what happens when Simon fades and I appear?"

"Oh, can you hear what we say?"

"Yes. The conversations were fairly clear but I'm not sure what you are saying in English. Please translate"

"We want to know if you come from a certain location? Are you always in Simon?"

"I'm always in Simon and, when I can see anything, it's as if I were looking through his eyes but through a small opening. When you called me, it felt as if I slid forward, past Simon, and that he then could look through _my_ eyes."

"Simon says he floats in silence. He doesn't remember our words."

"Yes, I heard. But if he concentrates, I think he can both see and hear. Tell him I said he can do it."

"Yes, Master Soji, I will," answered Kimiko. Then she called Simon to return and breathlessly explained to Simon what Soji had said.

"He thinks I can stay alert and tune in?" asked Simon.

Kimiko nodded.

"Okay, I'll do my best," said Simon. But it will have to be next session. I'm exhausted. It was just a few minutes and it's like I've run a marathon. Tomorrow, okay?"

Kimiko and Simon were both eager and committed for Simon to learn Japanese as quickly as possible, with a little emphasis on ancient wordings. Without knowing the language, Simon knew he could never learn everything that Soji wanted to teach him. On their second session, in Simon's apartment, Kimiko decided they should begin with some tea. As Kimiko poured his cup, Simon stared at her long black hair, shining in the candle glow. A touch of rouge highlighted her pale cheeks and her eyes shone like black pearls, matching her long, ebony tresses. Kimiko held her teacup delicately with slender fingers tipped with long nails, polished in red lacquer. Simon took the cup from her hand and placed it on the table near the teapot.

He took her hands in his and spoke softly, "Kimiko, you're learning a lot about me. I like that and I want to know more about you. How do you feel?"

Kimiko gazed into his bright blue eyes and squeezed his hands with hers. "Simon, I believe we have a Karma. We are destined to be together, without secrets. You can tell me anything."

Simon looked away, swallowed hard, and began speaking, his words soft, as if coming from a far-off place, deep inside his being. "I don't talk with other people very well. At least not about personal things, like feelings. I grew up alone as an only child. My parents readily admitted that they didn't need or want any children. Whenever I angered her, my mother pointedly reminded me that my being alive was a mistake."

Simon sighed, his words scraping at old emotional scars. "We lived in Elma, a small town outside of Buffalo, New York. Our nearest neighbors lived about a mile from us. They were Amish. For their own privacy reasons and my mother's temper, they avoided our place. Mother detested people and, I guess, life in general. She had an anger that came and went without warning. Sometimes she could even be dangerous. When I was fourteen, she attacked the cashier in a local grocery store with a five-pound frozen steak and my father had to have her committed to the State Mental Hospital. In those days you didn't need to have a doctor's analysis and permission. Behavior spoke for itself. I remember the first time I visited her on the screened porch of the building she stayed in. They'd given her electric shock therapy the day before. She had dark circles under her eyes, bruises on her wrists, and her voice was reduced to a harsh croak.

Simon's voice dropped to a whisper. "She was kept there for three years. When she finally came home, she was completely and forever dependent on medication. After that, my mother really wasn't there, and maybe she'd never been. My father had lost a kidney in the Korean War and got a decent disability check which he supplemented with a night job guarding a warehouse in Buffalo. Consequently, he slept days and left me alone in our big, creaking farm house most every night."

Simon paused to gather himself and Kimiko asked, "Did you have any playmates?"

"No, but in a way I was lucky. I learned to read early and the characters in books became my playmates and formed my own little world. I even adopted Auntie Em from the Wizard of Oz as my imaginary mother. In high school, I'd go to class, do the work, and come home to help my mother. With her medication she was calm but she couldn't be trusted to cook and even had trouble setting the table and doing housework. I stayed apart from my classmates all through high school. The good news was that my grades got me a scholarship to NYU. My father couldn't have cared less, whether I stayed or left. Strangely, my mother objected. She said she couldn't do without me. In spite of her drugs, she ranted on for days but I knew that this was my one and maybe only chance to get away from that heartless house. I took the scholarship, rented a small room near campus, and got two jobs to help pay my way: one in a bookshop, the other in a hardware store. I finished my BA in three and a half years. What with work and studies, my life didn't have room for friends. Oh, sure, I talked with people at work and in class but I never had time to follow up. During holidays, I stayed in my room. Those were the loneliest days. Sometimes I went out and started conversations with strangers, just to speak to somebody, anybody. Lots of times they'd look at me as if I was a bit off and maybe I was. Just after my nineteenth birthday, I considered suicide but something in me told me that suicide was not the resolution I needed. Maybe that was Soji?"

Kimiko began to tear up. Simon's terrible anguish in dealing with memories of his isolation was palpable. "Oh, how terrible it must have been," she said, stroking the back of his hand.

"Oh, yeah, terrible pressure but somehow molding," Simon continued. "A few years ago, I don't remember why, I began reading about multiple personalities and, you know, it's entirely possible this Japanese personality is merely a psychological defense mechanism that I created in response to my loneliness. The problems I experienced in childhood are fairly common among people with multiple personality disorders. Be honest. Don't you have some reservations about this ....Soji?"

Kimiko looked Simon straight in the eye. She didn't want any misunderstanding. "No," she answered firmly. "I don't. Soji is real. And was real. In my culture, ancestors never die. Until recently, we had no word for the finality of death as Westerners perceive it. However, although I believe Soji is real, I do not trust him. As Master Kurusawa has warned, he may be an ominous force."

Kimiko leaned forward with a dimpled smile, grabbed a handful of Simon's hair, and playfully tugged. "As for you, Simon Pettit, you have _me_ now. You never have to be alone again." She took his hands, raised them to her lips, softly kissed each palm, and Simon blushed.

"I've never been with a woman," he whispered.

"Nor I with a man. Tonight will be the first. Of many," Kimiko promised.

She moved to sit on Simon's side of the coffee table and put her head on his chest. She reached up and, with her finger tips, tenderly caressed his eyes, his nose, and then his lips. Simon leaned down and hesitantly kissed her, inhaling her sweet scent. Kimiko untied her _obi_ , allowing her kimono to fall open. Their sexual desires rose rapidly to heights they had never before imagined. As Simon gasped in pleasure, Kimiko whispered, "We are together now, my love. I'll never let you go."

Thereafter, without fail, Kimiko and Simon met every night. Each afternoon she went straight from the consulate to Kurusawa's and spent an hour or two with the monk, pouring over old texts and writings and examining her notes of the conversations with Soji. After visiting Kurusawa, Kimiko would go to Simon's apartment where they ate rapidly. As soon as the dishes were cleared and washed, they jumped into Simon's studies for three to four hours.

Simon was quick to absorb the _Hiragana_ alphabet. The books, manuscripts, and poems recommended by Soji soon became part of his language education. Twice a week he would accompany Kimiko to Kurusawa's to learn and ask questions of the monk. The more proficient Simon became with the language, the less time he needed with Kurusawa and the more time he had for Soji. After each nightly study session, Simon hummed himself into a trance to get further instruction from Soji, using Kimiko to record and translate. Simon felt a growing strength while in his trances but, try as he might, he could not sustain a conscious awareness whenever Soji was in control. However both Soji and Kimiko trusted that Simon had the ability to maintain conscious awareness and she urged him to keep trying. As their sessions piled up, Kimiko's earlier feelings of foreboding regarding Soji grew stronger. Every time she had to encounter Soji, she was careful to speak clearly and make accurate notes while controlling the ominous dread she felt evolving, day by day.

Soji's lectures usually lasted less than an hour, unless he had trouble communicating his concepts to Kimiko. Once Kimiko had understood and written Soji's instructions, Soji faded and Kimiko and Simon made time for themselves. In defiance of her father's tacit disapproval, Kimiko stayed overnight at Simon's once or twice a week. She wanted to be certain that Simon's education in Japanese customs wouldn't be restricted to Soji's reading list. So it didn't take Simon long to discover that the Japanese culture had produced some of the most erotic and explicit books on the art of love. Like a couple of teenagers, they became obsessed with each other. They exchanged notes in the consulate, addressing their love envelops as, 'Personal – To The Wonderful Simon Pettit' or 'Kimiko Fujiwara - For Her Beautiful Eyes Only'. When a messenger was unavailable, they hand delivered their envelopes and, with blushing faces, dropped the notes into the other's 'IN" basket.

Six months passed quickly as Simon soaked up language and history with Soji as his tutor and lecturer, translated by Kimiko. As a team of three, they had worked smoothly together until one evening, without warning, Soji announced to Kimiko, "I will say no more to you. From now on, Simon must speak to me directly and alone."

Kimiko was shocked at Soji's edict and doubly so because he had said it in English.

"You can speak English!" she exclaimed.

_"Hai,_ " Soji answered, continuing in Japanese. I have watched and learned as Simon learned. However, because I could not practice, I am not comfortable with many words and phrases. Americans change their words so often."

"Why didn't you speak to Simon in English? He would have understood you and you wouldn't have needed someone to translate, just transcribe."

Soji's voice went ever deeper, as he explained his simple logic to the young girl. "Simon needed to read the texts I gave him and many Japanese philosophies cannot be completely explained in English. I knew that once he learned our language, we could converse in whichever language was appropriate."

"But Master Soji," asked Kimiko nervously, "why do you now dismiss me? How can Simon speak to you directly? He must give up control for you to speak and vice-versa."

"Kimiko, you have served the purpose of teaching Simon our language and translating my words. You did well but now I intend to teach him things only to be discussed between teacher and student. I will go now and then you will tell Simon of my decision. This is firm, I'll not return unless and until he is alone."

Soji's instructions shook Kimiko to the core. She had literally given her life to the relationship with Soji and Simon. And with Simon, she had reached an unbelievable happiness. This separation would not be easy. In fact, it would be like a death. Could she manage the loss? Kimiko vowed to do something, anything, to keep the relationship with Simon as it was now. She could not lose any part of him! Soji would never take him away from her, EVER!

Kimiko shivered, recalling their wonderful and sensual lovemaking during the past months that had reached extraordinary levels with a sharing of both bed and bodies. They had sex daily, sometimes with lots of _audibles_. Two weeks previously, Simon had tickled her and joked, "I might have to get another place because of the neighbors. They must be hearing all sorts of strange sounds coming from this apartment."

"What do you mean?" asked Kimiko innocently.

"You know as well as I do. Moans, screams, yells. My profanity in English and Japanese. We must be quieter or I'll have to move."

Kimiko giggled and replied, "I know of a country house where the nearest neighbor is a hundred meters away. I don't want a silent lover. Do you?"

A week later, Simon surprised her by renting the very same country house she had described. Now they could audible all they wanted. And they did.

Their love-making consummated, Kimiko and Simon lay side-by-side, naked and glistening with perspiration. Kimiko traced circles around Simon's nipple and he felt a magical tingling at the back of his neck.

The previous day, Kimiko had told Simon of Soji's resolve. At first Simon wouldn't believe that Soji would be so arrogant and demanding. After several sessions without an appearance by Soji, Simon wore a worried look with him most of the day. Kimiko had thought long and hard about the instructions given by Soji but had yet to form a solution that would keep Soji from stealing Simon. She desperately needed _her_ Simon; totally and forever.

"I'm worried about this stand-off with Soji," offered Kimiko. "I'm positive he won't appear again unless we can meet his demand. Do you know how to do it?"

"No," answered Simon, "and I can't think of a solution. It's been eight days and Soji hasn't responded. Simon sat up and pounded his fist into his hand. "Damn, I miss his wisdom and I need to keep learning." There must be a way. That old ninja was pretty sly not to reveal that he could understand English. If he thinks there is a way, there is. Let's not stop thinking about it, okay?"

Kimiko nuzzled Simon with her head, murmuring words of love. Soji's ultimatum had given them extra time together and she was not going to waste it!

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

"Soji Returns."

Osaka, Japan – 1983

It was three days before Christmas 1983, almost four months since Soji had first appeared at Kurusawa's and ten days since Soji's withdrawal. The spirit's demand continued to hang like a dark cloud over both Kimiko and Simon. How could he talk to Soji without Kimiko? In Simon's dreams a demon-like Soji laughed and scolded him for his incompetence. Simon felt responsible for Soji's absence, which made the loss of Soji's insight and clear thought processes, even more severe. Simon had thought about getting a male translator but Soji had specifically said there was to be no one else, obviously not even another man. This puzzle absorbed Simon's thoughts, consuming him, to the exclusion of all else. Coworkers watched him wandering the halls of the consulate, a scarecrow from Oz, looking for a brain. As Simon searched for an answer, Kimiko sat at her desk, silently dealing with a growing sense of foreboding.

A strip mall containing a barber shop, shoe repair, television store, and green grocer sat across the street from the consulate and every small shop counted consulate employees as regular customers. Simon wandered into the little television store one afternoon and a smiling, bespectacled young man with long hair pulled back in a pony tail greeted him.

"May I help you?" the young clerk offered.

"Just looking. Those big 21-inch TV's are fantastic," replied Simon.

"Ah, yes, and our new video cassette recorders are also amazing. Do you know how to work a VCR?" Simon shook his head. "You can program them days in advance to tape up to three hours of programming. Go on holiday and, when you come home, you can see all the things you missed. I use it a lot. We call it time shifting."

Simon froze. What did the man say, _time shifting_? That's it! That's exactly what I need!

Simon quickly enlisted the eager clerk's help in selecting several electronic devices, then bagged them up and headed home.

When Kimiko arrived at Simon's house that evening, Simon was kneeling on his living room floor amid a jumble of wires. A camcorder sat on a tripod, connected to a VCR, and a huge new television set dominated the room.

"What's all this?" she asked.

"We're going to do some time shifting tonight and get Soji to open up."

"What? How?"

"It hit me in Katsogi's TV store today. We record Soji as he speaks and then record a response from me for him. I'll use English but, if he chooses Japanese, I think my Japanese is to the point where I can be understood. I may need you for some translation and tutoring afterward but, with this electronics, he and I can talk, one on one."

Simon plugged in the last of the video units, rose, took Kimiko by the hand, and pointed to the camera. "Here's how it works. First I turn on the camera, then the VCR, videocassette recorder. Last, I'll begin my chant to allow Soji to appear. He might not appear immediately but..." Simon raised his voice and shouted at the ceiling, "he should be listening to us right now!" Returning to his normal tone, Simon continued, "When I'm in the trance, you explain again what we have set up and then leave the room. Soji should appear and speak to the camera."

"I not sure how all this works, Simon. But I'll try."

Simon hummed for four or five minutes and stopped, well into his trance, but there was no trace of Soji's presence on Simon's face. Kimiko spoke to Soji, assuming he was listening, even if he hadn't appeared. "Master Soji, Simon asked me to tell you he has solved the problem of needing a third person when you speak to Simon. We have a recording device that is working now. Whatever you say will be recorded for Simon. I will leave the room for thirty minutes."

Simon sat quietly, his Caucasian appearance unaffected, and Kimiko went to the bedroom and closed the door, as promised. The instant she shut the bedroom door, Simon's face began to take on the Asian appearance of Soji and he began speaking in English, to the camera and the magic of videotape.

"Simon, this message is for you only. The girl must not hear this message or any of my words, ever again. You have reached the point in your education where neither she nor any outsider, certainly no woman, is ever permitted. I have sworn never to divulge Ninjutsu secrets to a woman and no man should know what you are learning. For our first day alone, I have another list of readings for you. These will bring you closer to opening the door to Ninjutsu. Simon, I repeat, this and any future messages must not be seen or heard by the girl, Kimiko. If that happens, you will learn no more from Kajimoto Soji. Then we will both remain separated from one another, united in our isolations."

Kimiko returned thirty minutes later and called Simon from his trance. Simon unwound from his lotus position and checked the video equipment. He shook his head sadly.

"Shit! Nothing," he muttered. "Blank tape. No Soji. Okay, let's go to bed and try again tomorrow."

The afternoon following their first attempt to use a VCR with Soji, Simon found Kimiko at her desk. She looked up at him, happy for the unexpected visit.

"I've got some bad news," he said with a long face.

"What is it, Simon?'

"I've been summoned to Tokyo and I have to leave right away. It might be for two or three days. Will you be okay?"

Kimiko nodded slowly, gave an understanding smile, and felt something cold touch her heart. After promising to phone her every day, if possible, Simon was suddenly gone.

Simon reached his house by six but didn't begin to pack for a trip. Instead, he disconnected his telephone and started the videotape unit. The tape unwound and Soji appeared on the screen. The first taping session had, in fact, worked.

Simon listened directly to Soji for the very first time and saw how his own face looked when Soji spoke: how his eyes changed, their normal flashing blue dimmed, until they looked navy blue, almost black, squinting from a wrinkled face, how his skin sagged with heavy jowls, and darkened to give him a wizened, ancient appearance. The most unnerving thing was that his voice sounded deeper and more sonorous than he could ever have believed possible. The person on the screen was a stranger. The words were a mixture of Japanese and English, spoken slowly, with deliberation and care. Simon sat fascinated. He watched the tape three times to be sure he understood everything Soji had said; the list, the type of masters he must locate, and Soji's warning. Tonight would be my turn, he thought. Soji will not only hear me; he will actually _see_ me answering. Suddenly Simon realized he had to figure out how to go into a trance, call Soji when in the trance, start the tape, and then wake up, if Soji didn't wake him. What if Soji decided to stay in control? Maybe this whole idea was a satanic trick, designed by Soji to take over his body? He would be alone and totally vulnerable. Simon shivered at the thought of such a death. He slapped his face to rouse his concentration. This _couldn't_ be a trick. He sighed. It had better not be...please. Regardless, he had to go on.

Simon had assembled two Sony VCRs in VHS format for his recording sessions. First, he turned on the video camera and prepared VCR "A" to record. He let the tape run for two minutes, looked directly into the camera, and gave a ten-minute message to Soji, up-dating him on the events with Kimiko and his studies. At the end of his message, Simon told Soji to wake him by shouting, "wake up Simon!" several times after Soji had finished recording his portion. Simon let tape "A" run to the forty-five minute mark, at which point he recorded himself saying, "Simon, wake up!" four times. He then rewound tape "A" to the beginning, two minutes of blank tape in front of his message. He next set VCR "B" to record Soji's answer, beginning twelve minutes after being turned on. Tape "B" would record for a maximum of thirty minutes to tape Soji's message. At the forty-five minute mark, tape "A" would begin playing "Simon, wake up!", just in case Soji _forgot_ to call him back. Simon didn't know what would happen if he didn't respond to Soji or the recording. Kimiko had always there to repeatedly call him or sometimes shake him, if necessary. It was possible that, after a few days, he'd be found in a vegetable state, lost in an eternal coma. But he had to find out. Simon started tape "A", began his chant, and soon lost conscious awareness. Simon awoke twenty-four minutes later to the sound of Soji's deep bass, coming from his own throat, shouting, "Simon, awake!" He blinked and saw the blank screen in front of him. It had worked and he didn't screw me!

Simon quickly rewound Soji's tape and watched the screen in rapt silence. He could see his face change again and hear his vocal tones modulate and he listened for twelve minutes to the words and wisdom of Soji.

Thereafter, Simon and Soji continued their sessions for two months without involving Kimiko. At first, she'd been excited to learn that Simon's system had proven itself. Then she realized she was out of the Soji/Simon loop, completely and permanently. Simon, however, saw no reason to curtail their energetic and innovative lovemaking and, on that account, he got no argument from Kimiko. On a cold February evening, a light snow was falling over Osaka, casting a soft, white blanket over Simon's cozy little house. He snuggled down in the futon blankets, nibbled at Kimiko's elbow, and peeked under the coverlet.

Laughing lightly, Kimiko put her hand over Simon's eyes. "Stop staring, Mr. Simon-Sex-Maniac!" She pulled the covers tight around her and her grin disappeared. "What do you talk about with Soji, now that I am not there?" she asked in a serious tone.

Simon rolled away and answered testily, "Ninja stuff. It's nothing to do with you. We just don't need a translator anymore."

Now it was Simon's turn to get serious. "Soji says he's sorry but he cannot reveal any of his secrets to a woman. I'm sorry too, my love." Kimiko didn't respond, snuggling against Simon's side to hold him close. He refocused on her body and Kimiko murmured softly, her thoughts of Soji forgotten as she concentrated on what Simon's fingers were doing.

### CHAPTER TWELVE

"A fateful decision."

Osaka, Japan - 1984

Workdays in the consulate dragged slowly for Simon as he watched the hand on the wall clock click forward, minute by minute, moving snail-like toward the time he could leave and be with his spirit twin. Their conversations now sometimes lasted into the small hours of the morning. Consequently, nights with Kimiko came fewer and farther between as Simon obsessed on his sessions with Soji. His physical passion, first unleashed by Kimiko, now found its mental counter-part with master Soji. During the day, he visualized each session to come and then went over and over each meeting after it had ended. While Simon was absorbing Soji's teachings, he was also becoming more self-assured, more content with himself, even among crowds of Japanese. He walked the streets and malls with confidence, diligently noting everything he passed. He would never be intimidated again.

His Agency superiors, knowledgeable of his obsession and documenting every nuance of his personality evolution, looked the other way and covered for him whenever he didn't show at the consulate. But not Kimiko. She endured Simon's excuses, all the while aware of the slow, steady decline in the amount of time he had for her. He didn't seem to need her anymore, not even for sex. After three months of nursing her ever-increasing frustration, she hired a taxi one afternoon and followed Simon home from the consulate, intent on confronting him at his house before he could put himself under Soji's powerful spell. Approaching the door to his house, Simon felt eyes on his back. He spun quickly with fists clenched, only to see Kimiko standing on his walkway. She stumbled backward, away from Simon's fierce stance. This once light-hearted, innocent girl now appeared small, fragile, and extremely distraught.

"Oh, Simon," she cried, "you want to hit me? You're angry with me? Are we finished? Tell me, please tell me", she pleaded as tears streamed from her almond eyes.

He relaxed and went to her, gently taking her hands in his. "Try to understand," he said. "It's not you. What I'm learning from Soji is fantastic! Remember, he appeared like a genie from a bottle and he could disappear just the same way, at any time. Even he doesn't know what the future will be for him. I need to use every minute gaining his knowledge, while he's available." Simon brought her hands to his cheek, saying, "I love you very much, Kimiko. Please don't worry."

Kimiko looked up at Simon towering over her and her tears continued to flow. "I can't help it," she sobbed. "Curse that Soji. Simon, I need you. I miss you. When can we be together again?"

Simon pulled her to him and kissed her hair, her eyes wet with tears, and then her warm, sensuous lips. "My sweet Kimiko," he whispered. "Yesterday, Soji told me that today would be a major turning point. I've got to go inside now and call him. Please go home. We'll be together tomorrow night. I promise. And tonight I'll tell Soji that we need more time together. He'll have to understand, you'll see. Okay?" He wiped the tears from her cheeks and softly kissed her lips.

Kimiko stared into his ice-blue eyes. "Yes," she replied. "I'll go, but you promise - tomorrow? Together?"

Simon nodded and caressed her cheek. "Yes, dear Kimiko, tomorrow. Come at eight."

Kimiko smiled weakly, swiped her eyes with her sleeve, and shuffled toward the street, where her taxi waited. Simon waved her adieu and blew a kiss. Then he went inside and lost no time turning on the recorder and calling for Soji.

The next morning, Kimiko stood in the shadows, across the street from Simon's house. As soon as she saw Simon leave for the consulate, she took the key that Simon had given her many months previously and unlocked the front door. The video equipment that Simon kept at the ready for his sessions with Soji sat in the middle of the living room, ready for use. Kimiko reviewed labeled tapes stored in a small rack and inserted the most recent tape into the player. Soon she was watching as Soji finished a lesson in how to garrote a victim. Soji's vivid descriptions made her sick to her stomach and her head swim. This was her Simon, her first and only lover, being taught to be a killer! Quickly she snatched out the first cassette and inserted another, earlier tape. This one had to do with using a knife to kill silently and with little blood. Horrified, she could not bring herself to watch any longer. Dropping the tapes in their rack positions, she fled the house as fast as she could run. Once she had distanced herself from Simon's house, Kimiko stopped to gather her thoughts. What can I do about this? How to stop these vicious teachings? She must expose Soji for the devil he was. Her father would know what to do! Resolutely, Kimiko stepped toward a bus that would take her to the consulate....... and Simon.

During the previous three weeks, Simon and Soji had worked out a new routine that led them to a new dimension in communication. First, they were able to eliminate the need for a beginning chant. After many tries, Simon had learned to move into a light trance state almost at will. Next they went beyond the need for electronic recorders to capture conversation. In perfecting their new system, Simon had learned to fight the urge to fade away into a sleep mode. Instead, as Soji and Kimiko had hoped, his conscious mind remained aware, in the background of his consciousness, allowing Soji control of his vocal cords. Soji had always been able to listen to Simon talk; now Simon could hear Soji's words as they came from his own mouth. When Soji finished speaking in his deep bass, he would visibly relax vocal control and Simon would answer aloud, in a smooth baritone. With one controlling Simon's voice and the other listening in the background of his mind, they managed a moderately efficient dialogue. Although unnecessary, their protocol of having Soji formally close each session continued. With a, "Simon, return" Soji's presence would fade entirely from Simon's countenance.

Simon sat very still in the lotus position on his favorite tatami mat, closed his eyes, breathed deeply, clearing his mind, and in a soft voice, called for Soji. Soji's personality appeared immediately and quickly took control. Unlike in earlier sessions, Simon's facial muscles now didn't have time to completely morph and reflect who was speaking. Simon's face changed only slightly now but the words continued to resound in Soji's sonorous deep bass.

Appearing unusually anxious, Soji announced, "Simon, I have to address something of importance tonight. The time we have spent on my language and culture did not expose you to the arts of Ninjutsu, it only _prepared_ you to accept Ninjutsu knowledge and training. Tonight we begin your actual training in the arts of Ninjutsu. After tonight, you will be learning by doing, not by reading or lecture. First, you are to seek a master in the _Tatchi o korosu_ or Touch of Death, the martial art of using your fingers as lethal weapons. Second, you must seek a master in the art of poisons. These masters will be difficult to find. Contact Master Kurusawa first, he should be of assistance. Shaolin monks were the best and, without fear, you can tell them of my existence. They will understand and know where to send you. Never forget that the Ninjutsu arts are sacred! They must always remain secret and respected. From now on, you must never divulge to outsiders any of what you learn. Finally, you must never even be _suspected_ of knowing the arts and secrets of Ninjutsu. Should your enemies realize you have such knowledge, they will do everything possible to take those secrets from you and kill you.

You've done well, Simon, to uncover the hidden cameras and microphones placed here by your Agency superiors. Also, I congratulate you on misdirecting those cameras and muffling the microphones to conceal many of our conversations from your superiors. Obviously, they accept that we talk and they know the context of earlier sessions but they must _never_ hear Ninjutsu secrets." Simon nodded solemnly and Soji asked, "Is there anyone who knows that you speak Japanese and are learning the arts of Ninjutsu?"

"None, master," answered Simon solemnly.

"Unfortunately, that is not true. What about the girl, Kimiko? What about her father?" demanded Soji.

"Well, sure," replied Simon hesitantly, "she knows about you but she doesn't know any secrets of Ninjutsu. I sure haven't told her anything and her father doesn't know who you really are. He thinks you're just an ancient Japanese soul, no one special."

"You did not listen closely, Simon. No one must even _suspect_ you hold the ancient secrets. You admitted to me that you discovered that someone, without your knowledge, viewed the tapes we made earlier. I believe it was her and that she will do anything to stop our sessions. Yes, I agree that her father as ignorant of my true identity but the girl is a problem that must be solved."

"What do you mean, a problem to be _solved_ "?"

"To perfectly solve a problem one must see that the cause of the problem is no more. When the cause of a problem is in the form of a person, that problem will cease to exist only if that person does not exist. Any other course of action is imperfect."

"What are you saying? Kimiko must _cease to exist_ ......... _be...be killed_?"

"For such a bright language scholar," Soji replied, "you are very slow when it comes to action. Of course that's what I mean."

"No! No!" shrieked Simon. "Oh, god, no! You can't mean that. I need Kimiko and I love her. You heartless bastard! I've trusted you. I thought you were a mystic, a wise man, but you're ruthless. A fucking bloodthirsty ninja ghost!"

Simon gasped for breath, trembling in rage. Soji waited patiently for Simon's anger to subside a bit before speaking. Three minutes passed before Soji offered cautiously, "Think how the Ninjutsu masters have kept their secrets for so many generations. Our arts and work are worth the lives of a thousand such girls. A million even. I pledge to you, Simon, what you can learn through me is without equal. It will make you a wondrous soldier, almost invincible. There will be no door closed to you, no person who can intimidate you. I offer you the knowledge, wisdom, and power to perform extraordinary deeds for your _daimyo_ ; the rest is up to you."

Soji's voice droned on hypnotically as he intoned the virtues of Ninjutsu. Simon's head began to nod. "Take some time to think about this. I will not continue your training in the arts unless the problem of the girl is solved. You know what must be done, Simon. You know! Act! SIMON, AWAKE."

Simon inhaled deeply and rose slowly from his Tanami. He went to the large mirror in his bathroom, stood before it and looked at his reflection. If I speak to the mirror, Soji should be listening. Perhaps he couldn't help _but_ listen. After all, he couldn't very well cover his ears could he?

"Well, Simon Pettit," he said aloud to his reflected image, "you've got the most important decision of your life. Soji or Kimiko. Ninjutsu or love? Day after tomorrow, one will be gone and the other will remain. Perhaps for the rest of your life. What will it be? Who will it be?" Simon felt a tug at his memory and a deep inner voice said, "You know! Act!"

He gazed at his face in the mirror, looking for some reaction, some telltale twitch. There was nothing, just himself, staring back, awaiting answers. He stood there for a several minutes, in front of the mirror and time seemed to stand still as he asked himself questions. How could he do what Soji demanded? I can't conceive living without Soji. We are more than spirit twins, we're almost one complete consciousness. But, what if _they_ had always been just one crazy guy named Simon. No, he thought, Soji had to be real! Was there a way he could have them both? No, Soji said that I must choose. Oh, dearest Kimiko. What would I do without you?

It was unthinkable to Simon that he could even consider destroying such a wonderful, loving girl, never to hold her, kiss her, or make wondrous love to her again. Simon's head felt light, the room began spinning. He grabbed at the sink, hunched over it, and retched. The spasms seemed to last forever and he gripped the sink, exhausted, both physically and mentally drained. Simon staggered to his bedroom, dropping his clothes along the way. He fell heavily upon the futon. Before sleep came, an inner voice repeated, "You know and you must act!".

Simon awoke after nine in the morning. He'd slept for over twelve hours and the long rest had refreshed and renewed him. His mind was clear and he knew exactly what he must do. Reaching for his telephone, he dialed Kimiko's number at the consulate.

"American Consulate, Passport Department, Kimiko Fujuwara speaking."

"Hi Kimiko, it's Simon. I'm not coming in today. Are you still planning to meet me after work?"

"Yes, if you still want me to."

"Of course, I'll see you here at eight."

Kimiko arrived early and, as soon as she came into his arms, he realized how much he'd missed her. They lost no time in idle chatter and the sounds of their passion soon reverberated throughout the house and gardens. The next morning, they sat in his kitchen, enjoying cookies and tea before leaving for work.

"I love you very much, Simon Pettit," Kimiko whispered, blushing.

Simon grinned happily, took her hand, and gently pressed her fingertips to his lips. "I too, my love. Tell me something. Someone was viewing my tapes. Was it you?"

"Yes", answered Kimiko softly, eyes averted.

"Why did you do that – behind my back?" demanded Simon with a touch of anger.

Kimiko hesitated. This was difficult situation. If she was to save Simon for herself, she must, at some time, reveal that she knew about the lessons in killing techniques. On the other hand, Simon might take Soji's side if he felt betrayed. With a deep sigh, Kimiko said, "Yes, Simon, I saw those evil tapes. He is using you and corrupting you. You must stop. I'll help you and my father will help. We can give the tapes to the university for study. Let them have that devil Soji! I can't live knowing that he is inside you!" she sobbed.

Simon flinched as if he had been struck. Damn it, he thought, Soji was right. She has been snooping where she was warned not to go. Now she wants to expose Soji and halt his teachings. "But you know that I can't get rid of him. He's part of me. With the knowledge Soji is giving me, I can help many and be a force for good, not evil." he whispered.

Kimiko's body sagged and she whimpered, "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. We haven't spent much time together these past months but what you did cannot happen again. It's best I don't see you tonight. I have to inform Soji of my decision regarding a certain problem and I have to compose my words very carefully. For that, I need to be alone. Can you understand?"

"Of course. But... after...together we will do something about Soji?"

"Yes," replied Simon. "Tomorrow is Friday and the weekend is ahead of us. I'll call you tomorrow afternoon, after I decide how to solve my problem. We'll arrange to meet then, okay?"

Kimiko nodded, rose from the table and hugged Simon tightly. And, without another word she left. Seconds later, barely moving his lips, he called for Soji. He was determined to settle the issue about Kimiko, once and for all.

The next morning, Simon he let the hot shower water pound his back as he considered the impact of the decision he'd made. Simon knew that he had to be resolute but he couldn't seem to choose the right words. Questions kept flashing through his mind. How could he finish this? How would Soji react? Would he disappear? Or something worse?

After drying off, Simon called Kimiko at the consulate and asked her if she could meet him near the duck area in Sakuranomiya Park at dusk.

"Of course," she answered. "Simon, why the park?"

"I've decided that you're going to be treated to a picnic dinner, catered by chef Pettit himself."

Kimiko found Simon seated on a small wooden bench in a secluded area of the park grounds. He was shaded from the setting sun by a large cherry tree, gazing at the pond and its quacking inhabitants. Suddenly he noticed her and jumped to his feet! He enfolded her in a bear-hug, inhaling her musky perfume, and then released her so that he could kiss her hands and then her lips.

"My, do you smell delicious," he murmured in her ear. "I think I'll have you instead of the chicken salad."

She smiled slightly and pushed him away. "I can't stop thinking about that devil inside you, Simon. Is Soji here? Is he listening? Kimiko's face was grim and her voice trembled.

"Soji? No, I don't think so", Simon answered. "This picnic is for us only. No dead spirits invited!"

Kimiko nodded but her face remained grim and she hugged herself tightly.

Simon picked up a picnic basket and set it on the bench. "Can you help me with the napkins and plates? For your eating pleasure, I've packed chicken salad, tuna rolls, two kinds of rice, white wine, and French bread fresh from the bakery."

Simon spread a blanket and together they emptied his large basket, which, to Kimiko's surprise, included a writing brush, ink, and writing paper.

"What's this paper for?" she asked, waving it.

"For Soji. It's for a farewell message. I want to be clear and have him understand what I've decided. Of course, He's may be listening right now but I don't want any misunderstandings or mistakes in translation, in English or Japanese. Simon's ice blue eyes met Kimiko's and he asked quietly, "Can you do me a big favor? If you were to write out my message in formal Japanese, he would see it and understand better, don't you think?"

Kimiko nodded, and relaxed a bit as she began to feel better about this meeting. Simon's abandoning Soji?, she thought. No, perhaps he's just cutting down on the frequency of sessions. Either way, Simon will be coming back to me!

Kimiko picked up the brush and paper, moved to the bench. Acting secretarial, she asked, "Do you know what you want to say?"

"I think so. Please write this, 'Dear Spirit Twin. Life has become too complicated and I cannot continue with you. I have lost trust in you. Our worlds are too different. Goodbye."

Kimiko wrote stylishly; scribing Simon's every word with swift, sure brush strokes,

"Is that all? Shall I sign it for you?"

"Nope, not necessary. Who else would it be from?" answered Simon.

Automatically, Kimiko dated the letter and offered it to Simon. "No, that's great. Just put it in the basket for later", he ordered.

"Now, can we eat this wonderful meal?" she asked, with a bright dimpled smile.

Simon stood, watched as Kimiko dropped the paper in the picnic basket, and announced, "Now a toast!" Quickly he opened the wine bottle and poured bit of wine for each of them. Handing one glass to Kimiko, he offered, "To our love, may it last for eternity!"

Simon lightly touched his glass to Kimiko's, she giggled and enthusiastically, and drained her glass but was surprised that the wine had tasted bitter, instead of the sweet nectar she had anticipated. Kimiko stared at her glass and then at Simon.

"I'm sorry to mention it, but the wine tasted spoiled .... is it old or....?"

Simon swiftly knelt at Kimiko's feet, took her empty glass and placed it gently on the grass. He whispered, "Yes, dearest Kimiko, the wine is drugged. Today is our last day together. When my work with Master Soji is finished, perhaps we can be together again ......I just don't know."

Kimiko's breath cane in gasps and her heart raced faster and faster. "But ... but what about ...your letter... to... Soji?" she rasped. Her hands flew to her throat and her eyes opened wide in terror.

Simon could not take his eyes from her ashen face and he too began to cry. "The letter is your farewell note, written to me. I'm sorry...so sorry. This was the only way I that Soji would continue teaching me. Your threats to expose Soji could not be ignored. I love you, Kimiko, please believe that," he murmured as his eyes overflowed, staining his cheeks.

Kimiko's muscles had grown weak. With supreme effort, she turned her head to gaze at Simon's face and was shocked at what she saw. It seemed that Soji's cold black pupils stared back. She tried to scream, to rise, and run away but her legs were leaden. Simon slowly began to intone a chant and Kimiko felt her consciousness slipping away. Soon Simon stopped chanting and began speaking Japanese in a low monotone. She could barely make out his words. Simon asked her if she understood and, reflexively, she mumbled, "Hai". Simon continued talking and suddenly she fell forward and off the bench. He caught her in his arms, laid her gently on the grass, and her body melded with the evening's shadows. Simon knelt beside her and carefully, lovingly, straightened her dress, smoothed her hair, and pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. It had once held one of Kimiko's intra-office notes to him, from early in their relationship. The envelope was addressed simply, 'Personal – Mr. Simon Pettit'. Simon used a napkin to pick up and fold the letter she had just written, supposedly to Soji, and placed it in the envelope, watchful not to leave a fingerprint on anything. He placed the envelope in her right hand and kissed her cheek, his tears splashing where his lips had brushed her skin. Weeping silently, he knelt next to Kimiko for several minutes. Then rising stiffly, he used the napkin to wipe all traces of his tears from her cheeks. From the depths of the picnic basket he retrieved a small glass vial.

Simon pulled the cork from the vial, poured some of the wine into the vial, and then emptied the wine from the vial onto the ground. He wiped the outside of the vial with the same napkin and placed the now empty vial in Kimiko's hand. Dropping the small cork on the grass, he began to pack the picnic basket, methodically placing each item snugly in its place. Basket in hand, Simon knelt again beside his beloved Kimiko and spoke his last words to her, his voice choked with anguish.

"Oh, Kimiko, my friend, my lover. You were the sweetest, most wonderful person that ever came into my life. I'll never forget you and what I did to you today. Somewhere, sometime, perhaps we'll be together again, if you can ever forgive me."

The basket fell from his grasp. Simon fell to the ground sobbing and rolled on his side into a fetal position, tightly hugging his knees. A strange sound escaped his lips, a soft wail, a keening that ripped at his very soul as an innocent and loving part of him died. He lay on the grass next to Kimiko until at last he found the energy to rise again. As he walked out of the now darkened park, he found a policeman and pointed to where he had seen a young woman collapse. As the policeman trotted away, Simon dabbed the soaked napkin at his still-flowing tears, and tasted the salt of his remorse. The last remorse Simon would ever experience.

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"Sacrifices for Ninjutsu."

Osaka, Japan - July 1984

Three weeks after leaving Kimiko in the park, Simon had finally built up his resolve to face Soji. His last words to Kimiko had been given to her while she was in a drug-induced trance. In a technique Soji had coincidently shown him two months earlier, Simon had given Kimiko post-hypnotic instructions, telling her that he had been unfaithful to her and that he was a liar. He suggested that she had just wrongly tried to kill herself and that she must leave both Simon and the consulate, immediately. Simon attempted to erase most memories of anything personal that had transpired between them and his last instruction was that she find a different job and put him in her past, as a most unpleasant episode.

It worked. The day after their meeting in the park, Simon called and asked the Office manager where he could find Kimiko and was told that Kimiko had called in that morning to give her resignation. Simon asked if she was all right and the manger had answered, "Well, I guess she was okay but she sure seemed pissed at something or someone and didn't want to discuss it. Just wanted out. She asked me to mail her paycheck, so I'll send it to her. Apparently, she didn't even say goodbye to her co-workers."

Simon then knew he'd been successful in driving her away and that he could never see Kimiko again. He thanked the manager and went to his desk with a lump in his throat and a pain in his gut.

Simon's grief, guilt, and his anger toward Soji (and himself) faded very slowly. However, his obsession to learn Soji's secrets did not abate. Resolving to face Soji and finish what he had started, Simon sat on his favorite mat in the lotus position and cleared his mind. He softly called for Soji. In seconds, Soji took control.

Simon could feel Soji's irritation as he addressed Simon. "It has been many days since we talked," Soji snapped. "Why have you waited so long before calling me? This is not the behavior of a dedicated student!"

"Your question does not do you credit, _Master_ Soji. You know the answer! Because of you and Ninjutsu, I drove away the only person I've ever really loved. You promised the reward would be worth it but, at this moment, I feel only emptiness. Tell me again, _Master_ , why did she have to go?"

"And your question does not do you credit, _Student_. You know the answer but you are saddened and that I understand. You are also angry and that I do not understand. Do you think YOU are the only person who has ever sacrificed for the secrecy of the arts? Do you?"

Simon merely sighed in response. Soji continued, "All masters of the secret arts have made sacrifices. Mine was leaving my adopted parents at the age of fourteen. I didn't kill them, Simon, but I might as well have because, once I entered the monastery of Ninjutsu, I never spoke to them again. They were as desolate as if I had died."

Simon's attention was aroused. "Why did you do that?"

"Well, in my time, we counted the years by whoever was in power. Unfortunately, that system doesn't relate well to any permanent calendar but I'll do my best to correlate events to your Georgian calendar." Soji paused, his eyebrows knitted in deep thought. "I suppose it was about 1280 AD or 1281. I had just celebrated my fourteenth birthday and was serving General Ashikaga. This was the year the Mongols raided Japan for a second time. General Ashikaga had appointed me as a page on his staff at the request of my stepfather, Lord Kajimoto. Four others boys and I delivered messages, accounted for the inventory of personnel, weapons, animals, carts, and every other resource of Ashikaga's army. Every month, and after any battle, we counted everything. This gave the General an accounting of his losses or gains from any battle. Being so involved with the General's men, I had the opportunity to view the enemy Mongol armies in action. They were fascinating. Mongol leaders were unequaled at moving troops and faking both attacks and retreats. However, Ashikaga had the element of experience, having fought in the battle that ended the first Mongol raid seven years earlier and the General knew he could not beat the Mongols a second time without devising some new strategy or surprise tactic. One day, my turn came to record the general's notes. My writing desk was about five paces to his left side as he received the senior monk at the temple of Kishiwada. General Ashikaga was usually an aloof and condescending _daimyo_ but this day, for some reason unknown to me, he was acting respectful and he politely asked the monk, 'Master Katsuyama, I have heard that you train special warriors at the monastery. I am facing a formidable foe in the Mongols. We beat them seven years ago but at a great loss of men and equipment. Now they have returned in even greater numbers with Cathayans and other warriors. They intend to sweep through our land and conquer all of Japan. We must win here and win decisively or they will rule Japan as they do China. Do you have any warriors who can assist us?'

'Of course, Lord.' answered Master Katsuyama, bowing low, 'My warriors are at your disposal.'

'How many thousand samurai can you supply?'

The monk chuckled softly at General Ashikaga's question, which was a serious breach of etiquette. Quickly, the monk caught himself, sobered his visage, and replied, 'Lord, my students are not trained as samurai. Your samurai use many conventional resources such as archers, catapults, horses, and peasant ground troops. My men usually fight as individuals, occasionally in teams, but never with more than five in a group. They are schooled in the arts of Ninjutsu and have studied tirelessly to become ninja warriors. Your Samurai come to the battlefield with flags streaming and horns blaring. My man attacks in disguise, in shadows, or the dark of night. He is silent and unexpected. A samurai is happily content to wound an opponent, thus forcing the enemy leader to choose one of three courses: commit other resources to aid his wounded, leave the wounded to die a slow and agonizing death, or kill his own wounded himself. On the other hand, the ninja is committed to only one goal; the death of his designated target. If he merely wounds an opponent or is wounded himself, the ninja has failed, for he must repeat his foray on a more protected target that has now been warned of dangers. This greatly increases the Ninja's difficulty of success. At my school, we train students in the martial arts, Zen, magic, and the natural forces. The training of a ninjutsu warrior cannot be compared to that of the samurai. The ninja is Ying to the samurai's Yang. The samurai is a straightforward soldier, moving as an overt force, whereas the ninja is a covert force that attacks unexpectedly, from any direction, like a lightning bolt from a clear sky. Of course, both types of warriors are resources, to be used as needed. In summary, my Lord General , I can send you a team of four expert ninja.'

General Ashikaga looked perplexed. He couldn't see how only four of Katsuyama's soldiers could, in any way, make a difference. Frowning, he decided he'd wasted his valuable time with this inscrutable monk.

'Monk, what can only four men do to help us?' the General asked with noticeable impatience. 'You must understand the reality of our situation. The Mongols, under General Molai, have thirty-thousand troops. The majority of that army is made up of experienced Chinese foot soldiers, led by battle-hardened Mongols on the best Mongol horses. We must defeat this first army, and destroy it completely, or a second army will follow next year. If that happens, Japan will surely be lost.'

'Is the invading General Molai, the grandson of the Mongol, Genghis Khan?' asked the monk.

'Yes, and his father is Kublai, emperor of China, the second son of Genghis Khan. As a son of the Emperor and grandson of Genghis Khan, Molai represents all of China and most of Asia. He is experienced, brilliant, and intent on conquering all our islands.'

The monk's head was bowed in thought and when he spoke, I had to strain to hear his words. Slowly, almost in a whisper, he said, 'If you are unsure of defeating Molai _in_ the field, you must defeat him _before_ he takes the field.'

'What do you mean?'

The monk's head came up. He stared directly at General Ashikaga and, with strength and conviction, he announced, 'My ninjas shall assassinate this General Molai.'

And they did. Katsuyama's ninja team decapitated Molai in his tent before his army reached Osaka. The Mongols could not fathom how this could have happened. They doubled sentries, tripled training and forgot sleep. Their confidence was broken. After weakly engaging our soldiers, they retreated and never returned.

I observed all this as a page in the general's court. It was unimaginable - four men had won a monumental war! I couldn't get it out of my mind. Finally, I asked General Ashikaga to sponsor me to Katsuyama's Ninjutsu school at Kishiwada monastery and he agreed. The monks dragged their feet in agreeing to take me. They did not want the General to think he controlled the school. However, after a month or so, they agreed to accept me on the condition that I swore to join the temple for life, never to speak to any of my friends or family again, and not to return to the General unless ordered by the monks. And this was my oath, given at the age of fourteen. It was a painful pledge, never to see my mother and father again. But, Simon, as difficult as it was, I tell you, it was worth the exchange."

"I pray what you say will also be true for me, Master Soji," Simon answered, with both resignation and renewed respect for Soji. If it's not, my guilt will surely kill me."

Simon and Soji immediately began the difficult course of in the secrets of Ninjutsu as outlined by Soji, following the eight ancient rules of ninja conduct and a ninth, added by Master Soji:

1. HOLD SECRET THE SACRED THE ARTS OF NINJUTSU.

2. BE LOYAL, RESPECTFUL, AND OBEDIENT TO YOUR _DAIMYO_.

3. REFUSE PUBLIC ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND MATERIAL REWARDS.

4. MAINTAIN YOUR BODY IN FIGHTING CONDITION.

5. ACHIEVE SATORI THROUGH DAILY MEDITATION.

6. KILL YOUR ASSIGNED TARGETS, A WOUNDING IS NOT SUFFICIENT.

7. DO NOT LEAVE FOOTPRINTS OR EVIDENCE OF YOUR PASSING.

8. IF CAPTURED, ESCAPE IS ALWAYS POSSIBLE THROUGH SEPPUKU.

9. DO NOT USE THE SAME WEAPON OR METHOD TWICE IN SUCCESSION.

Simon's daily schedule consisted of meditation in the morning from five until six, indoor exercise from six 'til seven, stretching for ten minutes, and a three mile, fast-paced run before a breakfast of rice, tea with honey, and ginseng. From eight until nine, Soji instructed Simon in the Ninjutsu arts, challenging their imaginations, since Simon was the only person in the room.

He still had his responsibilities to both the Agency and the consulate and, on regular workdays, Simon normally spent six or seven hours at the office. Then, after a mostly full workday, he practiced various ways of preparing poisons from five until seven in the evening. Using powder, liquid, and solids, he learned how to insert them in various foods, drinks, perfumes, soaps, clothing dyes, and paper. He became especially intrigued with the art of applying poisons to fingernails. With very little effort, a slight scratch of one well prepared finger could deliver deadly poison to a target. The most exciting part of this particular technique for Simon was the inherent danger to the ninja. One slight unconscious finger to the lips, a reflexive reaction to an itching nose, or a touch of your own food, and the ninja had assassinated _himself_. The mental focus necessary in this method was both subtle and extraordinary. It was obvious that, in any situation, a ninja without focus, sooner or later, was a dead ninja. Tacking to on what he had learned when parting with Kimiko, Simon soon learned the even more subtleties and uses of hypnosis.

Although his schedule was more than demanding, he slept fitfully, constantly dreaming of Kimiko, often awaking with tear-stained cheeks.

For Simon's training in martial _Bujutsu_ , the sum total of martial arts, he trained in hand-to-hand fighting in schools such as Aikido, Kung Fu, Karate, and other defenses, using different weapons for different circumstances and different results. Soon he began training in archery and _kenjutsu_ , swordplay with a wooden sword, a _bokken_. Together, Soji and Simon selected several dojos in the Osaka area and Simon changed his schedule to dojo practice every morning from seven to nine. Soji stressed that, although a ninja's last resort is physical contact with a target, or the target's guardians, all ninjas must be prepared to win any necessary physical confrontation. Primarily, Soji's ninjas had relied on poisons and throwing or shooting weapons to avoid leaving telltale clues such as torn clothing, injury marks on the ninja and, worse of all, capture. When Simon reached a point of expertise and notice within the local dojos, Soji decided that Simon should seek out teachers outside Osaka who might continue and add to Soji's instruction. Simon's first such destination was to a Shaolin temple tucked away in the wooded mountains outside the town of Shobara.

After some prodding and a generous donation to the temple, an old priest named Tokada, who'd been recommended by a contact in Osaka, had grudgingly agreed to teach Simon the Touch of Death. In this method, the ninja uses his fingers like steel rods. A sharp poke from one finger of someone trained in the Touch of Death is the same as being poked with a crowbar and an expert ninja knows exactly where to strike for the most deadly effect.

Upon meeting Simon the old man was certain that Simon would not last through to the end of his course. Ha, he had harrumphed to himself, a Gaijin? Never make it! However, he silently waved Simon to a small room with a cot and then announced curtly, "Tomorrow at six."

The next morning Simon was taken to see Tokada who waited in a small room of a wooden building that served as a dormitory for the priests and monks. Simon bowed, keeping his eyes on the Shaolin priest. Tokada's white thinning hair was worn long, tied in a braid down his back. In his prime Tokada might have stood all of five feet five inches but the weight of his years had pulled him into a pronounced stoop, appearing tiny and fragile. The priest rose and moved slowly toward Simon, shuffling on arthritic hips, and wincing noticeably.

This is the last man I'd ask for this kind of knowledge, Simon thought. He's got to be eighty or more. I hope he has a younger monk to help him. Wouldn't want to slip and kill the old geezer by accident.

Tokada sensed Simon's thoughts. "Young man, my body's worn condition has not affected my skill in the Touch of Death. I am only a teacher now but I can still function."

With that, Tokada limped to the wall of the room, extended the index finger of his right hand and touched the wall. Simon could clearly see that the wall was made of wooden slats at least ¼ inch thick. Tokada's finger went through the wall as if it were paper! The old priest shuffled back and extended his hand for Simon's inspection. His fingers were gnarled and thickened, with enlarged knuckles and each fingertip encased in calluses.

"Bend my finger," said Tokada and he pointed his index finger at Simon.

Simon grabbed the extended finger with his right hand and twisted sharply. The old man's finger didn't bend a millimeter; it seemed made of steel.

"The Touch of Death is really very simple and requires only two things," said Tokada. "First, you must exercise your forearms, hands, and fingers to produce the necessary strength. Second, you must know where to reach the six fatal touch points on the human body. With strength and knowledge, you'll be able to kill with a touch."

"How do I exercise to get my fingers like yours?"

"Do you perform push-ups as part of your physical regime?"

"Yes, fifty every day."

Tokaka sneered. "From now on, you will do a second fifty on your finger tips."

"That's it? That's the fucking secret?" Simon snorted. "Fingertip pushups?"

"Of course not! You will use all ten fingers for one month. Next, for three months, eliminate the little fingers. After you are accomplished on four, forsake using your thumbs. Use only three fingers for three months. After that, only two fingers, index and middle finger, for another three months. The next stage is pushups using only the index finger of each hand but do not try that before you come to me. At that point, I will utilize several techniques to toughen your fingers; herbs, salve, hot sand, and poultices. During this process, you will attempt one-finger pushups. Should you accomplish that...and I doubt you will...then you will do one-finger push-ups for at least three months more. If you get that far, you can then decide your training for yourself. The ultimate goal of these exercises and toughening methods is for you to be able to perform one- _armed_ pushups, using only the index finger of _one_ hand. Ideally, you should be able to do this with both right and left hands. I'll give you special weights to use on your fingers to lend them lateral strength. If you are diligent and follow the procedure that I give you, you should be ready in about a year or so. It's up to you." Tokada indicated with a wave of his hand that Simon was dismissed. "Go. When you are on three fingers and feel ready to proceed, come back and we'll start your education in the human anatomy."

Simon bowed, backed a step, and cleared his mind, mentally preparing himself for the next session on his schedule. Abruptly, Simon's back grew rigidly straight and, unbowed, he glared at Tokada, with dark and blazing eyes.

Tokada, surprised at this unexpected and disrespectful attitude from a student, snapped sternly, "I said, you are dismissed."

"I am Kajimoto Soji," Simon replied in an ancient Japanese dialect and with the deep voice of Soji. "I created your technique, you lazy, arrogant cockroach."

The priest's eyes widened, almost popping from his head. He knew enough of the old language to understand what had been said to him. "No, this cannot be true," he stammered in shock. "Master Kajimoto?"

_"Hai_."

It took no more than a simple 'yes' for the old man to drop to his knees and bow, touching his head to the cold stone floor. "How is it possible, master?" he mumbled.

"It is, therefore it is possible. The how or why of this does not concern you. What _is_ of concern is that your training methods are a disgrace to Ninjutsu. So, your students return to you when _they_ feel ready?" Soji raised his voice, shouting angrily, "Only a master knows when a student is ready for each succeeding step in training and, to do that, a master must constantly observe his student. Is that not what I have taught and what I have written?"

The old priest quivered and nodded, knocking his head several times on the unyielding floor.

"You will stay close to the American Simon Pettit and you will see that his progress is rapid and sure. Am I understood?"

Again the priest banged his head, mumbling, "Yes, master, yes."

"Good," pronounced Soji. He turned away and left the room, ignoring the shaken and chastised Tokada.

Once outside of Tokada's room, Simon regained control, put his hand on the wall to steady himself, and shook his head to clear it. He couldn't remember the last minute or so. Soji had taken control so fast that Simon hadn't realized what was happening and he was determined to find out why.

As soon as he was alone that evening, Simon asked Soji, "What the hell happened at Tokada's?"

"The old priest has become lazy," answered Soji. "His specialty is unique and he is so old and respected that no one watches what he does. In his declining years, he has come to view students not as assets to be molded but as intrusions into his daily routine. I merely reminded him of a master's responsibilities. From now on you will see him every day." Soji smiled in satisfaction. "I have every confidence that you will turn out to be the most proficient pupil he's ever instructed."

"Is this ... Touch of Death, that unusual?"

"Oh, the idea isn't new, but very rarely used. I developed the technique and my _ryu_ was the first school to incorporate it into the training of ninjas. It can be a most effective method for in-close fighting. Because it is a long and tedious process to learn the technique and it's not as flashy as kenjutsu or aikido, most students are drawn to the other specialties. Also, in this discipline, one can't have non-lethal competitions like in karate or kung fu, except to stupidly punch holes in boards. Judging from the difficulty you had in finding him, Tokada is the only master of this technique in this part of Japan, perhaps the last one in the world."

Beginning with that night's lesson, Simon began learning the special methods or weapons attributed to each ryu. Soji described the gloried Fudo ryu, first to develop the _Shuriken_ or throwing star and he explained how the ryu at Honshu had perfected balanced daggers, designed for throwing. He told Simon of another specialty of his ryu was that students were trained to use everyday items as weapons. Soji then explained the deadly use of chopsticks, pens, and many other common items. A ninja's weapons were never out of reach; it was only knowing what could be used and how. During the ensuing weeks, Simon went Soji one step further; he adapted Soji's methods to the modern world. He taught himself to kill quickly, silently, and surely with such innocent objects as credit cards, forks, pencils, and a rolled newspaper. Simon soon sank into a regular routine, dividing his daytime between Tokada and the consulate and his evenings to studying and discussions with Soji.

It was a normal Wednesday at the office and, in his tiny cubical, Simon was struggling to complete his analysis of three boring field intelligence report on the recent meeting of the Japanese Communist Party. He silently wondered how three supposedly trained observers could describe totally different scenes from the same event. So much for accuracy in spying, he thought.

Suddenly Shirley Lordes lightly tapped on his side wall. Quickly and happily, he lost focus on the reports.

"Simon, she whispered, did you hear about Kimiko? You two were together quite a while, right?"

"What? Kimiko? What do you mean?" Simon asked anxiously.

"She was killed yesterday!"

Simon stared straight ahead into nothingness. His eyes refused to focus and his throat constricted. "How", he croaked, "could...this happen?"

Oh, Simon, I'm so sorry, so sorry", Shirley answered in a hushed tone. "I saw the security video on the news. Apparently, Kimiko was waiting for a commuter train. It looked like she was lost in thought and didn't notice it when all the other passengers around her suddenly fled. A group of young rowdies, running at full speed, swarmed past her and knocked her right off the platform and an incoming train hit her square on. The police said she was killed instantly. They're still looking for the gang. Just this morning her mother called the office to see if there was anything that she needed to do with regard to Kimiko's insurance. That's how I knew for sure the girl in the video was _our_ Kimiko"

Shirley stepped closer to pat Simon's shoulder nervously in reassurance, then turned and left Simon to his grief. Simon rose slowly, carefully stacked his papers, locked the reports in his desk, and left the consulate without a word to anyone.

Reaching his house, Simon instantly called for Soji.

"We did this!" he shouted, "We caused her death!"

Simon fell to his knees and tears flowed freely down his cheeks. "Why, Soji? Why"

Soji answered in a grave voice, "Simon, you had to remove her from your life. And you from hers. Perhaps her Karma was to leave this world early in life. Regardless, w _e_ did not do this. _You_ did not do this! Those teenage thugs did it. When Kimiko left you, she was no longer a threat to us. You had seen to that. And brilliantly, without physically harming her as I had suggested. Turn your grief into rage, Simon. Focus on those who are actually responsible.

His tears run dry, Simon answered in a soft, low voice, "I'll find out who did this. If the police can't handle those bastards, I will. But I'll never, ever forget that it was _I_ who made Kimiko leave here and it was _I_ who gave her new and difficult emotional baggage to carry. In fact, it's possible it was that very same baggage that dulled her senses in the train station."

"Yes. It is possible. But we'll never know. All you know for certain is that she died because of that gang. That must be your primary focus."

"Hai", answered Simon as he broke off contact with Soji.

Exactly one week later, the police caught two of the gang responsible for Kimiko's death and charged them with murder. The train station security tape showed that these were the ones who had intentionally pushed Kimiko off the platform. Seven other gang members were charged with assisting in the felony. News reporters predicted life sentences for the two and perhaps as long as ten years for the others.

Kimiko's murderers would be punished by the government and, although Simon must now forget avenging her death, he would never forget Kimiko's life, especially her sad and beautiful tear-stained face, as he had left her in the park. Never.

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Practice Makes Perfect."

Osaka, Japan – September, 1985

After fourteen months of training, Simon had become very proficient in the Japanese language and the Ninjutsu arts. Soji too was learning, polishing his English, studying Western society, peppering Simon with questions about Simon's modern world of planes, cars, TV's, computers, cell phones, and even Ninja Turtles.

"How can there be _Ninja_ Turtles?" Soji asked one evening.

"Ninja Turtles? "What are you talking about?"

"Turtles that have names like Michelangelo and Donatello. They are called ninjas. Why is this? Are ninjas objects of humor and derision in the modern world?"

Simon chuckled. "No, Soji, just the opposite. Those turtle characters depict honorable, superior fighting men who, for the sake of a children's TV show, are depicted as turtles."

"I don't understand. Turtles are turtles and ninjas are ninjas. Can a ninja be a turtle? Why would I want to be a turtle? Western culture has no respect for Ninjutsu."

"You're probably right. Hollywood and television have distorted and cartooned the ninja but, actually, that should make my assignments easier. The average person would never suspect that such formidable warriors still exist."

"These turtles wear masks and head scarves", protested Soji. All their opponents dress in black uniforms. What is this?"

"It's the way people have learned to spot ninjas. Black outfits with hoods and swords. Wasn't that the way it was?"

Soji grunted. "Of course not," he scolded. "A ninja must blend in with his surroundings. I can think of nothing more foolish than entering a crowded marketplace dressed all in black, wearing a hood. At night, in shadows, perhaps, but in daylight? Such nonsense!"

Simon's curiosity was piqued. "My God, I never thought to ask. What the hell _is_ the standard uniform? Will I get to wear a black ninja outfit, complete with head scarf? Or what?"

"That's exactly my point. Hollywood images are not reality. The true ninja wears whatever is appropriate to the situation and task. An all black uniform can be useful but, if you carry out your assignment properly, you shouldn't need a uniform or even a mask. Dress in loose clothes, something unobtrusive and that allows free movement. I was always partial to silk", Soji added sheepishly. Anyway, use your brain. These Hollywood ninjas are truly only cartoon characters. Please, if you do nothing else, demonstrate that a ninja is not to be ridiculed. Do that for me. And Ninjutsu"

"Okay, I'll keep that in mind," Simon promised. "Now, what's on the agenda today?"

"Now we will study the ultimate ninja goal: choosing, planning, and killing our _daimyo_ 's enemy. Throughout history, wars and intrigues might occur many years apart. Therein lies a problem for the professional warrior. In my time, each ryu was constantly training their ninjas, regardless of whether there was a war on or not. Graduate warriors would be housed on school premises and often months, or even years, would pass between missions. I'd been a ninja master for about ten years when one of my best ninjas failed an assignment. He failed because he was out of practice. We hadn't had any real missions for almost two years. Because I could not allow another such failure, I decided to look at what other types of warriors did to keep their skills sharp and immediately observed that samurais liked to use peasants to prove their swordsmanship. The beheadings of seemingly worthless peasants helped prepare samurais to kill another human without hesitation, with one clean, sure swipe of their sword. Real-life practice such as this made certain their arms and wrists were strong enough, their aim true, and that they actually had the fortitude to kill. Unfortunately, such beheadings became commonplace and indiscriminate, costing Japan many good peasants. Admittedly, some had been useless beggars but others had been truly productive and were sorely missed. I discussed this issue with several other Ninjutsu masters and we all decided, similar to the samurais, to require our ninjas to practice the art of dealing death. However, in contrast with the samurai, our selection of practice targets was not to be indiscriminate. Regardless of any current assignments from the _daimyo_ , we decreed that every ninja had to make an assassination at least once every year. My ninjas were required to select a target from one of the many local villages. The target had to be someone who was not necessary to the welfare of the village, a person who would not be missed or grieved over excessively. Further, regardless of their lack of worth to the village, they also must be capable of resistance. Old, feeble, or senile individuals were not acceptable. Greedy merchants, samurai bullies, and _ronin_ \- samurai's without a _daimyo_ \- were the most desired targets. My ninjas would tell me their choice of target and, if I approved, they planned and execute their assignment, using my ryo's specialty, the use of everyday objects as weapons. They had to complete the assignment without being detected." Soji's voice took on a most somber tone. "Simon, this is something you must do as a qualified ninja."

Simon gulped and, in soft voice answered, "I understand, Master Soji. Whenever you want, I'll be ready."

Ten days later, Simon was sitting for his regular evening session and Soji began by asking a question, "Do you remember my discussion on the practice of assassination?"

"Yes, about two weeks ago. What about it?"

"More than a year and a half has passed since you began studying the arts of Ninjutsu. You have trained well. It's time for real-life practice in the lethal arts." Soji sighed and continued, "You are to select a target, plan your attack, and follow it through to culmination. I'm sure there must be many opportunities in a city as large as Osaka. You have ten days to choose a target. Do not call for me until you have made a selection. Then, if I agree on the target, we'll discuss your plan of attack."

Soji closed the short conversation and faded. Simon was shocked. He suddenly realized that all the weapons he'd worked with and all his training in deathblows had been just gym exercises. After the anguish he had suffered in losing Kimiko, he had avoided thinking about the ninja's real purpose: to actually _kill_ someone in cold blood. True, he now knew many ways to end someone's life but could he actually kill a living person, silently, coldly, and without emotion? He shook his head wearily. Soji's assignment rang in his ears, clear and deadly! He had promised but now, confronted with its reality, he wasn't sure he could do it.

"No, damn it", he shouted aloud, "this is what I've trained for and this is what I _do..._ or will do. Losing Kimiko, and her losing me, will go for nothing if I back out now. I can do it...I have to.... and, by god, I'll be the best!"

From the day of the assignment, Simon walked the streets of Osaka every afternoon in search of a potential target. Finally, Simon's patience paid off. During the ensuing year he practiced for real. Twice.

The first time, he administered the Touch of Death. A young Japanese man named Karoda had used an acquired skill in Karate to abuse and injure anyone who gave him the slight excuse. Sometimes Karoda attacked those who had done nothing to anger him; they were merely available. Simon had been observing Karoda for several days and had already received Soji's approval. He had his first qualified target!

Simon confronted Karoda in front of a barbershop as the bully took up the entire sidewalk, forcing anyone coming toward him to step into the gutter. When it became obvious to Karoda that Simon, apart from other passersby, was not going to step aside, Karoda threw an elbow. Ducking the blow easily, Simon quickly tapped Karoda on the side of his head, just above the ear and then continued on past without losing his walking rhythm. Karoda took two steps forward in the opposite direction and collapsed, as if he'd been struck lightening. By the time a crowd had gathered, Simon was two blocks away.

The second time, Simon encountered two men bent on raping a school girl of fourteen, according to their boasts, their third victim of the week. This occurred at dusk, amid shadows and street lights that were just flickering on. Before the two thugs could drag the girl they'd chosen into a darkened alley, both lay bleeding out, twitching in death throws, with throats slit by a platinum visa card.

Both _practices_ had been enthusiastically authorized by Soji and recorded by Agency surveillance. During all of this time Simon still slept fitfully, always dreaming of Kimiko.

In one of their regular evening talks, Soji suddenly announced, "Simon, I know how you wrestle with the loss of Kimiko. When you don't sleep well, actually, neither do I. We must do something about this."

Simon swallowed hard. "Sorry, I didn't realize that. What do you suggest?"

"Well, as you continue in walks around the city, keep your eyes and ears open. I'm sure that the fates will provide."

"Provide what" queried Simon.

"Both practice and, I hope, resolution. Within the next ten days, find your next assignment."

It was on the eighth day of his quest for Soji's mysterious _practice with resolution_ , that Simon took a bus from his apartment to a new restaurant, The Cherry Blossom, located on the edge of the neon-lit Minami District. The restaurant had been recommended to Simon several weeks earlier by his boss, Paul Del Monico.

Entering the Cherry Blossom, Simon walked into the restaurant and quickly selected a small booth in the rear. He settled himself cross-legged at the low table, his back resting against the wall to the kitchen. Within minutes, a pretty young waitress brought tea and took his order. Simon sipped his tea, taking note of the other patrons: two families noisily celebrating private events. Fifteen minutes passed, Simon ran out of tea, and realized his meal hadn't been delivered. He scanned the restaurant but his waitress was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, through the wall behind him, he detected sounds coming from the kitchen; a sharp slap, followed by weeping. The other diners, engaged in their own loud conversations, remained unawares. Simon got up swiftly and glided to the slatted, swinging half doors that separated the dining area from the kitchen. Peering over the doors, Simon could see his waitress sprawled on the floor, sobbing and holding her face in her hands. An angry man stood over her waving a fist. He snarled, "Stupid! You have ruined my soup with your dirty thumb. Filthy slut, get out. Get out of my restaurant!"

Simon watched as the girl struggled to rise. She wiped at her tears with her sleeve, begging. "Please Tanaka San, I need my job. Excuse my clumsiness. Please."

"No! Go!" the man replied and roughly pushed her toward a side exit from the kitchen.

Simon spun and walked through the restaurant, out the front door. He stood quietly next to the entrance, waiting for the girl to appear from the side alley.

"Excuse me, miss," he said as she emerged toward the street from the alley's darkness. "I'm sorry to interfere but I couldn't help hearing your difficulty with the manager. Is there anything I can do?"

She squinted at him through reddened eyes. After a moment, she recognized Simon as her last customer. "No... No, I'm fine," she stammered . "Must go now," she said as she moved to walk past him.

"Please, miss", Simon whispered urgently. "My name is Simon and I would like to help. What is that man's problem?"

All her habits and all her upbringing told her to walk away but her cheek stung, her pride hurt, and this stranger was offering some solace. She stopped and turned slowly around to face Simon. "My name is Kimiko and, yes, I can use some help."

Simon's eyes went wide and his stomach muscles tightened.

Kimiko? He gasped slightly. No, it can't be, he thought. Then it suddenly struck him! This was exactly what Soji had prophesized and what he needed, a Kimiko he could help. He tried to reply to her introduction but couldn't get the words out. His throat had dried up in anticipation of speaking her name. He struggled to answer.

"Please," he rasped, "let's go where we can quietly discuss your problem."

She looked up at his face. It seemed so strong and his eyes were so bright. Strangely, she felt safe.

Kimiko nodded in answer and fell in beside Simon as he headed down the street toward the red and blue neon sign of the American Grill.

They ordered tea that Kimiko sipped nervously but Simon was too interested in her story to even touch his cup.

"He hit you, didn't he?" asked Simon.

"Yes, twice. I think he would have kicked me if the cook had not been there."

"Why, for putting your thumb in the soup?"

"No, that was a lie, an excuse. He's been after me since last week."

"Why?"

Mr. Tanaka bought the Cherry Blossom only one month ago. Right away he began touching the girls, making suggestions. There are ...were... four of us who worked in the evening. We had known each other for more than a year. When he tried to touch us, we stayed close to each other. Two weeks ago, he fired two of the girls and told Mitsui and I that we must sleep with him or also be fired. I said no but Mitsui supports two children by herself and she consented. He took her to his house and hurt her badly. She is still in the hospital." Kimiko dabbed her eyes, sighed and continued. "Last night, he insisted that I go home with him but I managed to avoid him and left early. Tonight he again pressured me. He said I would be fired if I didn't go with him. I told him that his actions were wrong but I wanted my job and begged him to leave me alone. That is when he slapped me and accused me of spoiling the soup. He lied because he knew the new cook was listening."

"You're young and obviously a good worker. Why do you need this job? Simon asked. "Can't you get another?"

"People don't change jobs in Osaka like they do in America. Without a college degree, I must register with a job agency and wait. Perhaps for months. I need a regular income to care for my grandmother. But no job is worth being beaten or forced to have sex with such a beast."

"Who were the previous owners of the restaurant?"

"A very nice man and his wife. Mr. Tanaka offered them a great deal of money, more than they could normally expect, so they decided sell it to him and retire."

"What's his situation? Family, children, friends, interests?"

"He is divorced, without children. No friends of his have ever came to the restaurant. He relied on our old customers for business. He never confided in us girls but we discovered that he lives alone in a small house just outside the city. We were afraid of him and we were also curious. Gradually we managed to piece together his telephone conversations with other people, like his accountant, attorney, and housekeeper."

"I wonder," mused Simon aloud, "if he paid the old owners everything or got a payment deal?"

"Oh, that I know," offered Kimiko eagerly. "He grumbled loudly about making the first payment last month. Everyone could hear him. He said the restaurant wasn't worth any more money. We listened as he called his lawyer to see if he could get out of paying. Mitsui thought that his lawyer told him, "No". Why do you ask?"

Simon didn't answer. He looked closely at Kimiko. When he'd first seen her in the restaurant, she'd seemed a pert young girl of twenty or so. Now, sitting across from her in clear light, he could see how worn and desperate she looked. The woman sitting across from him was not a nameless waitress, she was a troubled young woman named Kimiko and she had a problem that he could solve. Simon reached for the check, saying, "Let's get you a taxi. Tomorrow I'll look into Mr. Tanaka's background and then do my best to resolve this. Don't worry. I think you'll get your job back without having to sleep with that snake."

Kimiko couldn't believe her ears. How could this true? This man must be very arrogant or stupid or after something else. Her suspicions bubbled out, tears welling in her eyes. "How can you say that?", she snapped and then blurted, "Who are you? Why do you want to help me? Will you demand sex like Tanaka?"

Simon gave a weary smile and put his hand on his heart. "Kimiko, I'm just a person who doesn't like bullies like Tanaka. I'm also a pretty good problem solver. As for sex, you needn't worry. I haven't thought of it since my girlfriend left more than two years ago."

Kimiko gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth. I've been rude and presumptuous, she thought. This man is only trying to help me. She smiled weakly and patted his hand that lay on the table near hers.

"I'm sorry about your girlfriend, Simon San. I would be most grateful if you can, as you say, solve my problem."

Simon nodded, his eyes flashed with anticipation, and he and waved for their check.

Kimiko stepped into the taxi Simon had ordered and called out to him, "Please telephone me, Simon san," and she gave him her number.

Simon nodded, waved goodnight, and began thinking about the Tanaka problem and Soji's favorite methods of problem solving. The next morning, Simon busied himself watching the restaurant, making discrete inquiries, and making plans. Two days passed before he was ready to speak to Soji.

"You want to discuss Tanaka, yes?" Soji asked, immediately upon appearing.

"Right, I think he's my target. You heard Kimiko's story and the verification of his brutality from Mitsui's mother." Simon paused, slightly unsure, before asking, "What's your decision, Master Soji?"

"Tanaka is a good choice. As I felt earlier, this one is fated. Well done, Simon. How will you finish this?"

"Ah ha!" Simon shouted. "This is the first time you aren't two steps ahead of me. I worked out the entire operation in my mind, not on paper. You really don't know, do you?"

Soji harrumphed and refused to answer.

"I thought so," gloated Simon. 'Score one for the student side! Come along tonight and see." The student had the teacher at a disadvantage and didn't intend to let up.

Soji reappeared. "Do I have a choice? Go. Do it properly, as you have been trained," and Soji was gone.

Simon waited in the side alley next to the Cherry Blossom. All of the employees had left for the night. On this clear June night, luminous moonlight shimmered on the darkened restaurant. Only Tanaka remained. Simon could hear him snuffing out table candles, locking the register, and turning off various lights. Tanaka mumbled loudly, swearing at his absent staff, cussing poor receipts, and moaning about his sore back.

Previously, Simon had observed that when Tanaka was last to leave he used the alley door, after first locking the front doors and closing the curtains that covered the front entrance. The instant Tanaka opened the door to the alley, Simon stepped into the light thrown by a kitchen night-light shining through the open door. Tanaka hissed and leaped backward and almost made it back into the kitchen, but not quite. Simon's right hand grabbed him by the shirtfront and pulled him into the alley while his left closed the kitchen door, shutting off that light source. Simon pulled Tanaka close, until their faces were only a few inches apart.

"All alone now?" Simon growled. "No more girls to torment?"

"Let me go," panted Tanaka. "Who,...who are you?"

"Me? I'm a _problem solver_ and you are definitely a _problem_."

Tanaka blanched. He struggled and tried to scream but, with a leather-gloved hand, Simon gripped his throat like a vise. With his other hand, Simon smashed a palm to Tanaka's chest, stunning the frightened man into silence. He spun Tanaka around and dragged him toward the rear of the alley. Dropping Tanaka on his knees, Simon stood over him, facing the open end of the alley with an eye out for unexpected and nosey visitors.

Regaining his breath and a little composure, Tanaka tried to bargain. "Please, you don't want to hurt me. I have money. How much do you want? We can get it now, let me go and I'll get money. I've done nothing to you."

Simon stepped back about a foot, reached inside his jacket, and retrieved two small objects. He took one in each hand, folding his hands over the objects, and let his arms hang at his sides.

"You are an evil person, Tanaka, a problem no one needs."

From his knees, Tanaka looked up again to beg for mercy. Too late. Simon's hands flashed in hook-like paths and Tanaka's eyes widened as Simon's fists clapped the sides of his head simultaneously with a single loud _whump_. Tanaka's mouth opened wide in a silent scream, his tongue protruding, spittle dripping from his lips. He jerked and fell forward, smashing his face onto the alley pavement. A chopstick protruded from each ear. Tanaka's blood pulsed from his ears, past the sticks, its passage carving dark lines on his cheeks.

Simon stepped over him and walked to the lighted street. What a great night to practice, he thought. He walked for several blocks and then hailed a taxi to his house. Later that evening, Simon sat in his stuffed armchair, relaxed his muscles and, breathing deeply, called for Soji.

"How do you feel?" Soji asked. "You just completed a very important practice session. You did well. Did you also find resolution?"

Simon sighed and replied, "I think so. We'll see tonight, won't we?"

And that night, for the first time in almost three years, they both slept soundly, undisturbed by past guilt.

Five days after his confrontation with Tanaka, Simon dialed Kimiko's number from his house.

She answered, breathless. "Simon San, Tanaka is dead. He was killed near the Cherry Blossom."

"Yes, I saw the article in the paper. What about your old job?"

"Oh yes, the previous owners have already asked me to return to work for them. They said that Tanaka died owing them about half of the purchase contract and so they will take the restaurant back. Everything is fine!"

"That's wonderful. I told you everything would be okay, didn't I?"

"Oh yes, your prediction was correct. I want to celebrate with you. Can you meet me?"

"I'm sorry," he answered sadly. "I have to go out of the country early tomorrow morning. Perhaps when I get back?"

"Oh ... promise you will call?" She asked, disappointment heavy in her voice.

"Yes, as soon as I'm able." He knew that he could never see this Kimiko again, but she would join her namesake in his memory forever.

Two weeks later, Simon sat in his armchair as usual and intoned, "Soji?".

"Yes," Soji answered, "It's not yet time for your lesson. What do you want?"

Simon sighed and replied slowly, "These last few days I've been thinking about you...you're a spirit or a personality...or whatever. I've got a hundred questions. How did you come into me? _Where_ are you? What is this phenomenon? The more I think about it, the more confused I get and I don't like it. I went over and over this when we were communication through Kimiko. Then she left and the training got more demanding, so I let it go. Now, when I think about...us, it reminds me of when I first got to Japan. I never again want to be so confused, helpless or ignorant. Regardless of what you've taught me or what you've said about your history, I can't shake the feeling that you're only just a figment of my imagination. Maybe you're one big fucking Asian defense mechanism."

Soji did not respond immediately. After several minutes, he said, "This may be a surprise to you but I too have wondered about this. In some ways, perhaps you are the creation of my imagination, _hai_? Who is to say what is real? I have a suggestion. Let's talk with Master Kurusawa. He seemed to understand your situation early on and I have not yet spoken directly with him about our issue."

When Simon called the next morning, Master Kurusawa was most anxious to talk and asked that Simon come to the temple that very evening.

Greeting him in Japanese, Simon bowed deeply to Master Kurusawa. In an answering bow, Kurusawa complimented Simon on his command of the language and asked, "Now, Mister Pettit, how may I assist you?"

Simon straightened, looked Kurusawa in the eye and replied, "Master Soji Kajimoto and I have come to you for guidance and interpretation."

The monk grunted in surprise but politely offered Simon a seat at his tea table. After they both had settled, Kurusawa asked, "Is this Kajimoto truly your spirit-twin?

Simon shrugged. "I guess he's what you said, spirit-twin. But we both are mystified by his existence. I...er.. we have so many questions and no answers. Why is he here? Is he a real entity? We've come to see what you think about this."

"I wish to speak to your spirit-twin. Is that possible?"

Simon nodded again and quickly relaxed. Soji came forth and, greeting Kurusawa in his native tongue, also asked for his guidance. Kurusawa then proceeded to quiz Soji about his past and about the moment of his awareness of Simon. An hour elapsed before Kurusawa asked Soji if he could again address Simon.

Simon's eyes turned from deep navy to a bright, shining sky-blue and he smiled at Kurusawa. "Yes, Master Kurusawa, you want to speak to me now?"

"I understand that the person, Soji, can hear what we say. Is that correct?" Simon nodded and the monk continued, "I believe that spirit-twins are chosen because of trauma. Trauma to BOTH personalities. Soji had something happen to him that caused his spirit to wander, unfulfilled or in search of something he must find or do. You, Simon, must have had a similar trauma. You told me of your deep loneliness, your search for belonging. I believe that your individual needs are interdependent. Through you, Soji might be able to reach his goal, to find his destiny. And, by being part of his search, you also will be fulfilled. As to what force caused this, I would answer, God Buddha. Others have their own explanations. Please have some comfort in knowing that you and Master Soji are not unique. The human soul, our conscious and sub-conscious, are extremely strong forces. It's been known before to transcend time and space. How did the stories of ghosts, angels, and the Christ Resurrection begin? Those phenomena don't seem too fantastic now, do they?"

"But is Soji _real_?" asked Simon.

"Master Soji is certainly as real as you or I and he must be treated accordingly, as an individual. He is NOT your imagination, Simon."

"What should I, er...we do?"

Master Kurusawa looked earnestly at Simon. "I urge you both to follow where your Karma leads, for it leads to a shared fate. What that is, I do not know."

Simon bowed, thanked the monk for his time and sage advice, and left.

Settling back into his familiar armchair at home, Simon posed a question aloud, "What do you think? Are we on the same path?" and then relaxed to allow Soji to speak.

Soji answered Simon's question resolutely. "I believe Kurusawa. We're tied together on a journey that will mean much to both of us. However, where we are going and why, I have no idea."

"What do you remember about your death? Your, you know, _resurrection_?"

Soji was very slow to reply. In a subdued voice, he said, "I remember being on a pallet in my room at the castle. Suddenly, I could not breathe. I struggled for air but my lungs would not work. Then, from above, I could see myself lying down there, still and pale and dead. I floated out of the room into darkness. The next thing – it seemed only seconds - I was looking at the modern world through your eyes, unable to speak or move. No.... that's wrong. I could make my formless body seem to swim, spin, dive and float, as if I were in a large, black pool but I could not control any of your movements in the natural world." Soji paused and then spoke even more softly. "As Master Kurusawa said, we probably will never know _how_ I came to you but I believe we will find out _why_."

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

"Return of the Prodigal."

Washington, DC – October, 1985

Jim Conyers, Director of CIA Operations at Langley, looked up as Felix Mendosa entered his office. "Mornin', Felix, what's up?"

Mendosa pulled a chair close to Conyers' desk, plopped his large frame down and answered in one word. "Pettit."

"Pettit?" asked Conyers quizzically. " _Simon_ Pettit?"

Mendosa nodded.

"Okay," Conyers said with a deep sigh, "give me the bad news first."

"Yeah, but remember, boss, you asked for the bad news first," replied Mendosa. "Anyway, I don't think there is any good news. Two nights ago, _your_ Osaka Kid murdered another guy. Some slimy restaurant owner. Stuck chopsticks in the guy's ears. This is the first time his wet work has gone public. The Japanese newspapers are calling it the Chop Stick Killer rampage. Damn, Jim! This could get hot."

Shivers went through Conyers and he rose up in his chair. He could feel his heart jump and his neck muscles tighten. From the day he had reason to believe that Simon had drugged and frightened his girlfriend away and had gone on to kill some thugs, all seemingly without any publicity, Conyers had premonitions of getting a report like this.

Agency brass had decided they would stay out of the initial instances of Simon's rouge tendencies, rationalizing that any word from the Agency to Japanese authorities might compromise other intelligence operations. Also, covert camera tapes showed the Soji personality coercing, almost hypnotizing, Simon into the acts, promising secrets in return. As far as they could tell, if those promises had been kept, it had been out of camera range. With the Soji entity's constant expert guidance, Simon had apparently absorbed ten or fifteen years of ninja training in just over three and he was now a very scary guy. Ever since Admiral Stansfield Turner's regime as Agency Director in the Carter administration, most agents with abilities and character similar to Simon's had either left the agency or been ousted by "management". Now that Turner's pogrom was over, Conyers badly needed men with talents like Simon's. And, as Simon's abilities and exploits had grown, Conyers had tabbed him _The Osaka Kid_ with the idea of creating a little Agency legend. Now this!

Conyers put his hands on his forehead, covering his eyes. "Tell me the whole story, Felix," he asked with a little trepidation.

Mendosa related most of the interaction with Tanaka, including Soji's mandate to continue the practice killings and Tanaka's cruelty to his female employees.

With hands folded on his desk, Conyers and stared at Mendosa. "Would you say this one was justified?"

"Oh, for damn sure. Even more than the others. If one of those girls had been my sister, I'd have probably done the same thing, just not as dramatically. Yep, chief, he's a wild card but so far I'd say he's completely justified."

Conyers leaned forward to emphasize each word. "Regardless of any justification, Felix, I can't have any more unauthorized incidents like this. Our guy's in a friendly foreign country, assassinating its citizens! Cut orders to bring him back to Washington ASAP. He's obviously had enough _training_ ; let's put it to use. I want him here by day after tomorrow, where I can pull his chain without getting shit all over me."

Simon was almost as nervous about going back to work at Langley as he was when he first arrived in Osaka. This was going to be a situation where he had little control and control had become Simon's primary defense against change. As he packed, he knew that he needed counsel and took pains to explain his anxiety to Soji.

"Do you feel your training is complete?" asked Soji.

"No. I've got a long way to go. At least five or six more years."

"Ah, Simon, it will always be so. For the ninja, training and learning never end. I think, however, you are far enough along to begin serving your daimyo as an accomplished warrior."

"I'll accept your views on my competence but I've another concern. In my weekly reports, except for the details of my Ninjutsu training, I've told Washington everything that's happened here. They couldn't get surveillance into Shaolin temples but, early on, they got a few tapes and recordings from my house. On more than one occasion they followed me around Osaka. What do I say to them? How shall I act?"

"Except for your superiors, who must already know, I think it is best if you say nothing of me," replied Soji.

"Okay. Conyers and a few others know most everything but what about the others? Regular guys like me?"

Soji laughed, exclaiming, "Regular guys like _you_? Simon, you're anything but _regular_. You don't owe anyone anything. Be the mysterious man from Osaka. Your language skills could have been obtained without my assistance. The same is true for some martial arts knowledge. You were diligent and careful that their surveillance methods did not uncover any of the inner secrets of Ninjutsu. Little is known about me, except for my unfortunate exposure in Washington, three years ago. I believe you can, as you say, play dumb. However, in your re-acclimation to American life, there are a few things you must not forget: First, your hands have become unusually strong and tough. A simple act could reveal your training. In Japan, you can hide the power in your hands because everyone bows in greeting. No one here wants to shake or even touch the hand of a stranger. Therefore, before you get to America, practice a _weak_ handshake that will disguise the strength of your hands and fingers. Second, you are extraordinarily skilled at karate and the use of martial arts weapons. While you must continue to train at dojos and kwoons, do not frequent the same studio more than two or three times and use an alias whenever possible."

"Right. I've also been thinking about that. If I destroy some local hero, the word will get around quickly that I'm some kind of master fighter. I can't have every little dick-headed Bruce Lee wannabe following me and interfering with what I do. What I'm saying is, I intend to fight for practice but I will seldom win. Okay?"

"Excellent thinking, Simon. You'll do fine," pronounced Soji, then faded quickly.

Simon arrived in DC on a bright and chilly winter morning. Quickly collecting his bags, he joined the taxi line and was driven directly to CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia. Reporting at Jim Conyers' office, the receptionist directed Simon to the office of Henry Buskin, Jim Conyers' assistant.

"Well, well, it's _Mr_. Pettit," offered Bushkin without rising from his chair. "Jim is busy with some people about a new post for him at State, so I guess you'll have to make do with me."

Simon shook Bushkin's extended hand weakly and answered, "Thanks. I'm glad to be back but also reluctant to leave Osaka. In a short forty months, I made some friends and finally began to feel at home in Japan."

"Oh, how we well know," remarked Bushkin with an affected Etonian accent. "But one can't become too _integrated_ , can one? Going native sort of removes one's objectivity. Mustn't forget whose team one is on, you know."

Simon didn't reply. His blue eyes iced over at Bushkin's obvious condescension and supercilious British affectation. Bushkin, sat immobilized behind his desk, transfixed under Simon's laser-like glare and swallowed nervously. With great effort, Bushkin managed to tear his eyes away to focus on a file folder lying on his desk. Keeping his head down, he fumbled with the folder, opened it, and mumbled, "Yes, yes, I see we have some interesting assignments lined up for you. First, for a period of two weeks, we'd like you to review our Far East analysis section. See how accurate they are, how thorough, etc. After that, you can be assigned to administration, field ops, or back to embassy attaché work. You can decide which of the three after you've submitted your report of the analysis section."

"I'll do the report", Simon replied tersely. And I'll decide right now. Put me in field ops. Just make sure it's somewhere no one else wants to go."

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Testing a New Weapon."

Afghanistan – November, 1985

Three weeks after returning to Washington from Japan, Simon found himself aboard a TWA flight bound for Islamabad, Pakistan with orders to act as an official Agency liaison with the mujahedeen in Afghanistan, who were fighting a losing battle against the invading Russians. A Pakistani general named Mohammed Raffielim met Simon at Islamabad airport and saw that he got through immigration and customs without delay. General Raffi, as he liked to be called, escorted Simon in a small parade of jeeps to a small, compact military base in the remote North West Territories of Pakistan. On the way, General Raffi stopped to introduce Simon to his favorite sport, polo. A world-class player, Raffi proudly exhibited his stable of ponies and encouraged Simon to try the sport. Simon demurred, saying, "I'm not familiar with horsemanship General, and, no disrespect intended, I'm here to see the mujahedeen in Afghanistan, not to play cowboy."

General Raffi murmured his understanding and immediately arranged a patrol that would guide Simon to the main mujahedeen camp at Faizabad.

Simon took to his new assignment with the excitement of a kid on Christmas morning. He felt fervently alive and knew that this was why he had trained so hard.

During his second day at the camp in Faizabad, Simon went on a dawn patrol with six mujahedeen fighters. The day started cold and wet and got worse by the hour. About noon they spotted a unit of three Russian tanks, slowly rumbling in a row southward through the rain and muck, without ground troop support. Crouching with the mujahedeen soldiers, Simon watched the tanks nearing their position. Without a word, he suddenly disappeared into the rain. A few minutes later, the Afghans spied Simon on top of the last tank, slowly crawling his way round to the front of the tank. When he neared the radio antenna, he grabbed it with both hands, twisted it violently, ripping it from its moorings and tossed it away. Then he put a hand inside his jacket pocket and came out with a handful of mud. Reaching down to a spot over the front view ports, he slopped some mud on the left view port, as if it had been thrown up by the treads of the vehicle in front. Sidling his way to the right-side port, he slopped it too with mud. Then he lay, spread-eagled, on top of the tank, near the turret. Blinded by Simon's mud attack, the tank commander opened the turret hatch and stuck his head out into the rain to see ahead and guide his driver. The mujahedeen watched in amazement as Simon poked the Russian on the side of the head with his index finger, just under his helmet earflap. As the Russian collapsed, Simon grabbed his collar, jerked him from the hatch, and tossed his lifeless body over the side.

A second Russian was not so gullible and popped out of the turret waving a revolver. Laying flat, Simon grabbed the Russian's revolver arm with both hands and bent it double against the side of the hatch. The Russian screamed and tried to free his arm but Simon, holding the arm firmly, ground the broken arm bones. The Russian became hysterical with pain and dropped his weapon. The mujahedeen fighters had seen lots of blood, death, and torture but even they shivered when, over the roar of the tank engines, they heard a loud crack as Simon snapped the soldier's neck. Simon pulled the second dead soldier from the tank hatch and shoved him over the side as well. That left only the driver who, blind, alone, and now terribly frightened, could be heard screaming into his radio as he slowed the tank, " _Pah mah gityeh, pah mah gityeh_!" Help me! Help me! But he had no antenna and there was an ever-increasing distance between the crippled tank and the two lead tanks. No one except the mujahedeen could hear his cries and, in his hysterics, he let the tank grind to a halt. Oblivious to their comrade's problems, the other tanks kept rolling away in the rain.

Realizing his situation was futile, the helmetless tank driver emerged from the hatch with his hands in the air crying, " _Ne strelyayte! Ya sdayus_. Don't shoot! I surrender."

Simon grabbed the Russian by the hair, tugged him all the way out, kicked him off the tank, and then waved at the Mujahedeen to come and see their new prize. The Afghans cheered, whooped, and yipped loudly as they ran toward Simon. He'd killed two Russian soldiers, captured a working tank and a Russian corporal without using one round of ammunition!

Two weeks after the tank incident, Simon attacked a Russian intelligence squad armed only with a large, Afghan fighting knife. He disposed of all six squad members except the captain, who was turned over to the mujahedeen for questioning before succumbing to a slow, painful death. In only weeks, Simon had become famous among the Mujahedeen. They swore he could see at night, fly over walls, kill with a touch, and he never, ever lost his nerve. Or got caught.

CIA headquarters was not of ignorant of Simon's exploits and the tale that had begun with the _Osaka Kid_ grew into the legend of Simon Pettit, _CIA ninja_.

Washington, DC - 1986

Simon had been back in Washington from Afghanistan for about a month and was getting itchy. With constant tension and non-stop action in the mountains of Afghanistan, his talents had been honed to a fine edge. It'd taken only weeks in the world of bureaucrats to dull that edge. Simon's boring days drifted by without purpose and he wasn't built to patiently wait while Agency wheels, bound in red tape, ground out a new assignment. He decided to rock the boat a little.

Simon knocked on Jim Conyers open door and peeked in. "Got some time for me, boss?"

"Of course, come in!"

Simon dropped into one of Conyers soft leather visitor chairs and got right to the point.

"I know that Agency policy is to rotate agents from the field and let us catch up with the procedures and politics at Langley but damnit, Jim, I feel about as useless as a whore at a eunuch convention. Anything you can do?"

Conyers had been expecting this sort of reaction from Pettit. It happened to most agents when they first came in from the cold. Usually, after one or two rotations, most managed to handle the schizophrenic life reasonably well. However, Conyers was well aware of Pettit's _condition_ , as they had come to call it. Conyers had a unique problem. The CIA operating manual was missing the section that told what to do when an agent's second personality is an ancient master of Ninjutsu. Also, where to you send this same agent who performs extraordinary feats, things only a ninja master would know how to do?

Since Simon's first hypnosis session, Conyers' attitude had slowly evolved from overt skepticism to his current firm belief that the Soji personality was real; at least real enough to be distinguished from Pettit. Conyers knew he had to be creative or lose a fantastic resource. Simon needed action, danger, and he had all the skills necessary to cope with most any situation. Some guys just never take to a desk but, somehow, he had to try and get Simon _adjusted_.

"The policy requiring all agents to rotate out of the field," Conyers began, "was written to prevent the Kurtz Syndrome from raising its ugly head at the Agency."

"What syndrome is that?"

"It's named after a brooding, rebellious Green Beret officer, a character in a movie called "Apocalypse Now". A guy like Kurtz would do anything to stay in the field. This character started out as regular army captain and did a tour in Nam. When he rotated back, he applied for jump school to grease his application for a second tour, which he got. After his second tour, he requested Advanced Ranger School and again made it back to Nam as a Green Beret Lt. Colonel. That's when he lost his perspective or at least that's when the general staff first admitting noticing it. He'd lost the moral perspective of knowing the difference between good and evil. Slowly, he went mad. Of course, Kurtz is fictional, but many of us who were _in country_ knew at least one "Kurtz". They all had skills similar to yours. They could do a wet job without a second thought but, if the killing obsesses, it will eventually own you. That's why rotation is required." Conyers placed his hands on his desk, wide apart and stared Simon in the eyes. "Are you sure you can't stick it out here for a while longer?"

"I understand what you mean about the Kurtz Syndrome but my wanting the field is not a personal obsession or attached to killing people. I just want to improve on skills it took Soji sixty years to develop. After only four years, I'm just beginning." Simon sighed and his voice went to a whisper. "I dread coming in here each morning Maybe there'll be a time when I can do it but not yet. Damn it, Jim, I'm only 25! Please! I need the practice and you can use the results, right?"

Conyers shaded his eyes as if he was looking into a crystal ball. He shrugged. "Okay. I'll find something for you this week. Stay loose."

Paris, France - 1987

Simon stepped noiselessly from the balcony into the unlit bedroom and, from seven stories below, the night sounds of Paris drifted through the filmy curtains covering the doorway from the balcony to the darkened suite in the Hotel George V. A small man snored loudly in a king-sized bed. Simon glided to the bed and placed a gloved hand over the nose and mouth of the sleeper. The sleeper's eyes snapped open.

"Shhh," whispered Simon. "Move and I'll snap your neck. Do you understand?"

The sleeper tried to nod.

"Good," said Simon. "Now, I'm going to tape your mouth. Remember, don't move."

Quickly he ripped a section of duct tape from a roll tied to his waist and sealed the sleeper's mouth. Effortlessly he flipped the sleeper over on his stomach and tied both wrists together with a short length of dark cord. Now the sleeper was immobilized and totally helpless. Simon pulled a small black leather case from his thigh pocket, opened it, and took out a syringe. First removing the safety cap, he checked the contents, and then plunged the needle into the sleeper's neck. The sleeper squirmed a bit and then gradually went limp. Simon removed the cord and tape, turned the sleeper on his back, positioned him as he had found him, and stuffed the cord into his jacket pocket. Moving to the dresser, Simon located a dental bridge that consisted of four incisors on a gold frame. It lay in a small ceramic ashtray. He smoothed the used tape and placed it lightly on the dresser. With two gloved fingers, Simon picked up the bridge and set it on the tape. From the same leather case, he withdrew a small vial filled with a light brown liquid. Removing the rubber stopper, he slowly, carefully, dripped five drops of the liquid onto the base of the bridge. In a few minutes the liquid had dried. Replacing the stopper, he put the vial back into its form-fitted resting place in the case, and put the dental bridge back in the ashtray. Wadding the used tape into his jacket along with the cord, he checked the room for any evidence of his having been there. Satisfied, he slipped silently out the window. Outside, on the tiny balcony, he breathed deeply and prepared for the challenging retreat. Easing over the railing, he began a slow climb down the side of the hotel, carefully making his way round to the east side of the building that bordered a dark alley off Avenue Montaigne, all the while keeping to the shadows.

At nine the next morning, Simon stood at ease in front of Charlie Ross' desk, deep inside the American embassy in Paris.

"So, Pettit, you took care of our little problem, eh?" asked Ross.

Simon studied Ross before answering. Charlie's puffy, ruddy face and eyelids were stuffed with so much fat that he almost had to prop them open to see. He looked like a bulldog, an image Charlie both cultivated and enjoyed. Simon had never liked Charlie; in fact he detested the man. Conventional Wisdom said that Ross had once been a good agent. Perhaps, thought Simon, but, if so, he's lost all traces of competence. Ross chewed a cigar stub. He was never seen with a lighted cigar, only with well-soaked butts. Simon couldn't decide whether Ross cut his cigars into stubs or was a closet smoker. In any event, it mattered less than a little.

Ross took the stub out of his mouth, waved it at Simon, and growled, "Are you going to answer me or what?"

"Oh, sorry, Charlie," responded Simon. "Yes, the _little_ problem is solved."

"Well, tell me what you did."

"My methods are my methods, _Charlie,_ " Simon answered, his eyes flashing an unmistakable warning to Ross; don't push it! Ross, officially Simon's _Control_ , did not yet get the obvious; Simon would always be his _own_ Control.

"God damn it, Pettit, I asked you for a briefing and you had better get on with it," snarled Ross and he chomped his teeth angrily into his cigar stub.

Simon eyes glazed an icy blue and he leaned forward, his hands gripped the edge of Ross' desk, and his face moved to within inches of Ross' red nose.

"I'll tell you what happened, _Charlie_ ," Simon hissed, "only because you probably need to fill out a dozen forms but....never...ever...tell me what to do." Simon's laser eyes bored into Ross' and, as with most people, Ross looked away. "Is that clear?" Simon voice had also turned to ice. Ross finally got it. He'd heard of Simon's legendary rep as the Agency's best and most effective field agent and now he believed every word of the growing legend. He pulled the cigar stub from his lips and nodded nervously.

"The hotel lobby had round-the-clock security, including two KGB agents, and the room was guarded by another agent in the hall. The only covert way in was through the window. Because the room was on the seventh floor, the target felt safe in opening his window for a breeze. That's how I got in. I gave him a shot of sodium thiopental and then smeared curare on his dental bridge."

"What?" gasped Ross. "You gave him a shot and then used curare? Why not just strangle the fucker?"

Simon stepped back and took a seat in Ross' guest chair. Sighing in exasperation, he continued, with a touch of condescension, "First, he'd been the KGB's top mole in the Agency, right?" Ross nodded. "Second, we didn't know what he knew. To get that information would have taken several days of interrogation and probably wouldn't have worked anyway. By giving him the so-called truth serum, I created a situation where the Russians would be confused and in the dark. So, when he didn't show for breakfast, the guard would bust in, find him out cold, and hustle him to a clinic. They'd check him out completely. Any examination for drugs or poisons would easily detect the sodium thiopental. The KGB won't have any way to know what we learned or even if we discovered anything at all. Then they'll scramble to cover up everything this guy knows and possibly show their hand in the process. After a few days, they'll bring him back to his hotel. He'll put his bridge in and bingo, one dead traitor. They might even think we got to him a second time, just to kill him."

Ross tilted back in his chair, grabbed at his cigar stub, and mumbled softly, "Yup. Yeah, that'll work," and leaned across the desk to shake Simon's hand but Simon had already moved away, closing the door behind him without a word. Ross sat ever so still and did not, in any way, react to Simon's grievous insult. Ross was an egotist but he wasn't stupid.

Seven years and two dozen more dangerous and successful assignments later, Simon would be assigned to an Agency desk in Langley. By that time, he was more than ready to take on the intricate and deadly political wars of Washington.

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Barter Town."

Washington, DC – May, 1996

Wan "Johnny" Feng adjusted his new Brioni tie and gazed intently at the man seated across the desk. Feng, the newly appointed Deputy Ambassador for Trade at the Chinese Embassy in Washington, had been verbally sparring with his host for the better part of an hour. These obtuse dialogues were standard procedure with Asian diplomats and anathema to Feng. At the Wharton School of Business, he'd learned that time is money and he desperately wanted to tell this guy to forget the bullshit and get to the point, but Johnny was as trapped in protocol as the rest of Washington.

"Well, Mr. Secretary, You requested that I come to your office for this meeting and you have, in painstaking detail, illustrated the many benefits to China if we acquire certain American missile guidance technology. But you have yet to say how and at what price, yet. Well, what exactly does America want?"

Feng's host seemed reluctant to answer such a direct question and cleared his throat nervously before replying, "What I mean, Mr. Feng, is that the technology transfer would not be an overt one. This would not be a direct buy/sell deal between China and America or even China and a defense contractor. My department would see that one or more of our scientists went somewhere in Asia...anywhere but China...for one of many forthcoming symposiums where they could unofficially and innocently share their knowledge. I believe there's such a conference already scheduled next month in Jakarta."

"Do I appear so naïve?" answered Feng, his voice touched with sarcasm. "This _sharing_ is, of course, offered at a high price, am I right?"

The Secretary fidgeted, rubbed his nose, and did not immediately respond.

"Why are you avoiding the question?" demanded Feng. "Is there a communication problem here? For the last time, what the hell do you want?"

"Of course, there's no problem between us, Mr. Feng. I just want to be absolutely sure we understand one another. I can only make this happen if my party and my President are re-elected. In this country elections take money and lots of it. The Democrat National Committee can always use donations. Money \- that's what we want and that's what we need. Currently, we have a schedule of last-minute TV ads in this election year. A generous donation to the DNC of, say, sixteen and a half million would cover TV those costs. Additionally, we would need your help in setting up fund-raising dinners to generate perhaps an additional one million.

Feng winced inwardly at the figure. Seventeen and a half-million. This was almost twice what he had anticipated. Either these democrats were exceptionally greedy or they were in worse financial shape than he had thought.

"Mr. Secretary," answered Feng, "I am not authorized to approve such a large amount. However, for the moment, let's assume the price is acceptable. Please explain something to me. I was under the impression that contributions from foreign governments were prohibited in the United States. How do you propose money can pass between us?"

"Mr. Feng, you've touched on the one thing we \- you and I - must determine. Speeches and dinners can cover a million or so which you can fund directly from your office in support of various Asian interest groups. The big question is: how to get the bulk of the money, the sixteen and a half million, from you to the DNC."

Feng glared at the Secretary. What an asshole, he thought. He asks me to a meeting in his office, demands an illegal payment of millions for defense secrets, and doesn't know how to get paid. Christ, what a pseudo-capitalist. Obviously, he hasn't ever had to worry about collecting receivables.

Feng's sharp retort cut through the air like a sword. "I see it as _your_ problem, not mine. However, I'll convey your terms to my government. If they approve, _you_ must determine how and where the payment is to be made. Then, if the method you propose is acceptable to my government, the transaction can proceed. In confidence, of course."

"Oh. Oh, of course, I understand," answered the Secretary, his voice betraying his trepidation. "I'll have my people get right on it. There'll be no leaking on this, I assure you."

"I accept your assurance and will convey your offer to Beijing today," Feng answered, rising.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Feng," said the United States Secretary of Commerce, bowing ever so slightly.

That same evening at ten PM, Wan 'Johnny' Feng picked up his secure office telephone and dialed a number in Beijing. As usual, he had to talk his way past two secretaries and a deputy minister before he heard the familiar voice of Defense Minister Chu.

"Wan Feng, how are things in the Imperialists' Kingdom?"

"Very good, Minister. The American Secretary of Commerce wants to sell us missile guidance technology. They ask eighteen million dollars and they want it paid to his political party. That's much more than we anticipated, Minister. Should I go forward?"

"How are we to pay this sum?"

"They have yet to say. They're concerned about certain American laws concerning political contributions. The Secretary of Commerce promised that there will be no difficulties but ...we shall see."

"How much have we paid those laboratory bureaucrats in Texas?"

Feng had to think a minute before dredging the up the pertinent figures. "So far, since '92, about seven hundred thousand. Of course, that sum only allows our man to work there. Then he must find a way to obtain any designs or formula that our scientists request. Doing it little, by little, it's taken over three years just to get the basic American warhead design. We still need the newest modifications to move to their level. This eighteen million only covers first-level guidance systems. If we asked for the most recent warhead data now, it might scare them more than their greed can handle or place our inside man in jeopardy."

"Find out exactly which missile system designs can be obtained," ordered Minister Chu. "If the systems offered meet our objectives, you have my approval to pay them up to eighteen million dollars. When you report that you are satisfied with the transaction, the ministry will wire sufficient funds to your working account. Wan Feng, I trust you to be sure that our payment is not subject to disclosure. Once they have taken such a large amount, even in a quasi-official manner, then we can ask for additional warhead information and they will have to comply to avoid disclosure of their previous greed. This is a fine trade for us. Good Luck, Wan Feng!"

Johnny Feng smiled and then giggled. Eighteen million minus seventeen-five left a nice tip for "ole" Johnny.

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Mending a Broken Heart."

Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan – May, 1996

Frank stepped into the Manas kwoon. He hadn't been there for six weeks, not since Lara was killed. Luke spotted him immediately and called out, " _Privyet_ , Frank. I've missed you, brother. Say, can you help me with this move?"

"I'll be with you in a minute," Frank answered as he put his street clothes in his locker and quickly donned black pants, black jacket top, and black sash. No shoes. Frank fought barefoot, in traditional style. They worked steadily for three hours, Luke purposely pushing Frank to keep him focused on their exercises and his mind off Lara.

Soon, both men were sweating profusely. "That's enough for me," Luke gasped, wiping drops from his nose. "I'm glad to finally see you getting out. Losing Lara must have been hard."

"Harder than Stalin's heart, my friend. It's one thing to lose a loved one. When they're murdered, it's even rougher."

"Have they caught the guy?"

"No. And no new leads. What a fuck up!" growled Frank, smashing a practice bag.

"Yeah, a real bitch bro," sympathized Luke. "Say, let's go to my place and relax a little. I haven't bought you dinner since March."

Frank shrugged and headed toward the locker room while he considered Luke's offer. I haven't been anywhere except my apartment and office for over a month, he thought, and I probably need Luke's contagious optimism. Quickly Frank decided to let Luke try to help cheer him up, even though he was sure it wouldn't do any good.

"Okay", Frank called out over his shoulder. "I'll let you buy because you're such a nice guy!"

Luke drove both of them to his casino/restaurant, Club Las Vegas, situated in the center of the tourist district. A large twenty-seven inch TV hung from a pillar in the center of the restaurant showing CNN Asia, broadcasting from Hong Kong. No other casino in Bishkek used TV to lure customers and the fifty-odd patrons who filled the gambling area gave credit to Luke's natural marketing skills. Luke led the way to his personal corner booth and whispered to the waitress to get a bottle of French Bordeaux from his own wine locker. Importing European wines made him a good living and allowing him to keep the best for himself. As they touched glasses in a silent toast, Luke announced to Frank that tonight they would have a traditional Kyrgyz dinner. Frank's eye brows went up in question but he was going to allow Luke to take the lead tonight, without reservation.

Grabbing the Bordeaux, Luke beckoned Frank to take his glass and follow him. As they passed the bar, Luke reached behind it without missing a step and snatched a bottle of Napoleon Brandy which he tucked under his arm, next to the Bordeaux. They continued into the kitchen where Luke whispered a few words to his cook, and Luke headed out the back door. Frank dutifully trudged along behind with a puzzled look. Soon they reached a grassy area behind the restaurant where a raised platform held a large wooden table. Luke climbed up, sat crossed legged at the low table, and waved Frank to join him.

"What's going on?" asked Frank. "We're having dinner out here?'

"Yep. This is my private dining room for real Kyrgyz barbeque."

Luke filled Frank's glass with more wine and they sipped, discussing today's training session. About thirty minutes later, the cook showed up carrying a huge metal platter piled high with boiled mutton. In the center of the platter sat a roasted sheep's head, its teeth peeled back in an evil grin. The skin of the head was charred and, still smoking, it emitted the heavy, pungent odor of burnt flesh. The cook placed the platter square in front of Frank, bowed, and headed back to the kitchen. Frank stared at the platter, looked at Luke, looked back at the sheep's head, and then again at Luke.

"What do I do with this?" he asked, his nose wrinkling.

Luke produced a large pocket knife, opened it, and offered it to Frank. "You're my honored guest. It's Kyrgyz tradition that one honored guest carve up the head and distribute choice pieces according to the status and honor of the other guests."

Frank was speechless. He stared at the smoking, grinning sheep's head, slowly shook his head and pushed the platter toward Luke.

"I appreciate the honor," Frank answered awkwardly, "but I think you had better do ... whatever you do ...with this."

Luke grinned and accepted the platter. "Okay, but watch what I do. You won't escape this honor again!"

This wasn't the first time Luke had offered a sheep's head to a westerner. Reactions were usually the same: shock, repulsion, and then embarrassment. Luke gripped his knife, its blade gleaming in the moonlight, and began. First he swiped at the left ear, plucked it off, and placed it on the serving platter. Then he did the same to the right ear. Next Luke sliced off the skin around the ears, carefully placing each piece on the platter as if it were a fragile delicacy. When he started gouging at the eyes, Frank decided to study the bottom of his wineglass. Suddenly, Luke stopped carving and held out a hand to Frank.

"Here, this is the best part for my best friend," said Luke. "Eat it in good health."

Frank looked up and, reacting with practiced manners, took the offering and popped it into his mouth. The morsel was very hot and, as soon as Frank tried to bite into it, he realized he had an entire sheep's eyeball in his mouth. Oh my god, he thought. I can't spit it out, Luke would never forgive me. But he couldn't swallow the whole eye in one gulp, it was too big. Frank's only option was to tough it out and chew. Tensing his jaw, he bit down hard but the eye had wire-like tendrils extending from it that his bite did not sever. He tried again, harder, managed to bit off two tendrils, and swallowed them down quickly. Now he had to deal with the eyeball itself. He gnawed and bit and gnawed some more. Suddenly the eyeball broke, releasing scalding water into his mouth. Frank grimaced, yelped, and swallowed all at once.

Luke had observed Frank's discomfort with some amusement and, at Frank's yelp, offered, "Hey, Buddy, I'm sorry. I gave you the whole eyeball. Most people cut off and eat the sweet meat around the eye, first, then they go for the eye itself."

He was grinning from ear to ear. Obviously, he'd not made a mistake. The little eyeball trick was Luke's way of initiating Frank into a Kyrgyz tradition. Snatching up the brandy bottle, Luke handed it to Frank and, without a word, Frank grabbed the bottle, twisted the cork, and sucked in a mouthful of harsh brandy, swishing it around to wash away the traces of his first sheep's eyeball.

The cook must have been watching them closely because he magically reappeared, bringing the rest of dinner: cucumber and tomato salad, beef noodle soup, and small fried dough pies filled with minced lamb, called _manti_. Frank ate with gusto. He didn't want the eyeball to be lonely.

Luke dabbed his lips with a napkin, looked in earnest at Frank, and asked, "When are you going to go out again, Frank? With women, I mean. You're still young. Well," Luke chuckled, " _semi-_ young. I'm sure there's at least one dumb gal out there who could find you attractive."

"Thanks for all the support! You really know how to inspire confidence, brother, but women are the last thing on my mind. The bank keeps me going for twelve-hours a day. With the short holiday today, I took a little personal time for a workout. That's basically it, Luke. No time."

Luke sat back with a critical look. "Bullshit. If Lara were here, would you be working that much? I don't think so. Hey, please don't hide. Life must be enjoyed. Yeah, I know you feel like the walking wounded but you'll recover. We all die, Frank. Only some of us die before we're ready to be buried."

Luke's practical wisdom continually amazed and impressed Frank. Is it because he's Asian, Frank wondered, or because I'm not as street-wise? Probably a little of both.

"You may be right", answered Frank, "but I'd rather use work as my therapy for a while, okay?"

"No, it's not brother. Put your relationship with Lara into perspective. How long were you together? Two months, three?"

Frank answered without looking up. "Twenty four days."

"Three weeks? Damn, Frank, you two hadn't even begun. Sure, it might have lasted a lifetime and then again maybe not. Who knows? Please believe me when I say it's different when you pair up in a foreign country. You feel like it's just the two of you afloat in a sea of strangers. I had the same thing happen to me when I went to Iran to train. I got together with a Russian girl and I just _knew_ it was the real thing. We lived together for six months but when I had to leave, she couldn't come with me. I felt like dying. About a year later, I went back to Teheran and called her. That intervening time allowed us to see each other more clearly. We had a good laugh because we both realized that it wouldn't have lasted."

Luke sighed, "So, bro I do understand."

"Thank you."

Suddenly Luke clapped his hands and grinned. "I've got it! How about coming to my house Saturday night? Food, wine, and good company. No pressure, believe me. The only thing you risk is having a good time."

Frank didn't want to go anywhere except back to his apartment. In fact, before leaving for the workout, he'd actually hoped that Luke wouldn't be there so that he could work out and nurse his misery alone. But Frank had to admit that it felt good talking with Luke and he wasn't going to risk losing Luke's friendship by being stubborn. One loss this year had been more than enough.

"If you threaten me with a good time, okay," he replied with a slight smile. "I'll be there. Casual?"

"That's the only way! Come any time after eight."

Frank arrived at Luke's house at nine, a polite hour late, wearing black slacks, black silk sport shirt, and tasseled loafers. As he walked up the long, winding path leading to the house, he could hear a CD player blasting and people laughing. Suddenly, Frank stopped dead in the path, about fifty yards from Luke's door. His feet refused to go any further; he stood transfixed, listening to others enjoying life, something that had become alien to him.

_"P'shaltsta, eezveneet,_ " a voice said, from behind him.

Startled from his melancholy, Frank stepped sideways, put his right foot out into the shadows, hit only empty air. "Oh, shit," he yelled as he pitched into darkness. Arms flailing for balance, he thumped into the bottom of a shallow ditch.

"I can't see you. Are you all right?" asked the same voice, this time in English.

"Oh, I'm fine, just a bruised ego and dirty pants."

"I'm didn't mean to frighten you. You were standing in the pathway and I couldn't get around you without stepping in the ditch and...well, I guess now you know about the ditch."

Frank pulled himself up, brushing off his sleeves and pants. Peering in the direction of the voice, aided by the lights from Luke's place, he could make out a dark-haired girl of medium height, her cream colored skin reflecting the house lights. She wore Levi's, a tan cotton blouse, and sandals. Her hair fell straight down past her shoulders like shiny black silk.

"Yes, _now_ I know about the ditch. I was just standing there, my mind a thousand miles away, when your voice startled me back to reality. And the ditch." He paused. "Say, you can speak English!"

"Does it surprise you that a stupid Kyrgyz girl can learn such a difficult language?" she retorted sharply.

Frank realized his condescension. "Oh, sorry! It's been my experience that most folks here don't speak anything but Russian and Kyrgyz. It's always a surprise to hear English. And a pleasant one. No insult intended."

The girl accepted his apology with a big smile, her teeth flashing brightly in the shadowy pathway. "I'm Madeena Kulova," she announced, extending a hand.

Frank took her hand, gently folding her long, slender fingers into his. "Frank Grant. _Ochyen preeyatna_. My pleasure to meet you, Madeena. Are we going into Luke's?"

"That would be nice, Mister Frank Grant, I guess _we_ are," Madeena replied with a giggle. Ever so casually, she turned their handshake into a handholding and they strolled together toward the sounds of music and laughter.

Spotting Madeena and Frank coming into his entry hall, Luke quickly crossed the living room, weaving through guests, and reached them before they had removed their shoes.

"What is this, Frank? You show up with my girl?" Luke demanded, staring daggers at Frank.

"What? Your girl? Oh ... man... I didn't know, Luke", Frank stammered. "We just met on the path outside." He turned, faced Madeena to ask, "Really? You're Luke's girl?"

Madeena's cheeks flushed, she cast her eyes down, and didn't reply.

Frank looked back at the glaring Luke and wanted to disappear. Suddenly, Luke burst into laughter.

"Got you, brother! Madeena's my former classmate and a good friend but she'd never put up with my lifestyle, right?"

_"Poinyl_. Right," injected Madeena, as she pushed Luke away with her fingertips and moved closer to Frank. "You're such a tease! He's joking, Frank. We've been friends since our first year at university."

"It looked so natural for you to be holding hands with my beautiful _friend_. I couldn't resist a little fun," Luke said with a mile-wide grin. "Get your other shoe off, Frank. Have a good time!"

Madeena and Frank danced, gossiped with Luke's friends, and held hands most of the evening. She told him about her short career as an English teacher in a Bishkek high school and her current position as press aide to the President. As they warmed to each other, Frank could feel little pangs of guilt creep into his consciousness.

Lara's been gone only six weeks! Am I a heartless bastard? No, he thought, damn it, NO. Lara and I had a great time but we didn't make any commitment. I knew her only during the three weeks we spent together in Bishkek. She was wonderful, a roman candle in the darkness of my boring life, and I'll never forget her. Tonight, with Madeena, it's different. I feel comfortable and relaxed. It's like we've been together for years. His guilt somewhat rationalized, Frank walked Madeena home after the party. They stopped in front of her apartment building and, after a nervous hug, Frank asked Madeena to have dinner with him the next evening.

They met at an Italian restaurant, _Adriatica,_ one of the few western-style restaurants in Bishkek. Madeena brought along her uncle Imanbaikeh, a famous Kyrgyz author and jurist, who enlivened the evening's conversation with his tales of justice, Soviet style.

After a third dinner date, Frank timidly asked Madeena if she would you like to see his apartment, fully expecting a turndown after such a corny line. Happily, she agreed with enthusiasm and the two new lovers spent the night discovering their compatibility in depth. Later, Frank lay next to a sleeping Madeena, gazing admiringly at her long lashes and angelic face. With this woman, he thought, there's no breathless, ravenous hallway sex, like with Lara. Or hidden agendas like with the Princess. Just a nice, intelligent companion who fortunately happens to be one of the most beautiful girls I've ever known. Damn, I'm a lucky man, he thought. As he brushed her lashes with his lips, she stirred, and reached to out hold him. Frank's grieving days were over.

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

"The Shell Game."

Washington, DC – May, 1996

"The Secretary of Commerce is here to see you, sir", announced the desk guard posted in the basement offices of the White House's West Wing. Deputy Chief of White House Staff, Jonas Lusk, looked up over his granny glasses and gave a brief nod in greeting. Lusk was heavy-set, balding and wore only white shirts, black ties, and checkered suspenders. A man somewhat in a time warp, he was known to waste few words and even less motion.

"Jonas, I need some advice," said the Secretary, taking a seat in front of Lusk's desk.

"Hmmm?"

"You know how hard I'm trying to get contributions into the party for the coming elections, right?"

Lusk nodded slowly, thinking, what's this snake up to now?

"Well, finally I think I've lined up several million...er .... more than several, actually. Jonas, I'm concerned about the source."

"Mafia money, drug money, what?" asked Lusk.

"Chinese money."

Lusk continued to peer at the Secretary, offering nothing. The Secretary fidgeted, waiting for a reaction. Lusk took off his glasses and began to polish them with a tissue. Without looking up, he finally broke the silence in a monotone. "We can probably handle this but it's got to be completely dark. Cyclone cellar dark. Can't have it get out that the Chinks can buy our favors."

"Yes. Yes, go on," urged the Secretary.

"I can give you a name and phone number of a guy who is supposed to be able to solve just about any problem. He's been at the CIA for several years and has created a sometimes bizarre but effective reputation with the Agency. Officially, he's on Agency payroll as a senior spook liaising with DOD, and has an office in the army section of the pentagon. Unofficially, he can decide to free-lance on his own time. Funny thing, on side jobs I'm told that he doesn't work for money, at least not much beyond expenses. However, I'm also told that he's interested in an appointment as, say, senior National Security Advisor, chief of NSA, or Deputy Secretary of Defense, something on that order. That possible?"

"When you're looking at multi-millions in donations, Jonas, anything is possible. If this money comes through and your man can bring it to us spotlessly clean, he can just about write his own nomination."

Lusk quickly wrote a name and a number on a post-it and handed it to the Secretary. "This didn't come from me, understood?"

"Understood," answered the Secretary and, rising, he glanced at the name on the post-it. Okay, thought the Secretary, now to find this _Simon Pettit_ and see if he can really do the job.

Simon returned to his basement office in the Pentagon after a ten-minute walk-in-the-park meeting with the Secretary of Commerce. He sat at his desk, hands folded under his chin, and considered what he had just learned. The Secretary of Commerce said that he can get the Chinese government to donate over seventeen million to the Democratic Party. If that's not the largest, it's got to be one the largest DNC individual contribution.

Simon was an operative who shirked at nothing, but even he had difficulty accepting that American politicians would sell military technology to a potential adversary like China. The traitorous act of providing secret American information to a foreign power was troubling in itself, but what really bothered him most was that these civilians, rare _amateurs_ , thought they could get away with it. This was the type of transaction only a pro could handle and now it looked like the amateurs realized that they needed one.

Simon leaned back in his large, leather-covered chair. Numerous CAB files, memos, letters, along with maps of Central Asia littered his desk. He toyed absent-mindedly with the files, moving them first to one side of the desk, then the other. Selecting various memos one at a time, he scanned them until his fingers fell on a CAB folder marked:

ECONOMIC ASPECTS AND POTENTIAL OF THE KYRGYZ REPUBLIC.

Simon picked up the folder. Randomly turning its pages, he flipped through the file for ten minutes, his mind like a vacuum cleaner, sweeping the pages for new ideas. Suddenly he stopped, closed the folder, and carefully placed it in the center of the desk. He smiled and his ice blue eyes sparkled. He knew how to do it! It wouldn't be simple or easy and, because of that, it would earn him the post of National Security Advisor to the President.

Simon then dialed a number in and quickly arranged to meet the President of Universal Nut Products in Sacramento, California the next day.

Los Angeles, CA – May, 1996

Members of the Democratic National Committee savored the last of their profiteroles and crème brule' desserts at the Beverly Hilton Hotel in west Los Angeles. A private room in the basement, across from the main restaurant, comfortably held all forty-six members as they eagerly awaited the business part of the meeting. Word had spread that some big money was coming in. Although windowless, the room breathed rare LA class, with lithographs by famous American artists displayed on silk wallpaper dyed in soft pastels.

Chairman Bob Thornton tapped his glass for attention and rehashed the duties and responsibilities, both monetary and legal, of each regional fund manager. Then, policy formalities completed, he announced, "The Commerce Department has proposed five fund-raising dinners with speeches by the Vice President: San Francisco, Los Angeles, and New York. Each dinner is aimed at raising a minimum of one hundred fifty thousand dollars and all five will be sponsored by the Chinese/American Business Association. That means the Vice President will be speaking to primarily Asian audiences. I'd like to know what you fellas think of this plan. Anyone?"

A tall balding man, about forty, raised his hand. "Roy Scherer, Denver. I'm sorry, Bob, but the very mention of Chinese money makes me nervous. I'd say, start with one dinner and ask someone else to host the others. If these sums end up too large, questions will be asked. Three-quarters of a million from the Chinese is a lot of money."

"Thank you, Roy," said Thornton. "Anyone else?"

"Yes, Bob," called a small dark-haired woman from the end of the third table. "Cheryl Stoppelmoor, Las Vegas. I agree with Roy. If we're looking to the Chinese community for sizable donations, we run the risk of being compromised. We've seen it before; Israeli money, Mexican money, and even Japanese yen. In every case, the DNC and our candidates got bloodied because they had to side with the positions held by those donors. Beijing would like nothing better than to embarrass us. Please don't misunderstand. I'm all for bringing Chinese Americans into the party and using their contributions but, pleeeese, let's keep it small, manageable, and defensible."

"Thank you, Cheryl. Next? Owen, how about you?"

Owen Hastings, ex-congressman, Chairman of the Central Asian Bank and West Coast campaign coordinator for the DNC, lost no time in standing to reply. His back straightened and he suddenly appeared to grow inches taller, his long, wavy white hair in sharp contrast with his George Hamilton tan.

"I've discussed this subject in depth with the Secretary of Commerce. He's been the principal contact with the Chinese Business Association and with the Vice President's office. Everyone on the team at Commerce is enthusiastic and supportive of these fund-raising dinners. In fact, I estimate we'll net a considerable sum, perhaps closer to eight hundred thousand." Out of character, he had chosen to hedge a little.

"Thank you, Owen," said Thornton. "If there are no objections, I move that the proposal from the Secretary of Commerce for five dinners with speeches by the Vice President, be approved." Thornton held up a hand at the ominous murmurs of dissent from the audience. "I agree we have to be careful about this, so I'm adding the caveat that Owen Hastings has overview power. He can refuse any money if he has reason to believe certain donations might be illegal or would damage the party in any way. Objections?"

No one spoke.

"Good. The motion is carried and this meeting is adjourned."

Owen Hastings shook hands all-round and walked quickly to where his limo waited with his luggage, all packed for a jaunt to London, ostensibly on CAB business.

May, 1996 -London, England

Natasha emerged from baggage claim and scanned the throng of people anxiously waiting to greet international arrivals to Heathrow's terminal 4. All the faces looked unfamiliar but eerily alike. Searching the crowd nervously, she jumped when her name was shouted from somewhere to her right. Turning, she saw Owen Hastings rushing toward her, a large bouquet of red roses flopping against his arm. As they embraced, Hastings asked about her flight.

"Oh, very good, Owen," Natasha answered, "except for the delay at Tbilisi. Something about an engine. Now, here I am, in London with a most handsome man to meet me!"

Natasha hugged the flowers, batted her long lashes, and tossed an air kiss. Uncharacteristically, he blushed, and stammered, "Uh...my driver is waiting at the curb. Let's...let's hurry before he's made to move."

"Where are we going?" Natasha asked as soon as they hand settled into the rear of Hastings' Bentley limousine.

"First to our hotel, the Hyde Park Hilton, where I have a short meeting in the bar, then a little _catching up_ for us, and then dinner at Whites. I thought we could talk a little about the bank on the drive into town. Does that sound all right?"

"I think," Natasha whispered in his ear, "maybe we should catch up _before_ we get to the hotel." Natasha stroked his crotch and ran her fingernail down his zipper. Hastings gave a surprised but lecherous smile, reached for the window switch, and sealed off their seat from the driver. What the hell, he thought; we can talk business at dinner.

They checked in at the hotel, were led to their suite. Hastings immediately announced that he had to go to his meeting in the bar and he left Natasha, promising to return in about an hour. As soon as Hastings had departed, Natasha picked up the desk phone and dialed a number. When the call connected, she whispered, "This is Natasha."

"Congratulations, right on time," said a man's voice. Do you want your package delivered to your room?"

"No. Please leave it at the front desk. I'll get it when I'm free."

"Natasha, are you finishing what we agreed?"

"Yes, yes of course. It will be done next week, when I get back to Bishkek."

"Is anyone suspicious?"

"No, No one."

"Any difficulties?"

"I had some trouble with the basic program but I worked it out. Don't worry, you'll get what you want, just keep my packages coming."

"Fine," said the man. "Your package will be at the hotel desk in twenty minutes."

Natasha held the dead telephone in her hand and imagined the rush of energy that would soon be hers. The door opened, startling her, and she dropped the phone.

"I'm back," announced Hastings as he entered the living room.

"Wha ...what? You're back, Owen? What happened to your meeting?"

"Turns out the appointment is for tomorrow. With the time changes, I confused the date."

Natasha began to panic. She had a delivery coming and nothing, nothing must prevent her from getting her drugs. She had to get Hastings out of the suite.

Natasha moved close to Hastings and ran her hand through the hair at the back of his head. She smiled sweetly and cooed, "Owen dear, can I ask a favor?"

Hastings could feel the hairs on his neck rise along with other parts and he melted. "Of course. What's the favor?"

Natasha's mind raced. She'd winged it this far, what could she ask to get him out of the suite? Suddenly she had an inspiration. "Owen, you know how much I love your hair, don't you?"

"Well, no I didn't really. So, you like my hair?" he asked, preening.

"Oh, yes. It's so sexy! But I think it needs a small trim. A little off the ends and you'd lose several years. I'm not being critical, love, I just want you to look your best." Natasha pouted. "You're not mad at me?"

"Not at all, my dear. That's a wonderful suggestion. I'll get a manicure at the same time."

Hastings dialed for the hotel barbershop, mentioned his VIP suite number, and got an immediate appointment. He kissed Natasha, patted her behind, and left whistling softly. Natasha waited fifteen minutes, then took the elevator to the lobby and claimed her delivery at the desk. Alone, back in the suite, she lovingly unwrapped the package and slid its contents onto the coffee table. Twenty grams of pure cocaine didn't come cheap! Natasha knew she had to finish her end of the bargain next week or face losing her generous supplier. Ten minutes later, she lay on the bed, feeling powerful and ravenous and greedily awaited Hastings' return so that she could attack his body and revel in his cries of pleasure.

May, 1996 - Moscow, Russia

At 8:40 in the morning Simon stepped out of a taxi in front of the American Embassy in Moscow. He flashed his credentials to the Russian soldier at the outside guard post and to the US marine inside. Immediately on clearing the mantrap, Simon sought out Edward Hurwitz, first assistant to the Moscow CIA Station Chief. Even though Hurwitz had been with the Agency for twenty-six years, he ranked several rungs below Pettit on the Agency pecking chart. They knew of each other and, to Hurwitz, Pettit was a mysterious lone wolf with very powerful friends. Pettit, on the other hand, knew just about everything about Hurwitz; his constant losing battle with booze, the numerous times he'd been passed over for promotion, and his well founded fear of never getting to thirty years to collect his retirement. Over the years, both his fears and steady drinking had transformed Hurwitz into the stereotypical bureaucrat who could usually find a damn good reason for doing nothing. And, if that didn't work, he'd be the last guy to finish the task, whatever it might be. Consequently, Hurwitz was remembered by all as _Fast Eddie_.

Simon perched on the arm of the one chair in Hurwitz' office and began explaining his needs. "First, Ed, I've got to have the name and location of a powerful drug lord or mafia chief in Central Asia, preferably in Kyrgyzstan. He must also be accessible. Second, I need someone who is trustworthy and bilingual to get me to a meeting with the guy we select, and then get me out of there without making even a ripple of a wave."

Hurwitz listened intently, his stubby neck bent forward and his hands clasped on his ample belly. When Simon finished, Hurwitz twiddled his nail-bitten fingers as he pondered Simon's request. Ed didn't need much time to decide that Simon Pettit was not someone to stall or tie up in red tape. He selected a large manila folder from his wall safe and ruffled through the papers in the folder.

"For your purpose," Hurwitz offered, "there aren't any mafia strongmen in Kyrgyzstan. However several Uzbeks might fit your profile. Of the three men that come to mind, the one I would recommend is Osmanbek Muhktarovitch Atabekov, alias _Ti-Rik,_ that's Uzbek for 'Scar'. My informants say that _Ti-Rik_ is the biggest dealer in contraband in the Fergana Valley, an area of about 10,000 square miles covering southern Kyrgyzstan and northern Uzbekistan. _Ti-Rik_ smuggles cigarettes, wine, gasoline, people, and auto parts. He rarely deals in drugs like heroin or hashish that come down from Pakistan and Afghanistan."

"Why not?" injected Simon.

"If he sticks to moving cigarettes and the other legal merchandise, he only has to cross one border. One border means only one set of guards to bribe or fooled. On the other hand, drugs have a long and dangerous journey on their way to Western markets. Traveling by car, truck or donkey, they have to go through long, narrow passes in the Pamirs and Tien Shan mountains then down through Tajikistan, into the Fergana Valley, east to Tashkent, and, finally, to somewhere in Europe. Lots and lots of borders. Of course the money is much better but so is the risk."

"I can understand his reluctance about moving drugs. Why doesn't he do his business in Uzbekistan?"

Hurwitz checked the folder, flipping pages. "Ah, yes, here it is. Although Scar is Uzbek, through and through, apparently he does most of his business by way of Kyrgyzstan to take advantage of the more liberal Kyrgyz taxes and business environment. The government in Uzbekistan, led by a dictator, is tough on contraband and tries to make sure that any drugs coming in, quickly move on through Uzbekistan to some other country. By acting blind to illegal transportations _through_ Uzbekistan, the Uzbek government takes 30% off the top, just like a mafia organization. Little amenable Kyrgyzstan only levies a 10 percent business tax. Using Kyrgyzstan is a no-brainer. As far as accessibility is concerned, Ti-Rik's avoidance of drugs and the fact that he's far from being the largest gangster in Central Asia, allow him to move among common folks. He can be contacted fairly easily. The other two men I have files on specialize in drugs and usually keep to their remote mountain headquarters. You could be months waiting to see them. What do you think? Atabekov?" asked Hurwitz.

"Yep. Thanks Ed. He sounds like my boy. Where can I find him?"

Hurwitz consulted the folder before answering, "According to the file, Scar can usually be found in Osh. That's a city of about a quarter-million people in the Fergana Valley in southern Kyrgyzstan, right on the border with Uzbekistan. My informants say he holds court at his restaurant there. How well do you know Kyrgyzstan?"

Simon shook his head. "Not at all. I was in Afghanistan for quite a while but I've never been anywhere in Central Asia. That's why my second request is for a guide, someone knowledgeable and competent in Russian, English, and, hopefully, Uzbek. Anyone come to mind?"

"Yes, I think so. Moscow's a big place," replied Hurwitz as he picked up his phone. "Kadyr Mymotov, an Uzbek kid from Tashkent. I've used him sporadically for some minor jobs." Hurwitz turned his attention to the telephone and carefully explained to Mymotov the required guide duty and the need for secrecy. He ended the call by instructing the young man to pick up Pettit on the street corner one block south of the embassy in exactly twenty minutes.

"Well, you've got your guide," said Hurwitz, smiling smugly.

"How well do you know this Kadyr? Can I trust him to forget he ever met me?"

Hurwitz continued grinning, bubbling now with self-importance. "Over the last two years, we've used him for various tasks and he's never talked to outsiders. He's paid very, very well. Rest assured, he'll keep quiet."

Pettit nodded a silent assent, rose from his chair, and started toward the door. His hand on the doorknob, Simon hesitated, he turned back, and focused his laser- blue eyes on Hurwitz.

"Thanks and I was never here. Right?"

"What do you mean? Is this black ops?"

Simon eyes suddenly flashed, boring into Hurwitz. Through clenched teeth, Simon whispered, "Ed, don't be a dickhead. I'm amazed you even ask. If _I_ do it, it's covert. My contact with Atabekov, if I find him, is top secret and is never, I repeat never, to be discussed. If you value your job and your future, you'll forget this meeting ever took place. Got it?"

A demoralized Hurwitz stammered, his head bobbing up and down, "Absolutely, absolutely. Whatever you say, Simon. What about Kadyr?"

"I'll take care of him. And you didn't talk with him either."

Pettit turned his back on Hurwitz and strode swiftly out of the office, leaving Fast Eddie with the uneasy feeling that he had just been visited by the devil. He lit a cigarette with a shaking hand, inhaled deeply, and then reached toward the desk drawer where his half-empty bottle of Dewar's lay waiting.

### CHAPTER TWENTY

"A Deal with the Devil."

May, 1996 - Osh, South Kyrgyzstan

On a cloudless, sweltering afternoon in mid-May, Simon Pettit sat alone sipping green tea at a tree-shaded table outside Scar Atabekov's café in Osh, one of the oldest cities on the Old Silk Road. The trunk of the shade tree was huge, perhaps eight feet in diameter, and its branches extended out over twenty feet in all directions, offering shade to a half-dozen tables during the hot day. Smells of roasting mutton drifted up from the small brick barbeque in the café courtyard. As Simon reflected on his short stopover in Moscow, he hoped that Fast Eddie had been sober when he'd recommended Atabekov. Simon had learned the hard way about relying on functioning alcoholics. It was a little like adding the proverbial straw. You never knew when the camel's back would break. Functioning alcoholics would be fine until they suddenly they weren't. Then you were screwed - big time. These folks were seldom sober and, because they acted the same way most all the time, you couldn't tell if their performance was impaired or not. Simon fondled his teacup and scanned the other customers at the café and fervently prayed that he'd gotten to Hurwitz on a good day, when he was more _functioning_ than alcoholic.

It'd been almost three days of steady traveling: from New York to Moscow to Bishkek and then over the mountains to Osh in southern Kyrgyzstan. It didn't seem possible that only hours ago he'd been picked up by Kadyr in Moscow. At the Osh airport, Kadyr had hired a car and driver who got them to Scar's café a few minutes before 7:00 PM.

Even though it was Kyrgyzstan, all of the customers sitting under the huge tree were Uzbek men, patronizing a fellow Uzbek's restaurant. While Kyrgyz and Uzbeks might share the same city, their cultures had a long and bloodied history of animosity and violence toward one another. The square, black and white skullcaps worn by the Uzbeks, set them apart from the peaked Kyrgyz caps of most passing men. Suddenly, Simon's eyes felt heavy and he had to fight an overwhelming desire to sleep. Shaking his head, he blinked his eyes to stay alert. To the right, about a hundred feet away, Kadyr sat in their white, four-door Volga, chatting with the driver. Twenty minutes earlier, arriving at the café, Kadyr had engaged a waiter in conversation, suggesting that Mr. Atabekov should meet his boss, William Henry Pratt of Dallas, Texas. Kadyr had strongly hinted that Pratt had a lucrative business proposition to offer the café's important and powerful owner. So, now Simon sat alone, waiting.

_"Dobre Vescher, Gasperdeen Pratt,_ " Good evening, Mr. Pratt, said a gruff voice from behind him. Simon turned in his chair and got his first look at the infamous _Ti-Rik_. The man approaching out of the early evening shadows was short, perhaps five-five, stocky without being fat. He had dark skin, heavy eyebrows, and a face cratered with pockmarks. A whitish six-inch scar, prominent on his dark skin, ran from his left ear to the point of his chin. Scar smiled crookedly and the left corner of his mouth was twisted upward by the long scar, eerily reminding Simon of Batman's Joker.

A small, dusky-skinned, waif of a girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, stood next to Scar wearing a bright red dress and an even brighter multi-colored scarf covering her jet black hair.

"My name is Nazgoula," she said. "I am the daughter of Osmanbek Muhktarovitch. I will translate."

"Have you come to Fergana before?" asked Scar, through Nazgoula

Kadyr had noticed Scar approaching Simon's table and hurried over to perform his translations. Scar shooed him away. Kadyr stood, uncertain and Simon nodded in assent and motioned for Kadyr to stay quiet but close behind him while Nazgoula continued her translations.

"No, Mr. Atabekov, Simon replied. "This is my first trip. I see your café is very popular. Has it been here a long time?"

"Do you like our Chinara tree?" Scar asked, ignoring Simon's query.

"Yes, it's very much like a Banyan tree. Good for shade in hot weather."

"We Uzbeks believe the Chinara tree is the tree of life. This very tree was here when the first Chinese General came over the Tien Shans, eight hundred years ago. That was the beginning of the Silk Road."

Simon figured that Scar was giving him the standard tourist bull shit.

"If this tree is eight hundred years old, how old is this city?"

"Iskander camped here with his troops well over two thousand years past and the city was old even then."

"Iskander?"

Nazgoula whispered quietly aside, "Westerners call him Alexander the Great. He stayed here for several months about 300 BC."

"I'm impressed," said Simon. "Was your family here when Iskander stayed in this area?"

Pleased that Simon had expressed interest in his family history, Atabekov took this opportunity to brag a little. "My family has been in Uzbekistan for even a longer time. Ours is a famous name; Ata means place and Bek means chief. Wherever an Atabek is, that is the chief's place." Scar's voice lowered and he mumbled, "the 'ov' is because of the damn Russians." Then he sat back, his eyes slitted, and asked, "You perhaps have heard of Timur-i-lan?"

Simon thought a minute and shook his head. Nazgoula stepped closer to Simon and again whispered, "English people say his name as Tamerlane."

"Oh, yes," Simon answered quickly. "Tamerlane. Of course, the great conqueror."

Scar smiled and clapped his hands gleefully. "Yes, yes. He was my ancestor. Taragay was the grandfather of the great Timur-i-lan and, ever since Taragay, each first-born male of our clan has been named Timur."

"But then why's your name not Timur?" Simon asked.

"My elder brother was Timur. He was killed at the age of nineteen by the Germans in the Great War. I have been chief of our clan since I was fifteen. My first son, Timur, carries the name of our fathers." Scar smugly folded his hands in pleasure, confident that he had impressed the tall American with the importance of his clan.

Simon went to great lengths to thank Scar for the history lesson, lavished praise on Scar's reputation, and then it was Simon's turn to brag. He told Scar stories about Texas oil and cattle, leaving no doubt in Scar's mind that he was a _very_ rich Texan who loved a deal, any deal. Lastly, Simon got down to business and outlined a business proposition for Scar, promising that this deal could make them both a great deal of money. Millions. Quickly, legally and with little risk. Atabekov listened intently, nodding as Nazgoula translated each point. Their meeting ended with a formal handshake between two new partners.

As soon as the Kyrgyz Airlines Airbus 320 lifted off into the midnight sky from Osh, heading for Moscow, Simon could finally relax, relieved to have made the deal he wanted and to be rid of Kadyr. The kid had become an irritant, trying to get Simon to spend money on things he didn't need so that Kadyr could pocket commissions. When Kadyr had mentioned that he would like to see some relatives in Tashkent for few days, Simon decided that it was a hell-of-a lot easier to pay Kadyr's airfare to Tashkent and give him a few bucks for expenses than to put up with his avarice any longer. Simon breathed deeply, cleared his mind, and waited for Soji to appear.

"You want to talk here, Simon?" Soji asked. "In the plane?"

"Yes," answered Simon wearily. "We're alone in this row, few speak English, and I'm anxious to know your opinion of Atabekov. No one will notice. Just turn down the volume on that boom-box voice of yours."

"Do you really want my opinion or just my approval?"

"Both. Your opinion first. I've never been in Central Asia. Your impressions are important. What about Scar Atabekov? We made an agreement but should I follow through with him? I can still back out."

"My answer is complicated, Simon. I listened carefully during your meeting with him and, I must confess, for the first time in a long time, I had trouble following your conversation. Every time he spoke, I found myself screaming for you to kill him. In our thirteen years together, I've never felt this way about anyone you've ever confronted. And you've met some pretty nasty people. This was extremely disturbing. I desperately wanted to see you slash Scar's throat and his blood splash on the ground at your feet. Simon, it's your turn to advise _me_. Why do I hate this man?"

"Don't have a clue. Scar's a ruthless gangster but for us that's nothing new. Okay, try to put aside your emotions for a minute, if you can, and answer my question. Do I use him?"

Soji did not respond and Simon repeated the question. Hearing no response, he asked, "Did you hear me?"

"Yes, I heard", whispered Soji. "My wisdom says, 'use this man', but my heart says 'kill him'. For the very first time in my life, I am cannot think clearly. This is your decision."

Simon rubbed his sleepless, swollen eyes. "Okay, I'll use him for the money switch. Later we'll try to figure out what your problem is with this Uzbek. Simon winced and muttered, "Damn it, Soji! Your hatred is burning in my brain like a migraine. Okay, now I hate the son-of-a-bitch too. Satisfied?"

"Sorry, Simon, it's something I cannot control" said Soji, softly. "Thank you for your understanding and empathy. I must discover why I feel this way. Even as a little boy, I was never prey to my emotions." Soji's voice was barely audible as he posed a rhetorical question. "How can I call myself a Ninjutsu master if I cannot master myself?"

Soji slipped away and Simon fell into a well-earned sleep.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"Sweaty Palms."

September, 1996 - Washington, DC

Owen Hastings and the Secretary of Commerce faced each other across a sixteen-foot long mahogany dining table in the smaller of two private dining rooms reserved for Commerce Department official functions and for whatever else the Secretary might desire. Ornate tapestries hung floor to ceiling behind the Secretary and four six-foot by three-foot gold-framed mirrors covered the wall behind Hastings. Windows made up most of the third wall, the tacky view of East Washington demurely hidden behind burgundy velvet drapery.

Hastings finished his coffee and sighed with pleasure. "That was a wonderful lunch, Ron. I've never before had lobster served with broiled eel. Apart from showing off the talents of your chef, what do you need to talk about? Something boiling over?"

The Secretary stiffened, his face suddenly sober. "Could be. I'm getting vibes that certain people are asking questions about some of the donations we got from the Chinese groups and from Universal Nut Products."

"Oh, nonsense," responded Hastings. "Asians paid for a few fund-raising dinners. That's certainly legit. So what's the problem with the PAC donation from Universal Nut?"

"Owen, in essence it _all_ came from the Chinese. Every penny came courtesy of the Chinese Embassy."

Hastings paled. "No, No...I don't believe that. How could they?" He gasped. "Why would they?" Hastings' heart pounded, he exhaled deeply, and his pasty mottled cheeks reddened, as tired walls of small veins broke under a surge of blood.

The Secretary leaned forward and hissed, "Oh, it's true enough. I set it up. Use your brain, Owen! Remember how badly the DNC needed money? A guy at the White House sent me to another guy who handled the money. I'm pretty sure the sixteen million from Universal Nut was washed clean but, if the media gets too curious about large contributions and they might stumble on a lead to Chuck Larue's PAC at the nut company. If they get to him, Chuck has no reason not to tell everything he knows. If the guy who set this up didn't cover all the bases, we could get fucked. To make matters worse, the Chinese sent me a letter yesterday. Can you imagine? We make a hush-hush covert deal and then they send me a fucking _letter_? The Secretary paused and then announced in a hoarse voice, "They want more information on our nuclear warhead design."

"They think they can have anything they want! My god, we're screwed!" exclaimed Hastings as he grabbed his chest. His heart felt like it would explode.

"Well, not quite yet, answered the Secretary. Although they offer to pay more money, they also hinted that if we didn't go along, they'd leak the source of the first donations. Those bastards are so damn confident that they put this demand in _writing_ , for Christ's sake! Aside from some bad publicity, Beijing has nothing to lose. On the other hand, we could end up getting striped tans each summer for the rest of our lives." The Secretary slumped in his chair, sighed weakly, and murmured, "I didn't sleep a minute last night."

Hastings struggled to calm himself. He needed to know more and this was no time to have a coronary. "Say it again, Ron. You actually _gave_ them classified information?"

"Well, no, not directly. We sent a couple of missile scientists, known to be inveterate blabbers, to a seminar in Indonesia. I merely saw to it that they went without, you know ... _chaperones_."

"Unbelievable," exclaimed an incredulous Hastings. "I can't fathom you doing this. I had no idea!"

The Secretary bristled, recovering his strength. "Hey, don't get on your high horse with me. You fronted those fund-raisers and you took all the credit for the sixteen million from Universal Nut. You're in this with me to the end. That's why I wanted to talk. Now, what are _we_ going to do?"

Owen Hastings couldn't think. He squeezed his head with his hands trying to concentrate. Finally, he snorted, "Damnit! I would never've gotten involved in goddamn espionage!"

"Stop the recriminations and save your denials for the FBI," barked the Secretary. "The best thing you can do is help me find a way out."

Hastings did his best thinking on his feet, so he rose from the table, walked slowly around the dining table and stopped before the covered windows. Lost in deep thought, he reached out and tenderly began to stroke the smooth velvet drape in front of him. It seemed to soothe him and help clear his frazzled brain. The pounding in his head subsided. The Secretary was right. They were both stuck in this pile of shit regardless of what excuses could be made. Hastings racked his brain for answers. Whom could they turn to? Lawyers? No. Not yet, at least. Who could deal with a dirty mess like this? Who? It came to him like a flash. Pettit! What did they say at the Agency? 'If Simon couldn't fix something, it couldn't be fixed.' Hastings' spirits soared! Turning to exclaim his solution to the Secretary, he paused. No, he thought, slow down _. I_ need to be the savior here. There is no profit in telling the Secretary how the rabbit got _into_ the hat. Hastings took a deep breath, smoothed his lapels, and tugged his tie straight.

"You're right, Ron. I don't agree with what's been done but I'll look into burying it. I think there may be a way I can cover for you, so long as you don't give anything else to your Chinese friends. Agreed?"

It really pissed him that Hastings referred to the Chinese as _his friends_ but the Secretary had no alternative. He nodded and waved a hand in agreement.

Leaving the State Department Building in a rush, Hastings went immediately to his office and wasted no time in phoning Simon Pettit. He rapidly explained the problem to Simon, repeating everything the Secretary had told him and then asked if Simon would help. Simon didn't reply.

"Simon? queried Hastings. "Hello? Are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here," hissed Simon and then he paused. "Think carefully, Owen. Did the Secretary tell you that he has spoken to anyone else?"

Hastings searched his memory. "When I was leaving, he said he was going to talk with _someone_ at the White House. Someone who originally helped arrange the transactions. He didn't give me a name, though."

"Call the Secretary right now," Simon ordered with a cold edge to his voice. "Make assurances that you will handle everything. Tell him not to add to the list of people who already know about this. Then find out the name of his contact at the White House. Do you understand?"

Hastings made his call to the Secretary and the Secretary responded to Hastings with smooth assurances of his own, "Of course, I'll not involve anyone else," he said and then the Secretary paused, remembering something. "Oh, sorry, Owen, I just got off the phone with Jim Lusk, the President's Deputy Chief of Staff. I felt obliged to tell him what's going on. He's the guy who got me started in setting up the money flow. As I thought more about it, our problem might be the guy Lusk sent me to. I told Lusk that I was prepared to sacrifice that guy if any heat came on me."

Another hundred small veins popped as Hastings' facial petechiae spread, a la W. C. Fields. Hastings wasn't sure his heart could take more news like this. He hung up, quickly called Simon to somberly relay the news.

Simon was livid! That rat-bastard, he thought, was ready to throw me to the wolves so quickly? Regardless of how well he solved _this_ problem, it was obvious to Simon that the weasel who was Secretary of Commerce could always name him as the fall guy. Simon also recognized a good-news herring in a sea of bad-news sharks. At least Hastings hadn't yet caught on to the fact that it was Simon who had set up all the money transactions in the first place.

Deciding that an aggressive offense could conceal his soft defense, Simon lashed out at Hastings, "Call him back. Tell that weak, stupid son-of-a-bitch to call Lusk and tell Lusk to lay off. Insist that your guy will handle it. The only thing that asshole has to do is to stop Lusk from adding to the list of insiders. Got it?"

Hastings followed Simon's orders and the Secretary subsequently made his callback to the White House. Success! The list would be limited to the Secretary, Hastings, Lusk, Simon, and, of course, the Chinese. Hastings called Simon back and, after he had relayed the good news about the restricted list, he pleaded for Simon to meet him soon, somewhere private.

"Okay, sure. You name it," Simon responded impatiently.

"Can you come to my office tomorrow morning at, say, nine?"

Simon agreed and put down his phone, seething. He sat back in his chair and tried to relax. Well, if these idiots were really competent, he thought, they wouldn't need me. Soji said there would be times I would doubt the wisdom and courage of my employers. How right he was! He also said such an attitude could be dangerous if I allowed it to persist and grow. Right, dangerous to _me_.

Soji's words echoed in Simon's ears, "If your _daimyo_ grows weak, you must get stronger. If your _daimyo_ leads to error, you must rectify the error. If your _daimyo_ proves unwise, you must think for both, always in the interest of your lord, your _daimyo_."

You bet, Soji, between blowjobs in the Oval Office and sex in the Executive limo, this debauched administration could screw up a two-car funeral.

However, Simon had an advantage over Soji and his long-dead Japanese _daimyo_. Simon didn't owe allegiance to one ruling council or even one lord. True, ultimately he had one master, the President, but practically speaking, he worked for the indefinable, immeasurable core of bureaucrats that ran the government, subtly adjusting policies and practices every four years, depending on which party was in power. Simon's loyalty followed the same path as that of the CIA Director, a position that usually came and went with each administration. If a democrat occupied the White House, the Director (and Simon) owed allegiance to the President and his democrats. If it was a Republican who slept there, they worked for the republicans. Simon knew that any effective solution to the Chinese donation problem must be aimed at protecting the White House. At present, five people could be considered "principals" in the donations. That meant that the list of those in-the-know must not grow and, if possible, be whittled down.

"Mr. Pettit is here to see you, Mr. Hastings," announced the elderly receptionist at the Central Asian Bank's Washington headquarters on K Street. Hastings came out of his office, welcomed Simon, and then escorted him to a chair at a small, round conference table tucked into a corner of Hastings' office.

"Well, I'm here. What's the emergency?" demanded Simon.

Hastings took a chair at the conference table, folded his hands, and gazed at Simon in earnest. He began speaking in a low monotone, tinged with tension. "I went through that little exercise yesterday, Simon. First I called you, then the Secretary, then you, then the Secretary, then you again. That was a bit crazy but I did as you instructed. I recognize that I was the one who asked you to help but I'm still almost totally in the dark as to just what the hell went on." Hastings paused and then raised his voice a bit, "I asked you here, hoping you can find out where the money started and then trace the money trail. Can you?"

As Hastings began asking another question, Simon held up his hand to cut him off.

"Stop right there, Owen. You're right, _abso-fucking-lutely_. You don't know very much and that's a _good_ thing." Simon's blue eyes flashed as they drilled in on Hastings. "Sure, you're aware the DNC money came from the Chinese. But how did it move from A to B to D.N.C.? It's my job to find out the details of how this transaction came down. That's what I do, right?" Hastings nodded nervously. "Owen, this meeting today is ill advised. You really don't know much about this deal. Stay ignorant. Believe me, it's much, much safer."

Hastings remained quiet for a moment, digesting Simon's recommendation, and then responded, "That's probably very good advice and I truly appreciate your concern. However, I think I need to see the whole picture, even if I'm only going to help put a shroud over it. I've no doubt the Secretary of Commerce will throw any one - or all of us - to the wolves if his ass is in danger. If that happens, it won't matter if I know everything or not. Will it? People will just assume that I knew everything because that's what the Secretary will tell them."

Simon's respect for Hastings went up several points. The old guy really has some guts after all, he thought.

"Okay, I can understand your position. Just don't forget that I warned you. Give me a few days to check on various aspects of all the transactions and then I'll let you know whatever there is to know."

Hastings was a bit startled two days later when his receptionist announced that Simon Pettit was here to see him. This is so unlike Simon, thought Hastings. Simon always calls ahead. What could make him break old habits?

Simon entered Hastings' office without a greeting. His face was grim and he went immediately to the small conference table.

"Please. Come over and sit here, Owen," Simon directed. "It was at this table you asked me to find out how the DNC money was laundered and it seems an appropriate place to give you my report. I was able to double-check a few things in the last forty-eight hours. You want the entire story, right?"

Hastings heaved up out of his desk chair, moved to sit with Simon at the oval table, and waved Simon to proceed.

"First of all," Simon began, his blue eyes flashing, "when you asked me two days ago to fix the Chinese deal, you didn't know that I was already doing that. Owen, I was the man Jim Lusk asked, on behalf of the Secretary, to set it up, from the very beginning."

"You were the one?" Hastings sputtered and waved his hands. "My god, go on, go on, I want to know the whole thing."

Simon nodded and quickly continued, "When I got the job of washing the Chinese money, I knew that any money had to come to the DNC from a legitimate donor. For this size of donation, I needed somebody with a history of large contributions. Also, the best way to launder money is through an off shore bank. But not one in a high-profile tax haven like Panama, Cyprus, or the Caymans. The best cover would be an American bank, but also the most regulated.

It hit me when I was reading a report on the economics of Kyrgyzstan. Technically, our little CAB is an off shore bank, off shore from the US, that is, licensed by another government. Also, little Kyrgyzstan has a huge walnut forest that produces thousands of tons of walnuts each year. Because the country doesn't have ready access to Western markets, about half the crop is sold in local bazaars for pennies and the other half ends up as cattle fodder. In one meeting and a few follow-up calls, I determined that Universal Nut Products in Sacramento would buy all the nuts available from Kyrgyzstan. The president of UNP had been a big contributor to the DNC in the past and we were able to reach a deal very quickly that would benefit both the DNC and Universal. The last piece to complete the puzzle was a middleman in Central Asia whose reputation would not be conducive to him blabbing. I chose an Uzbek gangster who fit the role perfectly. At that point I had all the ingredients: the bank, the middleman, a viable donor, and a way to generate enough legitimate profit to cover the Chinese payment."

Hastings had listened in rapt silence and now he leaned forward to ask, in a croaking whisper, "How did the money flow?"

Simon took a note pad and pencil from the table and sketched as he explained.

"I had to back into the financial aspects, based on resources. The Chinese promised seventeen and a half million. Their representative would account for about one million by funding several donation dinners. The main chunk, sixteen and a half million, was to be funneled through Universal Nut Products who wanted a twenty percent profit from any transaction and some money had to be left over for the Uzbek middleman. Therefore, if Universal was to sell the nuts at minimum market, $2.75 per pound, our goal was to produce at least eight million pounds of walnuts, that's a little over three and a half thousand metric tons. With those numbers, I drew up a five-step plan for the flow of cash:

_First,_ the CAB in Bishkek received sixteen and a half million from the Chinese into four new business account at CAB that I controlled.

_Second_ , the sixteen and a half million was used to pay for the purchase, processing, and shipment of up to four thousand metric tons of walnuts from villages in the Aslambop walnut forest in south Kyrgyzstan.

_Third_ , My Uzbek partner hired hundreds of people who dried, cracked, and packaged the nut meat which was then shipped to Universal Nut Products in Sacramento. I wasn't sure what the Uzbek's expenses would be but, whatever they were, we agreed he could keep anything left from the sixteen- five after expenses. He ran a tight ship. Total costs were a bit under a dollar per pound of nut meat, a total of seven million dollars. Since I started with a fund of sixteen and a half, the Uzbek would make over nine million, _before_ getting any profit from Universal Nut. I hadn't planned to leave that much on the table, but who's going to complain?

_Fourth_ , Universal sold the walnuts in the U.S. for the planned amount of $2.75 a pound, grossing twenty-two million. Via their PAC, Universal donated sixteen million and a half million to the DNC and kept four point four million for their trouble. My account got one point one million, which went to the Uzbek. After the DNC, my _partner_ made out second best with over ten million. Of course, this deal is not one for the Harvard Business School. We didn't have any investors expecting a return on their investment _._ "

"Son-of-a-bitch! What a scheme!" exclaimed Hastings. "And you're now dealing with something else?"

"Yeah," answered Simon. "That's why I felt it was okay to bring you up to date with everything so far, nut you don't need to know about a few last-minute wrinkles that need to be ironed out. Any questions?"

"No, no," said Hastings with a relieved sigh. "Thank you very much, Simon, for your hard work." Hastings rose and lightly took Simon by the arm. "When do you think you'll be done with the entire operation?"

"Assuming things go as planned, two or three weeks should do it," Simon answered with a wink.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"A Thief Strikes."

September, 1996 -Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

It was a bit after ten o'clock on a cool, bright Sunday morning in September when Frank unlocked the door to his office in the CAB building on Panfilova Street. Seven months had passed since Frank had been installed as president and weekend work had since become a necessity. Dropping his briefcase on the desk, Frank spun his old, wobbly, executive chair around and eased into it, making sure he didn't lose a wheel in the process. Pulling a financial spreadsheet from the briefcase with his left hand, he used his right to click on his computer, intending to begin entering data from the spreadsheet. A loud "chirp" came from outside his window, causing Frank to glance outside and marvel at the late birds of fall. Masses of oak, maple, and cottonwood trees right beneath his window were losing their leaves. All sorts of birds soared up, spiraling down only to fly up again, calling, tweeting, and chirping as they searched for havens against the coming winter. Reluctantly, Frank pulled his eyes away from the window, focused his attention back to the computer screen, and quickly called up the loan application files. In his haste, the mouse missed the icon for _applications_ and hit _accounts_ instead. In response, the screen flashed to an administrative report displaying all customer account transactions in excess of ten thousand dollars that had occurred during the previous week. Frank moved his finger, prepared to hit "cancel" and start over, when he noticed something strange. The bank's largest account had been closed on Thursday, three days ago. Eleven million dollars had left the bank!

"What the hell?" he exclaimed aloud.

Reading the report carefully, Frank quickly learned that actually a total of over thirteen million dollars had been wired out of the bank, closing three different accounts. All the accounts had belonged to Osmanbek Atabekov, a local businessman who, Frank remembered, was also rumored to be a powerful Uzbek gang lord, with a well-known alias, _Ti-Rik,_ or Scar _._ Frank shivered as he also recalled being cautioned never to mention that nickname in Atabekov's presence as _Scar_ Atabekov did not enjoy references to his disfigurement _._

Simon Pettit had referred Atabekov to the bank and, from the moment of his first deposit, Atabekov had looked to Frank, as President, to personally watch over his accounts. Gazing at the zero balances on Atabekov's accounts, Frank was positive that Scar would never close these accounts without first talking to him. The day Atabekov had made the first bank deposit of his life, he had entered Frank's office, closed the door, and pulled a bag from inside his jacket that contained eighty thousand dollars in hundreds. Once the pleasantries had been taken care of and signature cards completed, Frank had politely ushered Scar to a teller. As the teller counted the cash, Scar's face had the look of a parent when his best-loved child was going off to school for the very first time. His eyes had never left the pile of Ben Franklins as the girl banded each ten thousand dollar stack and put them into a canvas bank bag. Scar had then asked Frank what the teller was going to do with his money and Frank had confidently assured him that the money was going directly into the bank's vault. Scar had then insisted on following the bag. When Frank nodded approval, the teller admitted Scar through a locked gate, and Atabekov had trailed after her right into the vault. He wouldn't leave until his bag was stowed and locked in a steel compartment inside the vault, not realizing that the next morning his cash would be unrecognizable, after mingling with all the other cash deposited that day. Finally, Scar had bowed a slight farewell to his eighty thou, ambled out of the vault, and confronted Frank. "What will you do with my money?" he demanded. "Is it really safe?"

"Your money is now an obligation of the bank. Whenever you want it, it will be here," Frank had replied, somewhat disingenuously.

"Then I'll keep it here until I need it. When I want my money, I will personally come to you, only you, Mister Frank. Okay?" When they had shaken hands in agreement, Scar announced that any withdrawals would go through Frank. It was Scar's safety measure; if withdrawals happened without Scar's approval, Frank would get the blame.

Frank raced to the bookkeeping department and began searching files for the documents that were necessary when closing accounts, sending papers flying in all directions. At last, he located the file for Thursday's closings and searched for Scar's documents. Frank's name was typed in as approving each of the transactions, one for $10,151,447.11, one for $1,461,686.51 and a third for $1,440,595.82. Each form bore the comment, "customer called". The forms also noted that the CAB had subsequently wired all three withdrawals to an account entitled, 'Grant Enterprises, Limited' at Barclays Bank office on the British Isle of Jersey, off the coast of France.

"What's the fuck is going on here?" Frank exclaimed. "Jersey? Is this a sick coincidence or was the money _meant_ to go to a business with my name on it?"

Returning to his office, Frank tried using inter-bank computer codes to uncover more information from Barclays Bank concerning the wired funds. The only response he got was, 'Account Closed'. Apparently, the wire had arrived at Barclays in Jersey on Thursday and, after interbank verification on Friday, the Jersey account had also been closed. Scar's thirteen million had gone into an account at the Barclays Bank, one apparently bearing Frank's name and then been closed. As far as he could determine, the money had disappeared!

Frank's natural reaction was to try to confirm these withdrawals with Atabekov. He spent over an hour trying to reach his client, without success. Scar's various girl friends all thought they knew where he was. One told Frank that Scar was in Tashkent, another said he was in Moscow, a third remembered that Scar had gone to the south of Kyrgyzstan, up in the Tien Shan mountains "somewhere". Apparently, no one on Frank's list of Scar's contacts really knew of Scar's whereabouts or they weren't talking. Failing to reach Atabekov, Frank checked his watch and decided, regardless of the ten-hour time difference, that he had better call the CAB Chairman, Owen Hastings, at his home in DC. When Hastings picked up, his initial reaction was to blast Frank for his lack of consideration.

"It may be morning for you, Frank," Hastings remarked caustically, "but it's after midnight in Washington. Pay more attention to the timing of your calls."

Once Frank had explained about the missing money, Hastings immediately launched into a stern lecture on management's responsibilities for checks and balances, the delegation of authority, paying attention to details, ad nauseam. It was the typical response Frank got whenever he tried discussing banking detail. Hastings couldn't balance his own checkbook and, by now, Frank wasn't surprised whenever Hastings went on the offensive to cover up his ignorance. This time, even Hastings perceived the seriousness of the missing money and cut the off the call, curtly demanding, "Get to the bottom of this business, Frank. The ball is in your court". And, as he clicked off, Hastings made ready to call Simon Pettit.

Frank hadn't called Hastings for advice, it was just standard procedure to notify his Chairman and he certainly didn't need anyone to tell him he had "to get to the bottom of this." Frank's next call was to CAB's vice-president for Operations, Natasha Ivanova. Frank saw Natasha as one of those people who always got things done right and on time, with no patience or use for those who didn't. She'd excelled at most anything she tried: athletics, academics, and now banking. Natasha had been an excellent choice to supervise the bank's paper flow but her people-handling skills were minimal to non-existent. Frank quickly briefed her about the wires.

"Yes, I saw the closing papers," Natasha replied coldly, "and when I saw that you had approved the transfers, I processed the wires immediately."

"Wait a minute. Why didn't you verify my approval?" Frank asked. "I didn't sign anything and this was over ten times the most money we've ever sent out."

"Oh, but I did", Natasha shot back. "I called you, exactly at 4 o'clock. You said 'the wire transfer must go out today, right away'."

"Natasha, damnit," Frank shouted, "that's just not true. You never spoke to me about this."

"You approved it. Don't blame me for your mistake!" Natasha yelled back, slamming down her receiver.

Frank slowly put his phone in the cradle. He knew he hadn't authorized those wires. Natasha might be the Wicked Witch from the West but she'd never lied to him and she'd never made a paperwork mistake like this. Why now? Am I losing it, he asked himself. Did Lara's death screw me up more than I realized? His mind whirled and then slowly settled. No, it's not me. Either Natasha's covering up or she's involved in this. Whatever 'this' is and damn-it-to-hell, I can't call Barclays on a Sunday. It'll have to wait 'til tomorrow.

Preparing to set up a file on the missing money, Frank made copies of all the closing papers and wire documents and was about to leave the bank when his phone rang.

"You are looking for me?" growled Scar Atabekov. " _Pachimo_? Why?"

Frank thought it better to feel him out a little first. "Did you want us to transfer some of your balances to another bank?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm just checking on a rumor that you might be moving your money out of the CAB. If it's only a rumor, forget I asked"

"Why are there rumors about my money?" Scar demanded.

"Well, not rumors exactly, I heard some talk in the office but I must have misunderstood, that's all".

"Is that all? Rumors?"

"Yes. I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. Atabekov. Enjoy the weekend and perhaps we can get together sometime next week."

Frank slowly replaced the receiver. There was no doubting that when Scar, ever the paranoid, checked on his money first thing Monday, Frank would feel the wrath of God. No, more like the Devil. If Frank couldn't give Scar his money or a good explanation, Scar would certainly seek out Natasha. She wouldn't hesitate to tell Scar that his money was gone and that Frank had authorized the wires. Frank needed to put together a plan of action and Monday morning was only hours away. Gathering up the document copies, he called Madeena before locking his office. "I need to see you, right away!"

"What about?"

"Not on the phone," he whispered. "In person."

Even in newly independent and fairly liberal Kyrgyzstan, the KGB still functioned pretty much as in the old days. They listened in on every call made to or from any foreigner's phone and Frank's secretive tone might have surprised Madeena but she knew about phone taps.

'Where shall we meet?" she asked.

"Can I come over to your place?"

Frank's anxious tone now disturbed her more than a concern for KGB ears. Frank seldom worried about the fact of surveillance and normally kept his cool. Something must be seriously wrong.

"Of course, Frank. When?"

"Now," said Frank, hanging up and going for the door.

The bank was an easy ten-minute stroll to Madeena's. At a fast trot, it took him only about four minutes to travel the five long blocks. He ran up the three flights, and rang her bell. Madeena answered dressed in a plain aqua colored terry cloth robe, typical Kyrgyz lounging attire. Frank brushed a kiss on her cheek, and pushed past into the entry.

"Well, that's a warm greeting, _Mister Grant_ , _"_ She snapped, glaring at Frank's back.

Frank turned quickly, reached out to grasp her arm, and pulled Madeena into the apartment after him.

"I'm sorry, hon," he said, shutting the hall door. "I'm just wound up about some missing money. An awful lot of money."

He motioned for Madeena to sit with him on her sofa before continuing. "More than thirteen million from three different CAB accounts, belonging to one man, were closed Friday without the customer's signature. All the money was wired to a bank in the UK. The weirdest part is that the money went to an account with my name on it, Grant Enterprises. All the accounts at CAB belonged to Osmanbek Atabekov. Know him?"

"Ti Rik, the Uzbek Mafia chief?" Madeena gasped, her eyes wide.

"Yep, and he's gonna to be one unhappy chiefie when he finds out."

"You mean he doesn't know?"

"Not yet. I called him today to see if he'd asked us to send money to another bank. He said he didn't know anything about it and got very suspicious. I hung up as fast as I could."

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know. I only discovered it by accident an hour ago. The approvals are all in my name and, when I questioned Natasha about it this morning, she insisted that she had talked to me on Thursday and that I had told her everything was OK. That's a conversation that never took place. She's lying. But why?"

Madeena still was focused on Scar Atabekov. "My god, Frank, Atabekov has killers working for him."

Frank didn't reply. He knew only too well how Scar felt about his money and he was sure there were no limits for Scar when it came to protecting it.

Madeena took both of Frank's hands in hers, looked fiercely into his eyes and earnestly reassured him, "I know you're worried but you didn't do anything wrong. We can fix this."

"Well," Frank answered, "if it's going to be fixed, we'll need both time and help. For the time part, I may need to disappear for a while."

"But", she responded nervously, "where would you go?"

"I've got to find out who stole the money and why. Probably the best thing I can do is to follow the money trail to the Barclays office on the Isle of Jersey. Even if I had the time to call tomorrow, I don't think they'd tell me anything on the phone. The only chance I have is to go in person and try to dig out more information, face to face."

"Why would anyone send that much money to a little island that no one's ever heard of?"

Frank answered with a smile, "Honey, anyone in the money-moving business, knows about Jersey. It's one of the last five or six real tax havens left in the world: Jersey, the Cayman Islands, Panama, Liechtenstein, and Cyprus. These little countries make fortunes handling billions of dollars that are escaping from taxes or the law....... or both." Frank hesitated as his brain shifted into high gear.

"Damn! Jersey's a clue by itself. Because Scar's money went to Jersey, we can eliminate some reasons for the theft. Each of those money havens has a specialty: For Panama it's South American drug money, the Caymans get drug money and legitimate and illegitimate business profits, Cyprus is the favorite destination for Russian Mafia money. Jersey doesn't get much drug _or_ Mafia money. Jersey's claim is tax avoidance. _Legal_ tax avoidance. Usually, it's English taxes being avoided but, in this case, that doesn't add up. Whoever took the money certainly isn't worried about _English_ taxes _,_ especially since the funds only stayed in Jersey for twenty-four hours. I'd have thought this money would've been sent to Cyprus or even to Switzerland. It might be taxed there but more difficult to trace. Damnit, why Jersey?" mused Frank as he lost himself in his thoughts while Madeena went to the kitchen and returned with two cups of fresh, hot green tea.

"Perhaps I should call my uncle, Imanbaikeh, for help?" offered Madeena, handing Frank a steaming cup.

"I remember meeting him. Nice old guy but how could he help?"

"He's a very prominent figure in Central Asia. His books on Kyrgyz history and culture are widely read in several languages. My uncle hesitates to boast about his past, even though his life has been filled with sacrifice. He was imprisoned by the Russians during their invasion of Afghanistan because he spoke out against their aggression. When he was released, he became somewhat of a local martyr. Currently, he serves as senior foreign policy advisor to the President and holds lots of IOU's from powerful people. Maybe he could use some of that influence for you."

Maybe she's right, thought Frank. Imanbaikeh is probably someone who can ask questions without fearing implication. And the fact that he's Madeena's uncle couldn't hurt.

"I don't want to get him in trouble over this," Frank cautioned.

"Don't worry. He knows how to ask questions tactfully."

"OK. Get to him as soon as you can. Maybe he can help find out what's driving Natasha. We need to know how she's connected to the theft. While he asks around, I'll do my best to follow the money trail as soon as I can find a way out of Bishkek, without leaving any tracks."

Madeena reached Imanbaikeh with her first call and he readily agreed to come to her apartment the first thing Monday morning.

Replacing the telephone, Madeena reached out and caressed Frank's cheek.

"I hate to think that you're going to leave me," she whispered. "I won't know where you'll be or when you'll be back."

Frank could feel his emotions rising as she ran her hands through his hair. Gripping her shoulders, he gazed into her dark almond eyes and kissed her warmly. Her robe fell open and, for a short while, Frank's worries took second place.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"On the Lam."

September, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Frank could hear Madeena humming softly in the shower. Damn it, he thought, after getting blasted by Lara's death and then finding Madeena, I can't bear to think about losing her too, just as my life's finally beginning to have some meaning other than work. Someone set me up, but who? The _someone_ who stole Scar's money is obviously not afraid of Scar. But I'd better be.

Using Madeena's phone, Frank dialed Yuri's apartment.

Without wasting words, Frank asked Yuri to come to Madeena's immediately and, less than twenty minutes later, Yuri was sitting in an arm chair listening to Frank relate the details of how he'd discovered the missing money as Madeena sat next to him on the sofa. Regardless of his faith in Frank's innocence, Yuri then put questions to Frank as he would to anyone involved in a crime. For over two hours, they went back and forth over the day's events and anything leading up to the withdrawals, until Frank was drained. The littlest detail had been covered and recovered without forming any solid theories on the missing money: Who? Why?

"Now you know everything I know, Yuri," announced Frank. "That means there's two of us in the dark." Frank was at sea without a compass. He looked inquiringly at Yuri. "What do you think will happen tomorrow?"

Yuri rolled his eyes, swiped some hair out of his eyes and then answered, slowly ticking off numbers on his huge fingers. "First, you insinuated to Scar that something was about to happen to his money. He won't let go of that and will certainly call the bank tomorrow. If you're not available, he'll ask for Natasha. Second, if she is consistent, Natasha will blame you, which will enrage him. Third, Natasha will probably offer to assist Scar in finding both you and the money. Lastly, Scar gathers resources to find you." Madeena let out a slight gasp and clutched Frank's arm

"Yeah, he's sure to mobilize. Okay, that's what Scar will do. What about the police? How does the law work here in the FSU?"

"I think", Yuri responded quickly, "that the process in the Former Soviet Union will be much the same as it was in the old USSR. Someone, in this case Scar, but more probably Natasha, will file a complaint with the local police. However, this incident involves only foreigners: you and the bank are American and Scar is Uzbek. Therefore, the local police will automatically refer the complaint to the Ministry of Interior who will then decide which law enforcement agency has jurisdiction. In this case, it will probably be given to the Kyrgyz KGB."

"KGB?" blurted Frank. "What's this got to do with spying?"

"The KGB," answered Yuri calmly, "isn't only after spies. They handle _anything_ connected with foreigners or foreign trade. Since the breakup, Moscow no longer directly controls the KGB offices in the other republics, although they are the strongest of the fifteen. All of these KGB offices still function together as a fairly efficient network, each republic's KGB cooperating pretty well with the others. Because of the large amount of money involved, I would think the KGB office in Bishkek will jump on any complaint immediately. That means that _every_ KGB office will probably be on alert by no later than Tuesday night, perhaps even by noon Tuesday. You need to be _completely_ out of KGB jurisdiction no later than Tuesday noon, less than 48 hours from now."

"Damn it, Yuri, I thought I could just leave and have time to do some investigating. I didn't think the cops would be chasing me so soon."

"Slow down, my friend! Even though the KGB is a solid, efficient network, _they_ are not our primary concern."

"Why not? You just said they're fast and connected throughout the FSU, right?"

"True, but the KGB will only arrest you. If Scar finds you first, he will kill you and probably in some unique and painful way. For this amount of money, to say nothing of his loss of respect, Scar will use all of his contacts within the Uzbek Mafia and every cop, KGB agent, and civilian he has on his payroll. By tomorrow, _Monday_ night, Scar will have an effective network looking for you throughout the FSU. If I had to bet who finds you first, the KGB or Scar, I'd put my money on Scar."

"Shit! Thanks for the good news. I can just see it, Scar's running after me waving a big sword, followed by a dark sedan filled with KGB agents."

"Oh Shit is right," retorted Yuri. "We've got to get you out of the FSU _tonight!_ I'll call Zaour and have him drive you the three hours to Almaty. If you leave by six this evening, counting the one-hour time difference, you can be at the Almaty Hyatt by ten. I'll make a reservation under Zaour's name. Let him check in and then you go up to the room as soon as he has a key. Do you have the Kyrgyz residency passport that I got for you a few months ago?"

"Yes".

"How much cash do you have? In dollars."

"About one hundred with me and about two hundred in my apartment."

"Not enough," pronounced Yuri. He opened his wallet and handed Frank three hundred-dollar bills and several twenties. Turning to Madeena, Yuri asked, "How much money do you have that Frank can take?"

"No, no, Yuri," interrupted Frank. "I couldn't take Madeena's money."

"Don't worry, dear," responded Madeena. "I can spare three thousand. Will that be enough, Yuri?"

"Honey!" Frank sputtered, "Why do you keep so much money here? That just invites thieves."

"Typical American!" she scoffed. "What would you have me do, put it in a bank? That's the last place a Kyrgyz puts his money. All our banks are mismanaged and most are actually insolvent. There's no insurance or strong government regulation, even with your CAB _western_ bank. I'm positive Scar didn't intend to keep his money at your bank for very long. He probably planned to take out most of it soon after it was deposited. It's too bad he didn't. From what you've said, the thieves knew the cash wouldn't stay in your bank for more than a few weeks and acted accordingly. Anyone in Kyrgyzstan fortunate enough to have money keeps some cash on hand and loans the rest of it out to friends and relatives for short terms. That way we reduce our cash at home and our friends have money to buy goods in Turkey or the Emirates, which they then sell here for a profit."

Madeena headed for her bedroom, returning a few minutes later with an envelope which she pushed into Frank's hand, saying, "You need this and I need you to have it. Let's pray it helps you come back safely." Madeena's eyes then sparkled and she grinned. "I only charge market rate."

"I'm sorry, honey," responded Frank. "I was just worried about your safety, keeping so much cash here." Suddenly, he did a double-take. "Say, what did you mean, _market rate_?"

"Why, the going rate in Bishkek:; one percent a day. Perhaps that will help motivate you in your quest," Madeena replied, with a giggle.

"Okay." interrupted Yuri. "You have a little over three thousand dollars. Do not pay for any transportation that I arrange. Save your cash for food, clothes, bribes and any transportation _you_ may choose. What I arrange, I pay for. Yuri grinned and poked Frank's arm, "Same rates as Madeena, my friend!"

Yuri continued. "Tomorrow, in Almaty, get to the airport early and purchase a ticket on the first flight to Moscow, probably about 07:00. I will make the reservation tonight. Pay for it with your cash. About $150, one-way. I'm expecting that there will be wanted notices out for you after tomorrow so, do not flash your American passport. Use only your Kyrgyz residence passport at the security check points. With that alone, you can travel to Russia as a resident of the FSU."

Yuri checked his watch. "The flight takes four hours to Moscow but you gain three hours on the clock. That means you should get through Moscow customs about 8:30 Monday morning, local time. Do not delay at the airport. Take a taxi to 774 Komsomolskaya, apartment 33, in the city and ask for Dennis. I'll call him tonight and he will expect you. Don't change your route or do anything to bring special attention to you."

Frank nodded to Yuri with a grim look and wrote the Moscow name and address on a slip of paper.

"That's the priority, Frank. First thing is to get your ass out of here. Then we can try to solve this theft."

Something occurred to Frank. "Do you think that Interpol will be notified too?

"Oh, yes, but not soon. The KGB doesn't like to admit they need help to find someone. So, I don't think Interpol will be involved for several days, perhaps weeks."

At this moment Frank was never happier to have Yuri backing him. The big Russian knew people throughout the old Soviet Union and, with Yuri's help, Frank was certain he could hide for a long time. Except that merely hiding wouldn't solve the mystery of the missing money or dissuade Scar.

Wrapping her in his arms, Frank whispered softly in Madeena's ear. "I'll track the money and be back to you soon. I promise, Deeny, I promise."

Madeena snuggled her head into Frank's chest and hugged him tightly, dry-eyed. Tears could flow after he was gone. Frank kissed her hair and then her lips, wanting with all his heart to stay like this, holding the woman he loved but he knew he had no choice. He kissed her again lightly on the lips and then looked questioningly at Yuri.

Yuri understood Frank's body language. "Don't worry, my friend, I'll look after her."

Frank grabbed Yuri's arms with both hands. "Do that for me. We _both_ need you."

Frank turned back to Madeena, gave a sad wave and headed down the stairs. Listening to Madeena's muffled sobbing, he reached the first floor and his guilt returned with a flash. Was all this his fault? Had he missed something? Would he lose Madeena too? His head ringing with doubts, Frank trotted to his apartment, threw some clothes in a flight bag, and began nervously pacing his living room as he waited for Zaour.

September, 1996 - Almaty, Kazakhstan

The drive to Almaty and the securing of a hotel room passed uneventfully. Just after daybreak on Monday morning, Frank and Zaour descended to the lobby of the Hyatt Almaty Hotel and Zaour quickly checked out, having paid with Frank's cash. Both sat silently during the twenty-mile drive from the hotel to Kazakhstan's chief airport. Zaour sensed that Frank was more than unusually preoccupied and began to worry about why Frank had to leave so quickly. But Zaour was a good soldier and he knew that, if he needed to know, Frank would tell him.

Even though he waved goodbye to Zaour with a "thumbs up", Frank felt a lot of emotions but confidence was not one of them. Nervously he took a place in line to buy his ticket to Moscow. When his turn came, the Russian clerk accepted his Kyrgyz residency passport as ID without question and handed Frank his ticket and boarding pass. Frank breathed a silent sigh of relief. Things were going just as Yuri had predicted. Within minutes, a muffled loudspeaker announced his flight and Frank joined a mass of people shoving and jostling to get through one small door that led to the boarding lounge. A young Kazakh soldier, guarding the door, asked to see Frank's ticket, boarding pass, and passport. After a quick glance at the documents, the soldier looked Frank up and down, especially noting his Levi's and casual brown loafers. The soldier asked, "American?"

Now is not the time to shout my patriotism, Frank said to himself.

" _Nyet_. No. _Ya Canatzee_. I am Canadian," Frank replied, doing his best to appear casual and relaxed. The soldier peered suspiciously at Frank's face and was about to ask another question when an old woman, thin and bent from osteoporosis, slipped from the jostling crowd, shoved her bag in front of Frank's, and demanded to be let through. Her sudden appearance and harsh demand startled the soldier. He stiffened but didn't take his eyes off Frank's face.

He knows, thought Frank. He's recognized me! My sorry mug is probably pinned to the wall of every guardroom in Central Asia. All of Frank's instincts screamed for him to turn and run back to Zaour's car. Instead, he forced himself to breathe slowly and crack a slight smile. Suddenly, the old woman started pulling on the soldier's sleeve to get his attention, forcing the exasperated young guard to turn his gaze to her. Muttering mild obscenities, she continued to demand admittance to the waiting area.

Speechless, the soldier regarded the crazy old women, rolled his eyes, and turned away from her to again address Frank. The soldier's indifference further agitated the old woman and she shoved Frank in his back, propelling him forward, past the checkpoint. When the guard reached out to pull Frank back, the old woman pushed Frank forward even harder and glared at the guard, rattling on about idiot teenage soldiers who had no respect for the elderly. Finally, the guard shrugged, waved both the old woman and Frank through the door to x-ray, and turned toward to the next person in line.

Clearing the x-ray machine, Frank entered the crowded boarding area and found an empty space against a far wall. Scanning the large room, he looked for the old woman, thinking that old gal might be good luck! Just then, he spotted her standing alone in the center of the crowd, fussing to get something from her handbag. Frank moved away from the wall and edged toward her.

Sensing his approach, she looked up, they locked eyes, and Frank realized that she was even older than he had thought, easily eighty. Her sallow skin was mottled with liver spots and her hair had thinned to light wisps over her forehead. Skin folds drooped from above her eyes, forcing her to squint quizzically. The old woman peered at him intently, her eyes searching his face. Then she winked and whispered, " _O'dachi"._ Good luck. "Colonel Borkov says to keep your head down." Then she spun away and melted into the crowd.

September, 1996 - Moscow, Russia

Frank's Kazakh Airlines flight arrived Monday morning at 8:35 at Domodidova, Moscow's airport that served the Central Asian republics. Clearing customs without a hitch, he said a quiet prayer of thanks that Russia still gave preference to visitors from the ex-Soviet republics like Kyrgyzstan. He could well imagine that some day it would be tough for _anyone_ to get through Russian immigration and customs but today, thank god, entrance was only a formality even for lowly _residents_ like Frank.

Frank's taxi quickly took him through the early morning traffic to the center of Moscow and, just after 9:45AM, he knocked at the door of apartment thirty-three, 774 Komsomolskaya Street.

" _K'toh eta_? Who's there?

" _Meinya zavoot Frank_." My name is Frank.

He could hear locks being undone. The metal-sheathed door opened slowly and Frank moved his gaze up. And up. Son-of-a-bitch, he thought, that's the biggest guy I've ever seen!

"Dennis?"

_"Dah, Gasperdeen Grant_?"

Frank nodded.

_"Prokadeetz, prokadeetz_ ," urged Dennis. Come in, come in.

Frank couldn't take his eyes off the man who held open the door. Yuri overshadowed Frank by a good five inches and Dennis would make Yuri look average. Frank continued to stare without answering. Finally, he got his voice back.

"Er... I'm sorry, Dennis, I'm just startled by your size. You are, without a doubt, the biggest man I have ever met. It's too bad Russia doesn't have American football, you'd be all pro."

Dennis scowled and Frank blanched.

"American football?" Dennis snorted. "Why would I need that? I am was heavyweight free style wrestling champion of whole Russian Army. Colonel Borkov was my commander." Dennis waved a huge hand. "Football, hah! Come in. We cannot talk in the hall."

Dennis backed into the apartment and gestured for Frank to take a seat. Dropping his duffel bag, Frank plopped into one of two massive armchairs that had clearly been designed with Dennis in mind.

"The colonel gave me instructions," Dennis began, as he sank his huge form into the other chair. "Many things have been done to prepare for your exit from Moscow."

In painstaking detail, Dennis explained how and when Frank would get away from Moscow and then out from Russian control. Dennis had arranged for him to ride shotgun in one truck of a ten-truck convoy heading to Riga, Latvia. Frank would join the convoy's more than twenty drivers and helpers, citizens from many countries, mostly ex-Soviet. Being mixed in with a dozen or more non-Russians, the diversity would give Frank added cover so that he could more easily slide through customs and immigration at the Russian/Latvian border.

"The convoy is scheduled to reach Riga between midnight tonight and 1:00AM Tuesday." Dennis continued. "When you arrive in Riga, your driver will put you in contact with a German fisherman named Berndt. You will join Berndt on his boat for the trip to the main wharf at the marina in St. Helier, Jersey. That will be a long sea journey, from ten days to two weeks, depending on how much fishing Berndt has to do. Jersey is part of the UK so, when you get there, you can show your American passport."

Dennis stared grimly at Frank, stressing, "However, never show your American passport to anyone before then! When you land in Jersey, my part is over and you are on your own. Colonel Borkov doesn't think the KGB or Interpol will bother to notify any authorities in the West, especially in a small place like Jersey. Also, the colonel's people will lead the police to believe that you are still somewhere in Central Asia. Understand?"

Frank nodded quickly and Dennis handed Frank a large paper bag. Frank peered inside as Denis explained, "The bag contains some food for the ride to Riga and some old Russian clothes. You can change in my bedroom. What do you have in the duffel?"

"I have a light jacket, a change of clothes, and some toiletries," answered Frank.

"Okay," replied Dennis and indicated the bag. "Change into these things and put your current clothes in the duffel."

Opening the bag, Frank found baggy corduroy trousers, brown turtle neck sweater, and tried on a pair of scuffed black street shoes which proved too small. Frank decided to leave Dennis' shoes and wear the brown shoes he'd brought from Bishkek. As soon as Frank emerged from the bedroom, Dennis plucked up Frank's duffle bag and led the way out from apartment building to a nearby Moscow subway entrance. After a short ride, they exited at Prozny station and walked to what appeared to be a large auto junkyard that held scores of rusting Jigolis and Nivas cars and about a dozen filthy, battered trucks in varying sizes set about in a loose formation. As they neared the vehicles, Frank realized that the cars were junkers but not the trucks. In fact, they were running, manned, and seemed set to depart. Dennis directed Frank toward one of the largest of the trucks, a cab-over Ukrainian Kamaz that was hitched to a double trailer. The driver couldn't miss big Dennis coming and quickly waved a greeting. Reaching the truck, Dennis shook hands with the driver and introduced Frank as his friend from England who needed to get to Latvia. The driver nodded his understanding.

Frank thanked Dennis for his help, climbed into the cab, and then turned to regard his chauffeur for the ride to Riga. The man introduced himself as _Vartan_ , an Armenian from Yerevan. Vartan was a small, dark man sporting a short, bushy black beard. He grinned at Frank, exposing four bright gold teeth and wide gaps where the rest of his teeth had once been.

"It is good to have company on this run," offered Vartan in halting Russian. "We stop only once and it's very boring at night."

Dennis waved the small convoy out of the yard and Vartan pulled into fourth place in the long line of trucks. Vartan and Frank easily passed the first four hours of the journey comparing tastes in women, sports, and vodka. Although Frank expected pointed questions at any time, Vartan made no mention of the fact that Frank must be the first _Englishman_ who wanted to go from Moscow to Riga at midnight in a loaded Kamaz.

At a pause in their conversation, Frank asked, "Do you know Dennis very well?"

Vartan glanced sideways at Frank, sucked air between his teeth, and replied, " _All_ drivers know Dennis. He is our chief of transportation."

"I don't understand, Vartan, how do you mean _chief of transportation_?"

"If you ask this," Vartan responded sharply, " _you_ don't know Dennis very well." Vartan focused his eyes on the road ahead and became a mute at the wheel.

"Okay, sorry, you're right," apologized Frank after five minutes of cool silence. "I only met Dennis today. My friend was in the army with him. He was the one who made the arrangements with Dennis."

Vartan was sat quietly for a minute and then asked, "Who is this _friend_?"

Now it was Frank's turn to hesitate. I don't know this guy, he thought. If I give him Yuri's name, maybe that could cause problems for Yuri. "My friends name," Frank finally responded, "is not important, I just know that he and Dennis were very close."

"Dennis is not close with many people. Whoever your friend is, he must be quite a man."

"He is."

Vartan lost himself in thought, stroked his beard with his left hand, and finally announced, "If Dennis didn't trust you, he would not have put you with me because I have very valuable cargo on this trip. I think I'll trust you, Mister Frank. Normally, I would say nothing about Dennis but you're leaving Russia and I don't I think you will return. So, it won't hurt if l will tell you a little." Vartan grinned, "Did you know Dennis is a champion wrestler?"

Frank nodded.

"Throughout Soviet Union, a great many Mafia men come from the sport of wrestling. Dennis joined the Russian Mafia about five years ago, after his wrestling days were over. Now he is number three in the Moscow organization. Anything that moves is his responsibility: cars, planes, trains, trucks, boats. He is a very, very _big_ man," said Vartan, chuckling at his little pun.

Now Frank could understand how Dennis could set up an escape so fast. Chief of transportation, you bet, he thought, Mafia transportation. I'll be a son-of-a-bitch, Scar can have his Uzbek Mafia. I've got Russian ones.

They neared the Russian/Latvian border just before 10:00PM. Vartan became more and more fidgety, the closer they got to the border. When they reached the border crossing and lined up behind the first three convoy trucks, Vartan asked Frank for his documents, in a nervous, squeaky voice.

Vartan's taken this route before, thought Frank, and he shouldn't be nervous. Has he guessed that I'm on the run and _not_ English? That's it! He's worried that I'll be discovered at the border and we'll both get arrested. Frank's stomach tightened. Or, more probably, this is where he turns me in to avoid trouble. He can always alibi to Dennis that it was me who screwed up. Shit! Oh, Shit!

Frank gave Vartan his Kyrgyz passport with clammy hands, even though he tried to appear calm. If I'm going to be discovered, I don't want to be the cause, he thought. I have to focus on something besides the two fucking border examinations; first getting out of Russia, second entering Latvia. Dropping his hands in his lap, Frank grabbed his right hand with his left and squeezed tightly, concentrating all his energy on his grip. Soon his left hand lost its feeling. Then he opened and closed his fist, concentrating on restoring feeling to his fingers, letting physical factors absorb his attention.

Vartan's turn came and their Kamaz rolled slowly forward toward five uniformed Russian soldiers who were carefully examining each vehicle as it reached the border gate. Four of the guards were armed with Kalashnikov automatic rifles: two aimed directly at the cab of whichever truck was being examined while the second pair covered the rear, ready to inspect the truck's contents. The fifth guard, apparently an officer, examined the papers of both vehicles and people leaving Russian territory. As their Kamaz pulled even with the officer, he hopped onto the running board, glanced first at Vartan and then fixed his eyes on Frank, as he demanded, "Papers."

Vartan produced the vehicle transport documents and handed them to the Russian officer, along with both passports. Frank purposely avoided locking eyes with the soldier and focused ahead on the striped bar marking the border. He held his breath, fully expecting to be ordered to exit the truck.

In one continuous circular motion, the officer grabbed the papers from Vartan, passed them in front of his eyes, and handed them back at Vartan. Then, mumbling a few words, the officer hopped back to the ground.

In turn, Vartan mumbled a reply, engaged the gears, and drove the Kamaz forward to the Latvian side of the border. The process was repeated, except with only two Latvian border guards who were even less interested in their documents. Before Frank could remember to breathe, they were in Latvia.

"They ... didn't...read anything, Frank stammered. "Not one damn document."

"Dennis pays them to read _quickly_ ," quipped Vartan as he eased the truck onto the highway to Riga.

"Why then, were you so damn nervous?" asked Frank.

"Nervous? Me? Oh, no, Mister Frank. I just got to piss."

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"Escape By Sea."

September/October, 1996 - Riga, Latvia

It was just past 1:00AM on September 24th when Frank's Kamaz wheezed into a loading bay at wharf number 12, Port of Riga. "We're here," Vartan announced. "Now to find your fisherman."

They locked the cab and Vartan led Frank to an all-night café, a brightly lit oasis among darkened warehouses and shuttered offices. Frank followed closely, peering into the darkness, half expecting KGB agents to jump out of every shadow. To Frank's relief, they reached the café without incident and took seats at a small wooden table facing the door. Frank was on his second coffee when a short stocky man, about fifty, approached them, limping slightly. He was dressed all in gray, except for his black rubber fisherman's boots.

"Vartan?" the man asked.

_"Dah,_ " replied Vartan. " _Kak Zavoot_?" Yes, who are you?

_"Meenya zavoot_ Berndt" I'm Berndt.

Vartan pointed to Frank. "This is your passenger. His name is Frank."

Then, politely excusing himself, Vartan left, saying he needed some sleep before unloading was to begin.

Berndt ordered a coffee for himself and, speaking in a Russian even worse than Vartan's, asked, " _Oo vas yet narcotic_?" Do you have drugs?

_"Nyet. Neekagdah_. No. Never," answered Frank. "Why do you ask?"

"Drugs are biggest problem. I never sail with drugs. If you don't have drugs, then who you are and why you need a ride, is not my business." Berndt glanced under the table at Frank's duffel and then, regarding Frank through hooded eyes, he asked, "You have sea clothes?" Before Frank could reply, Berndt answered his own question. "No, I think not."

"Sorry," said Frank, "just some shirts and pants. Do you have some boots and a slicker I can use?"

_"Nyet problem_ ," replied Berndt. He swilled down his still steaming coffee and gestured for Frank to pay. Frank shrugged his shoulders in answer. " _Eezveneetz, Lats nyeto._ Sorry, I have no Latvian money."

Berndt grumbled, dug out some crumpled Lats, tossed them on the table, and headed for the door. Frank grabbed his duffel and trailed Berndt down a pitch-black alley between two huge warehouses, across a small street, and finally through another alley to the wharf. They had walked halfway out on the dock, past eight or nine boats, when Berndt stopped at a gray forty-six foot trawler, rigged for commercial fishing.

"My boat. My home," he announced. "Come aboard."

Frank peeked into the old boat's pilothouse and was surprised at how clean everything looked. The compass was covered in a worn but clean brown canvas bag and the polished wooden pilot's wheel shone brightly in the moonlight. Dozens of maps were stowed in racks on the ceiling but no navigational electronics. Guess we'll be navigating by the stars and a compass, thought Frank. Nothing seems out of place. The boat looks over twenty years old but it seems in pretty good shape. Berndt must be a fastidious skipper.

"How long have you owned it? Frank asked.

"Ten years. I got it from the Latvian navy. Moscow said they would give new boats to the Latvian navy, so the navy decided to sell all its old boats, including this one which had been used as a buoy tender and sometimes a light tug. So, I was able to buy it for a good price. Then, after all the old navy boats were sold, Russia forgot about giving Latvia new boats. The navy was really pissed! It needed boats bad[y and had to take back many of the ones it had just sold. Fortunately, they let me keep this old one."

Berndt told Frank to take the forward port-side berth and stow his duffel under the bunk.

"I sleep in the cabin near the wheel," announced Berndt. "You have three hours for sleep before we cast off."

At four-thirty that morning, Berndt shook Frank awake.

"Coffee in pot. In ten minutes, we go."

Frank blinked his eyes, rolled out of the bunk, and quickly filled a cup with black, steaming coffee. True to his word, Berndt started the engine exactly at 4:40AM. Still groggy with road fatigue, Frank peeked out of the cabin hatchway and Berndt motioned for him to take a position on the dock, near the boat's bow. Local sea terns and gulls were awake and had begun circling the harbor's entrance, screeching, anxious to follow fishing boats as they discarded damaged bait and the remains of breakfasts.

"Cast off bow lines, Frank. Toss them onto bow, then go to stern. When I say, untie stern lines, hold them, and climb aboard. When I say, stow stern lines."

Frank followed Berndt's terse instructions and soon the boat was gliding smoothly out of Riga's harbor under Berndt's practiced hand. As they passed the harbor breakwater, the water surface remained calm but Berndt's small trawler pitched and rolled in the heavy undersurface swells of the Baltic.

When Frank joined Berndt in the pilot house, Berndt asked, "Have you ever sailed on a boat like mine?"

"No, I've been on small cabin-cruisers and sailboats up to fifteen meters in length but never spent any time on a commercial fisher."

Berndt then offered to train Frank as a fishing trawler's first mate, an offer that Frank readily accepted, with thanks for an opportunity to learn something new. However, Frank soon discovered that, on a boat this size, a first mate is the cabin boy, bait boy, and general go-fer. But he didn't mind. What else would he do with his time, worry? And he had more than enough to worry about.

Berndt explained that his primary target was the fresh-water European Perch. Due to the low salinity levels of the Baltic, especially around the Finnish archipelago, perch thrive and grow to a considerable size on a diet of Baltic herring.

Berndt's boat, _Mein Fraulein or_ My Girl, was an old style, center-cabin wooden hulled boat that, in calm seas, could putt along between eight and ten knots on its single diesel engine, blowing white smoke in its wake. A newer boat, the size of My Girl, would be equipped with twin engines, turbo-diesel or gasoline, suitable even for sport fishing at twenty-plus knots. But that kind of power used too much fuel for a lone-wolf fisherman like Berndt. Her relatively new diesel engine and two extra fuel tanks allowed My Girl to motor the almost two thousand miles from Riga to the mouth of the English Channel without refueling, in a little over a week.

They cruised past Gdansk on the third day, out about fifty miles from shore, heading North through the Ore Sund passage between Copenhagen and Malmo and then into the Kattegat strait that separated Denmark from Sweden with only a narrow four miles of water. The fifth day, My Girl rounded the North coast of Denmark and entered the North Sea where the swells grew so large that My Girl would disappear in the troughs, losing sight of land every few seconds. Frank imagined how the first Vikings must have felt when they ventured into the North Sea with boats even smaller than My Girl. What balls!

For ten days, in bright sunshine and calm seas, Frank cleaned, mopped, polished and sanded. During the last two days, as they slowed to trawl, he helped haul in nets sometimes filled to overflowing, usually with flopping perch, all to the unending demands of a perfectionist German captain.

On the morning of the thirteenth day, the sun again shone brightly while white caps increased in number and the swells rose to over twelve feet. With one hand casually on the wheel, Berndt declared smugly, coffee cup in his free hand, that the weather would hold, they were making fast time, and should be in Jersey before nightfall to unload his catch ...... and Frank.

An old salt like Berndt should have known better than to predict sea weather. The Sea Gods never fail to notice a mere mortal predicting what they, the gods, were going to produce. When that sort of prediction happened, they usually sent just the opposite. Sure enough, by mid-afternoon they encountered stiff winds and fifteen foot swells, capped in white foamy brine, all especially designed to put a boastful human in his mortal place. My Girl would not be allowed to reach port so easily!

Standing on the port side deck, Frank braced his feet against the gunwale and his back against the outside cabin wall. He checked the safety belt circling his waist, secured by a line to a deck cleat. Frank had never been seasick in his life, but he suddenly realized there is usually a first time for everything, as his stomach gurgled with each movement of the deck. The wind increased, light hail began to sting his cheeks, and he soon forgot his queasy stomach as My Girl bucked and rolled, her wooden planking screaming in complaint.

Berndt waved at Frank and hollered against the wind, "Go to the bow. Watch for buoys. We're only a few miles from the port but, if we miss the channel mouth, we'll hit rock jetties."

Frank unclipped his safety line and clawed his way to the bow, kneeling whenever torrents of wave-driven water thundered over the gunwale. The bow was outlined in spray as it ducked through the white-topped waves and heaved over swells so high they blocked Frank's view of the angry sky. Slowly, carefully, Frank pulled himself forward, hand over hand along the bow rail. Suddenly a mega-wave crashed over the gunwale. More than three tons of ice-cold water smashed at his knees, knocking Frank's legs out from under him. He lost his grip on the rail and lay sprawled on the port side walk-around. The huge wave that had floored him, now washed back off the deck, taking Frank with it. He was pulled over the side and into the cavernous mouth of the next wave. Sinking rapidly, Frank could feel his boots scrape along the hull as the boat rolled over him in its reaction to the swells. Oh, shit! He screamed silently, I'm getting sucked under the boat! He kicked frantically at the hull to free himself from its grip. Then the boat rolled back to starboard, killing the hull's suction and Frank was flung out of the sea like a wet doll. He gulped in air as his boots smacked the cabin wall, just above the rail. He twisted his body to follow his feet, slamming his chest into the rail, as the wave that had tossed him high, washed back overboard. Frank bounced off the rail and landed on the forward deck. With his chest, back, and shoulder muscles screaming in pain, he somehow managed to grab the rail with shaking hands and tuck himself into a tight position against the rail to avoid being swept away again. Then he remembered Berndt's last order. The channel! Frank peered over the rail into the sea spray, hoping to see a buoy.

That's what I'm up here for, he thought, and now I know why. Berndt knows the risk. I'm expendable and he's not. Suddenly, he spotted the first red buoy. Damn, it's off the port side, he thought. We're outside the channel and headed toward the rock jetties!

_"Na layvo, na layvo._ To the left, to the left," Frank yelled, waving his left arm and pointing first to the buoy and then to port. From his perch in the pilot's chair, Berndt waved in acknowledgement and swiftly brought the boat around.

Wrapping both arms around the rail, Frank relaxed a little, his job was done and so was he. Cautiously, he checked arms and legs for broken bones. As far as he could tell, there would be several bruises but it didn't look like anything serious. God, he thought, no more fishing!

October, 1996 - Isle of Jersey, English Channel

My Girl wallowed past several buoys and then chugged its way into the breakwater area. Once inside shelter, the boat glided easily past an old castle on the port side and a power station to starboard. Weakly, Frank hauled himself up and grabbed the docking lines. A few minutes later, Berndt had nestled My Girl against the lee side of the visitor's dock at Old Harbour marina. Two customs officers in all-weather rain cloaks stepped out of a kiosk at the land end of the dock and walked over to watch the last of the lines being secured. Berndt waved a hello from the pilothouse and then went below to get his boat papers. Frank, uncertain as to procedures, remained at the stern lines. Then, as if on cue, the sea gods turned off the rain. A disrespectful mortal had been taught a lesson.

"G'd day to you, young man," said the eldest of two customs men in a slight Irish brogue, bending down to address Frank. "Or t'is it not English that 'ure speekin?"

"Oh, it's English all right," replied Frank.

The younger man cocked his head as if to improve his hearing. "American?" he asked. "Canadian?"

"American. I took a ride on Berndt's boat to learn more about fishing. That storm must have been my graduation ceremony."

"Probably right!" agreed the younger man.

"Di ye ave yur passport handy, son?" asked the elder man.

Frank moved toward the cabin hatch to get his duffel bag and almost collided with Berndt who was on his way out. They squeezed awkwardly past one another and Frank grabbed his duffel bag from under the port bunk stowage compartment. Intending to retrieve his small leather pouch containing money, credit cards and both his Kyrgyz and American passports, he dipped into the duffel. No pouch! Frank hastily dumped the entire contents of the duffel on the bunk and pawed through the clothes pile. Nothing. He searched the cabin, tossing blankets and life jackets in vain.

What the hell, he thought. It's not here and I didn't lose it. Berndt must have taken it!

Berndt was discussing something with the customs guys when Frank barreled back out on deck, heading straight for Berndt. Berndt turned to face Frank, put out his hand, and offered the pouch and Frank's passport, while he murmured in Russian, " _Ya ne hatil divati yim Kyrgyzky bumagi._ I didn't want you to give them your Kyrgyz papers by mistake."

Berndt then reverted to English, "I give passport. Okay, Frank?" Berndt grinned and Frank felt stupidly paranoid.

"The Capt'n says yur a gud mon, Mr. Grant. We've seen old Berndt and his catch maybe once a yar for round aboot ten yars now. His ward is goo wee us," said the elder man. "Welcome ta Jarsey!"

The two customs officers, Daniel the elder and James the younger, turned out to be the best welcoming party that Frank could have expected. His farewells said to Berndt, Frank turned to James.

"First, just to be sure, what's today's date? Second, can you recommend a hotel? Something close, where I can get to town easily."

"Of course," replied James. "Today is Sunday October 6th. To answer your second question, Town Centre is just up the hill with several good hotels nearby. I'd suggest the Royal Yacht Hotel on Weighbridge Street. It's close to the marina and a bit of an historic landmark as the first hotel in St. Helier. Come along. We'll point the way."

Frank followed the two customs officers up the pier, thinking how much he wanted a shower and to smell dry, clean sheets. Tomorrow he'd start on the money trail.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Weak People"

October, 1996 - Freeport, Bahamas

Simon stood motionless, entranced with the sparkling blue waters outside his room at the Wyndham Fortuna Beach in Freeport, Bahamas. The small waves were hypnotic as they changed color, morphing ceaselessly from white cap to beach foam.

"Simon, stop day-dreaming," called Soji.

"What? Oh, I lost it that fast? Damn, Soji, that's something I've got to watch."

"You were so deep in thought, I had no trouble speaking. Are you ready to talk now?"

"In a while. Give me a few minutes, okay?"

Soji's presence wordlessly faded. Simon picked up his telephone and dialed a private number at the Department of Commerce in DC. A man answered.

"Hello, Mr. Secretary, Simon Pettit here."

"Yes," said the Secretary of Commerce. "What's up?"

"I have a couple of questions. First, did the DNC receive the sixteen plus millions from Universal Nut Products?"

"Oh, yes! I can't tell you how delighted we were to get that check. It will go a long way to cover last minute TV spots. But, before you get into anything else, I have a comment."

"Okay," Simon answered cautiously.

The Secretary's voice lowered into a conspiratorial tone. "I know we've gone over this before, Simon, but are you absolutely _sure_ that everything will remain confidential? If there are, or will be, any problems, I want to know now. I'll understand if there are glitches. Are there?"

"No. None. Don't worry, I set this up. Remember, you hired me because whatever I set up doesn't fall down."

"Of course, of course. Your record speaks for itself. However, I'm told that some money that was connected to our transaction, about thirteen million, I think, has apparently disappeared from the CAB. Frankly, I don't care about the CAB's problems. What worries me is that anyone investigating the disappearance of those funds might ask questions about the CAB in general, the source of the money in particular, and then stumble on our donation."

Simon hesitated. It wouldn't do to let the Secretary think he didn't know all the facts available, even if he didn't. "I'm well aware of the thirteen million dollar theft," snapped Simon, "and I'm already dealing with it. There won't be any traceable connection back to your donation. This is not a glitch, merely an unfortunate coincidence, Mr. Secretary. If I think this might _become_ a problem, I'll solve it beforehand."

"Good. I'm confident you know your craft. It's just that this situation can still become extremely explosive. Many of us, including the White House, have our necks way out and I, for one, want to keep my head. Regardless of who has to pay-the-piper, it won't be me. Understand?"

"Understood. If anyone asks you, refer them to Owen Hastings, the DNC guy who brought in the donation money. And you don't know me. I'm just a loyal government grunt. But, when all the dust settles and I ask for the nomination as Director of the NSA, you and Hastings had better well remember me then. Right? Is that our deal?"

"Yes, yes. Perhaps I'm overreacting. I've got enough trouble with doctors over my damned pacemaker. After three years, you'd think I wouldn't have to keep getting monthly check-ups. It's not only a damn nuisance, it also adds to my worries, along with all the other things on my plate: the President's fucking girl friends, – no pun intended – his wife's jealousy and growing paranoia, and the vice-president's consummate naiveté', to say nothing about my having to run the Department of Commerce. The Secretary's tone noticeable hardened as he added, "And don't _you_ forget. If anything happens that brings this deal to light, I'm the one entitled to every protection, _comprende?_

Simon curbed his anger. "Mr. Secretary, this deal is radar proof. Now that the DNC has their money, I'm depending on getting that nomination. If you or anyone else talks too much and the spotlight turns on me before it's my time to shine, that would indeed be unfortunate. Do _you_ understand?"

"Are you threatening me?" snapped the Secretary of Commerce.

"Just being sure we're watching the same movie."

What? Oh ... I...yes", answered the Secretary and disconnected."

Simon replaced the receiver, exhaled deeply, realizing how thin the ice was under this operation. The thinner the ice, the faster you skate, he thought. But when you have to carry baggage like this guy, maybe you can never skate fast enough. He needed to talk to Soji. Simon relaxed in his armchair and cleared his mind. Soji appeared immediately, obviously very upset.

"Except for my accidental appearance a few minutes ago, whereupon you chose to dismiss me, this is the first time you have called for me in over a week. Am I useless? Are you so proficient that you have no need of Soji?"

"Sorry. I was busy."

"Busy! Busy!" grumbled Soji. "Is the bee too busy to visit the flower? Is the great Simon Pettit too busy to consult with his Ninjutsu master...and his spirit twin? Remember the fourth rule of Ninjutsu, Simon. 'Avoid all forms of public recognition and reward.' A Ninja cannot function in the glare of spotlights."

"Look, I said I was sorry and I do need your advice. And, yeah, sometimes I get carried away with the job. You're right. I could step back a bit. This DNC project was supposed to get me appointed Director of the NSA with a seat in the President's cabinet. Once in that chair, I could institute some spectacular innovations, maybe even establish a school for the Ninjutsu arts in America. Soji, I want...no, sorry. I _need_ your approval and help on this. Well?"

"Again, I urge caution. You've been overcome by flattery and personal ambition. It is one thing to steal money for your lord but you must never keep any of it or take special rewards for what you do for your _daimyo_. Simon, I see what you see, I hear what you hear, but I cannot read your thoughts, as you cannot read mine. For example, if you considered stealing money, such as this thirteen million, I wouldn't know until you actually did it. I see actions, not thoughts."

"Well, then you know who took the thirteen million. Right?" asked Simon.

"Of course, and you're dealing with it. However, regardless of your success in handling all these _problems_ , I still don't approve of the political reward you seek. It is much too political."

"What's wrong with politics?"

"Again the slow student, _hai_? A warrior's life should be uncomplicated, dominated by only two things: training and action, whereas the politician's life is very convoluted, dominated by talk, followed by more talk and very little action. Also, when politicians do act, many times it is the vile action of a back-stabber. You would not succeed in the world of politics, Simon. It's an arena where your skills of Ninjutsu are almost impotent."

"No, I don't agree. Look at what I've accomplished with Hastings, the bank, and the democrat's money. Owen Hastings and the Commerce Secretary promised me an appointment. They'll honor that promise."

"You have faith in the words of career politicians?"

"This time, yes, I do."

"Oh, my dear boy", sighed Soji, "such naiveté will lead to our mutual demise."

"You don't agree with my plans?"

"I do not," answered Soji.

"Then this session is ended, okay? We'll speak again when I settle with the Secretary. It'll work out. End the session, please."

"Wait!" snapped Soji. "I have a question that has been troubling me lately. Have you given any more thought to _how_ and _why_ we are connected?"

"No. I guess it's that spirit twin thing, right?"

"That's what it's called but how does it work? Why didn't I return earlier after my death? Why you, and not a Japanese? Haven't you asked yourself these questions?"

"Sure, whenever we talked about it, I assumed you knew. I just never bothered to ask."

"Have you considered that perhaps everyone has a spirit twin? Some who hold that theory believe unusual circumstances will bring out the latent spirit; some serious accident, head trauma, near death syndrome, or hypnosis, as you and I have experienced. On the other hand, suppose spirit twins are truly rare, as Kurusawa believes, and are not caused by trauma. Perhaps that means there is a specific reason for our 'twinning'. So, if it's not our personalities or backgrounds, what is it?"

Simon hesitated, unsure. "I don't know. Somehow you got put into me and, if there has to be a reason, it must be on your side of the net."

"Why? As Kurusawa once said, it could be that you needed whatever it is that I have. . .or had. I think either of us could be the cause. Or both. Don't you have _any_ theories at all?"

"Well...yes, I did. Early on, I believed that you, your personality that is, was just _me_ ; my way of coping with loneliness. Now I'm pretty well convinced that this conversation we are having is between two distinct individuals and you _are_ real, just as Kurusawa believes. Of course, that doesn't get us answers to your questions. I'll need to think about it some more."

"Simon, I have another puzzle about our relationship. It has been over eleven years since we first conversed. When I first came forth, I spoke to the interrogators at the CIA. When you awoke you had no knowledge or memory of my presence or my words. Now, we are so tightly united now that there is scarcely a pause between my question and your answer or vice versa. Have you noticed that changes to your face and voice when I speak are extremely subtle now, almost undetectable?"

"Sure, but that's probably because my facial muscles have gotten used to the alterations."

"Perhaps, but I think it's because our spirits are merging."

"What? How do you mean, merging?" asked Simon anxiously.

"We're becoming ever closer. Perhaps soon we will be close enough so this inefficient talking out loud will be unnecessary and we can actually share thoughts."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Simon. "You're Soji and I'm me! I like it that way. Hey, you've had your life, a long and successful one. Now it's my turn. I don't want any _merging_. Don't you want your thoughts to be private?"

"Yes."

"So do I. There are some things that shouldn't be shared. Agreed?"

"I agree, but do we have a choice in such matters?"

"Yes, damn it, we have to have a choice. And I say we choose to stay separate." Simon sighed, "Oh damn, you're probably right. We don't have any say in our relationship because shit usually happens. Please call an end to this session. I'm done talking about 'what ifs'. It's giving me a headache'"

"You can be very wise when you choose to be. Good bye."

Soji's faint image on Simon's face faded and then disappeared entirely. Simon rose and went into the bathroom. He stood before the mirror and rubbed his eyes, thinking how mystical Soji still seemed and how his questions were something that would have to be dealt with, sooner or later. Simon turned and walked out onto his balcony. The tide was receding and the colors of the sea had muted. He thought about the main reason he was in Freeport: Barclay's Bank, about a mile away, and what he must do next. Damn, he said to himself, now I've got to face up to the fucking Commerce Secretary. He'll be in Bosnia tomorrow with Jim Lusk and that'll be my decision point with this guy. Either I can trust him to stay quiet or has to go.

Looking down at the beach, Simon couldn't help thinking that the ambiance here was almost too good to leave. The cute redhead in a teeny-weeny white bikini might be worth cancelling the journey to Tuzla, all by herself. Ah, well, there'll be other days. C'est sera, sera.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"A Tourist in Jersey."

October, 1996 - Isle of Jersey, English Channel

Frank awoke at 8:00AM on his first morning in Jersey with stiff and aching muscles from being tossed overboard the day before. As he stepped into the tiny shower, his stomach growled loudly, reminding him that he hadn't eaten since yesterday's breakfast on the boat. Dressing quickly, he took the stairway down to the hotel lobby and soon detected the aroma of fresh coffee drifting up from below. The almost empty hotel restaurant offered him a choice of seats and he took one by the back wall, facing the windows.

An ageless waitress with thick glasses and grandmotherly white hair approached him, smiling broadly. "Good morning, sir. If you don't mind me saying, you look fairly hungry. Why don't you try the English country breakfast? It's our specialty."

Frank smiled broadly, nodded in agreement, and wasn't sorry. She brought him an out-sized platter with three fried eggs, four slabs of English bacon, three sausages, two muffins, jam, and a mug of steaming coffee. Frank was into his second muffin when a large, middle-aged man in slacks and sweater, sitting at the next table, leaned over and offered, "You have the look of a first time visitor. Am I right?"

"Guess I stand out. I'm American. And, yes, this is my first day here."

"Well then, welcome to Jersey! I'm Nigel Pardue," the man announced, extending his hand which Frank shook, smiling.

"Frank Grant. It's my pleasure, Mr. Pardue. Are you staying at the hotel?"

"Please, Frank, call me Nigel. The answer to your question is both yes and no. I'm a resident but here only about once a month. I'm a broker in London at Harwith & Sons. This time I'm here for a quiet week, just making phone calls. Then it's off to work in London Monday next."

"You're a Jersey resident?" asked Frank. "I'll guess taxes."

"Right you are! Bloody English taxes. About ten years ago I got tired of paying the high tax rate in London and became an official Jersey resident. It's saved my 'you-know-what' more than once. The Inland Revenue tax rules require that one needs to spend some time here every month. So, it's a weekend here, a holiday there, and I manage. The hotel charges me a flat monthly rate and they list me as a resident. How about you, Frank? Vacationing?"

"No, business. I work at an American owned bank in Central Asia and I need to see someone at Barclays' here." Frank folded his napkin and started to rise. "It's almost nine. Maybe you can point the way to the bank?"

"Oh, my lord! Sorry, guess you didn't know. This Monday is a Bank Holiday. Barclay's will be closed."

"Damn! I really need to get my business done here and get back home."

"Ah, but all is not lost, my new friend," Nigel said with a sly smile. "It just so happens that the stock market is also closed and I'm free. How about a tour of Jersey?'

Frank brightened a bit. "That sounds like a great idea! Thanks, Nigel."

Setting off about ten, they first played tourist at Mount Orgueil Castle, which Frank had glimpsed through rain when My Girl had rounded the eastern tip of Jersey. Nigel proved to be a font of knowledge with regard to the historic aspects of the harbor and its wartime and fishing heritage. In between Nigel's long and detailed narration, Frank found time to tell Nigel about his career as a stockbroker at Bear Sterns and they then found common ground to share shop talk. By dusk, they had walked, talked, taxied, and walked some more, traversing more than fourteen miles, circling most of the island. Reaching Weighbridge Street, both were weary from the day's excursion. Frank's feet had blistered from shoes never before used for walking and he was pretty sure that talkative Nigel's jaw muscles must be just as sore. At Pardue's suggestion, they took stools at a small, self-serve honor bar, tucked in a small alcove off the hotel lobby. Each filled a glass of cold ale.

"What's on your agenda for tomorrow?" Nigel asked, taking a sip of his Guinness.

"Same as it was supposed to be today. I need to see someone in charge at Barclay's Bank. They have some confidential information my bank needs that I couldn't get by telephone or telex."

"How so?"

What the hell, thought Frank, I might as well tell Nigel about the missing money. Maybe he can help and I can use all the help I can get. As Frank told him about the missing money and why he needed to see someone at Barclay's Bank, Nigel listened intently, absorbing every word without interruption. Frank wisely omitted a few _minor_ details: such as the missing money belonged to a gangster, the KGB was looking for him, and that his bank was a CIA front. That kind of information would no doubt scare the hell out of Pardue, thought Frank.

Frank finished his tale and Nigel absently tapped his glass, deep in thought. Then he raised his eyes, looked straight at Frank. "If you get _into_ Barclay's, what exactly do you expect to learn?"

"As I said," replied Frank, "the money came here to a company that coincidentally had my name on it. I need to know something about the company, who signs on the account, and whether or not the money is still here."

Nigel pulled his pipe from a pocket and began filling it. Still fiddling with the pipe, he spoke slowly, "You shan't get very far at the bank, Frank. Here you are, without notice, documents, or official identification. In essence, you're just another tourist. They won't give you the time of day! It's a damn shame you've come all this way but it would seem to be a waste of time."

Nigel lit his pipe, puffed twice, and then offered, "Perhaps I can see Barclay's for you, eh? I've legitimate reasons for making such inquiries and I know some folks at the bank. If you agree, I can have a chat with one of them in the morning. I'll say I'm interested in this company, _Grant Enterprises_. Perhaps I can get some idea of who's behind it and, in general, what their balances are. In my business, that's something I do regularly. If that tack fails, we'll see about using another method."

Frank happily accepted Nigel's assistance and they called it a night, promising to meet for coffee at 8:30, just before the bank opened at nine on Tuesday. Frank slept fitfully, rose early and reached the hotel café ten minutes early. When Nigel arrived, they quickly reviewed the information Frank needed and Nigel left for the bank just before nine. Frank decided to wait in the hotel café and bought three newspapers from the concierge to keep his mind busy and to see if he had yet made the news. He rapidly scanned each page, looking for any mention of the CAB theft. His search was rewarded by a small article on page four of the European edition of the Herald Tribune:

BANK INVESTIGATION IN FSU.

Local law enforcement authorities have opened an investigation into a suspected bank defalcation at The Central Asian Bank, a western owned bank with headquarters in Bishkek, the capital city of the Former Soviet Union Republic of Kyrgyzstan. Although bank officials declined to comment on the amount of money missing, it is rumored to be in the millions of dollars. Investigators have also declined to comment on details of their investigation or of possible suspects.

The shit's beginning to pile up, Frank thought. At least they're not yet screaming my name or showing my picture.

Nigel returned to the hotel at 10:15 and plopped in the small booth beside Frank.

"What happened?" asked Frank. "Everything go okay?"

Nigel shook his head and frowned. "Sorry old man, bad luck, I'm afraid. The money got here all right and it's already gone."

""What do you mean?" exclaimed Frank. "I knew the first account was closed but didn't they keep any money here in another account? It's all left Jersey? All thirteen million?"

Nigel's frown deepened, "Spot on. My chap had correspondence from another Barclay's office in Freeport, Bahamas where a new account was opened only days ago. Same corporate name and same signatories: J. J. Levitch and D. M. Crocetti."

Frank's mind went into overdrive. Levitch and Crocetti? Where have I heard those names? He searched his memory and came up empty. "Where did you say the money went?"

"Apparently," replied Nigel, "it all went to Barclay's office in Freeport, the Bahamas. And only a week ago, the Bahamas office was notified that its account would soon be closed as well. The Freeport bank asked Barclays here if there was any reason to delay closure. They told them that there was none. Last Friday afternoon, just three days ago, the Freeport bank was officially notified that the entire balance was to be withdrawn ASAP, all in cash, U.S. dollars. Sorry, Frank."

"Can we get any lead on the two guys?"

"My contact said he would try later today, as soon as the Bahamas office opens at 2:00 pm here. He'll ring them and see what else he can find out, all in the name of my looking at Grant Enterprises' possible sale value. He asked me to meet him at a local pub about 6:30, after he leaves the bank, and he'll tell me whatever he has discovered."

Nigel then excused himself to make some business calls from his room, promising to call Frank about 7:30, after meeting his contact at the pub. Frank scooped up his newspapers and headed for his room to take a hot bath for his aches while he waited for Nigel's call. Frank bathed, napped, read, and napped some more as the hours slowly dragged by. At 7:30 he called Nigel's room. No answer. By eight, he decided to get some dinner and descended to the hotel restaurant where he tackled a thick, steaming shepherd's pie. 8:30 came and went without word from Nigel and the small restaurant soon closed. Frank moved to the alcove bar, poured himself a whiskey neat and waited for Nigel to show. Soon, the grandfather clock in the lobby struck 9:00 and still no word from Nigel. Dejected and worried, Frank finished his drink. Where the hell was Pardue? Deciding that a walk in the cool night might refresh him and help kill some time, Frank began walking; tracing the route Nigel had shown him the day before. A brisk pace for twenty minutes with a bright fall moon lighting his way, brought him to West Park, off St. Aubin's Road. On their day trek, Nigel had skirted West Park, saying that it was only trees and a few flowers, with nothing much of historic interest. This time, Frank opted to see what the trees and flowers looked like in the moonlight and soon reached the middle of the tiny park without encountering another person. Stopping on the curved path before heading back to the hotel, Frank raised his eyes to the clear, cloudless sky. Stars lit the heavens like beacons marking channels for wayward mariners. The air was even clearer than in Bishkek.

"Takes your breath away," he sighed aloud. Suddenly, Frank's private euphoria was interrupted by voices coming from a clump of trees to his left. Thinking them to be fellow walkers, he decided to do the English thing and say hello. As he neared the voices, he was surprised to hear two men speaking with American accents.

"God damn it, Joey," said one man. "Hang on to your end, he's slippin,'"

"Yeah, yeah," answered a second voice. "Why do I always get the heavy end, huh? Fucking Limey weighs a ton. We shoulda brought a dolly."

Frank cautiously moved closer to the voices until he could see two men, one small and the other very, very large, about Yuri's height but obese. They were carrying a third man who appeared drunk. Abruptly, Frank realized the man wasn't drunk, he looked dead! Just at that moment, Frank put his foot down on a twig and it snapped, the sound echoing through the still park like a cannon shot.

"What's that?" asked the large man and both men stared in Frank's direction. The bright moonlight, so wondrous a minute ago, became a spotlight, aimed directly at Frank.

"It's a guy!" shouted the large man. "He's been fuckin watchin' us. Get 'em!"

Frank spun to run but the grass, wet from the night's sea dew, gave no traction. He slipped and fell on all fours. The two men bore down on him as he scrambled to regain his feet. Frank knew that it was no use trying to run in the wet grass. He'd have to stand and fight. The small man reached him first and Frank gave him a front kick in the chest as a reward. The little man collapsed like an empty sack, gasping for breath.

The large man, noting Frank's expert kick, slowed his progress but kept coming while flipping open a knife with his right hand. As he neared Frank, the man jabbed with the knife, using it like a sword. Marine Recon had trained Frank with knife defenses and he could see right away that this big slob knew how to use a blade. The fat man jabbed with his knife again and Frank cracked the outside of his elbow with a looping sidekick. The fat man grunted but didn't drop the knife. Frank had done some damage but not enough, so he circled, slowly turning away from the man's knife hand.

"Hey, fucker!" snarled the fat man as he jabbed and moved to stay facing Frank. "Com'ere and get some of this."

To his right and behind, Frank could hear the small man recovering and he had to assume that the little guy also had a weapon. He had to do something. Fast! Frank waited for the next stab and, when it came, he slapped away the man's outstretched arm, dropped under it, and hurled himself forward. On the slippery grass, Frank slid on his back, between the fat man's legs. As he passed under, Frank kicked straight up, smashing his heel smack on the fat man's balls. The big man screamed and Frank rolled left, away from where the small man was standing, got to his feet and started trotting away, careful not to slip again. The screams from the fat man and the ministrations of the little one faded as he put distance between them.

Fifteen minutes later, panting in nervous exhaustion, Frank reached his hotel, relieved to have escaped injury or even death and happy to have left behind a little damage to his two attackers. Passing Nigel's room, Frank rapped but received no response. Entering his own room, he went straight to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water and stared down into the sink, visualizing the two guys in the park. They must have killed the other man, he thought. But who are they? Was it an argument between tourists? No, the little guy said the dead man was English. What a sight to stumble upon! Well, no more walking at night in Jersey for me. This place is more dangerous than DC!

All through the night, Frank tossed, turned and woke almost every hour. Finally he gave up trying to sleep and dressed, knocking on Nigel's door just before seven. No answer. He went downstairs and asked the desk clerk if Nigel had left any message for him and was disappointed again. It didn't seem right to him that Nigel would have left without a word. Returning to his room, Frank retrieved Nigel's business card from his dresser top. After scanning the card, he decided to busy himself with the local paper until Nigel's office in London would open. At nine, he called Nigel's office and a pleasant receptionist at Harwith & Sons told him that Mr. Pardue was not expected in the office until next Monday.

"Has he called in?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Pardue rang in yesterday morning, confirming that he'd be out 'til next week. That's the last."

Frank thanked her and turned the business card over in his hand. On the back, he'd written Pardue's phone number at his London flat in Holland Park. No answer there as well. Sitting on his bed, Frank mulled over his situation. He'd only known Nigel for a day and really couldn't expect such a new friend to be overly concerned with his worries. Now, with Nigel unreachable and no one here to help him, Frank was certain he couldn't be successful at the bank. If he followed after Nigel's inquiry, the banker would certainly clam up and probably alert the local authorities. And, if he couldn't follow the trail here, he didn't need to stay in Jersey. Who knows how many people or agencies were on the lookout for me, he thought, and I've already spent more than enough time in one spot. I need to move on, but where?

Scar's money had already gone to the Bahamas and, according to Nigel, the trail ended there. It looked like Levitch and Crocetti would soon have the cash and they certainly wouldn't wait for him in the Caribbean. Frank stretched out on his bed. Staring at the plastered ceiling, he thought of his father. What would Joe do in a situation like this?

Joe had once advised him, saying, "Son, there's nothing like an ally. Two soldiers in battle have a synergy that more than doubles their effectiveness and it's an even greater effect in covert operations." Joe's advice had proven true with Yuri, Frank thought, and meeting Nigel had been a stroke of luck but whom can I rely on now; here in England?

Sifting his memories for a clue, Frank recalled that one of his father's best friends had lived in a small village North of London. What was it called? Something...Wood? West...wood? No. North...wood? Yes! Immediately, he recalled the name and address: Cyril Townsend of Northwood, Middlesex, England. Frank hurriedly rang the front desk, placed a call for Northwood information, and asked the operator to dial the number for him. A man answered, "Townsend residence"

Frank identified himself as Joe Grant's son and asked if he was speaking to Mr. Townsend.

"I'm terribly sorry sir, Mr. Townsend has passed. More'n two years now. Care to speak to madam?"

Frank said he would and soon a melodious voice came on the phone. "Morning. Avril Townsend here".

Frank expressed his condolences about the late Mr. Townsend and explained that he was in Jersey and had decided to look up some of his father's old friends in England.

"Perhaps your husband mentioned my father, Joe Grant?" Frank asked.

"Oh my yes! I knew Joe very well. Do come along! I'd love to meet you and we'll chat about Joe and Cyril. You can take the underground train straight from Heathrow airport to Northwood."

Frank spent the remainder of the day buying new comfortable shoes, making reservations on Thursday's first commuter plane to Heathrow and trying to contact Nigel before leaving Jersey.

After landing at Heathrow, Frank made his way to the train station, below the main terminal. On his way, he purchased copies of The London Times and The European Herald Tribune at an airport newsstand. Flipping quickly through the Herald, he saw nothing of note regarding the CAB money and almost dropped the Times when he came across a heading:

STOCK BROKER FOUND DEAD IN JERSEY

Passersby about midnight Tuesday discovered the body of G. Nigel Pardue 44,

senior broker at Harwith & Sons in the City, on a park bench near the center of St.

Helier, Jersey yesterday. Constable Jerome Wiggins stated that the incident was

either a suicide or death by causes or persons unknown. Further investigation

is underway. Yesterday, an unnamed spokesman for Harwith & Sons said that

Pardue had been with the company since 1979 and the company knew of no reason for Mr. Pardue to take his life. However, the spokesman also stated the

firm's auditors would research Mr. Pardue's business files as a matter of company policy. Pardue was a ten-year resident of Jersey.

Frank couldn't believe his eyes. Nigel had committed suicide? No way, he thought, someone murdered him. Wait a minute... that was Nigel's body in the park! Those two hoods killed him. But why? Deep down, Frank realized he knew the answer. Quickly taking a seat on a bench in the bustling airport lobby, he carefully reconstructed the previous night's encounter. He had to admit the obvious; Nigel's murder must be related to his inquiry at the bank. No one but Nigel and Berndt knew Frank was in St. Helier and Berndt had left Jersey soon after Frank had disembarked. Obviously, Nigel had called attention to himself by sniffing at the money trail. Frank ground his fist into his hand, saying silently, fuck, I got the poor guy wacked! Sorry, Nigel, I didn't realize that a _nyone_ who gets into this mess can get hurt. Or killed. Frank's skin prickled as he realized Madeena and his friends in Bishkek might be facing unknown dangers.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

"The Cat Fiddled and the Cow Jumped."

September, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Madeena called her uncle early on Monday, the day after had Frank left, and asked to see him as soon as possible. Sensing her distress, he told her to come to his apartment immediately. Once safely behind Imanbaikeh's oak paneled door, Madeena told him everything she knew about the missing money and of Frank's recent escape, even though she was fearful that he might be critical of Frank for fleeing. To the contrary, Imanbaikeh belatedly approved of Frank's plan to follow the money and offered his help, if Madeena wished it.

"Yes please, Imanbaikeh," Madeena pleaded, "Frank wants to know how and why Natasha is involved in the money disappearance. And, I'm afraid the KGB will soon begin hunting him"

Imanbaikeh sipped his cup of hot green tea, thought for a minute. "I'll call Assan, my old school mate. He's Minister of the Interior and head of the Kyrgyz KGB. Let's see what I can do through him." Imanbaikeh patted Madeena's hand, "Don't worry my dear, everything will turn out fine. Frank needs you to be strong now."

Madeena left Imanbaikeh's apartment feeling much relieved. Frank now had someone in his corner who could perform miracles.

The Minister of Interior rose from behind his desk and greeted Imanbaikeh in his native Kyrgyz.

"What brings my old school mate to this poor office?"

"A matter of some delicacy, Assan Ulanovitch," answered Imanbaikeh. "Someone has taken thirteen million dollars from the accounts of Ti-Rik Atabekov at the American bank. Documents implicate the bank president, an American named Frank Grant. However, I know him and I'm confident that he is innocent. Have you been contacted about this matter?"

The Minister nodded. "Perhaps I shouldn't comment but, yes, we received a telex this morning from the bank's headquarters in Washington. I haven't yet decided how to answer. It's a complex issue but perhaps my learned friend has a suggestion?"

Imanbaikeh put his palms together, as if in prayer, and replied in solemn tones, "I believe that this situation can be viewed as _entirely_ foreign. The bank is American. The accused president is American and the money was owned by one of the biggest Uzbek gangsters in Central Asia. Therefore, this does not involve the Kyrgyz government, its citizens, or any Kyrgyz businesses. Considering those facts, I would recommend a guarded response, indicating concern from your office, without actually committing any real resources. I know Mr. Grant and, if he has time and Ti-Rik doesn't find him first, he will discover the real culprits. On the other hand, if Grant is killed, everyone would then agree that, as far as your office is concerned, the case is closed. Let Grant do the work and, when... _if_ he succeeds, I'll do my best to see that you get a good share of the credit."

The Minister looked puzzled. It was unheard of for his old friend to ask the wheels of justice to turn _slower_. "You say no citizens were damaged?" asked the Minister.

"None," replied Imanbaikeh

The Minister chewed his lip and said, "Atabekov's a gangster but he also has some legitimate businesses in Kyrgyzstan. If he makes a formal complaint, I will have to act. However, we both know that he's the last person to ask for help from law enforcement. My ministry is his enemy and he'd never ask an enemy for assistance. He would deem that an act of weakness. So, your advice is wise and I'll do as you suggest. Nothing."

The Minister smiled brightly and opened his arms expansively to Imanbaikeh. "Thank you for helping me keep my expenses down. Ti-Rik has many resources to use in looking for his money and I wouldn't want to be the person who took it. If he finds them, no one else ever will." The Minister's smile faded as he recalled an incident from the past. "Do you remember the case of the Korean gang called 'Brothers of the Blood'?"

"No. I must have been traveling. What happened?"

"About two years ago a small Korean gang of eight men challenged Ti-Rik. The entire gang disappeared in one night. As time went on, my people would find a hand here, a foot there. That went on for over a year. We found lots of parts but not enough to piece together one whole corpse. Pray that Ti-Rik does not find Frank Grant and judge him guilty."

"I will and thank you for listening," said Imanbaikeh as he rose and exited the Minister's office.

After this, Imanbaikeh thought, the Minister of Interior and the KGB will stay out of it for a while. So, even while he's running, Frank must quickly find out who took the money and where it went. Scar Atabekov is quite another matter. Somehow, I have to find out what Scar is planning.

Reaching his apartment, Imanbaikeh wasted no time putting out feelers for the whereabouts of Scar Atabekov.

September, 1996 - Washington, DC

The Secretary of Commerce paced his large office in an oblate pattern, tradition preventing him from stepping on the Commerce Department Seal woven into the carpet center. At each step, he slapped his thigh softly with a manila envelope. A messenger from the Chinese Embassy had delivered the envelope earlier that morning and now the Secretary was worried. Very worried. This Chinese _thing_ had gained momentum. The greedy little bastards aren't satisfied with what they got the first time, he thought. Pettit had processed their millions for missile guidance data slick as leather shoes on ice and now they wanted to _buy_ another twenty million worth of nuclear warhead technology. That's too much. Way too much and way, way too dangerous. He stopped pacing and picked up one of the four telephones on his desk. It rang automatically at an extension in the White House.

"Yes."

"Jonas?"

"Yes, Mr. Secretary," answered Jonas Lusk. "What can I do for you?"

"We may have a snag with those donations you helped me with."

"What donations?"

"Ah...is this line secure?"

"Yeah, yeah, absolutely. So what donations?"

"The Chinese ones. I received a letter by courier this morning. They want another exchange. It's too risky and I want your assistance to derail it. They're hinting that they'll blow the lid off the previous deal if I don't cooperate. Something or _someone_ may have encouraged them, or it could be part of their long-range plans. Do you think that guy Pettit may have encouraged them?"

"Don't know," muttered Lusk. "Want me to check?"

"Please."

"Ooooh... kay," Lusk sighed. "Be back to you in a day or so."

The call to Lusk would set some things in motion that should help him but the Secretary couldn't calm his anxiety. My heart can't take much more, he thought. I've got to cover myself with the DNC and then see if my fall guy will fall. First, I'll invite Owen Hastings for lunch tomorrow. Second, I'll need to talk with Tony Cannelli.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Spy Lady."

October, 1996 - London Area, England

After a forty-minute train ride from Heathrow Airport, Frank hailed a taxi to Marley House, the Townsend's residence. The driver took Frank through the town center; one main street about a mile long with a several boutique shops, a green grocer, three banks and a small inn. He smiled, thinking, when the banks outnumber the shops, you can be sure you're in money country.

The taxi swung into a small circular drive in front of Marley House, a two-story Victorian manor, with red brick sides, white trim against a black slate roof, and a new three-car attached garage. A tall, thin, attractive woman with snow-white hair pulled back into a bun stood in the open doorway.

"Hello there," she called out, waving.

"Mrs. Townsend?"

"Righto!"

Frank paid the taxi driver and a smiling Mrs. Townsend took his arm, leading him into the manor house and directly to a tea-room in the rear that overlooked a small, immaculate garden. She motioned for Frank to take a seat in a high, wingback chair as she moved to a bar cart standing in a corner of the tearoom.

"Well now, young Mister Grant. You've had a bit of a journey getting way out here from Jersey. Shall I pour you something from the bar? And don't worry, I'll happily join in." She waved a hand at the several bottles on the cart. "What will it be? Gin, scotch, wine, sherry?"

Frank was pretty certain that an English country house wouldn't be stocked with Kentucky bourbon so he answered, "Gin and tonic would be very refreshing, thanks."

Avril Townsend made two gins, one with tonic for Frank and one neat for herself, neither with ice. She handed Frank his glass and then dropped into a matching wing chair, facing Frank across a low, glass coffee table piled high with travel magazines. Between nips of gin, she proceeded to grill Frank about his father.

"Thank you for that information about Joe," Avril said as she rose to make refills. "I really missed him when he left for home in '45. He was a very special man. After working so closely together, Cyril and I grew to think of him as a brother." She paused, patted her hair absentmindedly. "Now, let's talk about _you_."

Frank smiled and started to reply but Avril held up a hand to cut him off, "You told me on the telephone that you came to meet Joe's old friends. Why do I feel you've come for another reason? Am I right?"

Frank blushed slightly and nodded. "Sorry for the subterfuge. You're dead right, Mrs. Townsend. Before I called you, I had reason to recall my dad's advice: if I ever got in a jam, I should look for allies. Your name - your husband's that is – was the first to come to mind."

"What's this _jam_ , Frank? How could Cyril have helped?"

Recalling Nigel's murder and the killers who almost got him as well, Frank took a large gulp of his second gin. He gripped his glass tightly and locked eyes with Avril Townsend.

"'Mrs. Townsend, my jam, my _predicament,_ has become extremely dangerous. One man in Jersey, a relative stranger, tried to help me and now he's dead. If I involve anyone else, they'll be in danger. I thought that Mr. Townsend, with his experience in espionage, might be able to help without getting himself into harm's way. Unfortunately, I see that he's not available." Frank placed his glass on the coffee table and rose with his duffel bag. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Townsend, for inviting me and sharing old memories. It's probably best that I move on."

"Sit down, young man!" Avril Townsend ordered, eyes blazing. She rose and shook a finger at Frank. "I told you I knew your father, and I did! It was I who worked with Joe's unit, _not_ Cyril. Cyril worked in the War Office as an administrative liaison to Americans in a different division of the OSS."

Avril suddenly realized she'd lost her decorum. She quickly retook her chair, smoothed her dress, and continued in a much calmer tone, "In 1943, at eighteen, I took a stenographer position at the War Office. They assigned me directly to the OSS liaison group and that's where I met and worked with both Cyril and your father. Cyril and I were married just after the war ended and Joe was Cyril's best man. After almost thirty-five years in government administration, first with the War Office and then the Foreign Service, Cyril retired early in 1971. I worked steadily for thirty-eight years, until '81, as part of the covert credentials section of MI6. So, you see, Frank, if _any_ Townsend is an expert on clandestine operations, I'm it. Nothing you could tell me would scare me or present any danger I haven't seen before." Avril grinned and leaned forward eagerly toward Frank. "Now be a good boy and get on with your story."

Over the following two hours, Frank told Avril Townsend everything as he knew it, pausing only to answer her pointed questions.

"So that's about it, Mrs. Townsend," he concluded. "It doesn't seem reasonable to follow the money to the Bahamas. Nigel said that the money would soon disappear from that bank, anyway. If I don't go there, where do I go? Back to Bishkek?"

Avril Townsend stroked her chin, looked in her glass, and swirled what was left of her third gin. "I've been calling you Frank," she said without looking up. "Please call me Avril." She glanced up and smiled. " _Mrs. Townsend_ is not for family."

"Sure," Frank replied with a relieved grin. "You know, _Avril_ , while I was relating my sad tale, the way you asked your questions while looking away reminded me of Angela Lansbury. You know, in the TV series, 'Murder, She Wrote'."

Avril Townsend's eyes grew wide. "Really? Well, I take that as a compliment, Frank. In actuality, my play-acting has, on occasion, been good enough to save lives, sometimes even my own." Avril hesitated and then asked, "Have you contacted your friend Madeena or Colonel Borkov since you left?"

"No," answered Frank, shaking his head slowly, "I was afraid to compromise them. Any telephone in Bishkek associated with me has certainly been tapped by now, if it wasn't already."

"Well, yes, maybe tapped for you but not for an _ally_ , right Frank?"

"That's right!!" exclaimed Frank. "Someone else could call Madeena and get _her_ to call _me_ from an untapped phone."

"Let's just do that" Avril offered, "Tell me how to introduce myself and we'll see where it will lead."

Madeena answered on the third ring and Avril Townsend offered, "Hello, Miss Kulova, my name is Doris Von Kappelhoff, in London. My employer, Mr. Sherman, _Bernard Sherman_ , asked me to call. He met you at the Adriatica restaurant this past May. Do you remember? You were with your uncle, a Mr. Imanbaikeh."

"Oh, I... I think so." replied a puzzled Madeena.

"Mr. Sherman will be in Kyrgyzstan again soon and he would like to ask you some questions about the Kyrgyz media. Unfortunately, he's traveling this week and could not call today. He would like you to call him at 44-172-930-294 tomorrow, say about two p.m. your time. Would that be convenient?"

Who the hell is this guy _Sherman_ , thought Madeena. Wait, Frank's first name is really Sherman! Madeena knew then the call had to be from Frank and that she had to end it quickly or listeners on phone taps might become suspicious. "Yes, I'll do that," answered Madeena. "Two o'clock tomorrow. Oh, I'm sorry .... please repeat the number." Avril repeated the number and Madeena ended the call.

"When are you actually planning to get back to Bishkek?" Avril asked.

"I don't know. It was tough getting here. Just thinking about that boat trip gives me the chills. What do you think about me going back right away? Is a stupid move?"

"I hadn't really thought it out, Frank, but what else? If the money went out from your bank, someone had to send it, right? If it wasn't you, it was someone else. You said you suspect Natasha. Is she still in Bishkek?"

"Yeah, probably," Frank answered with a frown. "I'm damn sure Natasha is involved but she can't have thought this up by herself and she certainly didn't kill Nigel. When Madeena calls tomorrow, we'll find out if Natasha is still there. If she is, I guess it's back to Bishkek and try to get her to tell the truth. The question is, how do I get there without getting caught?"

"Leave that to me, Frank. Getting people into places where they aren't supposed to be was my specialty for twenty years. I hope I haven't lost my touch."

### CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"Plug the Leak."

October, 1996 - Tuzla, Bosnia

The customized USAF Boeing 737 waited dark and silent at the end of the tarmac at Tuzla Airfield, Bosnia. A crew of six and twenty-nine passengers: the US Secretary of Commerce, eight people from the Commerce Department, two men and one woman from the Department of State, four journalists, three security personnel, Jim Lusk from the White House, and nine VIP American business executives were scheduled for a short flight to the Croatian resort town of Dubrovnik. Meanwhile, passengers, crew, local politicians, and a few base personnel were gathered in the airport bar to hoist a few in farewell. Simon Pettit stood quietly in the rear of a small crowd that surrounded the bar. Finishing his Perrier, he slipped away from the mass of well-sloshed celebrants and walked out into the hallway, heading for the men's room. Bobby O'Connell of State beat him to the single toilet by a whisker and, with a wink, locked the door behind him. Simon decided to wait. Lounging against the wall with his eyes closed, he attempted to soothe his jet-lag demons. He'd been on the move for over thirty hours.

One lone, well-used pay phone hung on the wall about ten feet from the bathroom door. A small dark-haired man dressed in Air Force coveralls stepped up to the telephone, inserted a phone card, and dialed more than a dozen digits. Simon's ears went on alert but he kept his eyes closed and his body relaxed. By the clicks, he recognized that the first number dialed, a "1" for North America was followed by the New York area code.

"Hello? Yeah, yeah, it's me, Georgie," said the dark-haired man. "I done what you wanted. Yeah, no problems. I got on the plane as part of the service crew. Sure, the zapper worked fine." Georgie, belatedly covered his mouth to conceal his words but Simon's excellent hearing had already tuned in. Although muffled, Simon could still understand most of Georgie's side of the conversation.

"Like I told you," whispered Georgie. "Ain't no way that plane's gonna get back down, unless they got Saint Christopher as a pilot. Don't worry, it's done. Okay ...yeah ... you take care, Joey, I'm outta here tomorrow."

Georgie hung up and looked furtively down the hallway, ignoring Simon who appeared to be in a drunken sleep, eyes closed and propped against the wall. Georgie left the main terminal building and strode quickly to a small pickup truck parked near hanger 3. Simon waited a few seconds and then followed in Georgie's steps. Speeding his pace, Simon reached the passenger side of the truck just as Georgie's hand reached for the handle of the driver side door. Like a moving shadow, Simon came around the hood, looming suddenly into Georgie's view and Georgie yelled, "Who the fuck arrrgh ....." His words were cut off as Simon seized him by the neck with his right hand. Simon pushed his left thumb down hard inside Georgie's collarbone and, as Georgie tried to scream, Simon tightened the hold on his neck with both hands. Choking and in pain, Georgie squirmed and kicked out but Simon simply lifted him up off the concrete runway and shook him like a cat shaking a mouse. The little man's eyes widen as he felt Simon's grip on his neck tighten slowly, an unshakable vise. Georgie's bladder released, staining his coveralls. He was a very frightened man.

"Stop struggling," Simon hissed, "and I'll let you breathe,"

Georgie went limp. Simon relaxed his grip slightly and whispered a question, "On the telephone. What plane did you mean?"

Georgie gulped in air and then pressed his lips tightly together, saying nothing. Simon increased his grip on Georgie's neck and again pressed his thumb into Georgie's collarbone. Georgie made a gurgling sound and waved frantically for Simon to stop.

"You'll answer my question?"

Georgie nodded several times and Simon relaxed the pressure slightly, allowing Georgie's feet to barely touch the ground.

"Gov'ment plane," Georgie gasped. "I fixed the fuckin' gov'ment plane."

"The plane carrying the Secretary of Commerce?"

Georgie nodded vigorously, his eyes as wide as goblets.

"You sabotaged the plane?"

Again Georgie's head bobbed several times.

"What did you do, exactly?"

"Zapped the GPS," Georgie croaked and wiggled his fingers for more air.

"With what?" Simon asked as he gave Georgie a little more oxygen.

"Stun-Gun," Georgie answered, sucking in air. "Half a million volts. Knocks out the calibrations. Hey, man, whaddaya want with me? You Secret Service?"

"Never mind who I am. Just answer my questions. Who hired you?"

Simon relaxed his grip a little more. Georgie now could think a little. By talking, he thought, maybe I can calm down this big motherfucker.

"Hey, man, I got the job from Joey Blue Eyes. All's I know is, I get these Air Force rags, a passport, and a ticket. I did like I was told."

"Who'd you call just now?"

"Joey Blue Eyes."

Simon squeezed a little and said, "I want a _real_ name."

Georgie stammered, "Joe, Joseph Barbuto. Newark. He works for Cannelli. What's it to you?"

Simon ignored the question and moved his left hand to grip the middle two fingers of Georgie's right hand. He bent Georgie's fingers backwards, waaay back. Georgie started to yelp and Simon warned him, "No noise or I'll break them off and use them as a gag. _Capire_?"

Georgie's head bobbed up and down like an oil well pump jack. He heard. He believed.

"Slowly, using your fingers, give me the stun gun," ordered Simon.

Georgie reached into a pants leg side pocket and gingerly offered the instrument to Simon.

"You drive, "Simon directed as he stuffed the stun gun in his jacket and pulled Georgie around to the passenger side. Simon shoved Georgie into the truck and, still holding his two fingers, Simon climbed in after him, quickly motioning for Georgie to move further over and take the wheel.

"Go," ordered Simon. "Head for Tuzla city. I'm not going to release your fingers. I'll shift up once for you, then stay in second gear."

After about five miles they entered a district of half-completed factory buildings. The silent shells of abandoned offices, factories, and warehouses gave testament to the collapse of Communist rule.

"Over there," said Simon, pointing. "Turn right and go behind that building,"

"Why?" squealed Georgie. "What ya gonna do?"

"This is where we part company. Park to the right of that concrete fence."

Georgie had been in on two hits in Baltimore and one in Philly. Each had ended in a dark, vacant spot just like this. This guy's going to whack me, he thought. I gotta do somethin!.

Georgie whipped the steering wheel to the left and his right hand exploded in pain as Simon broke both of his fingers at the first knuckle. Georgie tried to steer with his left hand but couldn't hold the wheel against the tremendous torque of the spinning truck. In his pain and terror, Georgie's body stiffened, pressing his foot on the accelerator. As the truck gathered speed, it somehow managed to straighten out as it careened toward a huge pile of rubble. Georgie screamed again and tried to duck under the dashboard but Simon had no intention of being trapped in a crash. Swinging open the passenger door, Simon dived away from the truck and landed in a ball, his motion stopped by a low mound of sand and small rocks.

Simon looked up in time to see the speeding pickup strike the mountain of rubble. It ran about halfway up the pile, tipped and rolled completely over as it slid down the pile, finally rocking to a halt on its left side. Running to the truck, Simon found Georgie out cold, his whole body squashed under the dashboard. It would take a wrecker and crow bars to get him out. Simon stood for a few minutes, thinking and watching Georgie, the murdering plane saboteur. His decision made, Simon moved to the rear of the truck and opened the gas cap. He took off his trousers and stepped out of his jockey shorts. Putting his pants back on, he then ripped the shorts into several ragged strips and tied the strips together to form one string about five feet long. Simon stuffed one end of the strip into the gas tank opening until it had soaked up a bit of gasoline. He slowly extracted the strip until most of it, about three feet, lay exposed and draped over the right rear wheel. Simon reached into the cab and pushed in the cigarette lighter. Seconds later, when the lighter popped out, Simon took the glowing lighter, wrapped it in the dry end of the strip of Jockey shorts, and ran for the street as the strip burst into flames. The gas tank explosion hit him in the back and almost knocked him off his feet but he managed to keep moving. At the street, he slowed to an easy lope that took him back to the Airport in less than forty minutes.

Reaching the terminal building, Simon went immediately to a room reserved for carry-on bags destined for the USAF flight to Dubrovnik and pulled a tan flight bag from among the huge pile of bags. He retrieved a jacket and a hat emboldened with _Associated Press_ from the bag _._ Donning the jacket, he slapped on the hat, making sure that his blond hair was covered. Exiting the room, he walked toward the tarmac where the 737 sat awaiting the Secretary of Commerce and his group. An Air Force corporal stood at the foot of the stairway, guarding the plane's entrance. Nearing the guard, Simon flashed a Press Pass. The young airman glanced at the pass. He smiled and nodded, noting Simon's AP jacket and matching hat.

"The plane ready to leave?" Simon asked.

"I think so, Sir. They're scheduled for takeoff in less than an hour. Baggage will begin loading any minute now."

"Okay if I drop off some equipment? It'll only take me a few minutes."

"Yes, sir, no problem," answered the corporal.

Simon climbed the stairway into the plane and made his way to the rear section that had been curtained off and fitted with two comfortable bunks, one against each bulkhead. After removing some papers from his flight bag, he stowed the bag under the starboard bunk and went back down the stairway, waving a casual salute to the guard. As he walked across the dark tarmac toward the brightly-lit VIP lounge, Simon could hear people making their final toasts. Avoiding the lounge, Simon returned to the luggage room and found his roll-on bag whereupon he traded his Associated Press jacket and hat for a plain black jacket and then went into the bar in search of the Secretary of Commerce. He'd just passed the doorway when someone pulled on his arm. It was a somewhat inebriated Jonas Lusk, White House political assistant.

Lusk stuck his face into Simon's and demanded, "Okay, Pettit, tell me how you did it."

Simon immediately thought of the recently barbecued Georgie. He put his lips close to Lusk's ear and whispered, "Did what?"

"Shit, you know," Lusk retorted loudly. "The fucking Chinese money. How'd you get it laundered?"

Simon was incredulous. "You want to talk about the Chinese money _now_? _Here_?"

"Yup," belched Lusk. "Hell, why not. I want to know how a _master_ spook pulls these things off." Lusk latched onto Simon's arm and propelled him back toward the door. "Les go ... ou'side," Lusk slurred. "C'mon, tell me how you fuckin' did it." He weaved toward the door, his glass held high, guiding the way.

To avoid making a scene, Simon allowed himself to be led out the door. They walked around to the side of the terminal building and, after two ineffective hops, Lusk managed to get a perch on a low cement wall. Lusk might be a little drunk, Simon thought, but Lusk often boasted that he was molded in the Gordon Liddy style of White House assistant. I think he'd be the last guy to squeal. And, if the whole story ever became public, all fingers would point to Lusk as having started the money laundering process. Really, there's no reason _not_ to tell Lusk.

Simon waited until Lusk had settled, albeit precariously, onto the wall and then began the whole story: Chinese money, Scar, the walnuts, CAB, and the Universal Nut Products.

When Simon finished, a fast sobering Lusk asked, "So wha happened? Why's everybody worried?"

Simon smiled. "Simple, I'm aware of five people who knew about this deal. Somehow, there's at least one other person who has the same knowledge. Who, I don't know. Up to the point when the Chinese money paid off Scar's expenses, everything was working just as planned but someone else knew that Scar had kept at least eleven million from the deal. That person decided to tap Scar's account, framing the unsuspecting bank president. The thief must have been pleasantly surprised when he raked in an additional unexpected two million from Scar's other accounts. It's an understatement to say that Scar is pissed! He's beginning to make waves and now the Chinese have pressed for another exchange. I really don't want them to get anything else and, if I have to, I'll expose the whole operation. That scandal would involve lots of people, including the Vice President. The Secretary of Commerce doesn't know it, but Hastings called me in to clean up the mess. The funny part is that Hastings didn't know it was my deal to start with."

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch!" exclaimed Lusk, slapping his thigh. "I figured it was probably you that Hastings had talked to. He wouldn't have been so confident if he'd been dealing with a new player. I wonder what happened with Representative Cannelli?"

"Who?" Simon exclaimed.

_"Capo_ Tony Cannelli", answered Lusk. "Apparently, the Secretary called Cannelli and then Cannelli called me. He wanted to verify that the Chinese were paying big for technical information. I didn't tell him much but it sounded like he and the Secretary were considering doing the next Chinese deal on their own. I've been told that they've met several times over the past few weeks. I certainly won't help and I hope it doesn't happen. Those two are rotten"

Simon frowned. Shit, he thought, Cannelli's in the loop as well. Add one more to the list of insiders. I can't believe that they would be stupid enough to try to personally tap into the Chinese bribes. This wasn't helping his daimyo, it was blatant treason! That fucking Secretary is history! Then I'll deal with Cannelli as soon as possible. Damnit! I can't afford the risk of Lusk and Hastings getting together again.

"If you want to stay out of this shit pile, don't you talk to Hastings or especially Cannelli until I fix it," Simon ordered. "Okay?"

Lusk nodded his head wearily, now totally sobered. "You bet. I don't need more grief. If any of those pricks call, I'm unavailable. Thanks much, Pettit. I'll appreciate you spooks even more from now on. Let's go back in. The plane's supposed to leave shortly."

They walked back to the lounge without speaking. When they reached the bar, Lusk asked for two Perrier's, one for Simon and one for himself. Obviously, Simon's tale had affected Lusk considerably. Simon looked for the Secretary in the bar without success and, for the next twenty minutes, he sipped his Perrier, quietly listening to flyboys telling hair-raising stories and businessmen making last contacts as they swapped business cards. Finally, he spied the Secretary of Commerce coming in from the front entrance and caught his eye. Simon nodded his head toward the rear hallway and the Secretary quietly ended his current conversation and moved in the direction Simon had indicated.

Meeting the Secretary in the hallway, Simon whispered, "I've some very interesting and confidential news for you that you should know before leaving. Head down this hallway and out the side door. I'll go out toward the tarmac and meet you. We should be alone out there."

The Secretary nodded, walked casually out of the lobby, and headed down the hallway as instructed, while Simon exited via tarmac entrance.

"Quite some send off you've got here, Mr. Secretary," said Simon as he rounded the dark corner of the terminal.

"Oh, it's always the same wherever, People just love to suck up. So, what do you have for me?"

"Just a private word before you leave." The Secretary grunted and gazed quizzically, trying to make out Simon's face in the dark.

Simon pulled out a small brown folder from his jacket and flashed the folder at the Secretary.

"This folder contains everything regarding how the seventeen million got washed, where it came from, where it went, and who knew. Just to make sure I don't miss anything when I sanitize this transaction, you should review everything for completeness before I shred it and cover the trail."

"That's very thorough. Let's see it," demanded the Secretary as he snatched the folder from Simon's outstretched hand. Opening it, he squinted to discern the pages of information in the dim light and quickly became engrossed. He didn't notice Simon putting his hand back into his jacket pocket to extract Georgie's stun gun. Simon gripped handle of the instrument and moved to the Secretary's side.

"Hastings told you not to divulge our little secret, didn't he?" whispered Simon.

The Secretary peered up at Simon and frowned.

"You couldn't wait to set me up in case you got caught. Now you're doing another trade with the Chinese for yourself and Cannelli. I told you I would protect the White House and I will, even if you have to die in the process."

The Secretary's face contorted, in both recognition and fear, and he spun to race away. Simon's right hand moved in a blur. The stun gun touched the Secretary's butt and he stiffened, his head snapped backward as his eyes rolled up and his mouth dropped open. He made an effort to move forward but his knees buckled. He fell face first onto the concrete walkway, twitched twice, and then lay very still and very dead. He and his pacemaker had been shocked into permanent silence.

Simon retrieved the folder and made it back into the crowed lobby just as the air group commander gave a signal that the plane was leaving. Some eighty people, including Simon, spilled out of the VIP lounge to meander in the general direction of the waiting 737 as last-minute baggage was being loaded.

Once everyone, passengers and non-passengers alike, were aboard, the evening's good humor quickly subsided as the pilot, co-pilot, and their group commander continued an argument that had apparently started in the ready room. The group commander was trying to get the crew to delay the flight that night, citing bad visibility that was obviously getting worse. The senior pilot argued that they knew the route, having flown it more than a dozen times, sometimes in worse conditions. Suddenly, the chief aide to the Secretary of Commerce stuck his nose into the argument to announce that the Secretary was missing. Reluctantly, the base commander harrumphed, threw up his hands and ordered the security detail to find him.

It didn't take long before they found the body, apparently dead from a heart attack. Without further argument, the flight was cancelled until daylight and the destination changed to bring the body straight home.

Just in case Georgie knew what he was doing, the new flight plan will give them time to find the sabotage, thought Simon with a smile. No innocents would die on this mission.

Among the mourners, all now back in the terminal lobby, Simon's eyes found Mike Tarp, one of the Commerce Department people, and Simon worked his way toward him.

"Lo, Mike," said Simon. "Great shame about the Secretary. You accompanying his body home?"

"Yeah. We'll have to make funeral arrangements enroute. You coming along?"

"Unfortunately, no," answered Simon with a long face. "As much as I want to be with you folks, it's better that you guys not have to worry about another passenger. You have enough to do. When you get back home, let me know if I can help in any way. "

"Thanks. Sure you won't come along? There's plenty of room."

"No can do. I only came to Bosnia to solve a small problem and, beginning tonight, I start another project. Have a good flight, Mike."

Back in his hotel room in Tuzla, a much subdued Simon conversed with Soji.

"I didn't feel right about the plane, Soji. At first I planned to have Georgie's work go unnoticed and just let the plane go down with that SOB. That would have been the safest course. If only the Air Force guys and the other passengers hadn't been in the way. Those people didn't deserve to die. Good thing plan _B_ worked!"

"You did what you had to do," replied Soji. "You could not shirk your duty during the mission. Now, like an intelligent soldier, you are reviewing your actions in the calm light of human morality. If the Secretary had lived to return home, he most certainly would have committed treason for personal gain. He might also have blamed you, Jim Lusk, and Owen Hastings for everything. This way he seemingly dies a hero. Later, the papers you left on the plane will show his real character. However, I don't believe the administration will want to sully his image with investigations. Be thankful you prevented the President, your _daimyo,_ from being dragged into yet another scandal. This time perhaps a fatal one."

Simon's jet lag wouldn't let go. Even though he'd gone from the Caribbean to DC to Tuzla without hitting a bed, he'd not slept well and appeared unusually bleary at breakfast the next morning. When the Secretary's death was publicly announced in the Tuzla hotel restaurant, several people noticed Simon's reddened eyes. "Look. Even tough ole Simon Pettit is grieving for the death of a beloved man," they whispered.

No, not Simon. Certainly not for this weasel and never...since Kimiko.

### CHAPTER THIRTY

"Mata Hari and Shemp."

October, 1996 - London Area, England

Avril Townsend exuded a contagious exuberance as she took Frank on a tour of Marley house and its grounds. She had quickly warmed to Frank and obviously liked being needed. Avril's intelligent chatter and fantastic memory for his father's exploits soon captivated Frank's attention and he gradually unwound, his travails on the sea and the murder in Jersey fading by the hour. At dinner that first night, Avril's _man_ , Steven, and his wife, Doris, cooked and served dinner, allowing Avril to ramble without interruption - as if she ever needed assistance to talk. Her many memories of the long ago war and clandestine OSS missions that she had been privy to were fascinating and Frank listened, engrossed in wide-eyed admiration.

Avril readily admitted that she would have given anything to have gone along on just one mission with Joe's unit. The danger, intrigue, and importance of those OSS operations had hooked her early on. Unfortunately, until near the war's end, her contribution was secretarial, copying plans and debriefings. Except for some female members of foreign resistance forces, the OSS was a man's world and office _gals_ like Avril were never considered for promotion to agent. But she never lost hope. After the war had ended, when most young women in England quit their jobs and married their returning soldier boys, Avril, already married to Cyril, hung on at the War Office. By 1947 she had wrangled a transfer to MI-6, England's slightly more competent version of the CIA. In two years, she reached agent status and received intensive training to be a spook at MI5's facilities at Sandhurst Military College. Frank was astounded at her many adventures over the subsequent years at MI-6. Always careful to hide confidential details, Avril related stories of covert ops in places like East Berlin, Oman, Kiev, Singapore, and Hong Kong. She'd been injured three times, fortunately never sustaining any permanent damage, except for the small scar behind her right ear that she bent low to show Frank.

"Damn poor shooting", Avril opined. "But I shant complain. Usually a Kalashnikov gets the job done".

Frank suddenly wished he had brought a tape recorder. Yeah right, dummy, he thought, if I did have a recorder, she'd be talking about growing roses and bird watching, not trade secrets. There's no way she'd let anyone tape her memories, even without naming names. God, this country lady must have really been some spook!

As soon as his head hit the pillow that first night, Frank quickly drifted off and slept the best he had since leaving Bishkek. Rising around 7:30 the next morning, he followed his nose toward wonderful aromas coming from the kitchen. He found Avril alone, frying eggs and bacon.

"Good morning," greeted Avril. "Trust you slept soundly? Cook and Steven don't come on 'til eleven, so breakfast is up to me. Coffee's in the pot. I've already got my meal cooking. You'll have eggs as well?"

"Wonderful to both," replied Frank. "Shall I pour you some?"

"Please, just a little, to warm my cup. Sometime after breakfast, I expect we'll be getting a telephone call from your Madeena."

They sat in silence for a few minutes and then Avril announced, "After you retired last night, I made a new passport for you."

"You did what?" asked Frank. He was about to learn more of Avril's many talents.

"Well, actually you see, my preferred specialty is, er... _was_ documents. Fraudulent ones. During the cold war, I might be sent off at the last minute, sometimes in the middle of the night and, of course, needed appropriate papers. In '68, MI-6 set me up such that I could work here at home and save precious time. Much of my old equipment remains here in my workroom. MI-6's last delivery of materials was just two years past and they haven't asked for me since. So, last night, with my handy-dandy microscope, scalpel, printing sets, and seals, I prepared a passport and permanent visa for one David Daniel Kominski, born Kiev, Ukraine, 1932, a resident of England since he was ten."

Avril handed the passport to Frank. He opened it. "Damn," he exclaimed. "I've never seen a Ukrainian passport but this sure looks genuine."

"It should. I cooked it with all the proper ingredients. We'll add your photo after breakfast. A cover story is most important, Frank. You'll need a background that backs up the name I've given you. This is critical. You and I will create Kaminski's personal history and whatever we invent for him, you must write it all down as we decide the facts. Then memorize Kominski's dossier until it becomes second nature to you. Incidentally, I chose the name because it's Russian/Jewish. That should lend credence to why you and your parents left Kiev. You know - religious persecution."

"Why'd you pick the Ukraine? I would have thought a British or American passport would be better for me."

"Possibly, but you told me your Russian was good and, actually, I've none of those in stock. MI-6 only supplied me with stock for those countries where they might need to send covert operatives and, as far as I know, that didn't include the US. Also, I've always drawn the line at fabricating British passports, unless I had orders. But I don't terribly mind getting crosswise with the Ukrainians. All right, dear boy?"

"Don't apologize, this is great! A hell of a lot better than I had yesterday. Let's get to work on Kominski." Frank started to get up from the table, intending to fetch paper and pen from the living room, and hesitated. "Avril, you know, if it's possible, I'd like to get on the road today. When Madeena calls, let's see if it's okay."

Avril shrugged in reply.

They waited in the kitchen for Madeena's call with Frank hunched over the table writing Kominski's biography as he and Avril brainstormed Kaminski's sixty-four years of personal history. Whenever Frank took the time to transcribe their thoughts, Avril devoured her morning paper. At 9:40 the kitchen telephone rang. Frank looked up from his notepad. They locked eyes in anticipation and then Avril picked up the telephone receiver.

"Yes, this is Doris Von Kappelhoff. Who is calling please?"

Avril handed the telephone to Frank, silently mouthing, "Madeena".

Frank grabbed the phone. "Madeena, is it you? Sorry, I couldn't call. I was so worried about you. Are you all right?"

"Yes, Frank, yes. Everyone here is fine. We're the ones to worry. What has happened to you?"

Frank then summarized his trek through Russia and the Baltic, the Freeport bank transfer, and finally Nigel's death. Madeena became very agitated at learning of the Jersey murder. "Frank," she pleaded, "please be extra careful. It's _you_ they want. You're the only one following them."

"Don't worry, honey, I'll be careful," Frank said calmly. " _Doris_ here has helped me a lot and I'll be coming home soon. What about Natasha? Is she still at the bank?"

"Oh, you bet! She's there, using your office and playing at being a bank president. It's probably a temporary promotion but I'm sure she thinks she has your job. She blames you at every opportunity."

"One thing about Natasha," Frank answered, "she always knew whose ass to kiss and whose to kick. When I get back, I'll need to question her. Somewhere very private. Can Yuri arrange that?"

"I'm seeing him tonight and I'll ask him. Is there anything else you need?"

"Yeah, I'll need a new place to stay. Something out of the main stream where I can still use a telephone and get meals without going out."

"I'm sure the Colonel can handle that as well. It may take a few days to arrange. Imanbaikeh says the KGB is not involved as yet but he says that Scar's people are everywhere. Watch out for them!"

"I will. You stay near Yuri, okay?"

"Okay. I miss you very much, Frank. When shall I call again?"

Frank turned to Avril, repeated Madeena's question, and Avril took the phone.

"You can call me at any time without problems, dear," Avril offered. "Why don't you call here every day at this same time and I'll relay any message from Frank and vice-versa."

"Good. I'll call every day. Thank you for your help and please tell Frank to come home soon."

Avril replaced the receiver and looked at Frank for comment.

"Great!" he offered, "We have a communications plan. Next I'll need a travel plan that allows Yuri time to make arrangements for me in Bishkek and lets me sneak back. Suggestions, spy lady?"

Avril Townsend immensely enjoyed this type of intellectual challenge. She rubbed her hands, rose, and began to pace the kitchen. Keeping her eyes on the floor and a frown on her forehead, she concentrated on the problem.

"Will you need a visa to get into Kyrgyzstan, Frank?"

"No. That Ukrainian passport will work fine. My old Kyrgyz residence passport is also valid but I'd hesitate to use anything with my real name."

"Agreed. Stash your 'Grant' passports. Use only Kominski's. I should think your route should be semi-direct, using British Air, if possible. You'll want to drive into Kyrgyzstan to avoid airport queues."

Frank nodded, anticipating more sage advice.

"If you leave today as you wanted," Avril continued, "your friends won't have time to set up a car to meet you or arrange for a safe house. Better if you leave later, after we've spoken again to Madeena. By the way, what do you think is the best port of entry?" she asked.

After some thought, Frank offered, "We've got ... three options. First, I could fly to Tashkent in Uzbekistan. and come up from the south. There's a main road connecting Tashkent and Bishkek. I've never driven that route but the Uzbeks probably have several checkpoints on that road and their border cops are sharp, greedy, and unpredictable. Plus, Scar probably has a price on my head and money's the best motivator in Central Asia, even with the police. So, if Scar's offering enough money, and I'm guessing he is, both the Uzbek police and Uzbek Mafia will be searching everywhere for me.

"Second choice is the way I left, through Almaty, Kazakhstan. Unfortunately, that airport has the sharpest immigration staff in Central Asia and the passport area is brightly lit. It'd be pretty tough to fool those guys, even with a good disguise.

"Third route is through Dushanbe, Tajikistan. The Tajiks are related to northern Afghans, same Pashto language and culture. Consequently, they've been fighting a nasty civil war that heated up when the Russians left Afghanistan in '89. Tajik border police have more than enough troubles with refugees and terrorists. I don't think they would bother looking for a suspected bank embezzler from Bishkek." Frank looked at Avril for a reaction.

"Hmmm," she said. "Any problems getting from Dushanbe into Kyrgyzstan?"

"I don't know. Haven't done that one either," Frank answered, "I do remember Yuri telling me that it's mostly paved highway and takes about five or six hours through low mountains and a few villages. According to Yuri, the highway is not a driver's main worry. The main problem is bandits who've taken advantage of the civil war. A UN truck got hijacked there last month. Three dead Swedes. It ain't route 66."

"Then how the devil does one get _into_ Dushanbe?"

"Since the civil war started, the only flights operating go through Moscow on Aeroflot - no, sorry - it's now Russian Airlines."

Avril stopped pacing and pulled out a stool next to Frank at the large butcher-block table that dominated her country kitchen. She sat with a sigh, rubbing her hands together as if she were about to deal cards. Tarot cards.

"Do you believe," she asked innocently, "that I have experience in this sort of situation?"

"I would never doubt anything you claimed, Avril," Frank answered, with a smile and a bow of his head in deference.

"And right you are, Mister Grant. More years at this sort of thing than I'd like to admit." Avril's eye focused on the tabletop and she began speaking, almost to herself. "All right now, let's look at this in a logical sequence. First, Tajikistan has the leakiest border but it could be fatal driving from Dushanbe, in central Tajikistan, to the Kyrgyz border. Also, because of refugee and terrorist problems, I would expect the Kyrgyz border guards closely check anyone entering from Tajikistan. Therefore, the ease of getting _into_ Tajikistan is offset by inordinate problems getting _out_ , to say nothing of the danger while being _inside_ Tajik territory."

Avril's eyes never left the tabletop as she mimed dealing, lest she mis-read an imaginary card. "Second, the airport in Almaty, Kazakhstan is easily discarded as too closely guarded. Therefore, I think we can rule out the first two, Tajikistan and Kazakhstan."

Avril stopped and looked at Frank. She'd dealt the hand and now she had to read it. "The choice is Uzbekistan," she pronounced. "That's where border guards routinely stop people for small bribes but, as you say, it's nothing personal or even unprofessional. Yes, Uzbekistan is the best of a bad lot. The added advantage is that it's the last place, outside of Bishkek that Scar would expect to find you. However, if you were to go to Uzbekistan alone, even with Kominski's passport, you'd fit the single-man profile that Scar's men will be looking for and, I'm afraid, you'd be caught quickly. You'll need to change your basic profile. Travel in a group or have an innocuous companion or two."

Avril paused and looked back at the tabletop, searching for an answer among her invisible Tarot cards. Suddenly her head snapped up, her eyes shone brightly, and she gleefully clapped her hands. "I've got it! A couple! With just a little money for bribes in a few places. That's how to get into and out of Uzbekistan."

"What do you mean, _a couple_? You thinking of going?"

"Oh, yes, Frank, it's the best plan. They'll be looking for a lone man in his late thirties. An elderly couple from England shouldn't raise any eyebrows. Don't worry about our age difference. We were going to age you as Kominski with some makeup from my workroom anyway. It's a jolly good plan! You do agree?"

Frank stood. It was his turn to pace. "No. It's just way too dangerous," he announced, running his hand through his hair nervously. "I've already gotten Nigel Pardue killed and I sure as hell don't want you to be next. Forget it, Avril. Let's think of something else."

"Stop pacing and sit back down!" ordered Avril. "Pacing is what _I_ do and I cannot abide it when others do it." Then Avril's face and voice softened as her eyes met Frank's. "Remember when I asked if you believed in my expertise? You said, yes. Correct?"

Frank nodded grimly as he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat.

"Well, Sir Galahad, in my experienced judgment, I don't see much danger for me in this little jaunt and, frankly, I would enjoy the trip, to say nothing of creating some new additions to my memoirs." Avril patted Frank's arm, batted her eyes coyly, and whispered softly, "Would you deny an old lady some fun?"

Frank couldn't help himself from grinning. His dad must have really liked working with a coquettish manipulator like Avril Townsend.

"Okay, _Ms. Lansbury_ but no surprises, all right?"

"Right you are. I'll get on the telephone and see to our tickets. You go to my writing desk," directed Avril as she reached for the kitchen phone. "Think of a reason why Kominski would be going to Kyrgyzstan."

Within minutes, she hung up the phone to announce that they had signed up with a small group of English tourists on a Cook's tour of Tashkent and Samarkand, via Moscow. Frank looked puzzled and questioned Avril on the wisdom of going through Moscow.

"The route we take to get to our objective is less important than how we avoid discovery. That depends on which tour we join," Avril replied. "The tour group I've chosen is forty or so retired schoolteachers. That number of people will offer much better cover than the two of us traveling alone, no matter which way we go. The tickets are all prepared. We leave in three days, on the fourteenth via British Air to Moscow, then Russian Airlines from there. Once our tour gets to Tashkent, I'll find another group we can join to get to Bishkek. Agreed?"

"Russian Airlines?" exclaimed Frank. "Oh, do you have a treat coming!"

When Madeena called the following morning, Frank told her to expect him in about four or five days. They agreed that Madeena would call every day until their departure. Frank purposely omitted telling her about Avril's part in his return. Madeena has no idea of Avril's age, he said to himself, and she sure as hell wouldn't believe me if I told her my companion was near seventy. The second night at Marley House, Frank awoke suddenly at 3:00AM, drenched in perspiration. He'd dreamt that he had watched Scar's men jump from a black Volga and run toward Madeena, shouting, 'We'll take you, if we can't get your boy friend!'

And then they shot her. Frank had knelt next to her bleeding body as the assassins' car sped away. Clasping Madeena in his arms, he could feel life drift from her body. He was mumbling her name as he jerked awake. For the remainder of the night, Frank tossed and turned, mostly lying awake, with images of Madeena's blood on his clothes. This nightmare could become reality if he didn't get back to Bishkek with some answers. And soon.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

"Sneaking back."

October, 1996 - London Area, England

The morning of their departure, Frank and Avril sat facing each other over her kitchen table while Avril applied the last touches of makeup to Frank's eyes.

"Walking like an old man should be the easiest trick to pick up," she lectured. "Remember, Frank, balance is always a problem for the elderly. Imagine you're walking against a brisk breeze with one foot on a board about six inches wide. You'll find yourself being more careful how and where you step, always checking your balance. Talking is a bit more difficult. That requires patience, something the young have little of. When someone asks a question, pause – count to two or three – as if your thoughts are a bit jumbled and first need be put in order."

Avril brushed some stick-um under Frank's chin and prepared to attach his new wattle. "On the other hand," she continued, "if you have something to say, jump right in as if the words are bursting to get out. One makes an effort to get the words lined up just so, you see, and then one is anxious that they don't fall apart before they all get out. You'll need to practice your sounds as well." Frank's eyebrows went up. "Yes, yes, _sounds_ , Frank" she repeated. "Any physical effort: walking up stairs, picking up the paper, climbing on a stool, should elicit a slight grunt, confirming to all the world that you had to exert some extra effort. Above all, think _vulnerable_. I know this will be difficult for a robust ex-marine but you must act as if you are brittle and weak, to the point that many things you now ignore become intimidating. Things like crossing a busy street, descending stairways and even scanning unfamiliar menus."

Frank regarded Avril with new respect. "Is that how it is with you?" he asked.

She sighed with a little shrug. "Oh, a bit. I've found myself unconsciously avoiding certain situations and grunting as well. But my wits haven't totally left me and, yes, the physical part is a bit difficult once one gets past seventy."

_"Past_ seventy? My god, Avril, you're just NOT going! Really, I'll be fine as just another old man inside the tour group. Okay?" Frank asked, hopefully.

"Not on your life, young man! I'm seventy-one and you've not a gray hair on your head. You might be made to look like seventy but you'll need me to cover for the mistakes that you most assuredly will make. One hour with that group of World War II survivors and you'd be uncovered as a confidence man. Or worse." Avril leaned in close, nose to nose, and scanned Frank's face. "I've aged you," she whispered, "put some liver spots on your hands and can show you how to act, but you're still a raw amateur at this game. Anything, either word or action, out of what's expected can expose you if you don't have someone along to cover your young back. As you Americans say, the bottom line is: we're partners until we get to Bishkek."

With that, Avril left the kitchen to pack her things for their journey. Frank's return to Bishkek had suddenly turned into _Adventures with Avril_.

Enroute to Moscow – October, 1996

Frank and Avril buckled up and settled back in their seats aboard BA 121 as it taxied to the end of the runway, preparing to take off on its way to Moscow from Luton Airport, a small charter-flight airport north of London. They had boarded with a group from S.O.R.T., the Sussex Organization of Retired Teachers. Each of the forty-six eager tourists had a brand new Russian translation-book in hand. No one looked twice when Frank introduced himself and Avril to the two ex-teachers sitting in the row ahead as being retired Foreign Service employees. Streaks of gray were mixed with his dark hair, fine lines under his eyes had been accented, his jowls and wattle sagged, and, beneath his shirt and belt, held by the band of his jockey shorts, a small pillow formed a cute potbelly. Avril had not lost any skills in disguise or makeup and, once the issue of her coming had been settled, her lectures in how to move, turn and speak had been followed by a two hour dress rehearsal before leaving for the airport.

As the plane leveled off, the seat belt light went out, and a balding man about Avril's age rose from a forward seat and began strutting down the aisle. He sported mutton-chop side burns, plaid golf pants, and a blue vest over a long sleeved bright yellow shirt; obviously not a paragon of English conservative dress. He held a clip pad in his left hand and was making careful notes as he chatted up each member of the S.O.R.T group. Nearing Avril, he stopped, a surprised look came to his face, his eyebrows arched, and his jaw dropped.

"Avril!" he exclaimed, "Avril Townsend, is that you?"

Avril glanced up, looked right through the man, and replied, her voice an icy monotone, "Andrew? My... it's ... sooo long since we've chatted."

"And who is this with you, _Mrs._ Townsend?" the man asked with a smirk, nodding toward Frank. "Whatever would Cyril say?"

"Cyril died over two years ago, Andrew," snapped Avril. "This is my friend David Kominski. He was a friend of Cyril's. David was on holiday and I persuaded him to come along on the outbound flight. We'll be leaving the tour in Tashkent to go off on our own." Avril turned to Frank. "David, this man is Andrew Simmons."

His face slightly flushed, Andrew grinned stupidly, mumbled condolences to Avril, and stuck out his hand to briefly touch fingers with Frank.

"You're our group leader, Andrew?" asked Frank.

"Oh my, don't say leader. I'm more of a _facilitator_ , here to see that everyone enjoys the trip. Well, terribly fine meeting you, Kominski, but I must be off to count noses, ta."

As soon as Andrew was out of earshot, Frank whispered to Avril, "And just who the hell was that?"

"That, Frank, is an old albatross. When I was seventeen, during the war, just before I met Cyril, I actually dated that person. Just once and that was once too often, I'm sorry to say. For months later, he never stopped yapping about our 'blissful night'. The scoundrel! All we did was huddle in an air raid shelter until dawn with a crowd of other scared Londoners. Then, about ten years ago the old goat started calling me with invites for lunches or dinners. Even though he knew I was married, he asked me to join him on a weekend holiday, threatening to tell Cyril about our _past_ if I refused. That's when I _did_ tell Cyril. Cyril called him, arranged to meet him alone and that was that. I'd not seen or heard from that little fart until today."

The remainder of their three-hour flight to Moscow passed uneventfully, except for Avril's agitation at the luncheon served: a cold, greasy chicken thigh and leg lying on a battered and unwashed tin tray. The flight attendant came round with rock-hard rolls. Avril ignored the basket of rolls and silently handed the attendant the tin tray. Frank chewed on his tough chicken leg, waiting expectantly for the flight attendant to make some derisive remark but one look at Avril's stern face erased all thought of retort from the young women's mind. Two hours later, their plane landed on time at Moscow's Sheremetyevo airport.

Frank, Avril and all the other passengers deplaned to an old, dirty-blue articulated bus and were driven to the transit terminal building where Andrew Simmons led his group to the head of a long line of travelers waiting to quickly pass through Russian territory to their ultimate destination. Frank could rest easy, there would be no immigration check at this stop. Once his people had all exited the transit bus, Andrew attempted to herd them into a corner of the busy transit lobby. A task such as Andrew was undertaking was a bit of a challenge as other transit passengers, awaiting their respective flights, had formed long snake-like lines that cut through the S.O.R.T. group at several angles, turning Andrew's single group into several.

Andrew stood on his roll-on bag and shouted, "Everyone stay together. Our Russian Airlines flight to Tashkent will be announced shortly."

Andrew's words acted like a starter's gun. All of the S.O.R.T folks, with the exception of Avril and Frank, rapidly scattered in search of last-minute food, toilets, and water, all to Andrew's consternation. He shouted, "Stay here. Stay here" but his pleas went unheard or, more accurately, were blatantly ignored. Over an hour later, the long-awaited announcement of their flight departure sent Andrew again scampering around the transit lobby, seeking to gather his flock. He banged into strangers as they stood in their lines, tripped over bags, and generally made an ass of himself. Apart from, and unaided by the frantic Andrew, the S.O.R.T. members gradually found one another, lined up at the proper gate, and calmly boarded. Andrew barely made it into the plane before the door closed. He'd gotten lost.

Tashkent, Uzbekistan – October, 1996

They landed in Tashkent at 7:00PM local time. The Russian TU 154 taxied slowly to a designated spot out on the tarmac, squeaked to a stop awaiting stairs to be positioned. According to Soviet custom, the crew deplaned before their paying passengers. At the direction of the flight attendants, Avril, Frank, and the S.O.R.T. group sat patiently while the pilots locked the cockpit and trooped down the shaky stairs. The retired teachers then deplaned, trailing behind Andrew's bright red umbrella, held high and waved in circles for all to see. They trooped across the tarmac into a large, foreboding brick building and queued for immigration control. Frank tensed, thinking, here we go again and this time I don't have Yuri's old gal covering my sorry ass. Frank's turn came and he shoved his Ukrainian passport under the glass partition.

The officer looked at the passport, stared at Frank, analyzing each facial feature, and asked, " _Ukrainski_?"

Frank's mind fell into neutral and he stared back at the officer, unable to think of _anything_ to say, in _any_ language. The officer slowly repeated his question. Frank stirred and, with great effort, his mental computer finally located his Russian language disk. " _Dah_ ," he replied _. Ya tour-eest e hachoo yehveedeet Samrakand._ Yes. I'm a tourist and I want to see Samarkand _"_

The officer's eyes never left Frank's face, his eyes boring holes in Frank's eyes, then he looked down, stamped Frank's passport without comment, and slid it back. Frank exhaled silently and joined Avril near the baggage return carousel.

"Everything all right, dear?" she asked.

"Yeah. For a second I forgot my Russian. And my English. Just drew a blank. Thank God it worked out okay."

"That happens to the best of operatives, Frank. Consider it your baptism of fire. But you can't afford more than one lapse."

Avril and Frank chatted with the S.O.R.T. group members at baggage return as bags from their flight began to show up on the belt. Locating his bag and wrangling it along with Avril's, Frank led the way to a customs control area that consisted of several low counters manned by Uzbeks in the black Nazi-like uniform of the Ministry of Interior. Avril presented the customs forms for both of them that she'd completed while waiting for their bags. The customs guard read both forms and asked in Russian if they had any videotapes. Frank answered, "No". The guard summarily stamped their forms and lazily waved them through. They were in!

Frank was feeling exuberant after passing through Immigration and customs without a serious screw-up and asked Avril with a broad grin, "What're your orders now, Chief?"

"First I want a 'gotcha' on Andrew," she replied.

"A what?"

"A 'gotcha'. I believe you Yanks invented the term. You must know what I mean."

Frank stood looking at her for a clue and his mind raced. Suddenly his light bulb lit. "Oh no, Avril, you _can't_ mean what I think you mean. We're on a _mission_ for gods' sake."

Frank looked in askance at Avril, his arms wide in question. She responded by smirking silently and batting her eyes like she'd done in Marley House.

"Okay, okay, you win," said Frank, grinning. "What do I need to do?"

"That little fool is going to ruin this trip for those poor teachers," replied Avril. "As a matter of fact, they probably already expect it as well as I do. This is probably a-once-in-a-lifetime experience for them. Let's give them something to remember that isn't hurry up, hurry up, foolish, and condescending."

"Like what?"

"Well, we don't want to injure anyone or cause these good folks distress, so it must be something that is simple and solely an embarrassment for Andrew."

Avril looked pensive, then her eyes lit up, and she grinned like the Cheshire cat.

"Frank, see if you can find a scrubber."

"A what? A scrubber?

"Oh, I'm sorry, in American English, I believe it's called a _hooker_."

Stunned at first, Frank quickly recovered and he too grinned broadly when he realized what Avril was suggesting.

"Wait a minute while I check with somebody," he said, moving away to the taxi desk where he held a brief conversation with the dispatcher. Both men laughed loudly and Frank gave the man some US currency.

Returning to Avril's side, Frank announced, "It'll take about ten minutes. We'll need to stall Andrew."

"Frank, you've seen Andrew in action. He couldn't get this group together and out of this airport in less than thrice that time. All we need do is watch."

Meanwhile, Andrew was rushing about, pulling bags off the baggage turnstile, barking orders to the bags' owners, and swinging his umbrella about his head like Excalibur. After about twenty minutes, he had managed to corral all the S.O.R.T. members. With bags in hand, he gathered them outside the Customs Control area and prepared to give them his marching orders. Suddenly, two young girls wearing micro-mini skirts and blouses several sizes too small, approached Andrew from behind. One took his hand that held the umbrella and the other put an arm around his waist. Then they both hugged him, kissed his cheeks, and, batting long false eyelashes, loudly proclaimed how much they had missed him. Even though they spoke only Russian, every one of the teachers got the message. Andrew was apoplectic. He sputtered and stammered as his face and neck turned bright crimson.

Frank moved closer to Andrew, nodded to the two girls, and spoke slowly to the now very attentive S.O.R.T. members. "My fellow travelers, these young ladies must have mistaken Andrew for a more _elderly_ gentleman. Certainly no one as active and virile as Andrew needs resort to professionals. Right, Andrew?"

"Bloody damn right, Kominiski," responded Andrew noisily, stiffening his back and rising to his full sixty-six inches.

"Shall I see that the young ladies are escorted out, Andrew?" asked Frank.

Andrew nodded energetically, making 'shoo' motions with his umbrella.

Frank whispered to the tallest girl, a dark haired Tatar. She giggled, turned to face Andrew and the upraised faces of Andrew's flock. Raising her right arm, she held her thumb and index finger about two inches apart and said loudly in English, "Okay. He is too small, anyway. _Dasvidanya_."

Frank quickly grabbed both girls and escorted them outside to the street where Avril waited and then all four peered back into the airport lobby through the huge plate glass windows. Forty-five retired teachers were convulsed, laughing, and hooting. Tears of glee rolled down every cheek.

"Bloody fine!" announced Avril. I've been waiting ages to get back at that little letch and that was a definite gotcha," "Let's drink on it!"

Frank gave the girls some bills and then he and Avril waved goodbye to two giggling girls. Selecting a taxi, Frank asked the driver to take them to the nearest restaurant with a bar. The driver stared blankly at Frank and then, with a slight hesitation, he asked the name of the restaurant they wanted.

Slowly, Frank explained in Russian, "We don't know Tashkent very well but I assume a city of three million should have at least one nice restaurant with a bar. Please take us to such a place."

The driver continued to look puzzled. "I will use telephone and ask office for name of restaurant. Okay?" " _Ladna, Horosho, bistro p'shalista._ Okay, good, hurry please," replied Frank from the back seat.

The driver left his cab and disappeared into the terminal. Fifteen minutes expired before the driver returned to announced, "They say Restaurant Asia, on other side of city."

Twenty minutes later, they left the rural farm area of the airport and began passing larger and larger buildings and encountering much more traffic, indicating they were nearing Tashkent city center. The cab moved quickly through traffic and out into a mixed neighborhood of small shops and apartment buildings, finally pulling to a stop in front of a one-story building set apart from adjacent structures, painted in bright red and blue with a faded black and white neon sign on the front, proclaiming in Russian, and English, " _Restaurant Asia"._ After paying the driver, Frank and Avril cautiously entered the darkened restaurant and were greeted by a portly, middle-aged man with jet black hair and a graying beard. He wore a square skullcap that identified him as both Muslim and Uzbek.

_"Dobra Vesha, prohadeet p'shalitsta,"_ he said, welcoming them in Russian and smiling broadly. Avril replied, "Hello," and the man looked at them closely. "Americans?"

_"Nyet, Ukrainski e Engleeski,"_ Frank answered.

His broad smile froze, the man nodded, and ushered them back outside to a round wooden table on the restaurant's street-side area, near the entrance. The paved patio had been raised about two feet from the street level and was encircled by a decorative three-foot-high white iron railing.

"I'll have a gin and tonic without, please," Avril whispered to Frank.

"I don't think so. Mixed drinks are still a mystery to the bartenders of Central Asia. It's beer, wine, cognac or vodka. Your pick"

"Sorry. It's been quite a while since I've visit Asia. Wine will do. A good Merlot, please."

Frank covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. "You're right it's sure been a while! Wine here, Avril, comes in three varieties; red, white and pink. Shall I order the house red?" asked Frank, smirking like he'd caught his third grade teacher in a math error.

"The house wine will do nicely, _Mr. Kominski,_ " Avril snorted.

"Good, because that's probably all they have," retorted Frank, now openly laughing.

Avril harrumphed, grinned a bit, and then they laughed together.

When the wine reached their table, Frank poured, they lifted glasses, and Avril toasted to Andrew's _ladies._ Frank raised his glass for a second time, prepared to give thanks for Avril's makeup skills when he hesitated, noticing a black Mercedes glide to a stop on the street near their table. Avril took the opportunity of Frank's silence and began a toast to Andrew's tailor and Frank quickly forgot the Mercedes, his attention now taken by Avril's dry wit.

The front window on the passenger side of the Mercedes lowered and two black eyes set over a large black beard peered at the elderly couple drinking and toasting in English, giving special attention to the old man's face. After five or six minutes, the car window raised and the Mercedes drove off.

Avril and Frank were on their fourth toast when a dirty yellow Russian-made Lada sedan approached the restaurant. It slowed as it neared the edge of the patio and an arm came out of the front passenger window, drew back and let fly a small, round object toward the patio. Out of the side of his left eye, Frank had seen the car slowing and was able to react the instant the object was released.

"Down, Avril, get down! Grenade," Frank shouted, upending their table as a barrier between them and the mysterious missile. With his right hand, he grabbed for Avril, got a good grip on her arm, and pulled her to the floor behind the table. The flying object slammed against their tilted tabletop and ricocheted up and over them. It took one big bounce on the concrete patio and rolled slowly in the direction of the restaurant entrance. Just as it crossed the threshold, it exploded. Shrapnel streaked off in all directions, mostly toward the restaurant's interior. Avril let out a soft grunt and people inside the restaurant began yelling and crying in fright and pain. Frank peeked around the table to get a look at the car but it was already well up the street and gaining speed. He turned to check on Avril. She was holding her thigh and moaning, her eyes squeezed shut with pain. The smell of burnt explosive and the sound of yelling patrons suddenly hit Frank and he had difficulty focusing. Just like a deer that's been shot at and missed, he thought. He shook his head, cleared his vision, and began to examine Avril. She was bleeding badly from two gashes in her lower thigh, just above the knee. Frank quickly stripped his belt and, using one of a table fork, tightened a tourniquet on her leg.

"Avril, how's the rest of you? Can you walk?"

Avril shook her head, grim faced, angered at her incapacity. Frank didn't hesitate. He scooped her up, stepped over the low fence that bordered the patio, and immediately realized how frail she was: Avril couldn't weigh more than ninety pounds. Placing her gently on the street curb, he waved for a taxi. The second taxi to pass stopped and Frank managed to settle Avril in the back seat without loosening her tourniquet. As he ran around to the other side of the taxi, the driver yelled at him to take the lady and go away. The driver had seen the blood on Avril's dress and he wanted no part of them. Ignoring the driver's protests, Frank slipped into the back, put his arm around Avril, and ordered the driver to find the British Embassy. Grumbling about damn stupid tourists, the driver reluctantly put the car in gear.

Frank patted Avril's arm and observed, "We got out just in time."

"What do you mean, just in time?" exclaimed Avril, gritting her teeth. "We bloody well got bombed!"

"No, sorry. I meant we got out before the militia...the police arrived. If they detained and questioned everyone, our little charade might have been discovered. Scar's people must have spotted me from the Mercedes. I'm sure that grenade was meant for me."

Avril nodded with clenched teeth. Frank sighed. "Let's get you to a doctor and patched."

The taxi driver deposited them at the British Embassy on Sovietskaya Street and sped off, happy to be rid of bleeding foreigners and smiling at his extra five-dollar tip. Frank carried Avril to the embassy gate only to find the gate guarded by Uzbek soldiers who refused to admit a wounded person, Englishwoman or not, without an embassy officer's approval and the embassy was officially closed.

"Damnit, this woman is a British citizen and needs immediate attention!" Frank yelled at the taciturn guards.

"You were in Wahhabi bombing?" the guard asked Avril, for the second time.

"I don't know what a Wahhabi is," she answered feebly. "But, damnit yes, we were in a bombing. At the Asia restaurant."

At that moment an English employee arrived on the scene and introduced himself to Avril as Steven Headford, Cultural Attaché'. Headford took Avril's passport and offered to take her in his personal car to a clinic frequented by embassy personnel. Avril quickly assented, her face twisted with pain, and Headford motioned for Frank to accompany them for the short ten-minute ride.

Once inside the clinic, Avril was taken away to examination, leaving Frank alone with Headford.

"Strange fellows, these Wahhabis, eh?" offered Headford. "Terribly sorry you had to accidently meet up with one of their bombings."

Frank's mind was on Avril. He reacted slowly again; a bad habit to get into or, maybe correct for Kaminski's character. "What? Oh, I guess so. Say, who're Wahhabis? Have they been tossing bombs like this for a while?"

"Second time this month. Last one tried to take out President Karimov but he wasn't where they thought he would be. Killed a few bodyguards though. Wahhabis are strict adherents to the Koran, wild-eyed fundamentalists, mostly found in Saudi Arabia. The success of the Taliban in Afghanistan has encouraged them here. Oh, by the by, I'm Stephen Headford, cultural attaché."

"I caught your name back at the embassy," replied Frank. "I'm David Kominski,"

As they shook hands, Headford's eyes focused on Frank's chin.

"What? Something wrong?" Frank asked. "Did I get hit too?"

"Mmm, possibly," mused Headford. "Looks as if your chin is torn. Strangely, there's no blood."

Frank fingered his chin. He immediately realized that his double chin of putty had ripped and was beginning to pull away from his real skin. Self-consciously, he kept his right hand on his throat, concealing the torn disguise like a teenager covering a humongous zit.

"That's damn funny," Frank mumbled innocently, "it doesn't hurt. I guess a little extra weight has its advantages. Nothing but a little fat up there."

Headford did not respond as his eyes shifted to Frank's stomach. Frank glanced down, following the direction of Headford's stare. Frank's potbelly pillow had slipped out from under his shirt and was poking its gold embroidered corner over his belt. In all the confusion, Frank hadn't felt it move.

"Ah, the pillow," said Frank as he moved his left hand down to hide the pillow corner. "Oh, yes, the pillow." Frank stood awkwardly, his right hand under his chin, his left covering his belt buckle and couldn't have felt more stupid. Or guilty. This is not the time to blow it, he thought and forced his mind to race for a solution, or maybe even a cockeyed explanation. He formed his words carefully, "I must confess, Stephen. I'm a bit embarrassed to say that I took this tiny pillow as a souvenir from the Russian airplane and didn't know where to put it. Forgot all about it in the melee. You know how it is, when you get older."

Headford nodded briefly, "Of course," not in the least convinced but also enough of a bureaucrat to know when to avoid situations that might involve scads of reports to be filed. Headford turned to an approaching doctor, having decided to drop the subject, at least for now.

As the he neared them, the doctor called out in English, "You're with Mrs. Townsend?" They both nodded. "She's taken a bad gashing in the thigh," the doctor continued, "Fortunately, the metal didn't cut anything vital. We removed three small pieces with relative ease and have sewn everything up tight. We've given her some pain medication and she's resting now. I recommend she stay here tonight."

"May I see her?" Frank asked. "Just for a minute....to say goodnight?"

"Of course, just make it brief."

Frank thanked Headford and walked with the doctor to Avril's room. Avril, head tilted to one side, was sleeping peacefully on a low cot. He didn't want to wake her but he knew she would be furious with him if he didn't. Frank knelt next to the cot and shook her shoulder gently, "Avril, it's Frank," he whispered.

She moaned softly and opened her eyes. "Oh, Frank, thank God," she gasped. "I didn't know what they did with you. Are you all right?"

"Just fine. That man Headford saw my chins dropping off and my belly cushion popping out but he kept quiet. Now, about you. The doctor wants you to stay here tonight and I agree. Headford thinks it was an accident that we were involved in a terrorist bombing by Wahhabis. I'm sorry, coincidences just don't happen like that. We have to assume that this was no accident; the guys in the Mercedes were Scar's men. Hey, they tossed the grenade right at _us_. That means Scar's on to me. I only hope that his guys think they finished the job. Also, even though he didn't say anything to me, I wouldn't doubt that Headford is checking me out with the British Foreign Office, as we speak. The bottom line is, I need to keep moving toward Bishkek."

Avril put on a large, pouting face.

Frank grinned, kissed her on the cheek and whispered, "My wonderful Mrs. Townsend, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your advice and companionship. I'm so sorry you got injured."

Avril's pout disappeared. She reached up and caressed Frank's cheek. "My dear, if I were forty years younger .... Oh bloody hell, if that were the case, I probably would have been so busy I couldn't have lifted a finger to help. But I'm not forty and I did offer. I'm not sorry in the least, Frank. This has been a smashing adventure; disguises, aliases, bombings, and we got you through jolly good – on your way home." She lightly touched Frank's torn chin and his arm. "You're good to go, except for a few scratches and your chin. Do cover that, dear, it looks as if the Wolfman's been at your throat."

Frank squeezed her hand and, with a smart salute, left her to mend.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

"Sanctuary."

October, 1996 - Tashkent, Uzbekistan

Minutes after saying farewell to Avril, Frank stood in the lobby of the tiny clinic, rubbing the back of his neck. Okay, he thought, Avril's staying here and I'm going on. But how? The tour they were supposed to contact would expect two elderly people and now there was only one and he'd lost a good deal of his disguise. Plus Avril had told him in the cab that she'd lost her purse containing their tickets when the bomb went off. That part of their plan was shot! Now he had to get rid of the remnants of "old man" Kominski. Stepping into the men's toilet, he peeled off his nose putty, the torn wattle, and tossed that mess, along with his stomach pillow into the trash container. His penciled wrinkles and grayed hair could stay, helping to keep his appearance close to Kaminski's passport photo.

The clock on the clinic wall read 11:05 PM. Frank would have to find some place to hole up for tonight and figure out how to travel the last three hundred miles to Bishkek. Hotels? No, he thought, they'd take my passport and Scar would know in minutes. Where the hell can I hide? He racked his brain for something he knew about Tashkent. Then, Bingo! Luke has a casino here, The Royal Dragon! Tucking in his shirt, he left the clinic, a somewhat younger, thinner Kominski. Once outside, he waved down a passing taxi. " _Royal Dragon, P'shalsta_ "

A two-story concrete building sported a large unlit neon sign proclaiming, "The Royal Dragon Restaurant - Disco, Bar and Casino". The Casino letters were underlined for emphasis but the all the lights were out. Cautiously, Frank stepped to the dark entrance and banged on the door until it cracked open but the person holding the door stayed hidden in the blackness of the interior.

_"K'toh Eta_?" Who are you?" asked a female voice.

"My name is Frank Grant. I'm an American and Luke Seragulov is my friend," Frank offered in Russian.

"You know Luke?"

"Yes, I'm his friend from Bishkek. Is he here?"

"No. I don't know where he is."

"Please, can I come in?" Frank pleaded. "Please call Luke. He'll tell you about me."

The woman did not reply. After a minute or two, the chain lock slid back and the door swung open to reveal a twenty-something girl with long, jet black hair, tied in a ponytail. She wore a gray micro-mini with a silver sweater top. Frank stepped through the door and extended his hand.

"Thank you for letting me in. As I said, I'm Frank. What's your name?"

"Zamira," she answered stiffly. "I manage this club for Mr. Luke. We're not officially open today. Only a few invited clients for tonight. Tomorrow we open at noon."

"Sorry to be a day early, Zamira. Could we call Luke now?"

Zamira nodded and led Frank to a telephone that rested on the end of the bar.

"What number should I dial?" she asked, testing Frank.

Frank gave her Luke's number. Zamira dialed, talked briefly, and then handed the phone to Frank.

"Hello! Luke?" Frank shouted into the phone, knowing from experience that, whether it was 300 yards or 300 miles, poor wires, bad connectors and broken boosters made shouting the only way to be heard with Soviet-era phones.

"Frank, damn it's good to hear your voice," Luke answered. "How're things going? When will we see you? "

"Things are still up in the air. I haven't found Scar's money but Scar's people found me. A few hours ago they tried to get me to swallow a grenade but my guardian angel must have been watching. I'm hoping to get more information about the missing money when I get back to Bishkek. Say, can you send a car for me, Luke? I don't trust the drivers here and I'll probably need help getting across the border."

Luke asked Frank to give the phone to Zamira and she spoke with Luke for a few minutes before hanging up.

"Luke says he's sending his car as soon as the casino in Bishkek closes. About six in the morning. It will take the car about seven hours to get here, maybe a little past noon. Luke said he wants you to wait here and then leave for Bishkek sometime tomorrow night. That way you will have darkness on your side and the driver can rest until you're ready to leave. Is that all right?"

"Fantastic! So, I've got almost twenty-four hours to kill. What do you suggest?"

Zamira smiled, showing several bright, gold-capped teeth. "Luke told me to see that you have food and drinks and then show you where you can sleep."

He returned the smile, pleased that this girl had caught the bit about his concern for border guards and hadn't reacted. Luke was lucky to have someone like her to manage the place, Frank said to himself. Zamira seemed able and intelligent and, interestingly, had bright green eyes. But would she prove trustworthy? Frank's euphoria at getting into Uzbekistan had long worn off. He was the running fox again and the hounds were out there, closing fast.

"Did you say food? I'm famished!" Frank exclaimed. "Where do I go to eat?"

Zamira led the way into the restaurant area, ushered Frank to a corner booth, and slid in beside him. As Zamira had said, the dining room was almost deserted. Three Russians sat together in the opposite corner drinking vodka from wineglasses, loudly bemoaning their losses at the Black Jack tables. Zamira ordered for Frank, making sure he got the best items of the day: beef-noodle soup and _ploff_ , a rice, carrot and lamb dish, and some local musty white wine, of distant Chardonnay lineage, and two glasses.

Frank dived into the steaming ploff and the food soon disappeared along with the contents of the wine bottle. Zamira emptied her wine glass and tapped Frank's hand coyly. "Do you want to gamble? The casino is open."

Frank shook his head. "No thanks, I can do that anytime in Bishkek and, except for an occasional game of poker with Luke, I don't gamble. A wise man once told me those billion-dollar hotels in Vegas weren't financed by _winners._ That reminds me, I haven't slept since London. Damn! That's thirty-five hours ago. If it's all right with you, Zamira, I'll take you up on that promised bed. I could sleep for a week after what happened today."

Zamira nodded knowingly and motioned Frank to follow her to the rear of the casino. They went through three doors and up a flight of stairs that dead-ended at a huge metal door. Zamira selected keys from a set on her belt and unlocked two bolt locks. She swung back the heavy door and they both stepped into the living room of a luxurious apartment, complete with a big-screen TV, leather sofa and matching armchairs. Zamira closed the door and crooked her finger, beckoning Frank to follow her into the bedroom.

Waving a hand at the king-sized bed, Zamira said, "This is Luke's when he's in Tashkent. It's quiet, safe, and you won't be disturbed. Does it suit you?"

"Suit me? It's perfect! How can I thank you, Zamira?"

Zamira didn't reply. Instead, she slipped her top over her head, quickly undid her belt, let her skirt fall to the floor, and stood before him wearing only a thong.

"Will I get to rest a while with you?" she asked coyly.

Frank started to decline and suddenly had no energy to protest. If I refuse, he quickly rationalized, Luke might think something was wrong with Zamira and then fire her.

"Sure," Frank stammered, "you can ...er... _rest_ with me."

Zamira slipped under the coverlet and lay quietly as Frank stripped. He climbed in next to her and she wrapped her arms around him from behind. They lay silent, cuddling until Zamira heard a soft snore. Normally, she would have been insulted. However, Luke had told her that Frank was on a very dangerous journey and that he was to be treated as a special friend. She sighed and slid out from the covers and, after tucking the blanket under Frank's chin, tiptoed out.

A light knocking on the bedroom door stirred Frank but it didn't rouse him.

"Mr. Frank, are you awake?" called a woman's voice.

Frank rolled over, opened his eyes, and failed to recognize anything. He was in a bed but where?

"Who's there?" he groaned, "and where the hell am I?"

A dark-haired mature woman, dressed in a bright red dress and an equally loud headscarf in a half-dozen uncoordinated colors, slowly eased open the door. Not hearing any objections, she entered the bedroom carrying bed linen and towels. "You are in Mr. Luke's apartment," she answered. "Do you need a towel for the bath?".

Frank's memory came back with a jolt. The Red Dragon. Zamira! Oh, my god. What the hell happened last night?

Frank gaped at the woman. "Oh... a towel," he answered, "yes, please. Where's the bath?"

The maid pointed and Frank smiled to himself. Only Luke would have a bath connected to the master bedroom. Seldom in Central Asia could you find such a luxury. Most baths here were built to be shared by an entire family. Sometimes two. Frank snatched up his watch, saw that the hands pointed to 11:30, and his stomach automatically reacted with its customary low growl. In microseconds, Frank was in the shower, the first time in almost three days, and began picturing a large steak and cold beer awaiting him in the restaurant.

Thirty minutes later, his culinary imagination realized, Frank swallowed the last bite of his steak and happily leaned back in his booth. Most luncheon customers were eating outside, on a cool, shaded patio. Frank had chosen to eat inside, in a booth near the bar, set back in the smoky, dimly lit interior. The last thing he needed now was for someone to recognize him.

Rising, aiming for the bar and another beer, he heard a woman's scream coming from the patio. Frank turned toward the door and, through the door's small window, saw people jumping and scrambling to get away from something outside. Then the door exploded inward. Black smoke, glass, wood paneling and bits of ceiling tile flew into the restaurant. Frank dived back into his booth. Christ, he thought, those bastards have found me again and this time they won't drive away. A second explosion from the patio area rocked the walls. Frank scrambled to get under the booth's table and covered his head.

Soon the smoke began to clear and a voice called out, "Mister Frank, are you there?"

Frank poked his head up, looked toward the voice, and saw the Pakistani barman peeping over the bar, eyes bulging.

"Yeah, I'm here. What's the best way to get out of this place?"

"No, No," the barman answered. "You must not leave now. Wait until they finish painting their slogans on our walls."

"What slogans?"

"Wahhabi slogans. First they get your attention, then they leave posters or paint something. It's okay. Just stay in here for a while."

Damn, thought Frank, in the first bombing Scar's guys were mistaken for Wahhabis and now I thought Wahhabis were Scar's people. "Never a dull moment on the Silk Road," he mumbled aloud. Brushing dust from his hair, he climbed back onto the bench seat and patiently waited for his second beer.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

"Kidnapped!"

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Almost ten days had elapsed before Scar returned Imanbaikeh's many calls.

"Why have you been calling me?" Scar demanded.

"I'm told that you have lost a great deal of money. Is that correct?"

"What do you know about my money?" Scar snarled.

"I know that the American, Frank Grant, didn't take it and that he is looking for the thieves now", Imanbaikeh answered calmly. "Do you have any other suspects?"

"Where do you get your information? Grant took my money. He ran away, didn't he? When I get that bastard he'll wish he never heard of me. If I don't get him, my American partner will. That is a promise."

"You have an American partner?" asked Imanbaikeh incredulously. "Perhaps he knows more than you think?"

"He planned a deal that made me very good money. Why would he steal from someone he asked to be his partner? That would be crazy."

"Why crazy?" posed Imanbaikeh. "If he brought you a profitable transaction, he must have gotten something from you in return. Perhaps now he has both?"

Scar didn't answer immediately. Imanbaikeh waited and, as he listened to raspy breathing, he swore he could smell Scar's notorious garlic-laden breath.

Finally. "Do you have any suggestions, wise man?" .

"Well, yes, I do," replied Imanbaikeh. "First, I would recommend you ask your American partner for more information and second, give Mr. Grant more time to find the thief and your money."

"Thank you for nothing," growled Scar and he hung up, without committing to anything.

Scar rubbed his bare ring finger, a simple gesture that usually helped him think. This time it failed him. He would need more than merely a bare finger.

Taking a deep breath, he walked to his bedroom and took down a large painting from the side wall. Opening a safe hidden behind the picture, he removed a small embossed, dark walnut box about six inches square. Gently opening the box, Scar gazed at the large gold ring resting inside on a red velvet cushion. With great care, he picked up the ring and slipped it onto his left ring finger. With his hand up to the light, he stared at the ring in reverence. It was solid gold, without any adorning jewels. There was an oval inset on the top with a tiny goblet carved inside. This was the ring of Scar's clan, designed by the very first Timur of Scar's line and then fabricated over seven hundred years ago by the most expert jeweler in all of Korea. Since then, it had been passed from generation to generation as the symbol of each succeeding clan leader. After only three generations of passing the ring, leader to leader, Scar's clan was then led by the infamous and legendary Timur-i-lan, great, great grandson of an Uzbeg chieftain named Osman and great grandson of the first Timur. Timur-i-lan, became a powerful and legendary figure, amassing a fortune from the wealth of many lands. Timur-i-lan had worn this very ring as he conquered much of Asia, the Middle East, and North Africa. After having worn the ring for several years, Timur-i-lan's first son, Halek, noticed that the band was beginning to wear thin. Envisioning the far future of the clan, Halek took it off and ordered that the band be reinforced. Additionally, a special box was commissioned, designed with the seal of Timur of Osman embossed on the lid. Halek then decreed that the family ring was to be considered sacred, to be worn only by the clan's chief on three special occasions: for one lunar month after becoming chief, at weddings of the chief, and at the ceremony that passed leadership on to a son.

Removing the ring, Scar held it lightly in his hand and was certain that he could feel it pulse with centuries of conquest and power. With a sigh of gratitude, he kissed the ring, placed in its box, and then carefully replaced the box in the safe.

Recharged with the strength of his ancestors, Scar was now ready to deal with his current problems. Summoning his eldest son, Timur, Scar asked about Natasha Ivanova.

"I talked to Natasha's supplier, Kamal, this morning," reported Timur. "Kamal isn't one of our people but he will do what you say **.** Kamal said that Natasha's had an expensive cocaine habit for over two years but, strangely, she hasn't used him for the last three months. He figures the bitch must have a new supplier. Who, he didn't know." Timur paused and gazed expectantly at Scar. "What should we do, father?"

"Kamal," Scar ordered, "should tell Natasha that she will never get any more drugs from him unless she tells him everything she knows about my missing money. If she doesn't answer, he should threaten to expose her as a drug addict to her employer." Scar's voice dropped to a sinister whisper. "If she still refuses him, then you take her and question her yourself. _Panymiyesh_ Understand?"

"Yes. Anything else, father?"

"Now listen carefully, Timur. Pick three of our most trusted men, find Madeena Kulova, take her to the warehouse apartment, and keep her there. She's Grant's woman and, if we don't find him soon, we can use her to draw him out. Be sure to keep your identity hidden. She must not know who has taken her or where she is held.

"Yes, father."

"Do nothing to harm her. She is only bait. I mean this, Timur! Madeena is to be treated as a _guest_. I don't want to get into a fight with her uncle and his friends at the Interior Ministry over her. If the bait doesn't work and Grant doesn't show his face, then she can be released. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Father, very clear."

Timur had come a long way in the past two weeks. While his father had been busy marshaling men and contacts in Osh and Tashkent to find Grant, Timur had been acting Chief in the city of Bishkek. This new role elevated him into the inner circle of drug dealers, Mafia types, and militia officers who either worked for or cooperated with Scar. Timur's self esteem, already huge, had expanded geometrically with his new status. Publicly, Scar's men acknowledged Timur as Scar's heir apparent and deferred to him accordingly. Privately, each and every man would love to strangle the arrogant little shit.

Timur put down the phone and motioned for one of his father's men to come to him.

"Talai," Timur ordered, "I need you to snatch Frank Grant's girl friend, Madeena Kulova. She has an office in the White House and owns an apartment somewhere in central Bishkek. Call Lieutenant Mukhdar Malenkov at the Sovietskaya Street militia station and he'll give you her registered home address. Then take Almaz and Nursultan and bring her here. Grab her on the street tonight. Do not harm her. Be careful, cover your tracks, and don't get identified. _Panymyesh_?"

Talai nodded in understanding and left to gather his crew. In addition to Almaz and Nursultan, Talai recruited a Volga sedan with darkened windows for Almaz to drive. Wanting to keep his crew busy while he worked the telephone locating Madeena, Talai gave detailed orders to Nursultan to clean the car and make it ready for tonight. All stickers and decals were to be removed and the license plate exchanged for one from an abandoned car. Lastly, Talai demanded that the Volga be in perfect running order, even though they all knew Volgas; they'd be lucky if it started on command and the brakes worked.

The rich, golden sun dipped behind the low mountains to the west, casting long shadows over the dry fountain in the courtyard below Madeena's office window. Glancing briefly at the purple and red sunset, she sighed; there were never enough hours in the day. Straightening research papers on her desk, with a deep exhale of exhaustion, she logged off her computer.

Maybe I'll finish the last draft of the President's May Day speech tomorrow, she thought, and get it printed the day after that. Quickly locking the office, Madeena headed down the three flights to the ground floor of the White House. The building's two elevators hadn't operated for more than six months. More Soviet _efficiency,_ she grumbled to herself. It wasn't the stairs that bothered her, it was the frustration she felt every time she passed those elevator doors, knowing they would probably never work again.

Her apartment was only five blocks south and she chose walking as the most economical and healthy way to commute. With a brisk pace, she followed her familiar route, head down and her mind focused on drafting the President's up-coming speech. Offices, shops, and apartment buildings were passed with scarcely a notice but, striding past an elementary school, she smiled at the children's posters depicting festive winter scenes covering the windows. Next to the school, several apartment balconies were festooned with laundry drying in the evening's light breeze. Old elm and oak trees bordered the sidewalk on both sides, their branches, thinned of leaves, were skinny arms reaching out toward each other over the walkway. In too many places tree roots had up-ended sidewalk slabs that tended to trip unaware pedestrians. Madeena's eyes moved back downward, focusing on the uneven sidewalk, lest she trip. In fall, sundown came abruptly and the shadows of night quickly covered her path. With the daylight fading, she had to be extra careful where she stepped as many of the streetlights were out, either from missing bulbs or no electricity or both. Her eyes remained glued to the sidewalk, searching for potholes, cracks, and other ankle wrenching obstacles. As the darkness increased, Madeena groped in her purse for Frank's flashlight; then remembered she'd left it in her apartment. Frank always takes one for nighttime walks, she thought, but my stupid pride stops me. And I need glasses but he doesn't.

Nearing a dark-colored sedan parked at the curb, she stepped off the sidewalk to avoid a large drainage hole. Suddenly the passenger-side, front and rear doors of the car flew open! Four strong arms grabbed her, lifting her off her feet and pinning her arms to her body. She gave out a shrill "eeek" before one man slipped a hood over her head and she was folded into the back seat of the sedan. The man holding her, flopped onto the rear seat next to her, squashing Madeena between him and another large man. The man on her right grabbed her wrists and swiftly bound them with masking tape. Then he did the same to her ankles while the man on her left tied the hood securely under her chin. Gathering her wits, Madeena screamed inside the hood, squirmed and kicked out in vain, tape now firmly holding both her wrists and ankles. The car pulled away from the curb and accelerated rapidly. Silently she prayed, hoping that this was a kidnapping for ransom and not for the sexual pleasure of her abductors. She shivered, recalling her English friend, Cheryl, who'd been kidnapped a year ago by a taxi driver. Cheryl's mutilated body had been discovered in the foothills east of the city ten days later. Was that to be my fate, she asked herself and then prayed, oh, please dear god, don't let them kill me!

After only about fifteen minutes of driving, the car pulled to a stop and the engine died. Madeena's body tensed. What now? she thought. The two men in the back got out and, together, pulled her from the car, carried her into a building and up some stairs. The third floor, she thought. An apartment, but whose?

Entering a large room, they crossed it and deposited her in an armchair.

"We do not wish to harm you," said a voice, muffled through the heavy cloth of her hood. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she replied with a weak nod. "Who are you?"

"Who we are is not important." Timur replied, "but your boyfriend is. Where is he?"

"I don't know," Madeena whispered. "He left Bishkek two weeks ago and didn't tell me where he was going."

"That's a lie!," snapped Timur. "Has he called you?"

Madeena shook her head.

"If he doesn't contact us soon, I will ask you again. Then I may be forced to give you good reason to tell the truth." Timur snapped orders, "Take her into the first bedroom, tie her hands to the bed, and sit by the open door. Leave the hood on."

He turned back to Madeena. "We will feed you when we eat. You will use the toilet twice each day, in the morning and after dinner. Understand?" She nodded and began to sob quietly inside her hood. Timur continued, "If you want to tell us about Grant, just call for me. Call me _Leader_. Otherwise you will make no sounds. None whatsoever," he snarled. " _Poinyell_?"

They carried her to the bed, cut the tape away from her wrists and ankles, and then tied her wrists with cords, spread-eagled to the bed frame, leaving her legs unfettered. Madeena had never felt so helpless, so vulnerable. She wanted to scream aloud but she knew she shouldn't give them any indication as to the depth of her terror. Instead she whispered a short prayer, "Frank, where are you? Come back to me, my love. Help me! Oh God, and please bring Frank home!"

It seemed to Madeena that the night would never end. Her shoulders ached and, if her nose didn't itch, her foot did. Every little noise caused her to tense and strain to make out its source. Would they hurt her? Perhaps rape and then kill her? She visualized all sorts of gruesome scenarios. Finally, after what seems ages, a bright morning sun, filtered through her smelly, thick hood, announcing the arrival of a new day. She'd made it through the night! Suddenly, she heard someone enter her room and noisily place a metal breakfast tray on the night stand next to the bed.

"I'm going to take off your hood and release your arms so you can eat," a man announced. "I have on a mask. But still do not look at me. Understand?"

She nodded and muffled a quick answer, "Oh yes, thank god. I couldn't scratch or even roll over and I didn't sleep at all. Please untie me quickly."

Timur slipped off her hood and stepped back while Madeena blinked her eyes and tried to adjust to the dazzling sunlight streaming through the east window. She could see a man in a balaclava ski mask standing near her bed. Timur's left hand started to reach for the rope binding her right wrist but it came to rest on her thigh instead. "You know," he whispered, "fucking is the best way to relax aching muscles."

He slid his hand further up her leg and Madeena yelped as she struggled to avoid his gropings.

"No one will hear you here," he sneered. "This apartment is in an old brick plant. We have the entire place to ourselves." I'll be careful not to rip her clothes, Timur thought. There'll be no trace of the fun to come.

"I am my father's favorite, you know," Timur cooed as he began unbuttoning Madeena's blouse.

She choked back tears and pleaded, "Stop, please stop. My family will find out what happened to me. They will get you."

Ignoring her threat, Timur boasted, "I'll be the chief soon and will wear the golden ring. My father is old; he can't see the profit to be made with women. Many beautiful women work for me in Tashkent."

He unfastened Madeena's belt, unzipped her slacks, and she screamed again, loudly.

"Stop!" Timur growled. 'Scream once more and I'll forget about keeping you alive."

With his left hand, he pulled a large sheep knife from his shirt. It flashed and _whooshed_ as he waved it in front of Madeena's face. She gulped, breathed in heavily and, with a soft moan, managed to keep silent, wide-eyed and hypnotized by the whirling, gleaming blade.

"Are you going to struggle?" he asked venomously.

Madeena shook her head.

"Good decision. I'll flip you over and then get your pants off. Then I'll find out why the American likes you so much!"

He untied her right wrist, moved to the opposite side of the bed, and swiftly untied her other hand. With the loose cord in his hand, Timur took a step back, expecting her to swing at him. But she lay still, breathing rapidly, her cheeks stained with tears. Now that her arms and legs were free, Timur reached down for Madeena, intending to roll her onto her front. As soon as his body bent toward her, Madeena spun and lashed out with a right foot sweep, just as Frank had taught her. She pressed her body onto the mattress to put extra strength behind the kick and her arching foot and ankle caught Timur on his left cheek. With a loud crack, his jaw snapped and he reeled backwards, smashing into the far wall and the knife fell from his hand. Excruciating pain stopped him from removing his balaclava to get to shattered jawbone and he began swearing at Madeena through fast swelling lips. Initially elated at what she had accomplished, Madeena now knew she had to move fast. She scrambled to get to her feet but her body refused to obey; her back muscles taut and stiff from being held immobile the entire night. Timur bent to retrieve his knife, preparing to hurl himself at Madeena, and a strange voice suddenly boomed, "What is going on here?"

They both turned to see a man without a mask in the doorway. It was Scar.

"So this is how my son obeys me," growled Scar. He advanced and fiercely backhanded Timur, compounding the jaw fracture.

Timur let out a high-pitched, bone-chilling screech, driven by pain and fear. He sidled back to the wall and slid down to a sitting position. His knife again fell as he tenderly cradled his broken face in both hands.

Scar stooped to retrieve Timur's knife and shouted to someone outside, "Talai, come here, quickly." Talai had already heard Timur's cries of pain and entered the bedroom with wide-eyed caution.

"Yes, boss," Talai whispered. "What can I do?"

Scar slid a chair toward Talai. "Sit in this chair and watch Madeena. She's not to leave this building without you. You are not to touch her except to bind her when we move her. _Poinyall_?"

_"Dah, dah_ ," replied Talai. He lowered himself onto the chair and sat perfectly still, watching Madeena rub her wrists and stretch her arms while the damaged Timur sat slumped against the bedroom wall, struggling against pain to remove his balaclava. But the agony in his jaw was overwhelming and so he remained with the mask half off, snagged crookedly over his right ear. All he could do was clutch his chin and whimper quietly.

"You," Scar snarled at Timur, "come with me,"

Timur went silent and slowly, obediently, he managed to gather himself and then slunk away trailing his father. Madeena rose cautiously from the bed and almost fainted. Her head felt light. She could move but standing would have to wait. Judging from his anger at her treatment, she was sure that Scar did not really want to harm her. However, she also knew that, until Frank was located, she was the morning's worm, merely bait for the hook. And she knew what happened to bait.

Please be careful, Frank darling, she thought. I want to see you but, if you come rushing in like a white knight, Scar will shoot first and won't take the time to listen to your side of the story. She lay back on the bed, ignored Talai, and tried to relax.

Several hours later, the telephone rang in another room and Madeena heard Timur trying to speak English through a newly bandaged jaw. Straining her ears, she made out something about the Sports Palace at six but didn't get the rest of the conversation. Timur hung up, called to another man and they left, slamming the apartment door loudly. The noise jolted her as if it was a gunshot. Then, realizing that it was merely a door, her mind, and then her muscles, relaxed for the first time since she'd been abducted. Madeena pulled a thin blanket over her, drew her legs up into a fetal curl, closed her eyes, and imagined Frank holding her close.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

"The Gathering."

October, 1996 - Washington, DC

Moonlight crept through partially open blinds, casting a yellowed, eerie light from behind Simon as he sat at his desk, holding his head in his hands, while slowly massaging his temples in an attempt to clear his mind.

This fucking job for the democrats is piling up shit faster than an elephant farm, he thought. Maybe faster than I can shovel. First Grant disappears, then Lara refuses to do what she promised, next the greedy Commerce Secretary panics and tries to turn on me, and now Scar Atabekov sends me a damn demand note. Gazing down at the crumpled fax paper on his desk, Simon knew, this time at least, he should do nothing before talking with Soji. Tilting back his chair, he loosened his tie, exhaled deeply, and, as best he could, cleared his thoughts of today's issues, waiting for Soji to appear.

Simon's lips thinned, his head came up and his voice dripped with sarcasm. "So, you need me now? I thought that my student had become so wise that even this ancient brain is of no use to him. What do you want?" Soji paused to allow Simon to use their shared vocal cords.

"Look, Soji, as you can see, the fax says Scar wants me to come to Bishkek. He must suspect something. As I see it, my three options are: one: ignore him, two: go to Bishkek, or three: plainly tell him to fuck off. Considering that I just got back from Bosnia and can't seem to get over this fucking jet lag, help me, which path is best?"

"Oh, Simon, please don't use such vile words with me!" exclaimed Soji. "Profanity is the crutch of the illiterate. As to your question, yes, I have been watching closely but you scanned Scar's badly translated message too fast for me to follow. What, exactly, does your charming partner have to say?"

Simon smoothed out the fax paper on his desk and carefully read it to Soji, "Mr. Pratt, people talk of my money and make questions of you. I think you not told everything on our deal. We must meet now. If you not in Bishkek by Wednesday this week, I tell American Ambassador about your business. If coming, call Bishkek telephone."

"Well, your opinion?" asked Simon.

"First," answered Soji, "It's not only jet lag. Your ambition continues to cloud your mind and judgment. You've killed more than once in this assignment. One was a leader of your daimyo's political party. Warriors are warriors and politicians are politicians. You are a warrior, Simon, and NOT a politician, no matter how hard you try. What you have done and why you did it, was for _political_ reasons. You did not act solely in your Daimyo's interest. You acted for personal gain – that stupid _nomination_! That's just like any of those fat, lazy politicians. You are forsaking your duties as a warrior and ignoring the rules of Ninjutsu. What do you want?" snapped Soji. "To be a warrior or a greedy status-seeking politician?"

Simon sighed, "I don't know, .. I .....don't .... know" he answered softly. "I want to handle Scar, get the money back, and, I think I still want to get the appointment at NSA. But....I'm not sure."

In an exasperated tone, Soji scoffed, "Still you mix ambition with service. My advice is that you renounce any desire for this...NSA position. Return to the shadows where your skills can again be usefully employed. Otherwise, if you stay on this path of greed and personal reward, I predict only mortal peril. Even _you_ can be killed!"

Soji paused and then continued in a calmer tone, "If meeting Scar can facilitate your escape from the politicians, so be it. But it's up to you to renounce any desires for personal enrichment. Now, I think I'll return to just being an observer of this fiasco." With a soft 'hah' of irritation, Soji slipped away.

Simon rose and walked to his window. He glared out at the darkness that mirrored his image and silently vented his fury at the glass, lest words spoken aloud would drive away the only one he could trust. Soji, you son of a bitch, he thought. How in the hell can you help me if you insist on being just a fucking _observer_. Yeah, the world's oldest voyeur.

After a minute, Simon said aloud for Soji's benefit, "Well, I guess we have to see what old Scar has up his sleeve." He punched the intercom and asked, "Debbie? No? Who's this? Madison? Oh, sorry. I forgot it's Sunday. Okay, Madison, I need a first class ticket on the next plane to Bishkek. Get me there by Wednesday."

"Where is that Mr. Pettit?" asked the young girl anxiously. It was the first day of her first real job.

"Kyrgyzstan, Central Asia, damn it," crabbed Simon. "Use your computer. I'll hold on. You _do_ understand how to make reservations with our system, don't you?"

"Oh, yes sir. Debbie showed me how. She showed me the coded names and I have all the authorized credit cards. I'm getting it up now! The screen shows two flights a week on Turkish Airlines. Their next flight leaves JFK this Tuesday with a one-day layover in Istanbul, arriving very early Thursday."

Madison inhaled deeply and continued. "British Airways is only once a week via London and arrives in Bishkek Tuesday morning. You'd need to take a BA flight from DC tomorrow in order to make the tight connection in London but that flight is totally booked. There's also a military dependents' charter flight that leaves Dulles tomorrow for Stanstead, a small airport near London. But no first class. The computer says you should be able to get from Stanstead to Heathrow airport by car in time to make the Monday evening flight to Bishkek, arriving very early Tuesday and I can get you first class on the BA segment. Which one do you want, Mr. Pettit, Turkish or British Air?"

"Get me on the MATS flight to Stanstead, connecting to British Air for a Tuesday arrival and ....thank you, Madison."

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Simon's British Airways flight landed at Manas Airport in Bishkek on time at 6:20AM, Tuesday. Simon passed through immigration and customs in a fast thirty minutes and he chose the first man to offer a taxi.

"Dostuk Hotel," directed Simon.

Registering as William Henry Pratt, Simon handed the clerk an American passport with Pratt's name and Simon's picture. As soon as the bellman had dropped the bags in the room, grinned at his tip, and closed the door, Simon took off his shoes, flopped on the bed, and called for Soji.

Simon's face darkened and Soji snapped, "Yes, _student_ , what do you want?"

"This thing's coming to a head, don't you think?" replied Simon, casually.

Soji did not answer immediately. Simon's actions and obvious intentions had greatly angered him and he fought to keep control of his temper. "Perhaps," answered Soji coldly. "Tell me honestly, are you controlling events or are you like the proverbial leaf on a moving stream?"

"Good question. Honestly, I'm not really sure. I wanted to keep Scar from finding and eliminating Frank before he and I could talk. Even though I know most of the answers to this puzzle, Frank's still looking for the missing money and I don't want Scar screwing with him until I can openly tell him who really cleaned out Scar's accounts and why. So far, Grant doesn't know anything of my involvement. Plus, I don't want Scar to go screaming to the American Ambassador and blow my deal for NSA."

Soji answered with scorn, "I agree with your conclusions, but, _student_ , why is that stupid, political appointment still your main worry? Such misplaced ambition is exactly what got you into this predicament in the first place. Why, oh why, do you continue to insist on receiving material reward?"

"Because I deserve it and I can get it!"

"Your desire should be for your daimyo's protection. What you seek is so selfish, it makes me ashamed. You have lost objectivity. Perhaps Scar will not wait to speak to the American Ambassador. Or, he and his men might actually kill you. Would you allow my second life to be so wasted?"

"Look, Soji, I want your advice, not a prediction of my death. Go away. I don't need a fucking critic!"

Soji grunted. A quickly alert Simon pushed traces of Soji further into the background, reached for the telephone, and dialed Scar's Bishkek number.

"Mr. Atabelov, please. W. H. Pratt calling."

Scar's son, Timur, answered in halting English, "Why you want father?"

. "He sent a fax and asked me to come to Kyrgyzstan. When can we meet?"

_"Naznayo,_ don't know." I talk with father and he call you. Where you?"

"No. I'll call you again, later today.

_"Stoh_? What? Timur asked, uncertain.

Simon decided it was time to use his rough Afghan Russian. " _Ponimayesh'?_ Understand? _Segodnya_ Today. _Dvenadtsat'_ Twelve. _Ponimayesh'?_ Understand?"

"Yes, yes, understand", answered Timur. "Twelve."

Simon hung up and thought about his next move. If Grant can meet with Scar and, if it's a controlled confrontation, then I can reveal who took the money. But first, I've got to find Grant!

Simon recalled that Frank had a new girlfriend. She might be a good place to start. Opening his note pad, Simon scanned the several numbers under Frank's name and found that Madeena's address was listed as Frank's alternate address. Simon decided to see what could be learned at Grant's apartment and then he'd pay Madeena's place a visit.

Enroute to Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan – October, 1996

Luke's driver, Bahket, arrived at the Royal Dragon just before noon on Monday in a black Mercedes 500, covered with road dust. After a quick meal, Bahket took Frank's bed and slept until dinner-time.

Frank and Bahket finished their late dinner and, at 10:30PM, Frank tossed his bags into the Mercedes' trunk and they quickly sped north toward Bishkek.

"Do you think we'll have any trouble tonight, Bahket?" Frank asked from his slouched position in the front passenger seat.

"Prob blem jok" No problem.

"Fine, I'll try to get some sleep then." Although Frank wasn't tired and couldn't have slept even if he were, he wanted to try to relax as much as possible on the last few miles to home. Slouching further down in the seat, Frank rested his head on the window but found even a little relaxing was impossible. He couldn't stop worrying about Madeena. So much has happened in the last three weeks, he thought. God, I hope she hasn't worried too much.

To allay any concerns Bahket might have had, Frank did his best to at least appear to sleep, and the miles rolled past. They went through two random checkpoints inside Uzbekistan without a challenge. When they slowed to a stop at the Uzbek/Kyrgyz border, things were decidedly different. Not one, but three Kyrgyz militiamen stood in front of the car while a fourth came to the driver's side. As customary in Central Asia, Bahket got out of the car, shook hands with the militiaman and offered his registration papers.

"Who is that with you?" asked the policeman.

"A friend from the Ukraine."

"Let me see his passport," the officer demanded.

Frank, listening intently while he continued to lounge against the window, reached casually over to the driver's side window and stuck out his Ukrainian _Kominski_ passport. Bahket took the passport and handed it to the policeman. Carefully watching the policeman scan his passport, Frank suddenly remembered that the passport picture showed him as sixtyish, graying, and jowly. What if this guy wants to see me in the light? Frank held his breath and Bahket leaned into the car.

"He wants to see you, said Bahket. "Please come out."

Frank clenched and unclenched his hands. He could feel a tingle work its way down his spine. So close, he thought, we're so damn close. Frank stepped out and walked around the back of the car, avoiding the glare of the Mercedes' headlights, to where Bahket stood with the cop. Frank gave a weak wave to the cop, and said, putting on his friendliest smile, " _Zdrosvitchye e dobray vecher, Kag delah_?" Hello and good evening. How are you?.

_"Zdroswitchyeh"_ replied the cop. _"Oh meinya yest druke v'Kieveh. Vladimir Koskin. V'znayityeh yehgo?"_

Frank almost fell over. This guy has a friend in Kiev and wants to know _if I know him,_ he thought. Shit, five million people in Kiev and this guy thinks I should know some _Vladimir_ whoever. _"Ezveneeteh, yah neznayoo vosyega druka,"_ "I'm sorry, I don't know your friend", Frank replied.

The cop looked sad-faced, saying that it was too bad that Frank hadn't had the opportunity to meet his friend Vladimir, handed Frank his Ukrainian passport, and waved them on.

When they neared the outskirts of Bishkek at dawn, Bahket said, "Mr. Luke told me to take you to his place, okay?"

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

"Insurance."

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

The Mercedes glided silently to a halt in front of Luke's eastside house just after 7:00AM on Tuesday. Frank hadn't felt this good in weeks. He was home! Jumping out of the car, he noticed Luke hurrying toward him and Frank grinned and waved his arms wide until he noticed Luke's sad face. A chill stabbed Frank's heart.

"Little brother," Frank asked, "what's the matter?" You look like you've just lost your best friend."

"That may be the case," Luke answered solemnly as he reached out and put his hands on Frank's shoulders. "Madeena was kidnapped yesterday."

Luke's words pierced Frank buoyant mood like a pin. His joy evaporated in a rush, leaving him empty, feeling helpless and useless.

"Oh, no! What happened? Was it Atabekov?"

"Imanbaikeh got a call about ten o'clock last night. The caller identified Madeena's clothes and her purse. He promised they wouldn't harm her and said that they only want you. It's got to be Atabekov."

"Okay. If we can trade, let's do it," declared Frank.

"Not so fast, my rash American brother," Luke responded. "We can't trust Scar. He, or his people, are supposed to call Imanbaikeh at noon. We may have a slight advantage because I don't think they have any idea that you're already back in Bishkek."

"Oh, they might. Don't forget the grenade in Tashkent. At a minimum, Scar knows I'm close and he'll expect me to be back as soon as I know about Madeena"

"Yeah, you could be right," Luke admitted. "I was just trying to be positive. But we can't consider a trade. At least not yet. Yuri's gathering his team and I'm sure we'll get Madeena back safely, don't you worry. Yuri will be back later today and Imanbaikeh spent the night here." Luke put his arm around Frank. "Let's go inside, have some tea and wait for the call. Okay, bro?"

"Um," murmured Frank and he trudged after Luke into the house.

The telephone rang promptly at noon. Luke carefully set down his teacup to answer. After listening a while and speaking only a few words, he hung up. Turning to Frank, Luke announced. "Boy, do they want your ass! And they're extra pissed because they don't know where you are. Scar's guy said that if I find you, they want a meeting ASAP, like tomorrow."

Imanbaikeh coughed nervously and offered, "We should take the offensive, Frank. By waiting, we only waste valuable time. I suggest that we agree on an official, witnessed meeting between you and Scar and, then together, we can try to determine how the money went missing. Luke, Yuri, and I can be there to provide you some protection."

Frank smashed his fist into his open palm. "Great, _finally_ I get to play offense! I've been on the run for weeks and I'm damn tired of it. While you're setting that up, maybe we can see if Scar's men left any clues at Madeena's place as to where they took her."

"Good idea, we haven't looked at her apartment" responded Imanbaikeh. "You and Luke go to Madeena's and I'll try to set up a meeting. Scar trusts me as much as he trusts anyone outside of his clan."

Both Frank and Luke nodded in agreement and jogged out to Luke's Mercedes. Bahket was polishing the already shining hood.

"We need to go to 77 Toktogula, Bahket," ordered Luke.

In a matter of minutes, they were at Madeena's apartment building. Leaving Bahket with the car, Frank, with Luke close behind, raced up the stairway to apartment 31. Frank rattled the iron grill door that covered the entryway. No answer. He took out his keys to the apartment, unlocked the grill door, then two locks on the apartment door, swung it open and moved forward. The instant his foot touched down inside the dark apartment, a rock-hard fist smacked Frank flush on his nose. Stumbling backward into the entryway, blood spurting from his nose, Frank's flailed his arms in a vain attempt to keep his balance. Seeing Frank's head snap back from the punch, Luke stopped and side-stepped Frank as he was propelled backward, smashing into the steel grill-door with a loud clang and then slowly sliding to the floor. Luke leaped forward into the entryway to engage Frank's attacker and found it deserted. Apparently the assailant had retreated back into the unlit apartment. Frank struggled to his feet and joined Luke inside the doorway. Using his shirttail to wipe blood from his face, Frank shook his head to clear it, and his anger began to burn. With Luke in the lead, the two men, now warned, crept cautiously into the apartment toward the open door to the kitchen. They were partway into the kitchen when suddenly the open kitchen door swung back at them. It struck Luke on the left shoulder, knocking him sideways into the kitchen table. Driven by Luke's momentum, the table, two chairs, and several dishes crashed onto the floor. Frank froze and squinted into the blackness, trying to see any movement from behind the door. Gradually, the shadows took form. He could see a human shape emerge from behind the door and step straight toward him, ignoring the fact that he was blocking the only exit. Frank acted with years of practiced reflex. He turned sideways and launched a viscous sidekick at the approaching attacker. And missed. As he glided out through the doorway, the intruder punched Frank in the chest, knocking him into a corner of the kitchen right where Luke was attempting to rise. They tangled and both went down, sprawled together amid pieces of broken dishes, crunched chairs, and a two-legged table. Even in the darkness, Luke managed to see Frank staring back, angry and bloody. After a few minutes of silence, Luke said with a silly grin, "Now that we've scared him off, I think it's safe to look around."

Frank grunted an affirmative and reached up for the light switch. They emptied drawers, peeked under the bed, and searched every storage space but found no clues as to Madeena's abduction. Perhaps the unknown intruder had taken any evidence. They gave up after an hour and returned to Luke's at 11:00.

Imanbaikeh rushed out to meet the car, breathless in his anxiety to tell them what he had discovered. Ignoring Frank's bloody shirt and Luke's many scratches, Imanbaikeh rapidly and breathlessly launched into relating his conversation with Scar, hardly pausing for a breath between sentences. "I reached Scar's son at his Bishkek exchange office. The son, Timur, said he would telephone his father and tell him I wanted to see him. I said 'no thank you' and then I called Atabekov's restaurant in Osh. Scar was there and was not surprised to hear from me. He asked me if Frank was in Bishkek. He _could_ be, I replied and I let him know that I was very angry at Madeena's kidnapping. I told Scar that if she was not released immediately and unharmed, I would call my friends in the army and Ministry of Interior. Scar then backed up a little and, without admitting anything, did his best to assure me that he believed Madeena would be fine. He said he wants to work with me to find his money and that he has prepared a meeting of everyone available. All of us are to be at the People's Sports Palace at six tomorrow evening. The arena will be vacant and Scar said he will ensure that the normal security men will be absent. When I asked again about Madeena and demanded that I see her immediately, Scar promised to "find" her and to bring her to the meeting, if I promised to bring Frank. I agreed." Imanbaikeh finally paused to catch his breath. "Frank," he asked tenuously, "do you agree?"

"Of course. Absolutely," declared Frank.

"Did you know Scar has an American partner?" Imanbaikeh asked Frank. "Scar said that his _American partner_ will be there also. Can Yuri be here before the meeting time, Luke?"

Luke nodded and replied, "We need to fix this so that two things happen: Madeena is released unharmed and Frank convinces Scar of his innocence."

"That's easy to say but how can we do that?" asked Imanbaikeh.

"We wait and see what Yuri advises," interjected Frank, as he wiped some a drop of fresh blood from his nose.

They didn't have long to wait. Yuri knocked on the door just before noon and grabbed Frank in a Russian bear hug, squeezing all the air from his lungs. When Yuri released him Frank couldn't help wondering if Dennis had ever hugged Yuri like that. No one but Dennis would dare try.

"Frank, you son of a bitch!" shouted Yuri. "I wasn't really sure if you would get out and even less that you could make it back. It's great to see you again!"

"Me too. Madeena's the one in danger now."

Luke, Frank and Imanbaikeh quickly briefed Yuri on the day's events and Yuri insisted that they would need armed protection at the Sports Palace. They all nodded in assent.

"Then you will excuse me," said Yuri. "I must make plans."

"Like what?" Luke asked.

"Not sure yet," the big Russian answered. "I would attend the meeting with you myself but that would really put Scar on the defensive. Don't worry, I'll arrange something."

Yuri departed to do whatever he was going to do and, once Frank got a bag of ice for his nose, the three tried to visualize what might transpire the coming day. Finally, after two hours of discussion, Frank's mind refused to work. When he couldn't answer simple questions, it was time for sleep. Exhausted from the long drive and the short, one-sided fight, Frank dropped off to sleep quickly but not for long. Awaking before dawn, he stood at the second floor window and watched the sun rise slowly, spilling its brilliance on the snow-white capped Tien Shan Mountains to the east and south of Bishkek. Bright sunlight bounced off glaciers, turning the mountains into a diamond necklace, as if on display at Tiffany's. The morning scene, with its majestic tranquility, helped Frank clear his mind for the coming confrontation.

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

It was a typical Tuesday for Natasha Ivanova as she sat, hunched over Frank's desk, perched on the edge of his large leather chair. She shuffled loan papers from one side of the desktop to the other, merely glancing at the contents. Frank had been the loan man and she didn't have a clue what to do with these applications. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Yuri Borkov stride past the open office door. What's he doing back from Almaty so soon, she wondered. Natasha stepped to the doorway and listened intently as Yuri, locked in a serious, whispered conversation in the vacant hallway, gave orders to his second in command, Sergei Chopkin.

"Yes, I understand Sergei. If you don't have the right men, get what you need," Yuri ordered. "Army, KGB, I don't care. I want two expert sharpshooters and four outposts at the Sports Palace on Wednesday. They must be in place and ready for Mr. Grant's meeting with Mr. Atabekov at eighteen hundred. Scar will bring his men in there by mid-day Wednesday and I want our people positioned before 0900 that morning, well ahead of time. I'll pay whatever it takes, understand?"

"Yes, sir, as you say, Colonel", replied Chopkin.

Natasha pulled back from the doorway and, wringing her hands, walked back to the desk. It seemed impossible that Frank could be back in Bishkek but Borkov had clearly said that Frank was going to meet with Scar at a "Sports Palace" and that means in Bishkek. Why, she thought, hadn't Scar already killed him as we expected? Things were definitely not going as planned! Her hands began to tremble, her mouth went dry, anxiety level spiked, and perspiration began gathering on her upper lip. She needed some reassurance, something to calm her nerves. Snatching her purse from the desk she stood and clasped it tightly to her chest like a child's safety blanket. It contained the remnants of the drugs she'd gotten in London. Kamal had refused to sell her any more until the issue of Scar's money was settled, leaving her with only enough left for two more days. Not enough! She spun in a little circle-dance with her purse, not knowing where to turn or what to do.

Like a flash it hit her! Owen! He would help her! Natasha lifted the telephone but her hand trembled so badly that she dropped it. Carefully picking up the receiver from the floor and using her chin to steady the receiver, she dialed Owen Hastings' home number and held her breath.

After seven rings, she heard, "Hastings here. What do you want at three in the morning!"

"Owen, I'm so sorry! It's Natasha. From Bishkek."

Hastings came awake. "Well hello! How's my Russian pussycat? As horny as I am?"

"Oh, Owen, no time for that. I have news about Frank Grant. He's in Bishkek and is going to meet with Osmanbek Atabekov tomorrow, on Wednesday."

"Who?"

"Ti-Rik. _Scar_ Atabekov."

"So what's the problem? You said you were sure that Frank took the money. If he did, Scar will probably kill him. End of story. Right?"

"No, I don't think so. Yuri Borkov is setting up protection for Frank and I think that Frank and Atabekov will take time to discuss where the money went." Natasha put every bit of emotion she could into her next words. She had to convince Hastings to act and act quickly. Playing the victim, she pleaded, "If Scar believes Frank, then Frank will blame me, and then maybe you. Owen, you're the only one with the power to divert Scar's anger from the both of us." Then she began to sob.

"Shit and double shit," muttered a thoroughly shaken Hastings. "Can you stop the meeting?"

Natasha quieted and answered in a soft, innocent tone, ready to reel in her line as the fish was on and about to be landed. "I'm not supposed to know about the meeting. They don't trust me, remember? Perhaps a confrontation between Scar and Frank could be avoided... if you are here. As Chairman of the bank you can order Yuri to keep away and then persuade Scar that I had nothing to do with his money."

"When is the meeting?"

"Wednesday evening at six. That's about twenty-nine hours from now. Can you get here in time, Owen?"

"I don't know, my dear. I'll call you back in an hour or so. Try to keep an eye on Borkov."

October, 1996 - Washington, DC

Hastings hung up after speaking with Natasha. His mind whirling, he stepped to his bar and poured a stiff shot of Black Label to calm himself. His sweet Natasha was in danger and he had no idea how he could get to Bishkek in the next thirty hours. Gulping downed the scotch, he rummaged through his desk until he found a CAB manual about traveling to, from, and within Central Asia. The handbook, dated the previous month, suggest British Airways as the fastest commercial carrier. As his finger traced the listed schedules, he thought aloud, "It takes from 6:00PM to 6:00AM, twelve hours by the clock to get to London, an actual flight of only seven hours. Then there's a layover at London Heathrow Airport until 4:00PM. That's a total of seventeen actual hours. The flight from Heathrow to Bishkek stops at Tbilisi, Georgia and takes just over eight actual hours. That makes the total twenty-five hours. Yep, I can do it!

Hastings happily slammed shut the travel manual with a grin and then remembered that the first British Airways plane wouldn't leave Dulles airport until _tomorrow_ at 6:00PM and it was already eleven-thirty Monday night. That added more than another eighteen hours. He rubbed his neck, grumbling aloud, "Damnit, that's forty-three hours. It can't be done. The only way is to get my own plane. And soon!"

Picturing _his_ Natasha cowering in front of a knife-wielding Scar, Hastings racked his brain, searching for answers. As his neck stiffened and his back began to ache, he felt very old and helpless. Pacing the room, he massaged his neck with one hand, and punched the air with the other as he scoured his memory for of a solution. With an enthusiastic, "Got it!" he grabbed his phone and dialed Bob Thornton in San Francisco, Chairman of the Democratic National Committee.

Hastings spoke rapidly, without taking a breath, "Bob, it's Owen Hastings. I'm sorry to wake you in the middle of the night but I've got a serious problem. Remember the millions I raised for the party a few months ago?"

"Ah, .....yes, Owen," Thornton answered, awaking slowly.

"Well, there could be some very nasty backlash from those donations if I don't get to Kyrgyzstan tomorrow."

"What kind of backlash, Owen?"

"Political, legal, and worse, Bob. "Something could happen way over in little Kyrgyzstan that could paint a trail right to the DNC, if I can't stop it. Please, I'm deadly serious."

"Kyrgyzstan, as in Soviet Union?" asked a now alert Thornton.

"Yep, that's the one. Bob, is there any way I can charter a jet through the DNC?"

"Golly, Owen, we contracted for five planes from Viento Airways and they're all still in use until the elections are over. Don't think I didn't appreciate getting that chunk of money and I certainly don't want to have to give it back. Hey, I can always ask for another plane from Viento. They may be out of planes, but I'll try. When do you need to go?"

"Yesterday."

"That bad, eh? I'll call you back. At home, right?"

"Yes, thanks, Bob."

Hastings' telephone rang twenty minutes later and Thornton announced that he had a ride for Hastings with Viento Airways. A new, fully-fueled Gulfstream IV would arrive at Washington National airport that Tuesday afternoon and depart about 11:00am, needing only a one hour refueling stop at Prestwick, Scotland enroute to Bishkek. Viento understood the "emergency" and had estimated eighteen hours of actual travel and twenty-eight hours of clock-time travel. Therefore, their ETA was 3:00PM Bishkek time, on Wednesday. Due to cost, and because Thornton had correctly guessed that Hastings' need for speed was solely in getting _to_ Kyrgyzstan, the GS IV was booked one way only. Thornton apologized, saying that Hastings would have to arrange for a return ride on his own. Bubbling with appreciation, Hastings promised Thornton that this trip could save the money. And their asses.

In Bishkek, Natasha was anxiously sitting by her phone and snatched up Hastings' call after only one ring. She listened eagerly as he told her about the chartered plane, promising to get to Bishkek before the fateful meeting could take place. They'd discuss strategy when he arrived. Natasha's hands shook noticeably and it was a few minutes before she was able to release the death grip on her telephone receiver.

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Frank's thoughts were interrupted when Luke called from the downstairs kitchen, "Frank, come down. Yuri's here and the water's hot."

Yuri was standing next to the refrigerator, dwarfing the square, white appliance. He held a steaming cup of instant coffee and, placing his cup on top of the refrigerator to address Frank, "I don't want you to worry too much about Madeena. Scar may be a killer but he is no fool. He knows for sure we will nail his ass if she doesn't show up today." Yuri fingered the 9-mm pistol in his shoulder-carry for emphasis.

"What are you doing at the Sports Palace to protect Frank?" asked Imanbaikeh.

"Please keep in mind that I was given this task only yesterday." responded Yuri. "But, I think you'll have proper insurance."

"What kind of _insurance_?" asked Luke.

"I think it's better I keep that as my secret," Yuri replied. "If you know where or how to look for help it can aid your enemy. An innocent glance, a hesitation, or a quick hand movement, _even subconsciously_ , might give away your protection. Just keep in mind that we want to get Madeena and everyone to safety. Right?"

The three men murmured assent.

"Now I'll go to make sure our insurance will work as planned," announced Yuri, finishing his coffee. Then the door banged sharply behind his fast retreating back.

"Well, what shall we do for the next ten hours until 6:00pm? Frank ventured. "It's only eight."

"I suggest you and Luke go to your martial arts studio. Work off some tension," responded Imanbaikeh. "As for me, I'm going to have a chat with my friend at the Ministry of Interior."

Luke looked in askance at Frank and Frank shrugged, saying, "Yeah, It wouldn't hurt. Judging by the way that guy at Madeena's took us, we need lots and lots of practice!"

Frank worked the heavy bag, throwing kicks and punches as if the shadowy intruder from Madeena's was in front of him, daring to be hit. Next time he'd ready. Blow after blow resounded, loud and intimidating.

I can't figure out how I missed that guy, he thought. Some expert! Can't even hit a guy coming straight at me. He kicked the bag harder.

"Easy, Frank," called Luke. "That's the only heavy bag in Bishkek, maybe in all of Kyrgyzstan. Please don't bust it, finesse it."

Frank dropped his hands and watched Luke practicing sword movements.

"What do you mean, finesse it? How does that fit the situation?"

"You're the expert here," replied Luke, "I always have a basic fight strategy, whether it's boxing, wrestling or Kung Fu. Don't let the opponent anticipate your moves. Finesse is like a feint. That's what happened at Madeena's. He saw it coming."

"How the hell would you know?" snapped Frank, a bit defensively. "You were on the floor."

Luke grinned. "True. But you have to admit, I had a front-row seat. You were perfectly silhouetted in the doorway."

Frank suddenly realized how stupid he had looked and, as his frustration and embarrassment subsided, he could appreciate the benefit of Luke's advice.

"Oh, okay, I get it. Feint first. I'll remember."

By noon, Frank and Luke had showered and dressed and they drove to Frank's favorite luncheon place, a Turkish restaurant called, _Oosa,_ where the service was excellent and the prices even better.

Frank sipped his tea and offered, "When do you think we should leave for the Sports Palace?"

"Well, ......It's supposed to start at six. Better to be early or late?"

Frank smiled, "You've offered only two of three alternatives. I'll pick the third. Let's be there exactly at six and then old Scar can't use our arrival timing to hold Madeena."

Luke merely nodded, his mouth full of greasy barbequed lamb.

They returned to Luke's place just before two, leaving four long hours to wait. Luke chose to pass the time working in his small garden, hoeing the ground around late-blooming watermelon and squash. Frank didn't have a garden to occupy his mind and all he could think about was Madeena's safety and a hope that Yuri's protection would be effective against Scar's little army. He lay on the bed Imanbaikeh had lent him and counted the tiny wood squares that paneled the ceiling until it seemed that a whole day had passed.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

"Treachery at Oda."

Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan – October, 1996 and Japan \- 1274 AD

Simon stepped out of his tub at the Doshtuk hotel and wrapped himself in a towel. Walking to the door leading to his small balcony, he stepped out and gazed over the sprawling city. In mid-October, the temperature was a tepid 15 C, but the mountains, capped in white, standing guard over the Chui Valley and Bishkek, lent a chill to the air.

He'd been greatly disturbed by the physical confrontation that had occurred at Madeena's apartment. I really screwed up, he thought. Hope they didn't recognize me. Both Frank's and Madeena's apartments yielded nothing of consequence, but at least now I know that Frank's here. That's convenient, but why? Frank's supposed to be on the run. And what the hell has that sly Uzbek got planned?

Simon had never felt so frustrated. Somehow, he'd lost control of events and he needed to regain control or, as Soji had suggested, he'd be a leaf adrift on the waters of life. Flopping on the suite's sofa, he stretched out, relaxed his body. He prepared to call Soji and was startled when Soji suddenly barked, "What now?"

"What the .... Don't you need to be called?"

"Apparently not," replied Soji with hardly a pause between their words. "This is what I was talking about. Regardless of what we want or don't want, we're growing ever closer. I think it may be possible now to converse without speaking aloud. Try it."

"It won't work, thought Simon, we're not _that_ close."

"Oh, but we are," intoned Soji silently, in Simon's mind.

"Damn it all," shouted Simon aloud. "I heard you! Something like this was bound to happen. Now there'll be no fucking privacy at all!"

"You don't need to swear," answered Soji calmly, again in Simon's mind.

"Okay, thought Simon, what do you think about meeting Scar? I came here to see him but I sense something isn't right. What do your instincts say?"

"I sense that all is coming to a head," replied Soji in silent thought. " _Your_ head, _my_ head, who knows?"

"Should I still try to see Scar?"

"If that's the reason you came, why ask me now?"

"Cut the sarcasm. I could walk into a trap."

"Yes. _We_ could. Perhaps you should call him and ask what he wants. Then you can meet him or not, whatever appears the most prudent course. But, if you see him, make certain that you control the scene."

"Agreed. Soji return," thought Simon and then he said aloud, "Oh shit, I forgot. You don't really go away any more, do you?"

"Correct," Soji's voice answered in his mind.

"Okay, just try not to startle me again. I've got some preparation to do."

First, Simon decided he needed more intel to erase his current level of ignorance. He began by calling the CAB and asking to speak to Natasha. Instead, he was put through to the Accounting Department Manager, Sadyr Asankulov.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Pettit," said Asankulov. "Natasha is not here. She went to the airport to pick up someone."

"Who?"

"Mr. Owen Hastings."

Simon felt a pain behind his eyes. Things were definitely out of control. "When is Mr. Hastings expected?"

Asankulov replied, "I think about three this afternoon.

"But it's only just noon," remarked Simon. "Why would she leave so early?"

"She said she wanted to make sure everything went smoothly for Mr. Hastings. Apparently he is in a hurry. He came by charter jet."

Simon thanked Asankulov and stood, with fists clenched and jaw tightened. Hastings, you son-of-a-bitch, he thought, coming here and not bothering to let me know. It has to be the same reason that I have. He's worried about what Scar is doing and why Grant hasn't shown up anywhere, even as a body on a beach, like that English broker in Jersey. Damn, I've got to find out what's going down. But how?

Well, he thought, here goes nothing. He dialed Scar's apartment number.

_"Ah-low'-ah._ Hello," said a male voice.

"Mr. Atabekov, please," said Simon.

_"Dah, dah. Momemt, pshalista, chas_. Yes, one moment please, right away."

"Who is it?" asked another voice that, although somewhat muffled, sounded like Scar's son, Timur.

"This is Mr. Pratt. I'm in Bishkek. What does your father want?"

"He want you at Sports Palace. Six today. Yes, you will come?"

"Thank you," replied Simon and he hung up without committing.

Simon itched to know what was supposed to happen at this Sports Palace. Regardless of _what_ , he knew he couldn't attend this prince's ball without a pumpkin, new gown, and slippers. Soji, he thought, it's time to prepare for battle.

"Yes, I agree. There is definitely a battle coming," replied Soji silently. "Also, I've been thinking about the questions I raised in the Caribbean. Do you remember?"

"Sure. Why me? Why now? Right?"

"Yes, and do you remember me telling you about my being in Japan when the Mongols came for the second time in 1281?"

"Right. That's when you got to join the Ninjusu temple."

"Yes, but I chose to omit the part about me being with the Mongols on their first invasion."

"How was that? You would have been, what six, seven?"

"Seven. It's time I told you the whole story because it may have a bearing on the questions I posed in the Caribbean. I was not born in Japan, Simon. I came into the world in Peking, China, in the Western year of 1267."

"Yeah. You told me you were adopted in Japan. What did you leave out?"

"A lot. Do you want to hear my whole story?"

Simon was intrigued and fortunately had time. He answered "yes", in his mind and lay back on his bed, as Soji begin his tale...

When I was born, the most arrogant, ruthless, and generally unpleasant Kublai, grandson of Genghis Khan the Mongol, was Emperor of China. My father had the unfortunate honor to rank as one of the Emperor's senior generals. However, for you to fully understand, I should begin with my _grandfather_ in Talas, the largest Kyrgyz village in the Talas valley of the Tien Shan Mountains of Kyrgyzstan.

Some of these facts were told to me by my father as family history, well after the events had happened. Anyway, my family's story begins about 1219, when Genghis Khan's army was camped at the end of the Talas Valley on their march south toward the silk-road city of Tashkent. Both Mongols and Kyrgyz were related through common Chinese heritage and they shared a nomadic style of life. Because of this _kinship_ ", Soji's words dripped with sarcasm, "our kind and most generous Mongol cousins offered the Kyrgyz a choice. The Khan's general, one Subotai, sent messengers to all the village chiefs in the Talas Valley, announcing that, if the Kyrgyz warriors would join him, they would be accepted as equals. However, if they refused, all would be considered enemies and, in that case, the general promised his army would sweep through the Valley and kill every living thing.

My grandfather, Noorlan Kamal, was about fifty years old at the time and served as a chief in the small village of Kuchkor. As such, he participated in the heated debate concerning the Mongol offer: join or die. Refusing General Subotai meant that all the Kyrgyz of that region would perish, every man, woman and child. Grandfather tried to persuade the elders of the other villages that they could not escape Subotai's Mongol _Tuman_ , an army of over ten thousand experienced warriors. Younger village leaders discounted any talk of Mongol invincibility and believed a guerrilla war could be won. Hot for a fight, they recalled the time when the Kyrgyz people had held off the Chinese for two years, fighting from the same secluded valley. Grandfather then reminded them that Subotai's thousands of undefeated, mounted Mongols were not the Chinese, who had attacked with only a few hundred horsemen and about a thousand foot soldiers. The elders remained divided. After a debate that lasted a day and a night, the council made a decision that sealed my family's fate. The decision was that, if some of the Kyrgyz were willing to join the Khan's army, the rest of the villages would agree to serve the Khan as farmers and herdsmen, supplying his armies with food, both now and when he returned. Accepting the ruling, grandfather and two older chiefs volunteered to offer themselves in service to Subotai. So, grandfather, along with three hundred warriors, left their families and rode to the Mongol camp.

General Subotai welcomed my grandfather and the warriors with him and then immediately ordered the razing of the entire Talas valley, sparing only the three villages that had sent warriors. Grandfather pleaded with the general that he and his warriors represented _all_ of the villages and that the other Kyrgyz were mostly shepherds and farmers who had pledged never to take arms against Genghis Khan. Further, grandfather offered that, if the general would accept grandfather and his warriors, who were the best Kyrgyz fighters, the other villages would be there with supplies when Subotai's army returned this way, back to the steppes of Mongolia. Now, the General might have been harsh but he was not stupid. Upon reflection, the general came to like the idea of food-stores waiting for him on his return march. He was also anxious to continue south and sending men to wipe out the Kyrgyz would only delay him.

Subotai then decided to send a small troop to verify grandfather's statements. Within a day, the messengers returned, not only with verification, but with word that an additional tribute of three hundred sheep was on its way. This pleased Subotai so much that he appointed my grandfather as the leader of eight hundred horsemen: his original three hundred, two hundred Urgurs and three hundred Tungusi from the northern tribes.

Grandfather rode with Subotai for ten years and died fighting alongside him in the service of Kubilai who, as grandson, had succeeded Genghis Khan. Grandfather and his Kyrgyz wife, Khanekay, had only one child, my father, Belik, who was born on Subotai's march to Poland from Kiev in about 1224. Father was only five when grandfather was killed. Even so, the Mongol leaders predicted that my father would become a future leader for Kubilai's army. Consequently, at fourteen, father joined Kubilai's hordes as they began their successful conquest of China. In six short years, through bravery and skill, he rose to the position of _Orkon_ , senior general to the Emperor. About ten years later, when father was in his early thirties, he married a highborn Chinese girl in Peking and I was born in there two years later, in 1267. Father named me Tuli, after one of Genghis Khan's sons. Mother had a second pregnancy a year later, but she and the baby were lost in the agonies of labor. I never knew my mother and father grieved for her until the day he died, never taking another wife. He devoted as much time to me as he could and took me virtually everywhere with him.

Soji suddenly went silent, subdued at recalling his mother's death. After a bit, he managed to continue, "Sorry. Even though these events occurred centuries ago, to me they are still very real...

Well...when I was five, about 1272, some cities in what is now Korea, revolted against Peking's rule. To smash the rebels, Emperor Kubilai ordered two of his six armies southward and selected my father's army as one of the two for the campaign. Invoking the privileges of rank, father brought me and a nursemaid along. From separate parts of China, the two separate armies swept down toward the Korean peninsula, meeting in the valley of Poynyang, in what is now North Korea. Father and the other general, Chabatu, trained their troops for several months to work as one unit and, during that time, I learned to speak a little Korean. After the training was completed and new weapons had been crafted, this huge force moved south and quickly drove the rebels into the salt marshes near Yeonggang. Heads of all the disloyal leaders, whose bodies could be found, were put on spears stuck in the ground, ringing our huge camp. I'll never forget how those open-mouthed heads slowly turned black and shriveled into horribly grinning skulls, warning any who defied the emperor.

Once his two armies had finished their assignment in Korea, Kubilai ordered an invasion of the islands of Japan. Father and Chabatu were to conquer the three main Japanese islands and send back as many valuables as possible. Such an expedition proved to be a tremendous undertaking and the two generals spent almost two years in preparation. To build the necessary ships, father took his force south to P'ohang and Chabatu went to what is now called Pusan. While father made preparations for the invasion, I used my new language skills and made friends with the sons of Korean officers. We had great fun playing hide and seek among the hundreds of ships being built in the Korean shipyards!

In the spring of 1274, the two armies sailed for the main Japanese island of Honshu. My father's force left from P'ohang and Chabatu from Pusan. The two fleets met at sea and then father's ship had the honor to lead the huge fleet! I remember scrambling up the stern mast to watch the vast armada following in our wake. More than eight hundred large sailing ships and even more small boats crossed the Sea of Japan. Assisted by oarsmen, their sails, full and square and painted with each regiments' symbol, drove the wide beamed scows forward, pushing the water aside like painted hippos. It was a magnificent sight!

First, our warriors seized the islands of Tsushima and Iki, which lay about halfway between the tip of the Korean peninsula and the main islands of Japan. Quickly overcoming weak resistance from the few residents, the troops killed all the locals, lest anyone escape to warn the other islands. After leaving a small garrison, both fleets sailed on to the east.

It took several days at our slow pace to near the main Japanese coast and, by November, our fleet had reached an almost vacant beach area between the villages of Nagatyo and Hagi. This was about sixty miles west, across the mountains from the present-day city of Hiroshima. As soon as we spied the beach, about ten small, swift boats swooped out from the head of our fleet, filled with elite warriors. They went ashore to scout the coast for Japanese resistance and suitable landing sites. Father's ship was anchored in so close to the beach that I saw everything. A small contingent of maybe one hundred and fifty Japanese samurai marched from the woods onto the sands, preparing to defend their territory against our scouts, who numbered about one hundred.

At that time, the Japanese fought according to a code called _bushido_. They were accustomed to having one Japanese warrior step out from his mass of fellow soldiers, loudly announce his name and lineage, and prepare for a one-on-one combat with a similarly chosen enemy. Unfortunately for the Japanese, we Mongols were not familiar with that code. So, every time a lone samurai stepped forward with a challenge, our soldiers would simply attack him en masse, much like ants swarming over a beetle. I soon learned that there were many differences between our methods and theirs. Our men fought in small units and officers used drumbeat signals to guide and coordinate attacks. In addition, we tipped our arrows with poison and had bows that were accurate at twice the range of the samurai's longbows. All of this was new to the samurai and almost always fatal. Most of the beach defenders were slain within minutes.

The Japanese leader, Takezaki Suenaga, and three other mounted warriors from his household, were all knocked off their mounts in the early fighting, each sustaining serious wounds. A late charge by over one hundred fresh Japanese reinforcements was all that saved Suenaga and his men. Then the few injured and defeated samurai who were left, drew back a few miles from the bay for the night, apparently determined to renew their nearly hopeless defense in the morning. Coincidently, the minute the Japanese vacated the beach, a driving wind and heavy rain began to lash our boats, an omen of a forthcoming storm.

When they received the signal of victory from the scouting party, my father's fleet began unloading in the rain. Father's flagship was to be the last to unload. Meanwhile, Chabatu's many boats had to sit outside the harbor, waiting their turn. As the last of Father's troops landed, the first of Chabatu's fleet glided forward to disgorge its warriors and horses. Meanwhile, a vicious storm was rising in the north. I scrambled down the mast and, as I neared my father, I heard one of his aides say that he knew the area. This man urgently advised my father that the storm would dash Chabatu's boats on the rocks of Omi Island, which comprised the south border of inlet. This man strongly advised that Chabatu should immediately set out to sea and sail round small Omi Island and anchor off the village of Nagato. That would put the Island between them and the coming storm. Consequently, father signaled for Chabatu to sail out to safety and Chabatu agreed, signaling that he would make land the next day, march through little Nagato and meet us at the headwaters of a short river, just south of tiny village named Oda. Then, together, the two armies planned to sweep along the southern coast, taking Hiroshima, Fukuyama, Kobe, Osaka, and Kyoto in rapid order. The next morning, my father's troops readied their horses and moved quickly from the beach toward the rendezvous point at Oda.

Meantime, Chabatu's entire armada had sailed out into open waters - straight into a typhoon. Two days later, as we waited, encamped outside Oda, scouts informed father that about a third of Chabatu's ships lay on the bottom of the sea. More than thirteen thousand soldiers and sailors had drowned. The few thousand battered survivors had either swum or drifted ashore."

While Chabatu's refugees of the storm reorganized on the beach at Nagato, father's forces settled in at Oda, awaiting rendezvous. Apparently, ever since the fleets had been seen approaching Japan, villages up and down the coast had been gathering warriors, led by nobles from Hagi castle. Father told me that Chabatu's reduced force should make it to Oda in about three days. Father was not worried about the small Hagi castle force but, in any event, he hoped that Chabatu would be here when we engaged a large Japanese army that was expected from Okayama, sometime the following week. Before retiring that night, father seemed happy and confident of ultimate victory.

Just after midnight, Japanese soldiers sneaked through our outposts, dispatched all the sentries, and led the Hagi castle army in a surprise attack. Our camp was quickly overrun and confusion reigned. Father yelled at me to stay inside our tent as he rushed out, his sword held high. That was the last time I saw him."

Soji's voice quavered but he managed to go on..."Our _yurt_ took several fire arrows, smoldered, and then burst into flames. Remembering to grab my father's short sword, I ran from the blazing tent into the bedlam of a ferocious battle. Most Mongol soldiers hadn't had time to mount their horses and so they were forced to fight on foot in small encounters. Even though most men fought a private, focused one-on-one battle, the entire scene was chaos. Soldiers of both sides were co-mingled and, in the dark, it was difficult to tell friend from foe. I ran among the screaming warriors as fast as I could, looking for father. Three Japanese peasant soldiers with homemade wooden spears were repeatedly stabbing one of our horses but the brave horse would not go down. He whinnied and snorted and pawed at the Japanese. One of them got in the way of a foreleg and had his chest crushed for his mistake. With their wrath now focused on the valiant horse, the other two didn't notice me as I ran toward two large _kibitkas_ that had crashed into each other, causing both to overturn into a jumbled pile of boards and wheels. I dived under the wagons and hurled myself under several broken floor boards. As I peeked out from under the wagon, I pressed my tiny hands over my ears but could not shut out the sounds of the conflict: horses snorting, men yelling, and then a heavy grunt followed by a scream as a soldier next to my wagon took a spear in his stomach. An unknown warrior let out a wild, ferocious yell and then the yell turned into a gurgle as a sword laid open his throat.

Smoke from several nearby fires began to seep under the wagons and I started to choke. Suddenly I was afraid that I would be burned to death beneath the wagons! I crawled to an opening between the wagon wheels, ready to scamper out. Suddenly a huge shadow filled the entrance to my refuge! Through the smoke, I could see a giant samurai warrior blocking my only exit. His helmet and headdress made him appear seven feet tall. Please go away, I silently prayed. Go away! But no! He stooped and peered into the darkness where I hid, waved his sword, and groped after me. I yelped in terror, the high pitched scream of a seven year old. Then the samurai fell on top of me, forcing all the air from my lungs and father's sword from my grip. He was very heavy with armor and he didn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't even breathe. And I couldn't tell if he had stabbed me. Struggling to get free, I noticed blood spurting from somewhere. I patted the parts of my body where I could move and there was no wound. Then I saw that his right arm had been severed, halfway between the elbow and wrist. When he fell on me, he had held his sword in his left hand but had dropped it. I wriggled about a bit and was able to extricate my arms but his weight was too much for me to free my legs. Not being able to get away, I thought that maybe I could hide _under_ him. Then I noticed that his blood was soaking the ground beside the wagon, making a long puddle in the dust that led right to me. I had to stop his bleeding. I ripped my shirt and tied it tightly around his stump. The bleeding slowed but the bloodied ground was soaked. After I threw some dirt over the stained earth, I retrieved my father's sword and clasped it to my chest. I was trapped and coughing but feeling a bit safer. Then I lost consciousness.

I awoke in a moving wagon next to the one-armed samurai. He was sitting up and smiling at me, his head bare, less frightening without his helmet. Regardless of my real purpose, I realized that my tourniquet had apparently saved his life, so I started to ask him to spare me. He motioned for me to be quiet and I lay still, not knowing what would happen next. Soon the cart slowed before a gate guarding a pathway that led to a large house. As the gates swung open to receive us, I could see that many servants had gathered on the path to greet the wounded samurai, bowing and murmuring words I did not understand.

The samurai smiled again and, despite his obvious pain, spoke to me in Chinese, 'Are you feeling better now, little one?'

I tried to answer him without showing fear. 'I am fine', I said. 'Will you now kill me and put my head on your spear?'

He patted my shoulder with his good hand and replied, 'No, no, your head is safe. I'm in your debt. You saved my life with your shirt. You are a hero of the battle of Oda, a welcome guest in the house of Kajimoto, and entitled to my eternal hospitality.'

That was the first day of my life with Lord Soji Kajimoto. The next day, after a long sleep, Lord Kajimoto sent for me and again thanked me for my efforts.

'Why did you help me, young Mongol?' he asked. 'You must have known that I was your enemy.'

I decided I had better tell the truth and be prepared for the storm that would follow. 'I'm sorry, Lord,' I answered. 'I was not trying to save your life. You were bleeding very much and I did not want the trail of your blood to lead others to my hiding place. However, if my act saved us both, I am grateful.'

He looked at me sternly, his eyebrows arched and lips pursed. I could feel the force of his personality concentrating on me and almost fell over backwards from my kneeling position.

'You are wise to be truthful,' he answered. 'Mongols, of any age, are not known to assist their enemies. You are right, however. We both survived. One skinny little Mongol boy is a poor exchange for the hundreds of our women taken by the invaders but ...you will have to do. You will stay here in my house. Do you have any questions?'

'Thank you, Lord, just one. My father was Belik, general of the emperor's army. Is he alive?'

'No. His body was found and burned, along with those of his men.'

I was not surprised. If father could not win, he would have wanted to die fighting. Perhaps I should have felt sadness at the loss of my father but anger was the only emotion I felt at that moment.

'My father was a great general,' I stated defiantly. 'He had never lost a battle. Never! How did you defeat him?'

Lord Kajimoto paused, thinking carefully about what he would say to the son of a slaughtered enemy. 'You were truthful, little one, so I will be the same. Yes, your father was a strong leader. We learned from our friends in China of his reputation as a shrewd general and how fiercely his Mongol warriors would fight. Our officers were very worried. It looked as if the Mongols would conquer Japan, as they had so many other lands. Then, two days before your father's army was to land, we received some information from a friend on the mainland, saying that a certain officer in your father's army, just before embarking, had indicated to our friend that the officer could help the nobles in Japan, if they would pay a great sum of money. The friend then told him how to contact us by signal. The man managed to get aboard one of your scout vessels and, while they engaged the beach defenders, he slipped away. He quickly found our men and was escorted to Lord Yakamoto's camp. The man demanded gold in return for his help in assuring our victory, saying he knew exactly where the invading army's sentries would be stationed.

One of Lord Yakamoto's chief advisors, interjected that a seasonal monsoon would probably hit their area later that day. He further said that, if some of the Mongol ships could be directed out to sea, the storm would hit them hard. The man said that he would advise the sailors, and then the generals, to sail just as we desired. Then Lord Yakamoto announced that, if this man would complete both tasks: send some of the invading ships to sea and then lead us past Mongol security, the Lord would give him the only solid gold cup that existed in southern Japan.

The man rejoined the Mongol scouts and, once back aboard the flagship, he gave the advice that sent Chabatu's ships back out to sea. And, on the third night, that same man slipped out of the Mongol camp and led our scouts through the forest, past posted sentries and straight to where the main force slept.'

'One of our officers betrayed my father!' I cried. 'Who would do this?' I prostrated myself, my head pressing the floor and pleaded, my tears staining the clean wooden tiles. 'Please, Lord,' I cried. What is the name of the traitor who murdered my father?'

'It's not important now,' answered Lord Kajimoto and he bent down to lift me from the floor. 'The traitor and his golden cup are already on the mainland, probably somewhere deep inside the Korean mountains.'

Lord Kajimoto placed me so that I now knelt in front of him. He raised my downcast face, looked into my tear-filled eyes, and said softly, 'But yes, little man, you should know his name. If I were you, I would have to know. He was, I believe, an Uzbeg, called Timur, son of Osman.'

I bowed my head to the floor again and thanked Lord Kajimoto several times. With my tiny fists clenched against my chest, I vowed to myself that I would someday find that vile traitor, Timur Son of Osman, and avenge my father. Later I learned that, although my father's army lost the battle in which he died, the survivors on the beach formed together with Chabatu and began raiding. However, they did not have the strength to permanently conquer any territory. After only weeks, they left swiftly, like the monsoon that had disabled them.

My adopted father served the local _daimyo_ , General Ashikaga, but, having lost the use of his sword arm, he never again fought for his lord." Soji paused, as if to take a deep breath, and soon continued..."The next two years passed quickly. I'll never forget the celebration of my ninth birthday in the house of Kajimoto. Lord Kajimoto chose that day to formally make me his son and gave me his Japanese name, Soji. He also presented me with my real father's bone-handled sword that he had saved for me until he felt I could be trusted with a weapon in his house. I honestly tried to be a real son to my adopted family and I kept that treasured sword, never forgetting the oath I had made to my father, Belik, on the morning of that fateful day when I first met Lord Kajimoto.

Many years later, when I had the resources of a Ninja master at my disposal, I sent searchers throughout Korea and China, looking for Timur, son of Osman of the Uzbegs. He could not be found and....." Soji's voice trailed into silence.

"Soji, what's the matter?" asked Simon. "Why'd you stop?"

Soji's next words came slowly, like echoes from centuries past. "Simon, I died knowing that I did not keep that oath. I...we ....are now in Kyrgyzstan, the country of my grandfather. We are here for a purpose. Our journey must, in some way, relate to my Kyrgyz ancestors."

"Damn, that makes sense," offered Simon. "In any event, whatever _we're_ supposed to do, I'd better get ready."

Simon had found that one of the hardest parts of being a traveling ninja in the modern world was devising weapons that could pass through the various security check points without setting off a million alarm bells. Opening his hard-side suitcase, he picked out several odd but every-day objects and placed them on the bedspread. From the items, he selected two 6-inch stainless steel drafting triangles. Carefully locating a small indentation on each, he placed one triangle atop a second so that the indentations matched. He then selected three small screws and inserted them, one through the middle of each arm of the top triangle, and tightened each screw with a penknife until it was flush with the surface of the triangle. Setting aside the triangles, Simon then unscrewed the handle to his suitcase. By itself, the handle was about seven inches long, with finger groves along the inside. Pulling out the divider section of the briefcase, he removed a black, y-shaped steel rod that separated the briefcase compartments. From the inside of his suitcase, he removed two bungee cords, used to strap down clothes, and screwed the y-shaped rod into the suitcase handle. He affixed the bungee cords to the ends of the y-shaped rod and the loose ends of each cord to a small leather pouch and then pulled the cords back and sighted an imaginary target. Satisfied his slingshot would work as designed, he up-ended the Samsonite case, snapped out the two roller-wheels, and removed six ball bearings from each wheel. These perfectly round, quarter-inch balls would serve as lethal ammo for his slingshot. His weapons readied, Simon stripped, donned a loose black cotton shirt, black light-wool slacks, and laced up soft, black leather walking shoes with crepe soles. Lastly, he slipped into a short, black silk zippered jacket. The slingshot went into a inside jacket pocket, the ball bearings in the opposite inside pocket, and the triangles into an outside zippered pocket. He was as ready as he could be.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

"A Ninja at Work."

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

In the lobby of the Dostuk Hotel, Simon asked the desk clerk how to get to the Bishkek Sports Palace and the clerk lazily pointed out a local taxi driver, lounging near the bell captain's stand.

"Sports Palace?" Simon queried.

The driver nodded and motioned toward his cab. As Simon sat back in the taxi's rear seat, he began to seriously consider the significance of Soji's ancient oath of vengeance. Could be _very_ interesting, he thought.

Exiting his taxi in front of the east-side main entrance to the Sports Palace, Simon gave the driver twenty Kyrgyz soms, about a dollar's worth, including tip. The entrance to the Sports Palace was padlocked with two large chains stretched across two sections of double doors. Discarding thoughts of entering as a tourist through the main gate, he headed north, in a slow stroll, working his way around the building, scanning entrances, windows, and noting each of the cars parked alongside the building. Several men were loitering near the north-side door.

Well, that's _the_ door, he thought. I'll need to find another way in, around these clowns and without bloodying the street. Continuing his leisurely pace along the sidewalk, he passed the loitering men without their taking much notice of him and circled round to the rear of the white marble, four-story Sports Palace.

A small alley ran north/south, along the rear, separating the Sports structure from the adjacent five-story University of Kyrgyzstan Library. The sun was beginning to sink toward a fall sunset, leaving the rear alley shaded by the tall library. Before stepping into the alley, Simon made sure that none of Scar's men were guarding this side or that any stray pedestrians were headed his way. The alley was clear.

Removing a pair of light, black leather gloves from his jacket pocket, he slipped them on, picked his first hand-holds, and began climbing the back wall of the Sports Palace. Using well honed free-climbing skills, he moved rapidly up the wall, checking each window as he passed. At the third floor he found one that could be opened. Scanning the alley some forty feet below, he first made certain that his unorthodox entrance would not be noticed. Then Simon tugged on the swing-out window until he had created an opening about eighteen inches wide. Moving through the partially open window, one leg at a time, he dropped silently into an empty meeting room. Leaning against the room's wall, he concentrated on slowing his breathing after the hard climb, while his eyes adjusted to the relatively dark room.

Vision restored, he stepped noiselessly to the hallway door and carefully twisted the knob. Locked to anyone outside in the hall, the door would open easily from the inside. Leaving the door closed, Simon scanned the room. It contained one lone desk. He walked to it and snatched up a small piece of paper from the desktop. Going back to the hallway door and opening it, he scanned the hallway and then stepped out. Carefully positioning the scrap of paper so that it would prevent the door bolt from entering the doorjamb receptacle, he closed the door behind him. I probably won't come back this way, he thought, but some exit insurance couldn't hurt.

Conversations floated down the hallway toward him from somewhere below. Simon cocked his head, looked first left and then right. The hallway was vacant and the sounds were coming from a stairwell to his right, at the south end of the hallway. Silently, he moved in the direction of the sounds.

_"K'to eta_? Who is it?" asked a voice from behind, at the hallway's north end.

Dammit, he thought. That guy must have come out of a room back there and, shit, he's seen me.

Simon turned to face the questioner and opened his arms wide to indicate he was unarmed. The man came slowly forward, raised his automatic weapon, and pointed it at Simon's chest. Although the hall was illuminated only by outside light reflected up the stairwells at each end, Simon recognized the familiar shape of an Israeli Uzi. But it didn't really matter. Uzi, Kalashnikov, AR16, whatever. The important thing was that the man held his weapon forward, like a spear. And this dick probably has the safety on, thought Simon.

The man came closer, perhaps only four feet away. He was a swarthy, heavy-boned man, about six feet tall, whose face and nose bore the scars of many fights, perhaps as a boxer. An Uzbek-style skullcap rested on his head and he wore a square, soiled, loose leather vest, torn baggy brown pants, and sandals with dirty dark socks. He repeated his challenge in Russian, "Who are you?"

Simon pointed to his jacket, saying, "Passport. Passport."

The man reached for Simon's jacket with his left hand. With his right, he kept the gun pointed at Simon's chest. As the man's hand touched his jacket, Simon's left hand flashed out, gripped the man's left elbow, and pulled the man in closer, preventing the Uzbek from firing because his weapon now pointed at his own arm. The torque created by Simon's jerk on the man's elbow continued, swinging the Uzi to the outside, away from both men. At the same time, Simon punched his index and middle finger of his right hand into the man's carotid artery, effectively smashing it. The man's eyes went wide, he tensed, and his Uzi clattered to the floor. Simon clamped his left hand over the man's mouth while his right gripped the man by his neck. He held the man upright for the twenty seconds it took for him to lose consciousness and then Simon released his grip, allowing the man's body to drop softly to the hallway floor.

As he stood over the dead man, Simon tuned into the muted sounds of conversations still floating up from the stairwell at the north end of the hallway. Then, probably in response to the dropped Uzi's, someone called out to the man at Simon's feet. Not getting an answer, a second man rushed up the stairs from below. Simon eased into an office doorway between the dead man and the one coming up the stairs. He poked his head out and watched the second man as he stopped at the top of the stairs. The man was trying to see down the dark hallway, in search of his comrade. In a few seconds, the man's eyes adjusted, he spied the body lying on the hall floor, and began running toward the body with his rifle held cross-body, instead of barrel forward, in a charge position,.

As the man neared the doorway where he was hiding, Simon stepped out in a crouch, and punched upward, directing all of his force to the top of the man's sternum. With eerie crackles, the man's chest collapsed in the center and his weapon flew into the air. This time, Simon managed to catch the rifle before it hit the floor and he let the now stumbling man fall on his face where he squirmed several seconds, emitting strange mewling sounds through his collapsed bronchial tubes, and then expired.

Simon quickly dragged both bodies and their weapons into the room he had left unlocked. When he left the room for a second time, he tossed the piece of paper and let the door lock. On the up-side, he mused, a locked door would slow any search for the dead goons on the other hand, it also eliminated a potential escape route. C'est sera sera.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

"Confrontation."

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Imanbaikeh arrived late at Luke's house and, before even saying hello, Luke and Frank pushed him into Luke's car. Wasting no time, Luke brought them to the Sports Palace in a short fifteen minutes, arriving only seconds before the scheduled six p.m. start time. The area looked deserted. There was no one at the front entrance and the doors were chained and pad-locked.

"Try around to the side," suggested Frank.

Then Imanbaikeh spied three of Scar's young hoods standing between a Volga and a Mercedes, parked near the north side entrance. Pointing at the men, Imanbaikeh whispered, "They're over there."

Luke parked across the street from the Sports Palace and they all piled out, heading for the north side entrance. Frank led the way, followed by Luke and Imanbaikeh. As they neared the entrance door, a tall Kyrgyz man stepped out to block their way. He kept his right hand in his pocket, obviously holding a concealed pistol.

"Where are you going?" he demanded.

"Fuck you," muttered Frank and launched a swift high kick that caught the tall thug on his left ear and sent him crumpling to the ground without a sound. Four men rushed to aid their comrade but, the moment they saw Luke, they all skidded to a halt. Luke's reputation was extremely daunting and they had just seen Frank drop the first guy. Cautiously, one of the four inched forward. He was the smallest but carried himself with authority. The other three waited to see what would happen to him before deciding to run or fight.

_"Kak Zavoot_? What's your name?" he asked. "Frank Grant?"

"Yes, I'm Frank Grant. I'm here to see Atabekov."

The small man nodded with a small smirk and, casually beckoning them to follow, sauntered into the side entrance to the Sports Palace.

Owen Hastings glanced out of the window of the chartered Gulfstream IV at the wide-spread city of Bishkek as the small jet circled an inactive Manas Airport. The Gulfstream swooped down in an almost vertical dive, engines screaming, flattened out at the very last minute, and landed as smoothly as possible on the uneven concrete runway.

The pilot, Captain Chuck Black, announced over the intercom, "That'll give the folks here somethin' to talk about."

"Yep, that was quite a landing," Hastings returned, while thinking, what a show off! If this flight weren't free, I'd tell that that guy what an asshole he is.

The plane taxied to the parking spot designated by a landing supervisor and the pilot cut the engines.

"I'll get the door," offered the co-pilot, Judy Ross, and unlocked the doorway, automatically lowering the stairway. "Sorry for the exuberant landing," she whispered to Hastings. "He's new at the charter business." Then, in a loud voice for the benefit of Captain Black, she asked, "Anything else we can do for you, Mr. Hastings?"

"No thanks, Judy," replied Hastings with a wink. "You got me here on time and I'm most grateful. Have a safe trip back."

Nearing the bottom of the plane's stairway, Hastings noticed a blue van heading toward him with a VIP sign stuck in its front window. That must be my Natasha, he thought. He took the last step off the stairway, turned and waved goodbye to the three-man crew who would now refuel and then take off for Istanbul, some four hours away.

As he had suspected, Natasha was waiting for him in the blue van, provided courtesy of Kyrgyz Airlines. He climbed in and, as he took a seat next to her, Natasha grabbed his hand with a squeeze. He gently returned the pressure, unsure about initiating passion in light of today's serious agenda.

"Where're we going?" Hastings asked.

"First, a stop at immigration and customs, VIP section. That should take only five or ten minutes. "Then", Natasha whispered, dangling a room key in front of his nose, "we go to your hotel where _we_ are already registered," she said with a wink. "Do you remember the Ak-Keme Hotel?"

"Ah, yes, the Ak-Keme," Hastings responded, grinning. "I seem to remember a tall roommate who grabbed things whenever she wanted, not that I complained." Turning more serious, Hastings asked, "I've been concerned about this meeting. What type of structure is this Sports Palace?"

Natasha reflected for a moment and shrugged. "Well, it was originally supposed to be a theater for sports awards and celebrations, but I've never known it to be used for anything other than weightlifting or wrestling competitions. It has a huge stage and stadium-type seats that hold maybe, twelve or thirteen hundred. It hasn't seen much use lately because the republic can't afford to host tournaments."

"Thanks. Now, how are we going to approach Mr. Scar Atabekov?"

Natasha needed to emphasize that Hastings' presence and support were critical in establishing her innocence. "I called Mr. Atabekov yesterday. He expects you to verify that Frank Grant took the money. Otherwise, he will blame me and.... I hate to think what will happen then."

Hastings froze. Natasha had just told him that she might be murdered! His politically trained mind raced to the thing he knew best, negotiation. A fatal ending for Natasha was unacceptable! However, the most violence Owen Hastings had ever seen was watching a Jerry Springer Show. A man like Hastings could not imagine the evil a man like Scar could mete out.

"That sounds, err... like something I can do," he mumbled. "Why meet at this Sports Palace?"

"Atabekov is into sports gambling and has even promoted some events at the Sports Palace. He probably controls the security guards and feels safe there."

"When can I speak to Yuri?" Hastings asked. "Or should we meet Frank first?"

The last thing Natasha wanted was for Hastings to actually compare notes with either Frank or Yuri. "We have only two hours before we must be at the Sports Palace," she answered in a rush. "That's enough time for you to see Yuri but, unfortunately he left word at the office that he would be unavailable today. I have no idea how we could contact Frank. Sorry."

Natasha snuggled closer to Hastings. She'd made her point and needed to move the conversation to a lesser sensitive subject. "That means, Owen dear, we have some time for ourselves before the meeting."

Hastings patted Natasha's arm and grinned. "Yes, time to talk strategy."

Giggling, Natasha asked, "What kind of strategy?'

"The kind that gets you on top, my dear."

They reached the Ak-Keme Hotel at 3:45 pm and went directly to Owen's room. As soon as Owen closed the door, Natasha dropped her briefcase and began unbuttoning her blouse.

"It was so stuffy in that van," she sighed. "I think I'll take a shower. Why don't you come along?" she cooed to Hastings. "We'll cool off together." Without a word, his fingers flew as he unbuttoned, unlaced, and unzipped.

The dresser clock read 5:10 pm and Natasha prodded awake a jet-logged Hastings.

"Hurry, Owen. It's time to go."

Groggily, Hastings rolled out of bed and, when he reached for his pants, a well-used condom slipped from his groin to the floor. "Oops."

Twenty minutes later, he and Natasha crossed the hotel lobby and entered Natasha's waiting car.

"How far is this place, er... this Sports Palace?" Hastings inquired.

"Ten minutes. It's near the University Library in the center of the city."

They had ridden in silence for a few minutes when Natasha asked innocuously, "Will you return to Washington right away? I hear the theaters in New York are excellent this time of the year."

Hastings might lack the ability to predict violence but he sure could recognize a female trap being set. He had no desire to introduce Natasha to Washington society, at least not yet. "Ah....I really don't know," he stammered and then decided to turn this to his advantage. "I don't have to be back in Washington for a while. Perhaps, as soon as this issue with Atabekov is settled, we - you and - I can take a little time off together. Would you like to see Egypt? I've always wanted to see the pyramids."

"That would be delicious!" Natasha exclaimed, clapping her hands gleefully. "Let's plan on it."

If I can't get him to take me to Washington, she said to herself, Egypt would have to do. I wonder how difficult it is to get cocaine in Cairo?

Their car reached the Sports Palace only minutes before six and Natasha directed the driver to park on the north side, the entrance normally used by athletes and performers. Several of Scar's men loitered near that entrance, trying in vain to look casual as they smoked strong Russian cigarettes while casting wary eyes at each passing car and pedestrian. The tallest man, a Kyrgyz in his early twenties with close-cropped hair, wore a black silk shirt and black pants to match. He approached their car and Natasha lowered her window to announce, in her most condescending voice, "We are here to see Mr. Atabekov. Tell him Mr. Hastings and Miss Ivanova have arrived."

The man was less than impressed. He turned his back, nonchalantly strolled over to the other men, and sent off a short, skinny kid to notify Atabekov. The little messenger returned a few minutes later, whispered to the tall leader who nodded, motioning for Natasha and Hastings to follow him into the Sports Palace. Following closely behind the tall man, Hastings, with Natasha holding tightly to his arm, entered the building, walked down a dimly lit hallway, and then climbed a short flight of stairs. At the top of the stairs, the tall man turned left and led them down another long hall. Like a lightning bolt striking, Hastings suddenly realized that the situation they were entering might actually be dangerous. To both of them!

Emerging from the dark hallway they stepped onto the rear of a large, well-lit theater stage, set with two long conference tables placed long-ways, parallel to each other and covered with sheets. It formed one large rectangular table. About a dozen chairs had been placed around the table and several theater spotlights were directed downward onto the meeting area. Several of Scar's men were scattered around the stage: five sat on folding chairs backed against the rear stage curtains, two sat on the edge of the stage, smoking and chatting softly, and two others patrolled the auditorium floor, between the front of the stage and the first row of empty theater seats.

One of the reasons Hastings had not been alarmed earlier was that he hadn't noticed any weapons on the men guarding the entrance to the Sports Palace. That had led him to assume that the meeting with Atabekov might be a little loud but would be civilized, without weapons or even threats of violence. Now, every man he could see was armed. Either they openly carried assault rifles or large bulges distorted their jackets or pants. Natasha's warnings had finally gotten through to him and he was suddenly very frightened. And needed to pee. We've got to get this meeting over quickly, he thought, and then get the hell out of Dodge!

Hastings looked around for someone who might be Atabekov but didn't see anyone wearing the infamous facial scar. In fact, none of the men present looked over thirty. One young man, sitting at the side of the stage, rose from his chair and walked slowly toward Natasha and Hastings. His jaw was bandaged and his cheek bore a large purple and yellowish bruise.

_"Zdroswitchya_ ," he said in Russian. Changing to simple English, he formed his words slowly and with obvious pain. "Welcome. I am Timur. My father is Muhktar Osmanbek Atabekov." He indicated two chairs at the center-stage table and directed, "You sit. Father will come."

Hastings pulled out the nearest chair for Natasha and sat next to her, facing stage left. As she took her seat, Natasha felt a blanket of claustrophobia descend over her, closing in, attempting to smother her. The fact that she had a forty-foot ceiling above her head didn't ease her anxiety in the least. It wasn't the lack of space that bothered her; it was the lack of running room. Owen and I are the only ones sitting here, she thought, dithering herself with questions: What does Atabekov know? Who else will come? Are we the only ones? What if we are???

Natasha shuddered. She was alone. Owen foolishly thinks he's above danger, she thought. But, gazing at the armed men surrounding them, she knew that no one was safe here and Hastings would be of no help.

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Madeena awoke with start. Someone was shaking her.

"Wake up. Wake up."

It was the guard, Talai.

"Please get up," he pleaded. "We must leave."

"Where are you taking me?" she asked.

"You will know when we get there."

Madeena swung her legs off the bed, rubbed the sleep from her eyes, and briskly straightened her blouse. Running her hand through her hair, she cautiously followed Talai to the hallway and then down steep stairs to a Volga sedan waiting at the curb, its windows darkened. Madeena recognized it as the same car that had served in her abduction. Talai gently but firmly ushered her into the back seat and climbed in beside her.

"Sports Palace," he told the driver and the car jerked away from the curb, heading east toward the city center.

When the Volga reached the north entrance of the Sports Palace, it was being trailed closely by a Mercedes 600. Both cars pulled to a stop in the parking area near the north door, the Mercedes only a few feet from the Volga. The driver of the Mercedes jumped out and came around to open the front passenger door. Scar Atabekov stepped out, glanced sidelong at the once-lounging youths who now stood at attention near the building's entrance, and waved for the Voga to disgorge its passengers. Talai stepped out, took Madeena's arm, helped her from the car, and turned her to face Scar.

"Good evening, Madeena Federovna," Scar offered. "I trust this unpleasant business will soon be over."

Madeena glared at Atabekov and, lips pressed tightly together, refused to reply.

Ignoring her silence, Scar led his small group through the Sports Palace entrance, single file. As Scar stepped through the doorway, his son, Timur, greeted his father with words of flattery. Scar merely grunted in recognition and then let Timur lead them through the rear hallways to stage right, behind the fire curtain. Scar motioned for Talai to take Madeena's arm and they all stepped out on the stage, toward the conference table. Scar motioned for Madeena to take a chair facing the empty audience seats while he took a chair directly across the table from Madeena, facing the back of the stage.

A nervous and aching Timur danced a little jig as he lurked behind his father, awaiting any signal that he could to take a seat. Instead, his father ignored him and, as further insult, indicated that Talai should sit next to Madeena. Furious and embarrassed, Timur slunk back to the rear of the stage and dropped into a chair set against the curtains.

Madeena swiveled in her chair to take in the entire stage. The table where they sat was arranged to allow for as many as two dozen chairs but there were only twelve, three to a side. An older, white-haired man, either American or English, sat next to Natasha on the south side of the table. They both looked very nervous. Natasha had both her hands around the man's arm.

That old man must be her lover, thought Madeena. But who? And why would he be here?

At that moment, Frank, Luke, and Imanbaikeh appeared from the rear of the stage.

"Madeena!" Frank cried and ran toward her.

Scar made a sharp gesture with his hand and Talai quickly produced a pistol, held pointed at Madeena's head. Jabbing his finger at Frank, Scar warned, "Stop or you will be responsible for her death."

Frank understood and slid to a halt, staring at Madeena, aching to hold her.

"Are you all right?" Frank called.

"Yes, Frank. Don't do anything," Madeena advised. "The best thing is for you and Osmanbek Mukhtarovitch to talk."

"Sit and answer my questions," ordered Scar and he motioned for Frank, Luke and Imanbaikeh to take chairs at the table facing the stage right, across from Hastings and Natasha. As they took their seats, the hairs on Frank's neck rose. Scar's men carried weapons openly and they looked like they knew how to use them. Also, Frank sensed other, unseen guns trained on his exposed back from behind the stage curtains.

"Several chairs are empty, Osmanbek. Who is missing?" demanded Frank as he tried to forget how easy a target he was.

"You are the only really important one", Scar growled in return. "Where is my money?"

"I don't know where your money is and that's the truth. I followed your thirteen million dollars to the British Isle of Jersey, only to find that it had already been wired to a bank in the Bahamas. That's where I lost the trail."

Frank rose slightly in his chair and leaned toward Scar. As sincerely as he knew how, Frank asked, "Osmakbek, do you really think I took your money?"

Scar scowled and snorted, " _Pas motrem_." We will see. Scar turned to Hastings. " _Gasperdeen_ Hastings, _shto vui z'nayet_? What do _you_ know?"

Hastings didn't understand Russian but he got Scar's intent and wondered how much he should reveal. Somebody is going to pay for Scar's lost money, he thought, and this may be my last chance to demonstrate that Natasha and I are innocent. He decided that the truth was his best bet. Besides, nothing said here could be used against him in the US.

"Natasha, please translate for me," asked Hastings. "Some time last year," he began, pausing for translation, "the Democratic National Committee set up a money transfer between the DNC and the Chinese government. The Chinese wanted to donate funds to our political party. To be legal, the funds had to come from an acceptable American source. You, Mr. Atabekov, purchased several thousand tons of walnuts from the villages in the Aslambop forest and sold them to the Universal Nut Products, did you not?"

Scar nodded slightly, unimpressed at old news.

"You made a profit of almost thirteen million dollars, correct?"

Scar waited for the translation and then replied, "No, just over eleven."

"Right, sorry," agreed Hastings. "I forgot that the thief got some additional millions that didn't come from the nut sale." Scar's eyes became slits and he waved impatiently for Hastings to get to the point. Hastings continued, talking as fast as he could, considering the delay for Natasha's translations. "Universal Nut purchased the nuts from you, sold them in America, and then graciously made a large donation to the Democratic National Committee. The only reason I am here is that the DNC was the eventual beneficiary of those Chinese funds. Natasha and I don't know anything about _your_ missing money. I'm here because I don't want the DNC to have problems merely because their money originated from your transaction. Is that clear?"

Natasha was had almost finished her translation of Hastings' statement when Frank interjected, "You laundered money through the CAB? You bastard! If you could pull a trick like that, why shouldn't we think you could take Atabekov's money as well?"

Frank looked at Scar for conformation but forgot he didn't understand English and Natasha was obviously not making any effort to translate. Frank immediately repeated himself in Russian.

Scar listened to Frank's words, glowered at Hastings and shouted, "You did political tricks with the money from my walnuts? Why did you hide this from me?"

Natasha translated Scar's challenge and Hastings sputtered to reply. "Uh, actually, _I_ didn't. Someone working with me handled the entire deal. I only recently learned about how and where the money went. Mr. Atabekov, I don't know who took your money. I'm just telling you how the whole thing worked."

### CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

"An Oath Fulfilled."

October, 1996 - Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan

Timur sat at the rear of the Sports Palace stage, out of his father's notice, and silently watched the exchange between Scar, Hastings, and Grant. It was obvious to Timur that his father had gotten old and weak. _I_ would have killed all of them by now, he thought. Talk won't get back our money. If my father cannot be strong, I can!

Easing out of his chair at the back of the stage, Timur moved noiselessly toward the meeting table, approaching Madeena from behind. When he was close enough, he grabbed her by the hair with his right hand, whipped out a large knife from a sheath under his loose shirt with his left, and placed the knife blade at Madeena's exposed throat.

"Frank Grant," Timur shouted. " _Ya hachoo moyee dengi eely anna ohm reurt"_ I want my money or she dies.

Scar's face turned livid, his infamous scar flashing to white-hot prominence. "Sit down you fool!" he ordered in Uzbek. "He doesn't have _your_ money."

Ignoring his father's order, Timur sneered at Frank. First, he thought, I'll kill the bitch that broke my jaw and then we'll see about my money. His fist clenched as he made ready to draw his gleaming knife across Madeena's naked throat.

No one moved. No one breathed. All eyes were glued on the knife blade. Timur's arm stiffened, the muscles tensing, and then his head snapped forward. Both his arms went slack, the knife dropped to the floor, and he crumpled silently sideways in a heap between Madeena and Talai. Madeena grabbed her throat and, seeing that she was unhurt, slumped on the table, her head in her arms, and sobbed in hysterical relief.

Scar jerked to his feet and cried, "Talai! What has happened to my son?"

Talai turned in his chair and looked down. Timur was on his back with his legs folded under him. His eyes were wide open, unblinking, and he was not breathing. Talai reached down from his chair and felt Timur's neck. " _Ohn omer,_ " "He is dead", pronounced Talai gravely.

Scar rushed around the table and knelt beside his son's still warm body. "How?" Scar asked in a whisper. Ever so gently, he raised the body to see what had killed his son and, as he turned Timur over, Scar noticed a small steel ball imbedded in the back of Timur's skull, just above the hairline. The ball had snapped Timur's upper spinal cord. Scar lay Timur face down and dug at the ball with his fingers but it would not budge. Then, using both thumbs, he managed to squeeze out the ball bearing and rolled it between his now bloody fingers. Scar stood erect, trembling in rage. His blazing eyes swept the stage and the empty audience seats.

"Who did this?" he screamed. "Who has killed my son?"

A patch of shadow slowly detached itself from the darkness in the back of the stage and Frank sucked in a breath. Pettit!

Simon spoke in English but with Soji's deep bass, addressing Scar by his unpleasant Kyrgyz nickname. " _Ti-Rik_ ," Soji intoned, "your son is dead because he was about to murder an innocent woman."

Luke and Frank looked at each other and Luke whispered, "Do you know this guy?"

Frank nodded and whispered in return, "Yeah, he's a director of my bank. He's also CIA."

"Oh, shit", muttered Luke.

Scar hadn't understood Simon. He scanned the stage for someone to tell him what was being said and his eyes fell on Natasha. "What did he say?" demanded Scar.

Trembling, Natasha translated Soji's words and Scar's face turned black with rage. With clenched fists, he turned to face Simon.

"You will die for this," he snarled and waved his men forward, pointing to Simon.

In a loud, normal voice, Simon asked sarcastically, "I thought your money was the purpose of this meeting. Wouldn't you like to know who took it and where it is?"

Stuttering with fright, Natasha translated and Scar held up his hand, stopping his men in their advance. "Speak or die," demanded Scar.

"What Owen Hastings told you was the truth, as he knows it", answered Simon. "I'm the person who arranged the walnut transaction. Don't you recognize your good ole partner, W. H. Pratt?"

Scar gasped. Yes, he thought, this shadow-man is Pratt. "Who has my money, Pratt?"

Before Simon could answer, Frank shouted, "Fuck you, Pettit. You come here, kill Atabekov's son, and expect us to believe anything you tell us?"

Hastings jumped in. "I too have a problem believing you, Simon, after seeing how easily you can kill. You probably killed Lara. Now, you've given me good reason to think you also took this man's money."

Scar spun round on the stage, puzzled and frustrated by the back and forth in English. "What are you saying," he shouted. "Damn it, someone speak Russian!"

Scar looked to Natasha but she was frozen in fear, her glazed eyes focused on her hands as they lay clasped tightly on the table in front of her. Although Natasha could sense Scar's eyes on her, she refused to look up. For the very first time in her life, she wished she were tiny.

Frank reacted quickly. In Russian, he told Scar what had been said. Scar pointed at Simon and yelled, "Murat, shoot him!"

Two things happened simultaneously when the man called Murat raised his AK47: Simon's right arm flashed and a shot rang out from high up in the bank of empty auditorium seats. Murat dropped to the floor, dead. Murat's right arm had been almost torn completely off by a bullet from one of Yuri's snipers but it wasn't the bullet that killed him. He had stopped living the instant Simon's only _shiriken_ had sunk deeply into his forehead.

Simon decided it was time to take advantage of the unexpected sniper. Dramatically saluting in the direction of the sniper, Simon glared at Scar. "Come at me," he hissed, "and you'll join your son _before_ you learn of your money." Frank translated the warning and Scar held up his hand, signaling his men to wait. Then, in a calm soothing tone, Simon continued, "I asked if you wanted to know who took your money. Do you?"

Scar was rigid, his entire face now ghastly white, almost pale enough to erase his scar. He forced himself to nod stiffly.

"All right," answered Simon, "let's see what else we know about the money." Simon moved like quicksilver into the brightly lit area of the stage to stand behind Natasha. He pointed at the chair next to Luke and Scar took it.

Simon's voice rang out, this time in Soji's bass. "Over eight hundred years ago, a personal debt was created by _your_ ancestor, _Timur, son of Osman of the Uzbegs._ My father died because of that man's treachery. Today, centuries later, the life of your oldest son has been taken, settling your family's ancient debt. Now, Simon will tell you about the money."

Everyone looked puzzled and unsure at Simon referring to himself in the third person. The entire Palace was a silent vacuum as everyone, Scar, his gangsters, Hastings, Natasha, Madeena, Luke, and Imanbaikeh anxiously waited for Simon to continue. Frank whispered a request for Luke to translate for Scar and Luke leaned closer to Atabekov's ear.

Simon asked, "Who else, Owen, knew about the money in Atabekov's account?"

Hastings hesitated and searched his memory. "Uh, well, the bank personnel knew. And... because it was the largest account, the directors knew. No one else ...that I know of. That is, unless one of us told someone."

"Correct," said Simon. "Of the people at this table, who could have taken the money?"

"Well, well," Hastings mumbled, "let's see..." His eyes swept the stage. "Without help, you or I could not have."

Simon nodded. "Good. Let's also eliminate Frank for the time being. Who does that leave?"

"You and I but, as I said, we couldn't have done it without some inside help."

"Partly correct. _All_ the directors knew about Atabekov's accounts. He was, by far, the largest depositor in the bank. _Any_ director could have managed it with inside help, right?"

Hastings and Frank both nodded slowly, their minds searching for a direction to Simon's questioning.

"Frank, you cared very much for Lara, didn't you" asked Simon, changing topic.

"You know the answer to that," Frank retorted angrily.

Simon addressed Hastings. "You think I killed Lara. Why would I do that?"

Hastings shrugged his shoulders.

"It may surprise you, Owen, I did have reason to be angry with Lara but not enough to kill her. I went to her apartment the night she arrived back from Bishkek. I saw who did it."

"Who?" asked Frank, Madeena, Hastings, Natasha, and Luke, the five English speakers, while Atabekov and Imanbaikeh looked puzzled, waiting as Luke translated.

Simon's ice blue eyes glared at Hastings as he answered, coldly, "The same person who took Atabekov's money."

"Who?" shouted four voices.

"Who," whispered Simon, "is the only person here who didn't ask, 'who?'"

A moment passed and then five pairs of eyes bored into Natasha who was shrinking in her seat. Luke jumped in and quickly translated. Now Scar and Imanbaikeh were also staring at Natasha.

Becoming tiny isn't enough, thought Natasha, and she prayed to disappear entirely.

"Tell us, Natasha," demanded Simon, "how you came to work for the bank".

Natasha stared at her hands, bit her lip, and didn't respond.

"What?" injected Hastings. "You want us to believe that _Natasha_ killed Lara and took the money. That's nonsense."

"Of course she didn't do all that," answered Simon. "Ask her who recruited her and who supplied her with drugs in exchange for information and falsification of bank records. She was also supposed to treat you like the proverbial mushroom, Owen: kept in the dark and covered with bullshit."

"Ridiculous!" snorted Hastings.

No one spoke. All eyes now focused on Hastings.

"Enough of the games, Simon," Hastings demanded. "What the hell are you implying?" Hastings began to worry that he too may have been deceived. He could handle a little personal deception by Natasha but screwing Scar to the tune of thirteen million was quite another matter.

Natasha's had bitten her lips so hard they were bleeding. Tears ran down her cheeks, her clasped hands white with tension. She lifted her eyes to Hastings and said earnestly, "I didn't get paid to make love to you, Owen. That was my choice."

Then she moved her gaze to Scar. "Osmanbek Mukhtarovitch, I lied when I said Frank approved the money transfers, but I didn't take your money. I swear!"

Natasha's eyes shifted between Scar and Hastings, pleading with both men. They both turned away and Natasha knew she was doomed.

The bitch was obviously paid to handle me, Hastings thought. Damn, there's no fool like an old fool.

"Who paid you, Natasha?" asked Frank.

"Daniel Cannelli," she whispered.

"Well I'll be a son of a bitch," muttered Frank as he regarded Simon. "Did that cockroach lawyer kill Lara?"

Simon nodded. "I was sitting in my car near Lara's building, preparing to vent a little on her. I'd asked her to re-program your computers to give me faster access to certain information without waiting for you to forward it to me. She refused out of loyalty to Frank and wouldn't do it without his knowledge. It was time for an in-person, heart-to-heart talk with her and I was about to get out of my car when she flew out of her building, running across the street toward her car. With Lara, drugs, mostly tranquilizers, had been the standard answer to stress before meeting you, Frank, and I was pretty sure that was what she was running for. She never made it. A black Cadillac hit her just as she got to the middle of the street and then the car sped pass where I was parked. Daniel Cannelli was driving. He so focused on getting the hell out of there, he didn't notice me. My guess is that he also had demanded Lara to give him bank information and, for the same reason, she'd refused. His reaction was quite a bit stronger than mine."

Frank was devastated. Over the past months, his mind had often produced images of tiny, helpless Lara being struck by a huge, anonymous black car and now he could paint in the face of the driver. Daniel Cannelli, he vowed silently, you'll pay for this.

"Sorry to revisit that tragedy, Frank." Simon intoned softly. "Now, let's get back to the issue of the money!" Lost in his memory of Lara's death, Frank didn't react and Simon continued. "Frank, you followed the money to Jersey and ran into a little murder, right?"

Frank started and then spun to look up at Simon. "What?" Oh, you mean Nigel Pardue? You had Nigel killed?"

"Of course not," Simon answered. "If you know anything about me, it's that I work alone. Those two were Danny Cannelli's hoods. He's made in his grandfather's image, after all. By the time he got his first drivers license, he'd already become obsessed with the power wielded by Mafia Dons and, as an Assistant DA in Newark, _Danny Boy_ got close to several of his grandfather's old pals and their organizations. Right before Danny made his first visit to Central Asia, his recommendation for CAB president was derailed. Having lost that round, Danny found the cocaine addict, Natasha, recruited her, and subsequently recommended her to the CAB. If Danny couldn't control the number one person at the bank, he'd settle for number two. I'm guessing Lara was his backup. When I first saw the background of the man Danny had recommended for CAB president, I figured that Danny might be a future problem, so I bugged his office and car. Of course, I couldn't review the tapes in real time but, periodically, I'd scan them and so I knew that Danny had sent two wiseguys to the Isle of Jersey. Then, when I learned the money had left Jersey, I took a little trip to Freeport to check on how the bank there handles cash withdrawals. They told me that large withdrawals, anything over a million dollars, required a four-week notice. Therefore, Danny and his dad - alias Levitch and Crocetti - would have to wait a month before they could withdraw the stolen cash from the Freeport bank. Until they actually had the cash, anyone digging into their accounts or the transaction had to be stopped. When Nigel began asking questions on your behalf, Frank, someone at the bank notified Danny and he immediately sent his hoods to silence Nigel. Poor guy; all good deeds will be punished, as they say. You didn't know it, Frank, but I sent their names to MI-5 and arrest warrants have been issued for Nigel's murderers. They won't be difficult to find because Danny has wrongly assured them that they're in the clear. Those hoods will pay for Nigel's murder.

Simon paused for translation and to be sure everyone had comprehended his revelations and then continued, "Frank, you dropped the chase in Jersey, but I had my surveillances of Danny Boy's activities and followed the money all the way to Freeport and I've kept tabs on the Cannellis ever since. Three days ago, as the end of his waiting period for cash withdrawal was approaching, Danny and daddy made plans to meet in two days and withdraw the whole thirteen million from Barclays in the Bahamas. So, the money is still at the bank in Freeport.

Hastings blanched. "Anthony Cannelli was Daniel's accomplice?"

"Well, Owen, to tell the truth," replied Simon sardonically, "I'm not sure whether it was father helping son or vice versa. Does it really matter?"

Frank and Hastings shook their heads in disgust.

It occurred to Hastings that there was another aspect to Simon's revelations. "Was the Secretary of Commerce in on any of this?" asked Hastings.

"Oh, hell yeah, big time! He and Danny were the ones who planned the second Chinese deal. After the Secretary set up another transfer of information to the Chinese, Danny decided to finish the whole deal himself, with Daddy's help. He sent one of his goons to kill the Secretary by sabotaging the Secretary's plane in Soviet Georgia. I managed to stop that hood from causing a plane crash but, _strangely_ , the Secretary had a heart attack at the Tuzla air base. Danny believes the Secretary's death was due to a bad pacemaker and that he'll get all the money anyway. But the second Chinese deal has yet to close and I've made sure whatever secrets the Chinese want are now locked up tight." Simon smiled and winked. "That deal ain't gonna happen."

As Luke finished translating, Scar's color returned, but he still looked perplexed and he rose to begin pacing round the meeting table, muttering, "What is _Freeport?_ How will I get my money?" Scar stopped pacing and turned to the others. "Well?" he demanded, opening his arms wide, ready to accept any solution.

"I'd like to help, believe me", Hastings offered, "but, if your money is indeed in the Bahamas, I'm powerless to get it out or to force the Cannellis to hand it over."

Scar looked at Frank who held up his hands. "Sorry, right now I'm persona non grata as far as banks are concerned and the KGB is still looking for me. If and when I get reinstated, maybe I could help you file a lawsuit. That could take years."

Scar was defeated. His eldest son was dead and, worse, it looked as if his money was lost forever. He plopped into the nearest seat and cupped his head in his hands, detecting the beginnings of a nasty migraine.

Simon stepped toward Scar, grinning slightly. "I'll go get your money, Osmanbek, as final exchange for Soji's revenge on Timur. Is that acceptable?"

Luke translated and Scar looked up, his brows knitted in deep thought. What did this strange man mean?" he asked himself. Who the hell was _Soji_? Could he trust such a killer? He studied Simon's face closely and then made an executive decision. "When?"

"Not more than two weeks. I'll get the cash and re-deposit it to your accounts at the CAB. Thirteen million less, say, ten percent for expenses. Agreed?"

Scar's face relaxed and he opened his clenched his fists. I've sired eight sons, he thought, but only one pile of money like this. Ten percent! What choice do I have? " _Da,_ " he grumbled.

There was a collective sigh of relief from everyone at the table except Natasha, who wrapped both her arms around Hastings' elbow and whispered, "Owen, darling, please forgive me."

"Get off me," snapped Hastings as he pried away her arms. Standing abruptly, Hastings headed for the door, thinking, sex is one thing but my life and dignity are hell-of-a lot more important. I'm getting out of here and never again messing with anyone under forty. Oh, well...maybe thirty.

Simon, standing behind Madeena, reached out to assure her that the danger was over. The instant his hand touched her shoulder, a vision flashed across his eyes and he saw Kimiko sitting there. Madeena turned, looked up, smiled, and Simon stepped back quickly, blinking his eyes. Kimiko's image faded as quickly as it had appeared.

Sighing deeply, Simon turned to Frank. "If you're thinking of revenge for Lara. Forget it."

Simon pointed to Madeena. "Concentrate on this lovely lady now that you have the luxury of a second chance. And don't worry about Danny Cannelli. The _Cannelli_ problem will solved soon enough. Besides, I'd hate for you to get another bloody nose."

Frank's eyes popped wide with the memory of the shadowy assailant who had knocked him down so easily at Madeena's. "That was you!"

Simon smiled, bowed slightly, and Frank recalled how close Madeena had come to death at the hands of Timur. This man had saved her life. "You're absolutely right, my friend," Frank answered and he beckoned to his party. " _Poi yeh dim,_ Let's get out of here."

Frank, Imanbaikeh, and Luke, surrounded Madeena in a tight little group to escort her from the stage. Frank and Imanbaikeh each had an arm around her and Luke trailed behind, covering their departure in case Scar changed his mind. That left Scar and Natasha at the table with Simon standing behind Natasha. Simon was the first to move. "I think I'll be going," he announced. "It's a long drive to Freeport."

Simon glanced at Natasha before walking away. The tall woman seemed strangely small and vulnerable. She knows Scar will kill her, he thought, and probably slowly. But she's not my responsibility. She did the crime and it's payment time. Simon melted into the shadows at the rear of the stage and was gone.

Scar called for his men to collect the bodies of Timur and Murat and leave immediately. Scar picked up Murat's weapon and crooked his finger at Natasha to follow him to the stage exit. As Scar moved purposefully down the long hallway that led to the north side door, Natasha trudged meekly in his wake. She had accepted her fate, whatever Scar might decree. They reached the outside door and one of Scar's men opened it. Scar stepped aside so that all his men, including the four carrying the two bodies, could exit first. As the last of his gang stepped through the door, Scar reached behind, snagged Natasha by the arm and roughly shoved her out the doorway, ahead of him. She stumbled in the direction of Scar's waiting Mercedes while Scar slammed the Sports Palace door and moved after his men.

Without warning, four powerful spotlights bathed the parking area. Natasha was blinded. Already stumbling, she tripped and went to her knees in the gravel.

A voice from a bullhorn shouted, "Osmanbek Malak Mukhtarovitch. This is General Karabayev, Minister of Interior. You and your men put your hands on your heads. Do not move. You are under arrest. Do it NOW or we will shoot!"

Scar blinked and shielded his eyes, trying in vain to see Karabayev behind the spot lights. Instinctively, he waved the AK-47 he held in the direction of Karabayev's voice. Several shots rang out and Scar's chest exploded. He fell, dead before his face smashed into the gravel. Without further urging, all of Scar's men dropped their weapons and raised their hands in submission. Natasha looked up from her kneeling position in the dirt and, as her eyes adjusted to the brightness, she could see thirty or forty uniformed policemen with guns trained on Scar's group. Six of Scar's men were already handcuffed and sitting on the ground against a police car and Scar lay bloody in the dust. She was saved! Her spirits soared! Natasha stood, brushed at her scraped knees, and started to walk out of the lights.

"Natasha Ludmilla Ivanovna," boomed the megaphone. "Remain where you are. You are under arrest."

Natasha's heart sank faster and farther than it had just soared.

### CHAPTER FORTY

"An Appropriate Resolution."

Freeport, The Bahamas – October, 1996

Simon sat on the forward bunk of Anthony Cannelli's sailboat, as the morning sun began to warm the cool dark cabin. He had already packed away his small rubber raft under the port side bunk.

"What do you think would be appropriate for them, Soji," he thought.

"Appropriateness is not a ninja type of question. Better to ask, what method is the most efficient, the surest, the quickest," Soji answered in Simon's mind.

"Okay, okay, I was joking. Nevertheless, solving the Cannelli problem is going to give me some extra satisfaction. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, I must admit, finishing this will benefit several persons. Some in money and some in retribution. For you, it will eliminate a potential problem for your daimyo. On second thought, perhaps I too might enjoy certain _appropriateness_. People like the Cannellis have forfeited all rights to a public hearing."

Simon laughed aloud and then said silently, "Boy, that's a hell of-a convoluted Japanese way of saying, 'okay'."

Simon tensed as he heard the sounds of two people coming down the pier toward Cannelli's boat. Moving to the forward locker under the bowsprit, he crawled in and shut the small door tightly behind him. Simon commanded his muscles to relax, bend and shape themselves to the cramped space as his large body contorted to fit into the small, confining rope locker. It might be an hour before he would reenter the cabin area.

Danny Cannelli and his father, Anthony were all smiles. Their little operation had succeeded beyond expectations! Not only did they get the eleven million from the nut caper, they got a bonus of over two million of Atabekov's ill-gotten cash. All that remained was to launder the cash through dozens of New Jersey businesses controlled by the Cannelli family. To absorb such a large amount of funds into their accounts, Anthony had insisted that cash was the only way to go. The money in the Bahamas account, controlled by their aliases, Levitch and Crocetti, must seem to vanish. The money trail would end here. Without the documentation of checks or wires, no one could to connect them with the CAB theft. To that end, with a four-week advance notice, they'd cashed out six accounts at Barclays bank, Freeport, Bahamas. Each man now wheeled along a suitcase crammed with US currency as they trooped down the pier toward their waiting sailboat. More than six million per case! In addition to money-packed cases, Danny had a cold six-pack tucked under his right arm and his father totted a bag of sandwiches. All they had to do now was sail five or six hours to their Boca Raton marina and then take a private plane to Jersey.

"We sure caught the big one this time, dad", Danny quipped. They guffawed at how everyone had been fooled, as they clamored aboard the sleek fifty-four foot Beneteau. Both men were experienced sailors and, in good weather, could easily make this short sixty-mile trip. Danny unlocked the cabin door and his father handed him the second case. "Put them below, son."

"You bet, dad", answered Danny, dropping both cases into the dinette. He returned to the deck and they began getting the boat ready to leave port.

An hour later, Anthony Cannelli, a nearly empty bottle Coors in his hand, announced, "We're headin' home and on course. To be safe, Dan, how about you stow those cases in the forward rope locker. No sense in leaving them in plain sight, just in case the Coast Guard stops us before we get to Boca."

Danny nodded, finished his beer, and descended to the cabin where he shoved each heavy case toward the bow. When both cases stood in front of the locker door, he reached toward the door. The instant his fingers touched the latch, the door to the locker snapped open, slamming him in the face. Danny tumbled backward with a yelp, tripping over the heavy suitcases, going down in a tangle. Struggling to rise, Danny Cannelli looked up wide-eyed as Simon Pettit uncoiled from the locker depths.

"Welcome to _my_ cruise, Danny Boy," said Simon, swiftly striking Cannelli square on the chin with the heel of his hand. Not hard enough to kill him, just enough to put him out for a few minutes. Simon stepped over the unconscious man and headed for the deck and Anthony Cannelli.

Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan – October, 1996

The day after the encounter at the Sports Palace, Madeena had arranged a small vacation for Frank and herself at Kyrgyzstan's beautiful and serene Lake Issyk-Kul. Madeena had wisely decided that they should work through the anxieties of the past month, alone and together. When Luke had offered to come along with his girl friend, Madeena had firmly informed Luke that this was _their_ holiday and it was not to be shared. Luke had understood completely.

Only three days later, Frank and Madeena lay in lounge chairs, taking winter rays on their balcony at the Avroura Hotel on the lakeshore in northern Kyrgyzstan. The deep, pristine lake, sparkling in multiple shades of aqua and blue, spread out before them, to the left and right as far as the eye could see. Across the lake to the south, the sharp talons of the Tien Shans totally wrapped in white, clawed at a cloudless sky.

When checking in, Madeena had requested a room without television. She had carefully explained to the desk clerk (and Frank) that she believed a vacation is an escape from everyday problems and that television would only get in the way. Truth be told, she just didn't like TV. The desk clerk had politely informed her that all the suites came with cable television and that each set had an off button. Madeena was not pleased with the clerk's obvious sarcasm.

At the risk of irritating Madeena, Frank had switched on the TV and left it on, awaiting the once daily BBC news broadcast. He'd turned the volume down low and positioned his chair close to the balcony door so that he could hear the TV without disturbing Madeena. When a news reporter mentioned something about "Cannelli", Frank bounced up, raced into the suite, and called Madeena to join him. Together they watched the screen in amazement as the reporter continued:

"... committee chairman, US congressman from New Jersey, Anthony Cannelli, and his son Daniel were found drowned in what experts are labeling as one of the most freakish boating accidents on record. Witnesses were quoted as stating the Cannellis' boat had been first spotted about noon yesterday sailing in an unusual manner outside the port of Freeport, Bahamas. A spokesperson from the U.S. Coast Guard, who was called in by Freeport officials, attempted to reconstruct the tragedy. He reported that apparently the two men had encountered trouble with the boat's sails as they left Freeport, bound for Florida. Attempting to straighten out certain lines, both men became entangled as the mainsail filled with air and they were hoisted by their feet, swinging upside down from the main spar. The younger, taller Daniel Cannelli was submerged to his waist and the shorter, senior Cannelli was in to his shoulders. With its wheel stuck to starboard, the sloop swung round and round in large circles about five miles out from shore for most of yesterday, until boarded by Coast Guard seamen. This dual drowning is the second boating fatality this year near the Bahamas."

Frank's arm went around Madeena's shoulders and he could feel her shiver slightly. They didn't need to voice their thoughts; both were thanking the fates that Simon Pettit had been on their side.

### EPILOGUE

Freeport, The Bahamas – October, 1996

In a late afternoon Caribbean sun, Simon hefted two hard-sided suitcases from his raft, strode away from the marina area to the Flamingo Bay Hotel and rode an elevator to his third-floor suite. Carefully bolting the door, he placed the two cases in the bedroom closet and flopped on the king-sized bed, his task almost complete.

Simon heaved a sigh as he thought about Atabekov. Although Scar was dead, a deal-was-a-deal. Simon would return the money to the CAB, from where it had been stolen, less his agreed expenses. Unfortunately for Scar's family, the minute the money was back in Scar's old accounts, the Ministry of Interior planned to impound every penny as part of Scar's illegal empire. Eventually, Scar's heirs would be lucky to get as much as Simon's ten percent.

Simon fingered Anthony Cannelli's red vest as it lay atop his dresser. He'd originally decided to keep the vest as a souvenir. On reflection, he tossed it in the closet, to be discarded with the suitcases, after they'd been emptied.

"Well, Soji, are you satisfied that I decided to stay at the Agency and forget about the NSA appointment?" he voiced silently as he stretched out on the hotel bed.

"Absolutely," Soji's answered in Simon's mind. "Was your decision influenced by the fact that you killed the Secretary who was the only person promising you that nomination?"

Simon hesitated. "So, you caught that, eh? But don't worry, I'm actually relieved, as you advised, to go back to the shadows. That's really where I belong."

"Excellent! A well-finished assignment and new insight. You're no longer a student, Simon. You've become a ninja master who doesn't need this old teacher any further."

Soji paused. "Can't you feel it? My attachment to you is weakening. My mission was completed with the fulfillment of my promise to avenge my father's death. I feel cleansed for the very first time since I made that oath. Whether or not the trade was fair, the Uzbeg clan paid with lots of money and the lives of Scar and his first-born son."

"What're you saying, Soji? You're done and leaving?"

"Yes, but not by choice. By some grand design, whatever that is."

"But you've been with me over a dozen years! It's like I've known you forever. You can't go!"

"I can only guess that whatever power placed me with you has now decided to part us and you and I have no say in it."

"Will you ever return?"

"I don't know. Sadly, I think not." Soji paused and his voice in Simon's mind quavered. "I have grown to love you as a son, Simon. Will you remember to obey and teach the nine rules of Ninjusu?"

"Yes, master," replied Simon solemnly.

"Good. I know you will. _Sayau-nara_ , my student, my friend."

For the first time in thirteen years, Soji's presence slipped away entirely. A black void remained in the part of Simon's consciousness where Soji had resided for so many years. It was if he'd been tossed out of a plane in the middle of the night at twenty thousand feet, left to twist in free-fall through cold, dark space. He couldn't tell up from down. After getting used to having a presence, a confidante, close to him for years, he was again isolated, just as in boyhood. Gripping the sides of his bed, this new Ninjutsu master moaned softly. It was almost an hour before he drifted into a deep and disturbed sleep.

Simon opened his eyes and went blind. The mid-day sun, blasting into the hotel suite through a bared window, poured onto his bed. He blinked, shaded his eyes, and looked at the bedside clock. It read 8:20am. He'd slept for more than fourteen hours! Stretching and yawning, he rolled out and lurched sleepily to the bathroom, where he regarded himself in the mirror. His eyes, normally sharp, piercing blue on white, were dull navy on streaked red. His face looked blotchy and his blond hair was tousled and tangled.

"You're pretty much a mess, buddy," he said to his image in the mirror.

"I agree," replied a deep voice in his mind.

"Soji!" Simon yelled aloud at the mirror. "You're back!"

"Well, to be honest," Soji retorted, "I'm not sure if I'm back or that I never left. From my perspective, time is anything but constant."

"But.... you said that once you avenged your father, your task was completed. You disappeared completely. Then what happened?" asked Simon, silently.

Soji was quiet for a minute and replied softly, "When I left, I seemed to float in a heavy dark, almost liquid blackness, without a hint of direction or purpose. Then slowly I sensed that the darkness was dissipating and everything became lighter, even though I still couldn't see anything. Dark finally turned to light and I felt that I was about to experience something extraordinary. There seemed a presence, a force pulling my eyes toward a point of focus amid the pervading light. Then I heard, no ... I _sensed_ a voice. The same way we converse, in your mind, without actually speaking. The voice said, 'Not yet. It is not finished, Kajimoto Soji.' And then suddenly I was looking at your face in the mirror."

Simon inhaled sharply. "What do you think that meant? Was that God?"

Soji paused, "God? Perhaps. I don't know, Simon. But what I think is that I... _we_ ... have another task, another pathway together in Karma, _hai_?"

Simon looked puzzled. "Like what?"

"Well, in reflection, I'm drawn to some of the places of my early childhood, before living in Japan with Lord Kajimoto. Maybe a little visit would lead to more knowledge."

"Okay, where?"

"Pyongyang."

"That's in North Korea ?"

"Yes."

"Oh. . . .shit!"

### CAST OF CHARACTERS

(IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER WITH AGE IN 1996)

**Anthony Cannelli, 56** : New Jersey congressman, son of a Mafia Don.

**Askar Akayev, 50:** First President of Kyrgyzstan after the break-up of the Soviet Union.

**Avril Townsend, 71:** Joe Grant's friend and OSS associate during WW II

**Becky Hammond,** **34:** mentally ill woman planning to assassinate President Bill Clinton.

**Daniel "Danny" Cannelli, 32:** Legal counsel for noted Mafia figures, many prominent DC lobbyists, and the Bank of Central Asia. Only child of Anthony Cannelli.

**Frank Grant, 32** : ex-marine Captain, trained financial executive, first President of the Central Asian Bank (CAB).

**Imanbaikeh Jumaliev, 61:** Madeena's uncle, author, and advisor to Central Asian Leaders.

**Jim Conyers, 54** : Sharp member of CIA management and ex-covert operative.

**Jim Vandercamp, 35:** VP of CAB and Manager of bank office in Tashkent, Uzbekistan.

**Joe Grant, deceased:** OSS operative in WW II and Frank Grant's father.

**Jonas Lusk, 62** : Loyal, tough political worker and Assistant Chief of Staff at the White House.

**Kimiko Fujihara, deceased in 1985:** Simon's coworker and lover in Okinawa, Japan.

**Larisa "Lara" Balacheva, 31** : Beautiful PR professional hired as first PR rep for the Central Asian Bank (CAB). Speaks Russian and English fluently.

**Luke Seragulov, 30:** Ex-Olympic medal winner in wrestling. Famous in throughout Central Asia and owner of several casino/restaurants.

**Madeena Kulova, 29:** Aide to Kyrgyz President and Frank Grant's lover. Speaks, Russian, Kyrgyz, English and French.

**Natasha Ivanova, 32:** VP of CAB and Assistant Manager of the head office in Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan. Seducer of Owen Hastings.

**Nigel Pardue, 44** : English stock broker who works in London and resides on the Isle of Jersey.

**Osman "Scar" Atabekov, 55:** smuggler and Uzbek gang-lord, feared in Central Asia.

**Owen Hastings, 64** : Congressman from Southern California and big party fund-raiser who becomes the first Chairman of the Central Asian Bank (CAB)

**Renaki Kurusarwa, 73:** Buddhist priest with knowledge of past-life occurrences.

**Secretary of Commerce (un-named), 51:** Political hack for his party, raiser of political donations, never a beacon of honesty.

**Simon Pettit, 36:** top CIA operative, Ninja-trained in Japan. Rising star in DC bureaucracy

" **Soji" - Kajimoto Soji** , born 1267: Ninjusu Master for fifty years in Osaka, Japan. Died in 1341.

**Talai, 24:** One of Scar Atabekov's trusted henchmen

**Timur Atabekov, 21:** Arrogant firstborn son of Scar Atabekov.

**Wan "Johnny" Feng, 32:** China's Commercial Attaché' in DC. A consummate "deal-maker".

**Willard "Windy" Whitzer, 52** : long-term, overweight, loquacious Texas congressman.
